over to Myra Townsend, grabbed her gray Jil Sander, and screamed in her face, “You tell me what’s going on and you do it this very minute!”
“Really, Amy,” Ms. Townsend said, freeing her sleeve from Amy’s clutch, “why don’t you already know? Everybody else does.”
Violet Sanderson pulled Amy away. “Come here. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what!” The “second interview” had been bad enough; Amy had never been this furious in her entire life. Her stomach acids boiled, her chest was about to explode. One more word from Myra Townsend and she would slug her.
Violet said softly, “Look around you, One Two Three.”
People were crossing the lobby toward them: the blonde girl who had “saved” the baby, now looking smug. The boy who had assaulted the “robber.” Two more boys and another girl. The real TLN security guards, some looking pleased and some sulky, resumed what Amy guessed were their normal positions.
Ms. Townsend said, “Follow me, everyone,” and set off briskly toward the elevators.
Violet said, “It was a setup, One Two Three. We were being filmed.”
Well, Amy had figured out that much! She snapped, “I didn’t see any cameras!”
“And you never will. The latest microcams are super-small. Come on!”
Ms. Townsend led them to a small conference room on the second floor. Amy recognized the bald man who was waiting there: he had interviewed her the first time. Everyone sat around a polished wooden table. Ms. Townsend, looking harried, excused herself: “I’m needed in editing.”
“I’m Alex Everett,” the bald man said. “Before we do the rest of the introductions, let me explain for those of you who still don’t understand what you’re doing here.” He winked at Amy, who kept her face as blank as she could manage. “You lucky seven have been chosen from hundreds of applicants for Taunton Life Network’s newest show,
Who Knows People, Baby—You?
Myra Townsend and I are the producers, and this is how the show works.”
As he explained, Amy seethed. So the dog in the tree had been a setup and she’d been filmed. The “robbery” in the lobby. The “rats” outside the doctor’s office—which she had believed were a legitimate student-film project. She had been played, and she didn’t like it one bit.
And what kind of lame title was
Who Knows People, Baby?
Give me a break!
Had everyone else figured out what was going on? Obviously Violet had, and the blonde, and the boy who had attacked the guard. Also, from her knowing expression, the small girl with the sharp-featured face. But not the other two boys. At least she wasn’t alone.
Not that it helped. She’d been made to look like a fool. She interrupted Alex, who was now explaining how viewers could vote on a slate of the “players’ possible responses to each scenario.” Amy wasn’t playing.
“I quit,” she said loudly.
Everyone’s head swiveled to look at her.
“You lied to me, and you filmed me without my consent, and I’m not even sure that’s legal!”
“Actually,” Alex said, “no one lied. You were deliberately not told the details of the job you accepted until we had completed the first few scenarios. That some people guessed when you did not perhaps means that they are more sophisticated about television. Nor did we do anything illegal. You gave your consent to film you in the contract you signed.”
All those papers thrust in front of her:
Sign here, initial here, sign here
. . . All those lawyers. And she’d been too elated at the prospect of a good paycheck and full medical benefits to read anything. Medical benefits . . . Gran . . .
“Of course,” Alex said, watching Amy closely, “you’re free to quit if you choose. This is a job, not serfdom. There is a long waiting list of girls ready to take your place. But then we’ll expect repayment of the advance you’ve received.”
Mrs. Raduski’s rent. Gran.
Violet, in the chair beside her, found Amy’s
“Really, Amy,” Ms. Townsend said, freeing her sleeve from Amy’s clutch, “why don’t you already know? Everybody else does.”
Violet Sanderson pulled Amy away. “Come here. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what!” The “second interview” had been bad enough; Amy had never been this furious in her entire life. Her stomach acids boiled, her chest was about to explode. One more word from Myra Townsend and she would slug her.
Violet said softly, “Look around you, One Two Three.”
People were crossing the lobby toward them: the blonde girl who had “saved” the baby, now looking smug. The boy who had assaulted the “robber.” Two more boys and another girl. The real TLN security guards, some looking pleased and some sulky, resumed what Amy guessed were their normal positions.
Ms. Townsend said, “Follow me, everyone,” and set off briskly toward the elevators.
Violet said, “It was a setup, One Two Three. We were being filmed.”
Well, Amy had figured out that much! She snapped, “I didn’t see any cameras!”
“And you never will. The latest microcams are super-small. Come on!”
Ms. Townsend led them to a small conference room on the second floor. Amy recognized the bald man who was waiting there: he had interviewed her the first time. Everyone sat around a polished wooden table. Ms. Townsend, looking harried, excused herself: “I’m needed in editing.”
“I’m Alex Everett,” the bald man said. “Before we do the rest of the introductions, let me explain for those of you who still don’t understand what you’re doing here.” He winked at Amy, who kept her face as blank as she could manage. “You lucky seven have been chosen from hundreds of applicants for Taunton Life Network’s newest show,
Who Knows People, Baby—You?
Myra Townsend and I are the producers, and this is how the show works.”
As he explained, Amy seethed. So the dog in the tree had been a setup and she’d been filmed. The “robbery” in the lobby. The “rats” outside the doctor’s office—which she had believed were a legitimate student-film project. She had been played, and she didn’t like it one bit.
And what kind of lame title was
Who Knows People, Baby?
Give me a break!
Had everyone else figured out what was going on? Obviously Violet had, and the blonde, and the boy who had attacked the guard. Also, from her knowing expression, the small girl with the sharp-featured face. But not the other two boys. At least she wasn’t alone.
Not that it helped. She’d been made to look like a fool. She interrupted Alex, who was now explaining how viewers could vote on a slate of the “players’ possible responses to each scenario.” Amy wasn’t playing.
“I quit,” she said loudly.
Everyone’s head swiveled to look at her.
“You lied to me, and you filmed me without my consent, and I’m not even sure that’s legal!”
“Actually,” Alex said, “no one lied. You were deliberately not told the details of the job you accepted until we had completed the first few scenarios. That some people guessed when you did not perhaps means that they are more sophisticated about television. Nor did we do anything illegal. You gave your consent to film you in the contract you signed.”
All those papers thrust in front of her:
Sign here, initial here, sign here
. . . All those lawyers. And she’d been too elated at the prospect of a good paycheck and full medical benefits to read anything. Medical benefits . . . Gran . . .
“Of course,” Alex said, watching Amy closely, “you’re free to quit if you choose. This is a job, not serfdom. There is a long waiting list of girls ready to take your place. But then we’ll expect repayment of the advance you’ve received.”
Mrs. Raduski’s rent. Gran.
Violet, in the chair beside her, found Amy’s
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