Alternates: Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Now that I’m full of food and my chest hurts from laughing all through dinner, I barely manage to change into my pajamas and set an alarm for tomorrow morning before falling asleep.

My dreams are strange. A lot of long hallways with exit doors that keep getting further away as I walk towards them. A car that stops when I press the gas and lurches forward when I slam on the brakes. At one point I’m trying to run from a huge talking bat with a cartoon Dracula voice and fangs to match, but my feet won’t move, and the bat is laughing at me and telling me I can’t do anything, I’m stuck where I am, I’m useless. I turn and look over my shoulder at it, ready to yell some kind of retort, but it’s almost on me and I squeeze my eyes shut right as the bat is about to collide with me, but I wake up at the moment of impact.

I roll over and check my phone with bleary eyes. 7:17. My alarm goes off at 7:30, so it’s not like there’s any sense in trying to get back to sleep. I re-read the email from Yasmin and confirm that, yes, I’m still an alternate, and yes, I still have to come do promo shoots with everybody else. I scroll through the group chat for a few minutes, catching up on all the post-dinner messages - some people are going to a cafe together for breakfast, but they’re leaving now and I won’t be able to get ready in time - before hauling myself out of bed and getting dressed.

The only dress code provided in the email is that we should wear something that represents our school. I root through my bag until I come up with a black t-shirt that has ‘go Tigers!’ printed across it in bold orange. It will do. I put it on, brush my teeth, attempt to force my hair into a respectable style, and pack my backpack for the day. Yasmin’s email warned that, despite the tight schedule, shooting tends to happen in short bursts interspersed with down time for the talent (and even though I know she doesn’t really mean the alternates, thinking of myself as ‘the talent’ still shoots a spark of starry-eyed Hollywood magic through my head). We also won’t be able to use our phones. I pack my half-finished mystery novel along with a pen and paper in case the book isn’t enough. I also fill up my The Q water bottle in the bathroom sink and stick it in the side pocket of my backpack, feeling a little bit like an adventurer in a fantasy novel. I’m packing my little rucksack and setting off for the faraway town of Q in the land of Decameron, going to seek my fortune. Don’t wait up.

Of course I know I’m not going to find my fortune there, not unless my fortune is a thousand bucks, but still.

I double-mask, as Yasmin’s email requested, and head down to the lobby. The Jewel, fancy as it is, hands out free coffee and tea and pastries in the mornings, and I take a paper cup and a little disposable plastic plate that’s made to look like glass, and I pile my plate high with raspberry and cheese danishes and a chocolate croissant and fill my cup with hot water and two bags of tea because I like my tea way too strong, until it’s almost bitter. Thanks, Dad. I’ve learned my lesson from the airport, though - I bypass the Earl Greys and Irish Breakfasts and go straight for the decaf lemon mint. I refuse to jitter my way through my first and, apparently, only appearance on the set of The Q.

I step outside onto the sidewalk to lean against the building and eat my pastries and drink my tea - The Q has very strict rules about us only eating outdoors, although judging by some of last night’s photos in the group chat, not everybody bothered to follow that rule at dinner. I guess I could ignore it entirely, because what are they going to do, kick me off the show? But I don’t want to get sick, and I also don’t want Yasmin and Morty to be mad at me. Yasmin strikes me as the type of woman whose bad side you never, ever want to be on, and Morty strikes me as a ‘not mad, just disappointed’ type. I don’t think I’d handle either of those well.

The front door to the Jewel swings open, and Joan joins me on the sidewalk, easing the door shut with her foot, both hands curled around a steaming hot cup of coffee. Light and sweet, it looks like - there’s so much milk in there that her coffee is almost as pale as I am.

“Good morning, Mickey,” she says. Her hair is slicked back into two neat braids today, and she’s wearing a deep blue zip-up sweatshirt with SMITH on the front. She leans against the wall next to me, kicks one foot up on it, and sips her coffee.

“Morning,” I say. “I’m sure you said it last night, but I forgot you went to Smith. Isn’t that a women’s school?” I grin. “Kinda gay of you, not gonna lie.”

Joan doesn’t take the joke, or the bait. “Mm-hmm.” She takes another long swig from her coffee. “This coffee is very good. Do you want some?”

“No thanks. I can’t do caffeine and it’s probably not smart to keep trying.”

“What do you think today will be like?” she asks.

“If we believe Yasmin, a whole lot of sitting around doing nothing in between people taking photos and videos of us hyping up The Q,” I say.

Joan leans in a little closer. Her breath smells like her coffee. Or maybe I’m just smelling the steam off the cup, I’m not really sure. “I said what do you think, not what did Yasmin say.”

