As Seen on TV (29 page)

If I don’t figure out how to hide a certain fixture in my apartment—Steve—I’m going to be the next one dripping in Cosmo.

I call Miche to discuss, but of course, she doesn’t answer.

“Honey,” I say, kissing him on his windblown cheek. I pass him a glass of wine as he walks through the door. “I want to thank you for putting up that sign in the elevator. And for returning my sweater. I’m sorry I got so mad at you before, I know it was an accident.”

His eyes blink rapidly. Apparently he’s in shock at my speedy absolution. “I’m forgiven? Already? But I had an entire script of groveling prepared.”

“No groveling required.” I kiss him again.

“I am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sips the wine, then wraps his arm around me. “I brought you Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream as a peace offering.”

Peace offering? Did I not make clear to him that I was spending the afternoon at the gym? What’s the point in working out if I eat ice cream? “Steve, I’m on a diet.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to diet.” He takes a closer look around the room and drops his arm. “Did you clean up? Where’s all my stuff?”

All his belongings—pictures of his family, beer bottle collection, Dennis Rodman–signed basketball, sports books—have been packed in a box and hidden at the back of the bedroom closet. At the back of the closet with his shoes, coats, deodorant, cologne and all further signs that a male lives in this apartment.

He picks up the recently reframed photo of Millie and me in front of the Eiffel Tower.

“Don’t get mad. It’s for the show. They want to film me getting ready here tomorrow so I had to hide your stuff.”

He gets that constipated look on his face, then cracks his neck.

I’m waiting for him to say something. Instead he takes off his coat, hangs it up and, without looking at me, retreats into our bedroom and slams the door.

He has no right to be mad at me. This is my place, too, isn’t it? I pace around the living room and then end up just outside the bedroom. “I didn’t have a choice, Steve,” I call through the door. “They’re coming tomorrow.”

“You didn’t have a choice?” His voice through the wall sounds faraway, strained.

I go inside. “No, I didn’t.”

He’s lying on his stomach, face turned toward the window, away from me. “I think you had many choices. First of all, I’ve had enough of being your little secret. We live together. End of story. Tell them you met someone. Would that be so awful?”

I know I said I’d try to be nicer, but he’s being a bit unreasonable. I sigh. “Steve, it’s only two more weeks.”

“Not if you win.” He rolls toward me. “Second, why didn’t you just tell them you had a male roommate? It is a two-bedroom. It wouldn’t have been unheard of.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I sit down on the corner of the bed. “Come on, Steven.”

“Second—”

“You already said second.”

“Third, could you not have waited for me to get back? So I could help you? So we could make me invisible together?”

“I thought you’d be tired and not want to deal with it. Excuse me for trying to be considerate.”

Why am I so snarky? His feelings are hurt, obviously. But why can’t he stand me doing things on my own? I don’t have time right now for all this togetherness. I have a manicure,
pedicure, eyebrow wax and lip wax scheduled for tomorrow morning. I won’t have any time to get rid of traces of him then. (I vetoed the bikini wax after the last disaster. However, I’m going to have to shave again because of that bathing suit rumor. Aqua relay?)

“Considerate? You were being considerate?”

“Enough already. Get over it. I got over your donating my wardrobe to the neighbors.” I lie down on the bed, facing him. Now for the trump card. “And who are you to preach about the virtues of honesty? You still haven’t told your parents that we’re living together.”

A car honks outside. We stare into each other’s eyes. How can I hurt those big green eyes? I wrap my arm around his waist.

He sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me forever and ever?” I kiss him hard on the lips. “And not be here tomorrow afternoon because Pete is coming at three to set up?”

He sighs. “I’ll spend the day at my sister’s. I haven’t hung out with the kids in two weeks.”

Two weeks? He saw them two weeks ago? I don’t remember that. “When did you see them? Where was I?”

He shrugs. “Shopping, I think.”

“Well, you’re a very good uncle for seeing them all the time.”

His hand caresses my stomach. “Until we have babies of our own, they’re all I have to spoil.”

Babies of our own? Yikes. I’m only twenty-four. I’m not exactly ready to be a mom. I giggle. “Let’s have this discussion in about…a decade or so?”

He draws small circles on my arm. “I want to have at least five kids, so we can’t start too late.”

