Chapter One
Deal Me In
I get paid to smile for a living. No joke. As a model on the popular daytime game show Deal Me In, I have three jobs: 1) Remain cheerful. 2) Drop giant playing cards into slots. And 3) Look fine as hell doing it. I know—I’m the worst feminist ever. But my mother chose the job so blame her. Today, the costume people have me decked out in a purple sequined number that’s so tight I’m even regretting the green smoothie I had for breakfast. I might be a model, but I’m a Latina model with some curves… and a breakfast pooch. Ugh, my mom is going to have words about this later. Karen, have you been skipping abs, Mija? Tsk, tsk.
Ed, the grandfatherly type host of the show, sports a suit and bright purple tie as he leans on the contestant’s podium and holds out his cordless mic. “What’ll it be, Anne? Do you want to fold and take the small prize behind door two or choose another card and take a chance at the grand prize?”
The contestant, Anne, is a middle-aged woman with lots of worry wrinkles on her forehead. She bites her lower lip and rubs her hands together. The movement makes the shoulder pads in her suit dress bounce by her ears. “Um. I…”
The live audience calls out suggestions—they always do—and it echoes in our soundstage. Take the deal! Get another card! And some yahoo suggests she use her lifeline, even though that’s not part of the show. Behind the camera to my left, I spot one of my besties, Lily-Jean, shaking her head, but smiling. Lily-Jean is a showrunner, which means she spends a fair bit of time making sure the show runs smoothly and keeps the top producer from pulling out his hair plugs. “Chin up,” she mouths, and I correct my posture.
Ed turns his baby blues on Anne and in his deep baritone says, “Remember, if you fold, you get a guaranteed prize. It might be a small prize, like a brand-new washing machine. It might be a car! But if you choose another card and lose the hand, you go home empty-handed. So, what’ll it be?”
If it’s possible, poor Anne’s worry wrinkles deepen, and I wish I was allowed to give her a hug. “I’ll choose a card.”
That’s my cue. As I drift across the shiny black stage floor to collect her pick, I flip my wavy brown hair over one shoulder and ignore the ache in my cheeks. Not my facial cheeks, mind you. I’ve trained those bad boys well... But these heels are killing me. Some days, when I’ve spent eight hours in them, I fantasize about shoving my stiletto right up wardrobe’s nose. And today, even though it’s not quite lunchtime, I’m beyond ready to quit. Who had the brilliant idea to put me in six-inch heels?
The show’s gameboard is six feet square and holds five cards across and five cards down. It’s backlit with deep blue-white neon, and it works with a magnet system no one ever explained to me. I focus on keeping my eyes wide and happy despite the blinding set lights and shift my weight to the other foot. Anne can’t decide which card she wants, and the audience isn’t helping matters, so I keep inching from place to place with this grin plastered on my face as she says, “The top left—no wait—the third row down, second one in—never mind, I want—"
The audience won’t stop yelling out suggestions. They’re piled into rows of bleachers all dressed in business casual attire, in case they get selected to play a round. Behind them, the giant Deal Me In logo is painted in bright red against a green background and outlined in black. It’s meant to mimic a poker table and chips, but Lily-Jean and I always joke it looks like Christmas vomited on a pool table.
After a minute of pure chaos, poor Anne can’t stop sweating—the drops along her forehead glint in the stage lights—and the chic bun she arrived with has unraveled. She whips her head from left to right and back again.
“CHOOSE!” someone screams, and Anne thrusts out her finger to point exactly nowhere. “Give me that one!”
I have no idea which one she wants, so I grab the card I am 90% sure will give her the win and head over to drop it into the slot on the podium. If the producers get angry with me, I will cower behind Lily-Jean and pray she’s in a mood to defend me. Besides, Anne seems like someone who could use a win. I know, because I’m pretty sure that look of unadulterated stress crosses my face every morning when I wake up and remember I have to be a model on a gameshow when I’d rather get paid to walk barefoot on thumbtacks.
Ed raises a salt and pepper brow, but a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth as he turns to the cameras. “Alright, let’s see if the card is a winner or a loser.”
The lights dim and a hush falls over the audience and crew. For an eternal minute, we wait. I even get a little anticipation tingle running along my back because what if I gave this woman a losing hand? The screen on the podium blares to life, revealing an Ace of Hearts. The winner’s music bleats out over the speakers, and Anne loses her mind as she pulls an unwitting Ed into a bear hug. The crowd goes nuts, too. I laugh and clap, because I’m allowed to clap, but laughing is frowned upon unless the music is loud enough to drown me out. According to my producers, I don’t laugh—I bray. And it’s unbecoming, Karen. The jerkfaces.
Lily-Jean bites her lip, her face barely visible over her clipboard, so I avoid her gaze because she’s going to have to cover for me, and I don’t want to feel guilty about that at the moment. Ed tries to extricate himself from a now jumping-up-and-down-Anne, so he can do the closing spiel, but she’s holding on to the lapel of his suitcoat with a white-knuckled fist.
