The Accidental TV Star (6 page)

Ms. Sims flattened her hand on the counter. “Three of each.” Her voice sounded firm.

Hannah nodded and hurried to me. She tossed me a blue apron. I dropped a turnip to catch it.

Hannah said, “You’re up. Take Wilma’s station.”

The stiff, starched fabric crumpled under my grip. “Uh? What?”

“We have seven weeks. We did the double-elimination last week. With Wilma quitting, we need a new contestant. You’re up.”

“But, I didn’t apply. Or send in a video.” Shocked bewilderment colored my voice.

Hannah shrugged. “Surprise. You’re now in the top six out of thousands who auditioned.” Hannah typed on her tablet. “We’ll order another assistant from the cooking class.” She looked back up at me. “You can cook, right?”

I nodded.

Her fingers paused, and she didn’t seem convinced. “Well, just fake it for an episode until you get kicked off.”

I didn’t have to fake it. I could cook. I moved toward Wilma’s spot, pulling on the blue contestant apron over my white kitchen-hand one, feeling a sense of unreality and rising excitement.

Sprinkles of red dust landed on my arm. I glanced over at the dark-skinned man. His apron was labeled
Spice King
. He flicked his hand at me.

I narrowed my gaze and brushed at the powder but I didn’t say anything. For all I knew that was a greeting, but it felt more like a declaration of war.
Don’t draw me into your TV battle, chef, save it until the cameras go off.

The good-looking dark haired guy said, “Take Wilma’s unlucky spot, Messy. I’ll take you down too.”

The lady with the tight lips loosened up enough to say, “Wilma never cleaned her cookware. Your dish will taste like last week’s beef Burgundy.”

“Stop helping her,” the grandmother snapped.

Ms. Sims moved in front of the camera.

The director said, “Action.”

“Well contestants, with Wilma’s defection, we’re forced to bring in an alternative. In a surprise twist for the season, please welcome our new contestant and former kitchen-hand—Messy Marissa.”

The contestants clapped and shouted welcomes. The camera spun around the room capturing everything and I waved at it, feeling like a moron.

Ms. Sims said, “We’re down to three guys and three girls. Who will be the next Scoop-tastic Chef and win a shot at working at my restaurant?”

My hands shook and my mouth dried at the thought.

Ms. Sims said, “And who will leave with a doggy bag?”

I barked along with the others, only stopping when I realized that I was the only one still going.

Ms. Sims said, “Meet your new final six contestants: Cajun Cal, Grandma Gert, Clean Kate, Willful Will, Spice King, and Messy Marissa.” As she said each name, the camera zoomed in on the contestant and each carried out a signature ritual. My neighbor Cal winked and saluted off the gator’s snout. Grandma made a heart-shape with her hands and held it over her heart. Kate polished her tabletop. Will shined his knife, and the Spice King dusted the air with paprika.

The camera swiveled to me. A bright light shined in my face. Before I could blink, bark, or faint, Garrett’s ringtone belted out. “We will live on, for an eternity.”

Oh no.

“Cut.”

Chapter Three

Hannah held out her hand. I slapped the phone in her palm, and the image of Garrett in his toga stared up at us. Hannah’s eyes widened. Turning away from the host, she winked and pocketed my phone. “Nice.”

My shoulders relaxed.

The director thumped the brim of the cameraman’s ball cap. “Did you get that?”

He nodded.

“That’s one of our studio’s films, right?”

After receiving his second acknowledgment, the director turned to Ms. Sims. Their eyes met and a silent exchange took place. Then the director said, “Counting down, three, two, one.” She made a rolling motion and pointed at Ms. Sims.

Ms. Sims said, “Meet your new final six: Willful Will, Clean Kate, Spice King, Cajun Cal, Grandma Gert, and—”

The bright lights attached to the camera swiveled and blinded me.

“Star Stalker Marissa.”

I gasped. The camera lingered and then turned to Hannah.

With a reluctant grimace at me, Hannah held up my cell phone and maneuvered the screen so that the picture of Garrett faced the lens. The camera zoomed in.

The director said, “That’s a wrap.”

The contestants shrugged out of their aprons and headed for the door. They were whispering loudly enough for me to hear their topic—me.

I took my tray back to the sink for the cleaning crew, lingering on the set of
Scoop Out
a moment longer. Wow.

