The Accidental TV Star (5 page)

“Oh,” the old man said and threw his spud at the wall. Small diced pieces rained down. “I thought we had to do each cut on each vegetable. The instructions weren’t really clear.”

The professor rolled his eyes and turned back to us. He focused on my tray. My hands curled in a protective gesture.

He tugged on the front, pulling hard to get me to release it. He chuckled, and his light brown eyes narrowed. “Your name?”

I unclenched my fists. “Marissa Steele.”

“Best precision cut, Ms. Steele.”

“Thank you.”

The dark-haired woman’s tray held larger pieces than mine, and some had jagged ends. Irina would never have let me serve such shoddy cuttings at the Fry Hut. Not because she cared about quality for the customers, but because she liked to make the staff re-do their work. It was one of her power plays.

The professor picked up a piece of paper and looked at me. “Take this form to Studio Three and report as kitchen-hand.”

My knees weakened. I stared at the paper in disbelief and took it from him.

“She was slower than me,” the dark-haired woman protested.

“Her work is better.” His words were firm.

The paper crumpled under my grip and I forced my fingers to loosen, as if tearing it would kill my victory. Wow. I loved LA. “Thank you.”

The other students clapped anemically from their posts. I circled back to get my bag while the dark-haired woman continued her complaints.

I’d won. I was going to get to meet my idol. My gaze searched for the professor’s again and he nodded at me. “Good luck, Ms. Steele.”

“Thank you so much,” I said and headed to the door.

Behind me, the professor told the lady to sit down and gave instructions to the students, something about a pot roast. The door shut on the word
carrot.
I retraced my steps back outside into the LA sunshine and checked the form. The paper gave me directions to find Studio Three.

I took the winding sidewalk. More office buildings, small white trailers, and warehouses lay in the back. While I couldn’t see inside, I knew what was going on behind their doors: movie deals, star preparations, and filming.

Being close to it all was thrilling. Now, I’d actually get to go inside a set and pass a college class doing it. I paused in the shade to get a hold of myself and shot Ashley a text. After I typed out the crazy news, I asked her to please thank her dad for finding the class.

Her response,
OMG.

I’d expected
cheers
or some other British term. But I guess the UK hadn’t fully captured my BFF. I typed,
I know
, clicked off, and scurried to find the
Scoop Out
studio.

On the way, I passed a person in a bear costume, lots of people wearing black, and two tourist trams. When I got to Studio Three, I opened the door with a weak grip and gave the security guard the form, hardly daring to breathe. He gave it back and said, “Down the hall to the left.
Scoop Out
.” A Hispanic accent touched his words. He shook his head and his tight dark curls jiggled. “Good luck.”

His well wishes sounded oddly like a warning. Hmm. As I got further down the hallway, my hands shook and a fine film of sweat broke out over my entire body.
Chill, Marissa. Don’t cry. Don’t faint. Don’t quote Ms. Sims’ lines back at her.
Spots appeared before my eyes and the only words I could think of were the ones Ms. Sims usually used to kick contestants off the show.
“Here’s your doggy bag. Enjoy it at home.”
To add to the humiliation, remaining contestants would bark at the cook leaving. Yips and howls filled my mind. Oh no, I was going to meet her and start barking. I swallowed the sound burbling up in my throat and searched for a delay.

A door on my right had the cutout silhouette of a woman on it. I darted into the restroom and went to the sink. Leaning against the water-splotched counter, I reached for the faucet. Cool water ran over my wrists and I came to myself. Get a grip. I’d flown 1500 miles by myself. I’d met a movie star. Two, counting Garrett, and Caz. Caz, Ashley’s boyfriend, was a huge movie star. He’d come to our winter dance. We’d all hung out. I could handle this.

A few minutes later, I’d convinced myself enough to touch up my appearance. I glossed my lips with peach gloss, brushed my hair, and straightened my clothes. Nothing could be done for my choices: jeans and a plain green T-shirt, but as kitchen-hand, my outfit wouldn’t matter. They’d throw an apron over me and put me to work. I might not even see Sara Sims today. They might put me in a back room with a knife and a tub of carrots. I may
never
see her. Composure found, I went back to the hallway.

