Reality Check

This isn’t a crime novel, but if Noelle Johnson goes missing, I probably did it.

Why, you might ask, am I contemplating homicide? Please, take a seat. Allow me to share a tale of trickery and betrayal.

Yesterday, I walked up six flights of stairs to my shitty apartment after a shitty day at my shitty temp job. The stairs thing doesn’t matter, but I need you to know, because it sets the scene for how—you guessed it—shitty my life is.

Anyway, I tried to enter the apartment I share with my best friend and potential victim Noelle Johnson, but the door refused to open more than a foot.

It was a very confusing situation. Neither of us are particularly neat individuals, but we aren’t so messy that we block the entrance. Also, ten hours earlier, the door worked just fine.

So, I hollered for Noelle. She darted out of our bedroom—we’re in our mid-twenties and have bunkbeds in a shared room because we can’t afford anything better—with this guilty expression on her face that spelled pure trouble.

I knew I was in very, very deep shit when she removed the obstructions, two suitcases and two duffels, to let me inside. Four pieces of luggage meant both of us were going somewhere, and considering we’d have to pay to check two of them, it meant we were going somewhere important, somewhere that required clothing options.

“Don’t kill me,” she said.

I promised to take her request into consideration.

“I may or may not have signed us up for Enlisted.”

I stared blankly into her beautiful, guilty blue eyes because I had no idea what Enlisted was. I like to think of everything up until the point I learned of its existence as the Before Times.

“It’s a show, Mia,” she huffed.

I continued to stare blankly because I was in complete and utter shock. This had to be a sick joke.

“A dating show,” she explained. “It’s new. On Reality Network.”

“You signed us up for a reality dating show?” I squeaked, taking the tone mice use before they get eaten by cats.

“Yeah. We have to leave for our flight in an hour. It’s a redeye into LAX, but don’t worry. You can have the window seat.”

I still worried, despite her generosity with our seating arrangements. “Wait. Don’t you have to audition for reality shows?”

Think of the craziest reality star you’ve seen. That person was vetted by professionals. Can you imagine if shows took anyone off the street? I already didn’t want anything to do with Enlisted, but if they lacked an audition process, there was zero chance I was getting on that flight.

“Do you remember that video project you helped me with for work?”

A couple months ago, Noelle asked me a series of personal questions and filmed my answers. She claimed it was for a presentation she was assigned for her temp job in HR. I believed her, partially because she’s my best friend and partially because I’m an idiot.

“You bitch,” I growled.

“Yeah, so that was your audition tape.”

I almost strangled her right then and there. Feel free to use that as evidence that Noelle’s untimely death was premeditated.

Noelle read my mind. “Before you kill me, hear me out. We’re staying at a villa on the beach. It’s fancy, like five-stars.”

“A free vacation isn’t worth embarrassing ourselves on live TV,” I pointed out.

“It’s not live. They film for a week and then air the episode the Tuesday after,” Noelle informed me.

“It’s not worth embarrassing ourselves on any type of TV,” I clarified.

“Yeah, but that’s not all. They sent us a binder with all the contestants, and the guys are delicious.”

As much as I really needed to get laid, I wasn’t horny enough to go on freaking reality TV.

“We also get paid ten grand per episode,” Noelle added.

Three hours later, I swallowed a shot of Nyquil (the recommended dose, don’t fear) and passed out against the window on a plane to California.