Chapter 5, Part 1

On the Eve of the Show

The next morning... 

I woke with the sharp feeling that in my dream, I had bitten someone. Hard. Not out of spite, either, but on principle, as if I were defending my point of view. And I had bitten down on a strange object that looked a lot like... Right. A microphone!

I flung my eyes open and stared at the ceiling, remembering the velvet smile of that very Valentine, who had somehow managed to drive me into a rage in my sleep. Seriously, what kind of dream was that?

Sitting up in bed, I pushed away the hair that had managed to tangle itself and now stuck out in a wild mess, yawned, and reached for my phone. I glanced at the screen.

The screen showed the time as 08:06 in the morning. Well, I'd slept late. It also showed three new notifications, one of which led to my email. That was the one I opened first...

"Good morning, Diana!

This is Rita Ermine, assistant to the project coordinator of Love at First Valentine.

We are pleased to inform you that your profile has been approved, and you are invited to participate in the first stage of filming. Congratulations!

Attached:

Participant Agreement.

Instructions for Filming Day No. 1

Filming studio coordinates.

Important:

Please confirm receipt of this email by 12:00 today.

Please read the Agreement carefully.

Please provide any convenient time when our lawyer may contact you.

We are incredibly happy, Diana, to have you with us!

Sincerely,

Rita Ermine

Assistant Coordinator

GALA-PRO Broadcasting Company

Love at First Valentine Project

...I read it and froze, blinking sleepily at the screen as my stomach tied itself into an invisible little bow of anxiety. The moment I remembered last night, I wanted to go straight back to sleep: bite the microphone and argue with the toothy host instead of washing my face and going out into the world to meet my televised nightmare.

I scrolled down the email. There was a date, a dress code, a participant meeting point, and a list of prohibitions, the first of which read "No cell phones in the studio," and the second: "No pets." The pilot episode was scheduled to film this Saturday, and the anxious little bow in my stomach tightened into a knot.

"Smile. Love chooses optimists!"

Optimists? I lifted my head and forced a smile at my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door, refusing to accept what was happening. It came out terrifying.

"Diana, honey, won't you be late?" The door opened, and Mom peeked into my bedroom in her usual form: short blond hair, a tracksuit, and slippers. "Good morning!"

"Morning, Mom," I answered. "No, if I hurry. Everyone starts with second period today."

After Mom came the delicious smell of cheese blintzes, which did not happen often. Someone in this house was clearly trying to make amends.

"Sunshine, coffee or tea?" Mom sang. "Or would you like me to make cappuccino with cinnamon?"

I set my phone aside, got out of bed, and padded in my pajamas to the bathroom to chase sleep away.

"Can I have cappuccino with cognac?" I grumbled.

Mom caught me by the shoulders, kissed my cheek, and even managed to smooth a couple of rebellious strands on my head.

"Don't sulk, sunshine. You can have it with cognac if it's just a drop! But better without. Last night I dreamed of a rainbow over a pink flamingo. Trust me, you have absolutely nothing to worry about!"

"Natasha!" Dad growled from the parents' bedroom, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation, and Mom immediately added:

"But Dad is right. I'll contact this Valentine today and cancel everything! I'll say I got carried away. That I overestimated my abilities and-and anyway... you're not involved! This is all on me. Let them think whatever they want!"

"No way!"

Mom blinked in confusion, and I admitted:

"It's too late, Mom. He wrote to me yesterday, and I agreed. This morning, an official email came from the television company. They congratulated me and confirmed my participant status. It's serious, with instructions and a lawyer for the contract. And they rushed for a reason. They don't need me. They have a line of people waiting to get on a TV show without me. They need names, failure stories, and provocations. Anything to heat up interest in a new project. And who fits better than Astralia, winner of Psychic Showdown, with a loser daughter she dragged into the show?"

I let out a heavy breath and finished, stepping into the bathroom:

"They're not selling love, Mom. They're selling hype, and I'm the perfect bait. They won't let you back out. You're already on the hook. You just haven't realized it yet."

Mom froze, stunned. Then she followed me, stopping at the threshold.

I turned on the faucet, bent down, and splashed cold water on my face. Swearing under my breath, I made the water warmer.

"But... but Diana," Mom gasped guiltily, "you don't actually want to take part in this show. And you are absolutely not obligated to rescue me!"

I washed my face, pulled the towel off the holder, and pressed it to my cheeks. After blotting my face dry, I looked at Mom through the mirror.

"Oh, I really don't. Not the show, not the cameras, not dates with a guy who probably has a Tinder profile. But do you know what I want even less?"

"What?" Mom whispered, barely breathing.

"To watch you sit on a live broadcast and justify yourself to people who will cut your confession into Shorts and absolutely turn it into content. Then they'll laugh at you and at things they don't understand at all. And at me too, while they're at it. You'll take it to heart, you'll get upset, and Valentine will just smirk and say, 'Well, I never really believed her anyway. Did you?' He'll eat you for breakfast, Mom, and he won't even choke."

"He definitely will," Stan confirmed sleepily from the hallway, pulling on his boots to go to school. "I didn't like him from the start!"

And I sighed.

"So for Astralia's sake, Mom, I'm ready to be the heroine of a romantic circus. Who doesn't do stupid things when they're young?"

This time my smile came out steadier, and I suddenly made a serious promise to my reflection in the mirror:

"I may not win, but I definitely won't lose! Screw them!"

Mom came over and hugged me by the shoulders with feeling, pressing her cheek to mine.

"Sunshine, I won't let you lose! Remember the flamingo!"

I smiled into her eyes. She was so naive, our mom.

"Mom, you're the most romantic psychic in the world!"

"I know," she sniffled. "So as an apology, I'll go put two cheese blintzes on your plate, with a drop of comfort. And I'll make coffee, without cognac, but with hope. It can't hurt!"

When Mom disappeared into the kitchen, I remembered what I'd wanted to say and leaned out into the hallway.

"By the way, Mom, who hides a gold chain with a pendant in a burned sock? Dad! You promised to keep an eye on this! I almost threw it out!"

"Natasha!"

"Tony, I swear, I asked Stan to watch it!"

Here we go... I closed the bathroom door and took off my pajama pants.