Kids? What kids? What’s the baby rush all of a sudden? “Why don’t we practice?” I ask, lowering my hand to his groin. I unsnap and unzip his pants and pull down my panties and pull him inside of me. Got to hand it to my Steve, the man’s always ready. After a few minutes of thrusting, he tries to make me orgasm
with his hand, and I moan and groan and “Oh my, oh my, I’m coming,” I tell him, even though I’m not. He comes inside me, and just before he rolls over, he murmurs, “Maybe your pills still aren’t working and we won’t have to wait that decade, after all.”

The blinds are open and I stare outside. Within seconds he falls asleep on my chest, smothering me.

“A
ll right,” Tania says. “We have enough footage of Sunny in her own surroundings. Let’s go to Michelle’s.”

“All of us?” I ask. “Why?”

“We told Michelle we’d all meet at her place,” Tania says. “Ready? I’m just using the rest room and then we’ll go.”

I attempt to sit down on the couch without exposing my butt crack. My good black pants remain lost in the building, and the replacement pair I ran out to buy earlier today give low-rise a new definition. Whenever I sit down, my thong pops out to say hello. “Why don’t you have a seat, Pete, relax for a few minutes?” I ask, pulling my shirt down over my hips. “So what are you up to after this is done? You going to California?”

Pete sits and stretches his arms above him. “Nah. My kids are in school here and my wife’s a teacher. I can’t exactly pick up and leave. I’m already looking for work. Any leads?”

Knock, knock, knock.

Uh-oh. Who is that? If Steve brought his nieces and nephews here I’m going to kill him. Maybe if I ignore it, whoever’s knocking will go away.

Knock, knock, knock.

Pete looks at me strangely. “I think someone’s at your door.”

“Really? I didn’t hear anything.”

Knock, knock, knock.

Damn. I open the door. A short blond woman with horrible brash-blond highlights is standing in the doorway, holding my favorite black pants.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “I spoke to your boyfriend, Steve. I found these in the lost and found. He said one of you is usually home, so I should come by whenever I got a chance to drop them off. Sorry about taking them, but they’re great pants. I thought I won the lost and found lottery, you know? They’re Helmut Lang.”

“No kidding.”

She does a double take at the huge video camera and lights. “Is this a bad time?”

“Thanks.” I grab the pants from her and slam the door. What are the chances Pete didn’t hear any of that? I slowly turn around. Maybe he’s in the midst of a fabulous daydream and oblivious to his surroundings? Please let the camera not be on.

Pete’s wearing a lopsided grin. “Boyfriend, huh? So one of you is usually here? Where’s all his stuff?”

The toilet flushes. I hear water running from the bathroom sink.

“I…he…” I can’t believe it. I just got busted. Panic chokes me.

He waves his hand. “Your secret’s safe with me, don’t worry.”

I love Pete. Relief washes over me as Tania opens the bathroom door. “Ready?” she asks.

“Give me two seconds,” I say. “I want to change my pants.”

Thirty minutes later I’m sitting next to Brittany on Mi
chelle’s tan leather couch, flipping through a coffee-table book (about the fabulous city of Manhattan) on the hand-carved wooden rectangular coffee table.

I feel like I’ve gotten trapped in a Pottery Barn catalog.

This episode Brittany is wearing jeans, running shoes, and a tank top. Her breasts look smaller than usual.

“Why do you look flatter today?” I ask.

“Sports bra. Last week I was bouncing all over the place.”

Howard is on his cell phone, Pete is filming us.

Dirk follows Michelle out of the bedroom. She’s also wearing an aerobic friendly outfit—jeans, sneakers and a zip-up sweater. “Hello, girls.” She heads to the Pullman kitchen behind the counter. “Who wants a shot of tequila?” She opens the fridge and takes out some shot glasses, limes and a salt-shaker. “For old times’ sake.”

Is she crazy? I’m not shooting tequila before a potential marathon. And the shot glasses are supersized, at least three inches long.

I shake my head. “I can’t do shots now. We’ll be plastered by the end of the night. Last week I thought I was going to puke after all that twirling.”

Brittany looks deflated. “I’m not going to drink if you guys aren’t drinking.”

Michelle catches my eye from across the room. “Trust me, Sunny. It’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”

Something in her voice makes me hesitate and say, “Okay.”

She fuddles around with the shot glasses and then carries the tray to the coffee table and places two glasses in front of me, two in front of Brittany.

I pick up the shot and smell it. Smells fruity. Is it apple juice?