The director clapped, catching the exiting contestants’ attention. “Remember, we’re shooting more promos next week. Have something ready to say. Maybe a tragic story about your past or why you want to win. Interviewer Ms. Karla Quintos will be here to tape. So be ready.”

Karla Quintos. I loved entertainment news stories, but Karla Quintos liked to stir up malicious gossip and Ash had told me how she’d caused a rift between Caz and Garrett. I wrinkled my nose and dumped my tray. “Hate her.”

Cal hung back. “Wheweee, cat fight.”

The remaining contestants parted, and I saw Karla Quintos in the doorway.

Classic. Well, this had been fun while it lasted.

Ms. Quintos narrowed her eyes and a false grin played on her slick gloss-stained lips. She stepped into the group of lingering contestants. “Well, that’s great then, I always appreciate the challenge of winning over a new fan. Camera, can you zoom in on her?

A man clad in a T-shirt and jeans pushed in behind her. He had a huge black camera balanced on his shoulder.

“What’s your name?” Kara Quintos asked.

“Star Stalker Marissa from Texas,” the director said.

Hannah held up my cell phone.

Karla’s eyes widened and she peered close at the screen, then at me. Her mouth tightened. “Stalker, is it?” Karla cleared her throat and motioned at her camera guy. He stepped toward her and angled the lens.

Karla said, “
Scoop Out
has kicked into high temperatures by adding a feisty stalker from Texas. Now I know Garrett Campbell.” She gave a naughty laugh. “You all know I know him. But what he’d say about his newest salivating fan is anyone’s guess. Tweet your thoughts and tune in next week to hear the results.” She finished by saying, “Cut.” Then she turned to the director. “Thanks for that, we’ll give your show an early lead in tonight.”

I walked straight for the door with my head down and my mouth shut. I paused at the exit, went over to Hannah, and snatched my phone back.

“Sorry,” she mouthed and bit her lip on her grin.

***

Outside, I swiped my finger on the screen to check my messages. There were four more from Garrett, all food-related.

I texted him back.
Sorry, they took my phone during class. I’m in Studio Three.

My phone rang.

“On my lot?” Garrett’s accent was more difficult to understand through the phone than it was in person.

“I don’t know. Where are you?”

“Warehouse 47. Come over. I want you to see what they’re serving so you never give me such pap.”

“Are they still shooting?” My voice rose in excitement at the thought.

“We’ve wrapped but the snacks are still out. Come on.”

“Okay.”

I checked the numbers on the buildings and started walking in his direction. Before I got there, another text popped up from Garrett.
Toast points. Hurry
.

It only took a few minutes, but when I got to the metal warehouse, a guard blocked the entry. I handed him my ID.

He scanned it and handed it back. “Nice try, kid. Classes are in the front.” He typed something on his computer tablet and frowned. “Oh, and Studio Three.” His voice held more disrespect. “Reality TV?” He said the words the way you’d say
apocalypse
. “That’s back at the front.”

I texted Garrett.
Access to holy temple denied.

Garrett responded with a picture of iceberg lettuce with browned edges. Within a minute, he appeared at the door. He wore a costume, a 1920s era grey pinstriped suit. “Hey, John,” he greeted the guard. “This is Marissa, my personal chef.”

“No girlfriends on set, Mr. Campbell. You know how Mr. Russell is.”

“Call me Garrett, please. You know shooting is done for the day. The long sunlight hours here in America kept us poor workers toiling into the evening, but now it’s time for my chef to prepare a meal to keep me going for the next long shoot.” He was too tall and big to carry off woeful, but he tried. “Marissa must know the dregs they’re serving.” Garrett rubbed his stomach and pulled an expression of desperation.

The guard strategically looked off down the alley with his back to us. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“The blind often see the most.” Garrett dropped an arm over my shoulders and we went in.

Bright lights lit a stage area and crew dressed in black scurried around toting gear. I stopped and grinned up at Garrett. “This is so cool.”

He led me to a table where an array of wilted produce sat in tubs. A few wheat crackers remained nearby. He banged a cracker on the side of the table but it didn’t crumble. “Taste this.”

“I don’t want to lose a tooth.”

He held up a piece of the lettuce and shook it. The leaf flapped over and clung to the back of his hand like a rabid fan.

