Free Twisted Sisters by Jen Lancaster Page B

we’re violating fire code, I feel like it
     falls on me to finally ask, “Excuse me, who’s in charge here?” We all crane our heads
     to see who’s stepping up to run the show, both literally and figuratively.
    And Mr. Outdoorsy Handsome Wrists replies, “That would be me.”
    Shit.
    •   •   •
    “The key word this season is
big
. I want big stories about big lives with big results. You follow?” declares Benjamin
     Kassel, our new executive producer (and free-lunch antagonist). He’s been sent here
     from LA to run the show, or possibly ruin it; I’m presently undecided.
    I glower from the back of the room. Actually, no, Benjamin Kassel, I
don’t
follow you. I’m too distracted by the sound of everyone’s rumbling stomachs and your
     refusal to use our given names.
    Am leaning toward “ruin.”
    He points at Mindy, who’s wearing a black T-shirt embossed with the words “Hail to
     the Thief” in white lettering. “You! Radiohead! What’s this season going to be?”
    “I don’t know?”
    Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t exactly an SAT question or remembering your date’s name
     before you take the walk of shame in the morning. She looks around for help and Craig
     mouths the answer to her. “Is it . . . big?”
    Kassel claps so loud I jump in my chair. “Yes! And what’s going to make it big? Anyone?”
    I mutter to Deva, “His ego, perchance?” (“Wrists” would also be an acceptable answer.)
    Benjamin “call me Kassel” spent the first twenty minutes of this meeting telling us
     all about his illustrious career, the highlights of which include dropping out of
     UCLA after his junior year and executive producing a show called
Make ’Em Eat a Bug.
Color me not impressed.
    He points to me. “Something to share with the group back there, Peace Corps?”
    My hackles are instantly raised. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Seems like you have input. Love to hear it.”
    I sit up straight and level his gaze. “I absolutely have input. First, I believe I
     speak for the group in saying it’s offensive to not be called by our given names.
     Dehumanizing, in fact. For example, I am Dr. Bishop, so when you call me ‘Peace Corps’
     it diminishes everything I’ve accomplished as a professional.”
    His amusement fades and he puts on a serious face.
    That’s more like it.
    I’ll not have my credentials mocked; I sacrificed too much to earn them.
    “Sorry. From now on, I’ll call you Dr. Peace Corps.” The shit-eating grin returns.
     Stupid orthodontia. “When you’re finished giving the world a hug,
Doctor
, how will you contribute to making this show big?”
    Definitely “ruin.”
    With as much control as I can muster, I say, “As I’ve done most successfully for two
     seasons, I plan to continue using cognitive strategies to help our pushees achieve
     maximum behavior modification through evidence-based treatment. In my experience—”
    “Boring! I need asses in seats. Anyone else have a bright idea? Anyone?” He begins
     to point at various staffers. “You, Sideburns?” Our hipster/muttonchopped sound engineer
     simply shrugs. Then he gestures toward the dark-haired makeup artist who arrived late
     and is still wearing her backpack. “How ’bout you, Dora the Explorer?”
    Under my breath, I tell Deva, “You want an ass in a seat? Then maybe you should sit
     down.”
    Deva replies, “For what it’s worth, Reagan Bishop, I’m seeing the murky red now.”
    Kassel begins to pace in front of the whiteboard at the head of the room. “Here’s
     the deal—everything about this show is wrong.” At that, the audience starts to grumble,
     except for Mindy, who’s mentally spent from answering such a difficult question and
     is now surreptitiously sending texts.
    I whisper to Deva, “Why? Are our pushees not eating enough bugs?”
    One of the preppy blond production assistants raises her hand. I’m perpetually intrigued
     by her vast collection of embroidered belts and