Chapter 7

I was surprised, but I still took the information under advisement.

"Thanks, Greg. I'll keep it in mind."

The brutal stylist winked one brown eye, tossed the folder onto the chair, and lightly but firmly turned me by the shoulders toward the exit.

"That's my smart girl. Now run. Today you've already worked for twenty thousand likes."

"That was all the short dress, not me," I muttered under my breath, but Greg snorted at that and snapped his fingers in the air, bringing me back to reality.

"You still here? Shoo!"

 
I left the shared makeup room, tucked the jacket under my arm, and headed unhurriedly toward wardrobe, hoping I wouldn't get lost in the corridors of the huge studio. The dialogue with Demond kept spinning in my head: could I have played it differently and not looked stupid when I met him? Yeah, sure. No, I couldn't. That was the whole problem.

It was some kind of law of meanness. Why did I always look ridiculous when we crossed paths? Either butt in the air, like at the gym, or perched on crates of oranges, or like an unwanted idiot wandering around a supermarket at night. And that wasn't even counting school. And what business did he have with my love life anyway?

But I didn't have time to sink into the swamp of self-criticism. Behind me, heels suddenly clicked, and someone's voice called:

"Hey! You're Diana, right? Wait!"

I stopped and turned around. Two contestants were catching up to me, my recent neighbors on the backstage step with the markers. Blonde Margot, the retro blogger with the full lips and upturned nose, and tall model Yvette with the invisible crown on her head. Neither of them had changed yet, and they looked so striking it was easy to recognize them.

They had left the makeup room right after me and now slowed, waiting for me to come over.

I went over, since it was only a couple of steps.

"Hi. Yes, I'm Diana," I greeted them, considering the organizers had never officially introduced us.

Yvette gave me another critical once-over, lingering on my ordinary tracksuit, but said nothing. The blonde, though, smiled. Far too sugary for me to buy her sincerity.

"So, how are your impressions from day one?" Margot asked, as if casually. "Lively, right? Someone seriously invested in this show. I still can't believe I made it into the final six female contestants. Such scale, such sets, everything is impeccably stylish, don't you think?"

"Yes, impressive... in places," I answered carefully, stopping myself from saying that my first day felt more like a hit below the belt than a fireworks festival.

"You got a cute boy," Yvette remarked from above, emphasizing the word cute, "unlike me. Chess player Yaroslav. You could die of boredom. While he was making his first move, trying to get acquainted and listing which tournaments he'd won, I wanted to resign the game and retire."

Margot let out a tiny laugh, adjusting her short curls, and fluttered her fake lashes as if a camera were still filming her.

"Oh, girls, I like smart guys, actually. Just not so smart you have to think half an hour over every word afterward. Maybe that's why I got the fitness trainer! Is your chess player at least capable of jokes?"

"He told me a joke about a knight and a rook," Yvette answered with a stone face. "I didn't understand any of it, but I think it was an attempt at flirting."

"And you?" Margot turned her gaze to me. "How do you like your match?"

I had an answer. More than that, it was right on the tip of my tongue: to tell someone just how deeply I had stepped into Demond. But one small detail ruined everything: the hunting interest in the girl's eyes. She was far too ready to listen.

Greg's warning flashed in my memory like a caution signal. I pressed the jacket tighter to myself and answered with a neutral smile:

"Seems okay. Charming. Suddenly showered me with compliments, I even got flustered. I think he's the kind of guy who won't let a girl get bored. So I'm already counting the minutes until the second date!"

Margot's smile faded, and I turned with the clear intention of ending the conversation. But the girl pretended not to notice.

"Listen, by the way," she perked up again. "Yvette and I were just planning to stop by a cafe nearby. Share impressions and just chat. Want to come with us? We're almost project girlfriends now..." Margot let out another tiny laugh, "or more like accomplices?"

I did not answer right away. I pretended to think it over.

"No, girls, I can't. Thanks for the invitation, of course, but I'll pass. I'm exhausted, and I still need to babysit my little brother: play in the toddler league and feed him applesauce. So I'm going home."

"Too bad," Margot drawled with a visible shadow of disappointment, no longer smiling. "We're fun."

"I'm sure. Bye!"

I turned and walked away, feeling both girls' eyes on me. Around the corner, I snorted.

Friends, sure. More like rival she-spiders in a glass jar with a lid and microphones. Group hangouts with those two were exactly what my life had been missing.

 
By the time I finally left the studio, it had already grown dark outside and the streetlights were on. There were still plenty of cars in the parking lot, but my dad, like a faithful knight, appeared right by the curb and flashed his headlights.

"So how did the date go?" he asked, opening the passenger door for me. "Is everything all right, sweetheart? No one hurt you?"

I climbed into the car, sank into the seat, and closed my eyes for a second, breathing in the familiar smell of the cabin: a little coffee, a little mint candy, and Dad's own homey scent.

"Diana?"

I had to turn my head, sigh, and admit honestly:

"Not exactly all right, Dad. It was like surviving in a cage with tigers under a bright spotlight. Everyone around you is smiling, and you're standing there feeling sharp claws on your back. But I survived and didn't even press the Red Button."

Dad pulled out of the lot and drove along the avenue, passing lit shop windows and pedestrians. He spoke seriously, throwing me a quick glance:

"I was worried. Especially after Mom sent a message: 'Diana, honey, is on air. Tony, this is something!' " He frowned and sighed. "Your mother is thrilled, and I'm sitting here googling how to cancel a contract unilaterally. I was ready to go looking for you. Honestly, what was Natasha thinking? When we get home, I..."

I reached out and touched Dad's elbow.

"Dad, don't worry. In the end, it's just a show. The first circle of hell is behind me, only six left. I have claws too, remember? Besides, I think I made a friend: Greg, my stylist."

"Then why 'hell,' Diana?"

I looked ahead at the road and cursed under my breath.

"Because my partner is an actual Demon. And you have no idea how unlucky we are with each other!"

 
When we got home, the entryway smelled of fried potatoes generously seasoned with butter. It smelled delicious, and considering I had been on the show, Dad had been on duty outside the studio, and Mom had been on the air with dazzling Valentine, the care of our family had fallen onto Stan's skinny shoulders. My stomach immediately growled treacherously and suggested either my brother had produced a culinary masterpiece, or I was terribly hungry.