The Final Rose

Chapter Two: Date Card

I had a hard time sleeping that night. As I laid in bed, listening to Candace snoring in the bunk bed beneath me, I wished I could call my mom to check in with her, but we weren't allowed any contact with the outside world: no internet, no cell phones, no television. We were captives in a way, or at least like a jury assigned to a high-profile criminal case. I quickly understood why women on the show got so excited about the arrival of date cards. Jacob seemed like a nice enough guy, but the date card meant you could actually leave the house and do something besides braid each others' hair.

The next morning, I was one of the first women awake, largely because I hadn't slept much to begin with. Filming crew were scattered around the mansion, setting up their cameras and artificial lights. Each room, with the exception of the bathrooms, was equipped with cameras that recorded non-stop, but crew members hung out in the main rooms with more sophisticated-looking cameras. To add to our panopticon setting, from the moment we woke up to the moment we went to bed, we were expected to be mic'd up. The battery pack of my personal microphone felt foreign in the small of my back as I entered the kitchen.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat at the kitchen island. My stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten since a late lunch at Chicago O'Hare airport the previous day.

"Morning," a dark-haired woman padded into the kitchen in only a long t-shirt. Her eyes were heavily lidded with sleep. "Anything good to eat around here?"

"There's cereal in the pantry," I noted around a mouthful of raisin bran.

"I'm Stephie, by the way," she introduced herself. "Twenty-four. Personal chef."

"Nokomis," I returned. "Commercial artist."

Stephie grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and broke the seal on the cap. "Is there something we're supposed to be doing right now?"

I shrugged. I had no idea. Until the host of the show dropped by or a date card arrived, there was nothing for us to do. There were no books in the mansion and no exercise equipment either. I had no idea how they expected us to entertain ourselves all day.

She held the pantry door open and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "I suppose this will do." She peered at me over her shoulder. "Can I interest you in some French toast?"

My bowl of cereal suddenly lost its appeal.

The scent of vanilla and cinnamon from Stephie's French toast eventually coaxed the rest of the house out of their respective bedrooms, and after breakfast we seemed to naturally divide ourselves into two factions—one group of women hanging outside around the large saltwater pool and the other in the open living room inside the mansion.

I stretched out on a plastic lounge chair near the pool and closed my eyes. My stomach was satisfied, but my idle brain festered with guilt. It was only day two, and I was already participating in an activity that my mother would not approve of. When I was younger she never let me sunbathe; she even restricted how much I could play outside because she thought I looked wild and uncivilized when my skin was too dark. She herself stayed out of direct sunlight based on an inverted cultural preference for lighter skin. The contrast was made even more bizarre considering I was surrounded by white girls who unabashedly sizzled under the late morning sun.

I opened my eyes and squinted beyond the lenses of my sunglasses when I sensed a shadow fall over me. A uniformed member of the production crew held a silver platter crowded with glasses of various design. "Would you like something to drink?" he offered. "I've got champagne, wine, and an assortment of cocktails."

I pulled myself up on my elbows and regarded him over the top of my sunglasses. "But it's not even noon."

The crew member grinned. "Welcome to the world of reality television."