We dab the salt, lick it and then down the first shot.

Apple juice.

Brittany purses her mouth and for a moment I’m sure I see her eyes roll back in her head.

Michelle sucks on her lime. “Strong, huh?” She catches my eye and smiles. She must be thinking: If I don’t win, I hope you do. Let’s get Brittany kicked off tonight so that it’s one of us who wins next week.

It makes sense. If I don’t win, I’d want Miche to. It would be too embarrassing to lose to a moron like “This is the opportunity of a lifetime” Brittany. And besides, I bet Miche doesn’t even want to move to L.A. She’d probably let me go.

This is so wrong. But necessary.

I smile back. “Ready for number two?”

After the drinks, we all pile into the elevator.

“Damn,” I say, pressing the doors open button. “I forgot my bathing suit inside.”

“You guys go ahead and we’ll meet you downstairs,” Miche says, and I follow her back to her apartment.

Once inside Miche heads to the bathroom. “I’ll be one sec,” she says.

I pick up my sack where I left it beside Miche’s bed. Right next to it is a small black bag that Howard walked in with. He forgot his stuff, too?

I pull on the zipper a bit. A little bit more. What does he have in here? A toothbrush. A clean pair of skivvies. Jeans and a sweater. A box of condoms?

Why did he bring an overnight bag? Why did he forget his overnight bag at Miche’s?

Oh.

I can’t see a damn thing. They’ve put a blindfold over my eyes and I can’t even peek through the sides. There must be a lot of people here. I hear cheering. And jeering.

This is completely humiliating. We have no idea where we are. They blindfolded us when we got in the car.

I think I have a wedgie.

Miche squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry.”

Of course she’s not worrying. She knows where we are.
Howard probably whispered it in her ear while they were having illicit sex.

When she came out of the bathroom, I decided not to comment on my findings. If she wanted to tell me, she’d tell me, right? I can’t believe I confided to her about Steve and she lied to me. I feel totally deceived.

“I’m worried,” I say now. Are we on a pirate ship? A dance boat? We’re going to have to walk the plank?

“I wonder why they’re all laughing,” Brittany says, sounding anxious.

Howard’s voice booms across the bar. “Welcome, everyone!” he says. “Can our helpers please remove the blindfolds?”

The crowd screams, “TAKE IT OFF!”

A man’s rough fingers are at the back of my head and my blindfold loosens.

Blink, blink.

The room looks like a sardine can of twenty-somethings. Where am I? A bar? It looks more like a warehouse.

Across the thirty-foot ceiling a strobe light flashes, Roller Dee’s.

Roller Dee’s? Why does that sound familiar?

I’ve heard of this place…isn’t this the activity center Steve wanted to drag me to? The one with the miniature golf course? The one that’s famous for holding children’s birthday parties?

What is it with Steve and kids anyway?

In front of us is a huge rectangular table covered in shot glasses.

Humph. They can’t be more creative than who can drink the most without puking?

Howard is standing behind the table of drinks, caressing his microphone and leering into Dirk’s camera. “Tonight, we will eliminate the next contestant in the search for New York’s Ultimate Party Girl!”

The crowd goes wild. Who are these people? Why are they such babies?

And why is Steve so obsessed with wanting to have babies all of a sudden?

“There will be three competitions,” Howard continues. “Each will have a first-place winner, a second-place winner and a third-place loser. First place scores two points, second place one point, and last place—nothing! At the end of the night, the individual with the least amount of points will be eliminated.”

“YEAH! ELIMINATED! YEAH!”

I think Steve wants me to get eliminated. So I don’t have the option of going to L.A. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking about babies. He’s wishing I was pregnant and therefore chained to him.

I hear Howard’s voice again, and try to focus. “The first activity is tequila shots,” he says. “The Party Girl who drinks the most, wins.”

I suppose I can handle three, maybe four shots, but how can I beat Brittany? That woman is like a sponge.

What are the chances that these are filled with apple juice?

“In the tradition of shooting tequila, each shot includes a special surprise for our adventurous Party Girls,” Howard says in a solemn voice.

Special surprise? I hate special surprises.

“A live mealworm!”

Did he just use a prefix that ended in worm?

The crowd screams, “WORM! WORM! WORM!”

I look at Miche, assuming she’ll be just as disgusted as I am.

She’s smiling. What, she likes eating worms? What does she know that I don’t know?