“Honestly? I think it’s going to be kind of magical. I’ve never been on a studio lot before. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a TV camera in person. And now we’re gonna get to see The Q in person, when we’ve only ever seen it on a screen since we were kids. We’re going to be in the same room as the board and the podiums and everything. Podiums? Podia? Do you know the plural of that?”

Joan shakes her head. “I take Arabic. I don’t know anything about Latin plurals.”

“I don’t know if it would help. The Latin Vulgate isn’t doing me any favors here. Anyway. Yeah, that’s what I think it’ll be like. Like stepping through the screen.”

She nods solemnly, staring at me all the while. I try to meet her eyes, but it only takes a few seconds before I buckle under the weight of her gaze. I take a sip of my tea and stare out at the painfully blue sky instead, hoping I look philosophical and not just nervous that a pretty girl is looking at me.

I hear her take a sharp breath in. A pause. I keep not looking at her.

She says, “I hope you’re right.”

Once I’ve finished my pastries and tea, the two of us go back inside. Most of the other contestants are already milling around in the lobby, some off studying in their own corners, others gathered around Keeley, who seems to have them engaged in some story. When Keeley looks up and spots me and Joan, though, she pauses and waves us over.

“Morning, y’all!” she says. “Mickey, I’m glad you’re here. I was just getting into the chipped-tooth story.”

“Oh, count me in,” I reply, perching myself on the arm of Keeley’s chair. But before Keeley can get into the chipped-tooth story, I hear the distinctive click of high heels across the tiles of the lobby.

“You guys are not six feet apart,” Yasmin’s voice calls from behind us. The knot of people I’ve joined, seven or eight of us in all, springs backward at once, everybody making sure to put distance between themselves and the people next to them. I scramble off the arm of Keeley’s chair, nearly falling over as I do. I hear Keeley stifle a giggle.

“Sorry,” says one of the contestants. “It’s easy to forget to distance when you’re masked.”

“Well…” Yasmin pauses, tapping her clicky heel against the floor. I can almost see the angel and devil on each of her shoulders helping her decide how harsh she wants to be with us. The angel wins, and she says, “Just make sure you’re all socially distanced when we’re on set. They’re going to be very strict about that on the lot.”

Everyone nods and eagerly agrees, and Yasmin shepherds us out the door and into the bright California sun. The walk to the lot takes about ten minutes, and I watch that water tower grow taller and taller with every step we take towards it. When Yasmin finally guides us through a side entrance near the wrought-iron gates of the Decameron Pictures lot, it looks like a massive robot, or maybe some kind of gigantic insect, with its stick legs and its bulbous body. I wave at it. I almost pull out my phone, too, to take a picture for my dad, but I remember Decameron’s no-phones policy just in time.

“Alright, come on, come on,” Yasmin says, leading us between several concrete buildings and trailers. A golf cart whizzes by at top speed, and a few people have to jump back to avoid it. Finally she leads us through a grey door with a huge black 7 painted on it, down a dim hallway with arrows taped on the floor, and onto a deserted sound stage.

The place is cavernous. A short flight of stairs rises out of the floor to the left, allowing access to the rows of auditorium seats where the live studio audience sits during taping. A couple of TV monitors are suspended from the ceiling next to unlit APPLAUSE signs. Across the room from the audience section, to the right, hangs a large green screen. The rest of the sound stage is grey and hollow, like the mouth of something. Or the stomach.

It’s also absolutely freezing. Jesus, it must be fifty-something in here. I feel myself start to shiver the moment we walk in, and goosebumps rise up on my arms.

From behind me, I hear the sound of a zipper sliding, and then something drapes over my shoulders. I glance down to see a deep blue sweatshirt with SM on one half and TH on the other. The I is split across the open zipper. I turn around. Joan, in a long-sleeved tee, gives me a thumbs-up.

“Joan -”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I run hot.”

“What? But last night -”

“This stage is between productions right now,” Yasmin announces to the group, gesturing to the open maw of the room, “although if any of your parents watched Race To The Bottom growing up, this is where it used to be shot.”

“Oh my god, my grandma loves RTTB,” someone behind me says. I don't know everyone's voices yet, but I think it might be Catie, or maybe Mfoniso. “I can’t wait to tell her I was here.”

“This is going to be your headquarters for the next few days,” Yasmin continues. “Anytime you’re not actively taping a game or watching someone else’s game taping from the audience, this is where you’ll be. Go ahead and drop off your bags and then come with me so we can get you all through wardrobe and hair and makeup.”

“Can we bring our water bottles?” Hank asks.