Fake it. You’re in Hollywood, that’s what they do here. Fake it.
I pasted on a grin, threw back my shoulders, and headed to the door marked
Scoop Out.
I had my greeting ready.
I am so excited to be here Ms. Sims. To be chosen for this opportunity means the world. Please let me know how I can help your show. May help. Please let me know how I may help your show. Your production. Please let me know how I may assist your production.

The knob turned under my too-tight grip and opened into another shorter corridor. A thin lady dressed in black headed down the hall. Her long blonde ponytail bobbed in front of me. Her thick hair was the same pale color as Ms. Sims, but longer, and her stride held more purpose. Ms. Sims always walked with languid sophistication, knowing the world would wait for her.

“Hello?”

The lady turned around. She held a computer tablet and a stack of folders. Her smooth face and bright blue eyes marked her as my age. What I’d thought was a headband was a microphone headpiece, like the one worn by the cashier at the Fry Hut, but sleeker. She lowered the microphone and kept her hand over the end. “Yes?”

“Uh.”

My ringtone belted out Garrett’s epic line, “We will live on, for an eternity.” A picture of Garrett popped up, and a callout text bubble appeared over his toga.
What’s for dinner?

I closed my eyes a second. Annoyance and embarrassment killed my fear. I typed,
Something amazing
, and looked back at the lady. “Sorry. Marissa Steele reporting as kitchen-hand to Ms. Sims.”

The lady nodded, laid her hand over her heart, then held it out to me. “Great. I’m Hannah.”

I shook it and apologized again. “Sorry about that.”

Hannah smiled. “No problem. I love
Road to Rome
too.” She gestured toward the end of the hall and started walking again. “There are only two rules to remember: Don’t talk to Ms. Sims unless spoken to. And don’t play favorites with the contestants.” She blew out a breath. “You can imagine how they are when that happens. Remember those two things and you’ll be here next week.”

The Fry Hut had a whole handbook on employee expectations, key segments of which they’d laminated and posted on the wall in the employee break room. There were at least five rules around washing your hands alone. “That sounds simple enough.”

“Tell that to the last guy. We fired him this morning.”

“Fired?” I froze in my steps. Passing this class meant three credit hours. Three hours I didn’t have to pay for. Every penny I’d saved toward tuition had to count. I needed to be here beyond next week. I needed all seven episodes to get a passing grade.

Hannah stopped too and her pale blue eyes pleaded with me. “It’s two things. You’ll be fine.”

The expression in them made me think of my younger brothers when they wanted me to cook for them. The faint freckles on Hannah’s nose added to the resemblance. I had them on my shoulders, especially in the summer when tank tops ruled Texas, but none on my face. I faked it. “Absolutely. No problem.”

I wanted to think I reassured Hannah because I was confident I could follow the rules without getting fired or to help her because she reminded me of home, but in reality, I wanted this chance, I wanted to see the set of
Scoop Out
, and I wanted to meet Ms. Sims.

“Oh, and try and stay away from that side of the building.” Hannah motioned with both her hands. “They shoot
Tween In
, the entertainment news show, over there and the stars who come for interviews don’t like to be bothered.”

The stars. Heaven. I’m in heaven. We reached the end of the hall. A piece of paper covered the glass rectangle inset in the door. It shouted,
Quiet, We’re Shooting
.

Hannah ignored the sign, crossed her fingers, and reached for the lever.

Inside was as busy as the outside was quiet. I caught it all in a blur of images. This was the real show.
Scoop Out
. Three cook-top tables held two contestants apiece—three men and three women. Cameras were stationed around the room, all pointed at the contestants. One camera rested atop a wheeled tripod, manned by a guy in a backwards Dodgers’ ball cap.

Behind him, a woman with her hands on her hips frowned and raised her arm to point at a lady in the middle row. “Get a shot of the sweat beading up on Weeping Wilma’s forehead.”

I assumed she was the director. The rest of the room held backdrop stuff: food supply shelves, framed photos of chefs, and hooks for the iconic
Scoop Out
aprons. Everything was familiar. I saw it each week on TV. Ms. Sims wasn’t here though, and I noted her absence with disappointment and relief.

“Closer,” the director said.

The contestant with Wilma embroidered on the front of her apron wiped a hand over her brow. A tear balanced on the end of her eyelashes and her lips quivered. The camera guy stepped up and got in her face.