“Alright.” His voice jerks each time Anne jumps. “Let’s show Anne what she’s won!”
This is my other cue. If Anne had lost, I would head over to the three prize doors and show Anne what she’d missed out on. But since my hunch was right, I head over to the grand prize curtain on the far side of the room and take my pose. The instructions are precise. One leg straight, one knee bent with foot cocked. Smile turned way up; head tipped ever-so-slightly back. Left hand on my hip, while my right hand does the Vanna White sweep in front of the thick red curtains blocking the prize from view. Aaaaaand I feel ridiculous. Every time. No matter how long I work this job, I never get used to the people staring at me and these unnatural gestures.
Once I’m in place, the omniscient voice—which is a guy named Tim who sits in the producer’s booth—rings out over the speakers. “Today, Anne is taking home the grand prize, which is—an all-expenses paid trip to beautiful Hawaii!” He drags out the name like the ‘let’s get ready to rumble’ guy: Haaaaa-whyyyy-eeee!
The curtain opens to reveal a huge picture of a Hawaiian beach which I step in front of and make a big show of looking surprised and delighted. Another podium holds a basket full of tropical fruit and all the vouchers Anne will need to enjoy her trip, which I lift into my arms. It’s so pretty—the rainbow colors bright and inviting—and I inhale the tangy sharp sent of pineapple and mellow sweetness of the bananas. I’ve never been out of California, never even left LA. Do the beaches in Hawaii smell the same as the ones here?
Anne’s face turns red, her mouth drops open, and she throws up her hands and lets out a banshee wail of glee which makes Ed plug one ear and take a few steps away from her. The sight of her worry lines vanishing makes my nose wrinkle in joy, and I have to remind myself I’m not supposed to make faces so I school it back into indifferent cheerfulness. Anne is still shrieking about her win as the camera comes in close, and Ed does his signature sign off. Once Lily-Jean yells cut, it’s like a plug is pulled. The audience calms down, Anne is escorted off to sign a mountain of paperwork, and I set the basket aside and lose the death spikes.
As the audience members are ushered out, I approach Ed with my heels swinging from my left hand. He’s loosened his tie and he exhales, long and loud, when I get close enough to give him our customary side-hug. “How you doing, Miss Soledad?”
“Better now I don’t have to wear these monstrosities.”
Ed chuckles as Lily-Jean approaches in her full black ensemble and tugs at one of my waves. “You gave her the win, Karen.”
I put on an air of mock innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lil-Jay. Anne said that one.”
“Oh, Karen.”
“You’re not fooling us. I see right through those lovely brown eyes of yours.” Ed pinches my cheek (this time I mean the facial one) and shakes his head. “Don’s going to rip you a new one for this.”
“It’ll be fine.” I’m not sure it will be fine, but how could Don prove Anne hadn’t pointed at the winning card? “You’re not mad, are you, Lil-Jay?”
Lily-Jean opens her mouth, but Don bursts out of the producer’s box with his hands on his hips. His bad tan is more orange than normal, and his fluffy hair plugs wave around like Fraggle hair. “KAREN!”
I wince, Ed excuses himself, and I wish for the millionth time this was not my job. Lily-Jean and I move closer together. I’d try to hide behind her but she’s only five-four and I’m five-nine even without the heels. “Hi Don.”
“You gave her that win,” he fumes. His cologne is heavy and potent, which makes my nose itch, and I take a cautious step backwards. “Those trips cost money! We like to give out microwaves and luggage sets, not fourteen-thousand-dollar trips to Hawaii!”
Then why do they even make them an option? “With all due respect, sir, I picked the card the contestant asked for.”
Don runs a hand through his frazzled hair, his eyes narrowed. “She could have been pointing at Mars for what I saw. You cheated.”
“Did she though?” Lily-Jean flips her dishwater pony behind one shoulder.
Though I’m blushing, I add, “I’m pretty sure my contract says I have to pick the card I’m told to, and I swear on my favorite Wonderbra, Anne pointed at that card.”
Lily-Jean unsuccessfully tries to hide a snicker and I elbow her. I shouldn’t taunt Don. He’s the one who gave me the contract and he can end it with a signature. Not that I’d be hurt about it, but my mother would go nuclear, and I can’t stand it when she gets upset. Not after she’s sacrificed everything to raise me.
“Okay, Karen.” Don is an expert at making my name sound like a dirty word. “But I’ll be watching you. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I resist the urge to flip Don off behind his back and grit my teeth instead.
I know, with every part of my logical brain, my mom couldn’t have predicted twenty-four years ago when she named me Karen that it would turn into a slur, but it did. And now I’m the teensiest bit resentful because it’s one more way she’s making my life miserable.
Because on top of it all, in this day and age, who wants to be a Karen?
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