Yasmin shakes her head. “You’re not allowed to drink or eat inside any of the buildings, so there’s really no point. We’ll come back here before lunch and snack times, so you can grab your water then.”

“Where’s the nearest bathroom?” Laurel asks, shrugging her backpack off her broad shoulders.

“Do you really have to go?”

“Uh, no, not that bad -”

“Then you’ll have to wait. Someone can show you to a restroom after you’re done with wardrobe.”

Laurel’s eyebrows jerk up and down in disbelief. I climb the stairs to the audience area and put my backpack down next to hers.

“Can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t piss without an escort,” she grumbles.

“Just like being back in kindergarten,” I reply. “I’ll be honest, I’m excited about snack time.”

Laurel snorts. “Fair enough.”

Once all our bags are put away, Yasmin leads us across the sound stage to a door painted the same color as the back wall. Through it, another narrow hallway that opens into a large antechamber with several open doorways. Through one, I see several racks of sweatshirts and two people with handheld steamers, each running them up and down the sweatshirts. I have never seen anyone steam a sweatshirt before, and I’m sure I gape for a little too long before assessing what’s behind the other doorways. Most lead to more hallways, but another must be hair and makeup - they’ve got those mirrors that I kind of thought only existed in movies, the ones bordered with round light bulbs emitting a soft white glow, and they’re attached to black trunks on spindly tripod legs, each filled with creams, powders, paints, gels, waxes, sprays, and brushes in every shape, size, and color. I glance around at the faces of my fellows, and most of them look as dazzled as I feel, although Rafa surveys everything with the cool detached air of someone who’s both been there and done that already. Either he’s been on TV a dozen times or he is indeed a very good actor.

“Alright, let’s take fifteen of you over here to wardrobe and fifteen to hair and makeup,” Yasmin says, indicating a division down the middle of the group with her arm. “Once you’ve had one, come see me, and I’ll send you to the other. Once you’ve had both, wait in the hallway so we can be socially distanced. Once everybody’s through, I’ll take you to the Q stage and leave you in Morty’s capable hands.”

The mention of the Q stage sends a frisson of excitement through the group, and people babble in a thrilled hush to each other as they wait for their turn. Yasmin has put me in the hair and makeup group and Joan in the wardrobe group, so I reluctantly remove Joan’s very warm sweatshirt and shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to warm myself up, as I wait. Thankfully, the half-dozen hair and makeup artists are very efficient, and it’s only a few minutes before a tall man with deeply tanned skin and extravagant silver eyeliner whisks me into a chair.

“I’m Eddie,” he says. “Let’s get you made up. What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

He leans over and consults a list taped to the side of his makeup trunk. “You’re Mickey! Ooh, that’s so exciting.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“It totally is! I’m excited, anyway. Okay, let’s just do a very natural look for you unless you decide you want something more. Mask off for me, please.”

I close my eyes and leave myself in Eddie’s capable hands. He swipes what feels like a cold sponge across my face, then I feel a brush dust my chin and nose.

“Do you want me to fill in your eyebrows?” he asks.

“Yes please.”

Something cool and dry flicks through my eyebrows, and then I feel something soft, almost like a rabbit’s foot, tapping across my whole face.

“Open up,” Eddie says. The face in the round-bulb mirror is mine, although a shade or two darker than I’m used to and much more handsome. Eddie hands me a small plastic bag with a fuzzy tan disc inside. I take it gingerly.

“That’s your puff,” he explains. “Don’t lose it, because we’re going to use it to reapply your makeup throughout this whole week. Mask back on.”

I put my mask back on and stick the puff deep into the pocket of my jeans. A woman comes over and combs my hair back and mists me with about seven different sprays, each of which smells like something you’d use to clean a bathroom, and then I’m ejected from hair and makeup and into wardrobe, where a man looks me up and down with a critical eye and thrusts a freshly-steamed orange hoodie at me. I tug it over my head, taking care not to mess up my hair, and settle into its warm lining. The man squints at me, then reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a small pair of scissors, and holds them to my neck, silver blades flashing.

“Hey, what -”

Snip, snip. He cuts the drawstrings off of the hoodie and pulls the remaining string out of the hood with the tips of his scissors. He reminds me of a doctor sewing somebody up.

“They’re distracting on camera,” he explains. “You’re done. Make room for someone else.”

And I’m back out in another poorly-lit hallway with another set of masking-tape arrows on the ground, and Keeley and Annalise and Rafa are already out there, each wearing an immaculate college sweatshirt. I look down at my own sweatshirt.

To break the dazzled silence, I say, “I don’t think orange is my color.”