“A what?” Brittany asks.

Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make me be first. Please don’t make—

“And the first up is…” A drumroll echoes through the room. “…Sunny!”

I knew it. Bastards.

I tread carefully toward the table.

“SUNNY! SUNNY!”

I’m going to be sick.

Howard steps around the table to stand beside me. When did I get a role on The Howard Brown Show, exactly?

“Let’s see what you can do, Sunny.”

Okay, don’t panic. I read up on this on the Net. Bug-eating. Entomophagy. I’ve been expecting this, right? It was on my list, right? Lots of people eat bugs voluntarily, even in the western world, right? There’s no need for me to be squeamish, right?

Wrong.

No, got to think positive! I can do this! Cultures have been doing this for centuries. And as a plus they’re low in fat and full of protein. An excellent addition to my diet.

I gingerly select and lift one of the hundreds of shot glasses.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

I look.

I see a tiny, half-inch, pale orange worm, flapping around in the liquid at the bottom of the glass.

Instant nausea. Mustn’t look. I have to do this. Do I shoot it? Will it die in my stomach? What if it reproduces? I have to kill it first.

The shot glass is getting closer to my lips.

“SUNNY! SUNNY! SUNNY!”

On the count of three. One…two…three.

This time really on the count of three. Maybe I should count backward?

Three…two…one.

I dump the shot in my mouth.

“GO, SUNNY, GO!”

Obviously, I should have figured out the logistics of my actions before going full force. How do I swallow the liquid while not swallowing the creature?

I hold the liquor in my mouth and swish it around a bit. I think the worm just bit me.

Crunch.

“SUNNY! SUNNY! SUNNY!”

Kind of nutty-tasting. A bit oily.

Crunch, crunch.

The burning tequila swarms my mouth.

It’s time.

Gulp.

Fire! Fire! My throat is being consumed by an inferno!

“Need water!” I croak.

Howard passes me a glass of water and I swallow half of it. “How was it?” he asks.

Must say something clever so audience likes me. “Tastes like…chicken?”

“HA-HA!”

Four shots later, when I can feel the tequila and the worm colony planning an insurrection, I call it quits.

“KEEP GOING, SUNNY!”

You try it, assholes. I shake my head no, while smiling at my people. If I’m drunk, I won’t be able to do the next stunt, now will I?

It’s a good thing I’m not pregnant. You can’t drink when you’re pregnant. What has Steve done? Now I’m obsessing about being pregnant.

I’m
not
pregnant. I’m on the pill.

But what if I was pregnant?

“Next up is Brittany,” Howard announces.

“BRITTANY! BRITTANY!”

Brittany lifts her first shot toward the ceiling. And into her mouth. She swallows it whole.

“She didn’t even chew,” I whisper to Miche.

The worms couldn’t be good for the baby either.

Jesus, what baby?

Brittany does a second. And a third. Fourth. Fifth.

Damn. She just booted me out of first place.

Sixth. Seventh. Eighth.

If she took one look at the revulsion on Miche’s face, she would have realized that she could have stopped after five.

Moron.

Ninth. Tenth.

Show-off.

Brittany burps. “All done.” Eyes glazed, she teeters backward, then stumbles back to where I’m standing.

Miche steps up to the table.

“MICHELLE! MICHELLE!”

She breathes deeply and raises the shot glass to her lips. She drinks…

…and then spits the liquid and the worm onto the floor.

“Can’t do it,” she says, shrugging.

Hmm. Did Howard let her go last on purpose? So she could see if I did it before taking her turn? And now she’s decided that since she can’t win this match she should keep her sober advantage?

I notice Howard is smiling.

“BOO! BOO!”

The worm does a belly dance along the dance floor.

After we’ve cleansed our mouths with water, Howard instructs us to change into our bathing suits.

I cannot believe I have to wear a bathing suit on national television. What is this, reality
Baywatch?

As far as I can tell, there aren’t any cameras in the changing room, but I’m not about to take any chances. I pull my shirt as low as it goes and pull off my pants, then wiggle into my Calvin Klein suit before discarding my top.

Miche and Brittany change into string bikinis. I knew I shouldn’t have let Steve talk me into something so nunnish. If I lose the male vote because of him next week, I’m going to be really pissed.

If Brittany’s breasts had no support last week, in this green stringy thing, she should be flopping all over the place.