“There’s so much wrong with that, I don’t know where to start.”

“Aye. We’ve stunts to do and martial arts training and this is what they feed us.” He shook the lettuce free of his fingers and started to eat it.

I yanked it away. Nice mouth. “I thought you didn’t need a personal chef.”

“I don’t.” He rubbed his hands together. “There was so much food in the house when I left this morning. Then I got here and saw this.” He grimaced. “If you’ll be taking classes here, I’ll have the P.A. stock my trailer. Then you can come over and throw meals together for me.”

“Sure. From what the paperwork said, I’ll be here two to four days a week for five weeks.”

Garrett made a pleased sound. He must have really liked the breakfast casserole. Behind him, a lean, handsome, dark-haired man dressed in black karate clothes headed to the entrance. I recognized him from the couch the morning I had arrived. Seeing him here on set made me wonder. I grabbed Garrett’s arm to steady myself. “Is he in the movie? He’s so tall.”

“He’s not that tall. That’s Max Stone. He’s in this and he had a small part in my last film.”

When the action star disappeared from view, I lowered my voice and quoted the big line from his last movie, “Enjoy your last steak, carnivore. After tonight you’ll be toothless.”

“Please, Mr. Carstairs, tell your father, I didn’t mean for none of this to happen.” Garrett quoted the next lines from the movie and acted out the part of the wincing, begging villain. “Eddie here, he made me take the horses. Please, not the teeth, Mr. Carstairs.”

I laughed and took in the set again. This was so unreal. The makeup area had a hundred slots with tubs, jars, and brushes. They’d set the stage with red couches trimmed in gold. An enormous chandelier hung from a wire in the ceiling. Microphones dropped down from overhead rafters every few feet. A mobile clothes rack held beaded gowns on padded hangers, each costume tagged with a photo.

Garrett’s fingers on my chin drew me back to him. “I can show you around if you like, but I really need to know what’s for dinner.”

For some reason, his hunger amused me, especially because he’d said he didn’t want a cook. I laughed. “I’d love a tour. But how about we go home now and do it next time. I’m here all summer.”

He clapped. “Aye, dinner. All right then. Two seconds to change.” He ran around a corner and returned in five minutes wearing dark jeans, a green Henley, and loafers.

Hello.

“Where’d you park?” Garrett asked.

“I took the bus.”

“The transport of the masses. The green carbon-footprint clearing choice.”

“Yeah, the kid in front of me tapped on his tongue for the first thirty minutes. Then he drew pictures on the window. That kept me entertained most of the ride.”

“You should’ve taken one of my cars.” He shrugged. “I don’t have a favorite. Use whichever.”

Cool. “Okay.”

We left the warehouse and said goodbye to the guard. “See you, John.”

John nodded.

Most of the lot consisted of warehouses, but when we reached the back, we passed the façade of an old west town.

Wow.

Garrett said, “I like to cut through here to get to the employee lot. Cool, huh?”

At my nod, Garrett pointed at two nearly identical doors, standing side by side. “The tour guide said the cowboys stood in the shorter doorway to appear big and braw. The lass would stand in the tall one to seem fragile and wee.”

I handed him my camera and posed in the tall doorway. Then I made him get in the short one and I snapped his picture. “Tell me some more.”

Garrett kept me entertained while we walked out to the car. The movie illusions were fascinating, though honestly he could read me the phone book with that voice and I’d be riveted. Garrett clicked the keys and opened the passenger door of a white Land Rover. Polite.

I got in and we zoomed out of the parking lot, past an empty tour bus, and onto the streets of Burbank. There were no tour buses in Trallwyn, Texas. This was so surreal. “How does California compare to Scotland?”

“In no way. Even the lights are a different color.” His accent deepened and he described a phenomenon called the gloaming. “Here it’s sun and cactus, and white-toothed smiles set in tanned skin. I can’t drink here, you know.” He went from nostalgic to outraged. “I can buy a house but not a beer.”

“Your liquor cabinet’s fairly packed for such a restricted guy.”

“The studio stocked it.” He tapped on the wheel, though he needed both hands in the ten and two position. “About dinner.”

I curled my feet up and tried to ignore his horrible driving and enjoy the sights. “A lot’s going on, and I want to celebrate. In Texas, that means steak. I have some marinating in a pineapple ginger marinade. You good with that?”