Wilma said, “I have a family. You don’t understand the pressure being here causes me. My husband needs me home.”

The door opened, distracting me from my rush of sympathy. Sara Sims walked in! She was so much smaller and thinner in person. I stared at her while the show went on around me.

The director moved into my path, blocking my view of Sara. She looked at me from head to toe and then pointed at a sideboard. “Cube those turnips. We’re running late.” She glanced at her watch. “Your predecessor quit.” She said the words sharply with accusing hazel eyes as if it were somehow my fault. When I didn’t take the bait, she said to Hannah, “It’s your job to ensure everyone gets here on time.”

“I’ll give Marissa the schedule,” Hannah said.

The director swiveled back to me. “Can we count on better professionalism from you?”

I nodded.

“Good.” The director sighed and handed Hannah a stack of papers. “Get these forms signed from—” she glanced at my outfit, “Messy Marissa and let’s get this episode going.”

I swallowed the desire to protest the nickname. Logically I knew it wasn’t too bad, but I hated when people stuck fungible titles on me. I have a name. They could learn it. I’m not Cashier, Fry Girl, Server, Darling, Baby, Sweetheart, or Messy. With a heated face, I followed Hannah to the back of the room where the sideboard wrapped the wall. I signed the consent forms and a release.

“I’ll get you a copy after these are processed.” Hannah’s gaze flicked to the host. “Thanks for being here.” She handed me a white apron and nodded to the turnips. “Diced, please.”

“Sure.” The rounded white and purple bulbs were familiar. I took the chilled turnips in hand and went after them like the contest from this morning was still in effect.

“Whoo-ee, look at her go,” a male voice said.

I glanced up.

A guy wearing a blue contestant’s apron that read Cajun Cal said, “Hi, I’m Cal.”

Cal, a dirty blond with brown-eyed, boy-next-door appeal, touched the brim of his olive green baseball cap. A tiny alligator frozen forever by a taxidermist perched on the edge. Beady black eyes stared down at me.

“Marissa,” I said to Cal and the gator. When I moved my gaze, the gator’s predatory eyes followed me.

“Marissa.” He turned the three syllables in my name into four. “Sure is pretty.”

“Thanks.” I went back to dicing the vegetables. Show no favorites. Do your job. Not that I had to be warned. People who dated their bosses or started show-mances usually humiliated their families and lost the game. Suckers. I’d be home in Texas in three months. I wasn’t taking a layer of Hollywood shame back with me. Cute Cal could take his warm brown eyes and his gator’s beady black ones back to his table.

“Places,” the director said.

Cal went back to the front.

The director said, “Camera, zoom in on Messy.”

The cameraman pushed the tripod over to me and turned the wide lens so it pointed dead center on my face.

I froze.

“Say hi,” the director said. “Action.”

I opened my lips to greet the camera or dear God no—start barking, when sobs broke out across the room. I jerked, grateful for the interruption.

Wilma said, “My husband. I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. He must come first.”

The camera swiveled to her.

A cute male contestant with dark hair rolled his eyes and gestured to the door. “Quit then, Wilma. You know you were going to lose anyway.”

The third male contestant, a dark-skinned man, threw paprika at her.

Wilma shrugged off her blue apron and ran to Ms. Sims. The camera chased her. Wilma said, “Give me a doggy bag.” Her last word broke on a sob.

Ms. Sims frowned and drew out a white paper bag from the pocket of her black apron. The front of the bag held an image of a dog with his tail tucked under his body. She smoothed the paper and her hand framed the image. Seriousness lay in her voice. “Do you know what this means?”

Yips and howls filled the room as the other contestants started barking.

“I do.” Wilma sobbed, snatched the bag from Ms. Sims, and turned to the camera. “For my family.”

“Cut.”

As Wilma ran from the room, a grandmotherly-looking contestant grinned, made a fist, and jabbed her elbow at her side. “She was next out anyway.”

The other female contestant pursed her lips but didn’t comment.

Wow. This was going to be a great episode.

The director, Hannah, and Ms. Sims converged and began a heated, whispered conversation. I kept my focus split between them and the turnips. My progress slowed considerably and my fingers numbed under the cold vegetables. This was fabulous.