Keeley says, “Nonsense, you look great,” but at the same time, Rafa snorts.

“You got that right,” he says. “Your complexion needs cooler jewel tones - do you think they’ve got a peacock hoodie back there? Or maybe a nice amethyst?”

“Maybe Joan and I can just swap schools. I could go to Smith.”

“Isn’t that a women’s school?” Annalise asks. It’s strange seeing her in a sweatshirt that’s the appropriate size for her petite frame.

“What, you don’t think I could pull off woman?” I flutter my lashes like Betty Boop.

“Not in a sweatshirt that’s not even your color, you can’t,” Rafa retorts.

“Hey, at least I won’t be distracting people with my drawstrings.”

Once we’ve all been made up and hair-ed and wardrobe-d, Yasmin leads us through the labyrinth once again until we’re back out in the blinding sun. Across a narrow alley with polished luxury cars parked on either side - the kind of car you’d buy if you had five hundred grand - and through another numbered door, this one number 12. Through the door, up some stairs, and -

Keeley, who’s at the front of the line, right behind Yasmin, gasps. The sound ripples back through the line as everyone gets to the top of the stairs in turn, and even though the folks at the back of the line are already giggling about it, I still can’t stop the gasp from hitting me, too. I feel like the place actually sucked the air out of my lungs through my mouth.

It’s The Q.

I mean, of course it’s The Q, because this is where they film it. But it’s real. No pixels to be found, no scrolling newsreel at the bottom, no commercial breaks. It’s three-dimensional, shiny, polished to within an inch of its life, and right in front of me. The Q’s signature purple-and-chrome color scheme is everywhere, with a purple floor so sparkling clean it looks like glass and those round-edged chrome borders and accents on the podiums that give them the gravitas of a future someone imagined in the 1950s. Seeing it in person feels like coming home.

And then, beyond the edges of what they show on TV, the half-dozen gigantic cameras and the APPLAUSE signs and the monitors and the table for a team of judges who will sit behind a glass panel to check our answers and the tiered audience seating, which is where we are now, and the lights, oh, god, the lights. The high ceiling is overlaid with a black metal grid, and from the grid dangle what must be hundreds of lights. I think they’re mostly spotlights, not that I really have any idea, and they’re all different sizes and they’re hung so densely that I can barely see the metal grid they’re attached to. I stare up at them and imagine how bright the set would be if they were all lit. Like the center of a star.

“This is where I leave you. Morty will take it from here.”

I’m so dazed, I don’t understand whose voice it is or what it means until I see Yasmin’s back disappearing down the stairs we just ascended. Just as she vanishes out of sight, Morty comes around a corner in the set that I hadn’t even noticed - there must be some kind of room behind the back wall of the set, the one behind the podiums - and waves at us all.

“Welcome to The Q!” he booms. “Who’s excited?”

We whoop and cheer - I hear someone shout “all of us!” - and the camera crew, the judges, and Morty cheer with us.

“Awesome! You guys are really special,” Morty continues, “and this is a really special thing you’re getting to do here. Now, you’re all going to film your intros here in the studio - that’s the part where you say your name and school that gets played at the beginning of your episode - and you’ll get some photos taken with the Q question board. We’ll do those with all of you, so that includes you, alternates, just in case we need to use you. After that we’ll take some group photos of the contestants and individual photos where each contestant gets to pose with - and I know you’ll all be thrilled about this - Cab Cabrini himself. Contestants will also get to play a practice game. And then we’ll send you back to the hotel to chill out for the day!”

And before I can even really process what’s happening one of the crew members is waving me down the stairs that connect audience to set and I’m walking across that perfect smooth purple floor and I’m behind the first podium, the champion’s podium, with a huge black monstrosity of a camera and a teleprompter both in my face and Eddie is there telling me to remove my mask and hand over my puff and I pull it out of my pocket and he touches up the powder around my chin and then I turn to face the camera and tell the world that my name is Mickey Lewis from Princeton University and this is The Q and they have me say it over again with a bigger smile and a louder voice and then I’m in front of the board, the real actual Q game board, and they’re directing me to smile as they take pictures of me and I spot Rafa at the teleprompter looking like a natural and I look into the camera and grin until my cheeks hurt and my eyes water because I am here and my dad is going to cry when he hears how happy I am right now.

And then it’s time for contestant pictures with Cab Cabrini, host of The Q.

And Rafa, Joan, and I are not contestants.

And Yasmin appears to take us back to the empty sound stage right as Cab rounds the corner.

The contestants clap and cheer for him as the door to studio number 12 swings shut behind us.

Might Makes Write and all the writing shared herein are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0.