"This is our stop."
"That's the bus?" I said dumbly.
"Yes, sir."
At eight o'clock on the dot, a private car had rolled up to my front door. I had dozed off as soon as we took off.
Now I was awake and staring at the friggin' Partridge Family bus. It looked like a gang had threw up unwanted gang signs all over it.
"I see they're running on a tight budget," I muttered. I opened my door and climbed out.
Even though I couldn't see them, I sensed the cameras right away. I ran a hand through my hair. I had taken a shower this morning; I had shaved. The shaving might have been a mistake.
I discovered a double chin hidden under the fuzzies.
"WELCOME TO E! PHAT CAMP!!!!"
I whirled around. The doors to the bus opened and Richard Simmons ran out.
I'm not kidding. I wish I was. His fro bobbed in the wind. It was like my worst nightmare.
"Hells no," I said. I took a couple steps back, but the jumping pixie got to me before I could dash back into the car.
"NICK CARTER!!!" he screamed. He grabbed my arm. For such a short, skinny dude he was strong.
"ARE YOU READY TO TURN YOUR LIFE AROUND?!"
I'm sure my face looked like I had been hit by a semi truck. I looked around.
I was sure I was being Punk'd.
"Is this for real?" I asked dumbly.
Richard laughed. "Of course! C'mon, c'mon!"
The gravel underneath my feet shot out in all directions as I was tugged to the bus steps. Richard hopped up and I clumsily followed. He stopped acting like a spazz when the bus doors closed.
"Okay, you're contestant number two," he said. Even though he wasn't so overwhelming when the cameras stopped rolling, his body still couldn't stop moving. I kept my eyes on his face. Dudes should not wear spandex body suits. He looked out the window.
"AHHH! NUMBER THREE!"
He went to the bus doors again. I was glad to pass him off on some other poor unsuspecting fool.
I made my way to the back of the bus. I figured I'd get enough screen time later without having to sit front and center.
Someone else had obviously gotten the same idea. She was slumped down in the seat so that even her head couldn't be seen over the old, tired leather seat. All I saw was a mass of dark reddish brown curls and well-manicured nails.
"This seat taken?" I asked.
The woman glanced up. She hesitated a minute before waving at the empty spot. She looked like she was my age. I had no idea who she was. I sat down and matched her slump.
"Richard Simmons," she muttered. She sounded as disgusted as I did.
"Spandex," I muttered. We looked at each other.
"You hate spandex?" she asked.
"You hate Richard Simmons?" I asked.
We smiled. I held out my hand.
"Nick Carter," I said. She put her hand in mine.
"Shay Gerard."
When mom had mentioned a singer, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine Nick Carter stepping up on the bus along with that little screaming gremlin known as Richard Simmons.
But sure enough, it was him.
About five years ago, mom had taken me and Francie to a Backstreet Boys concert. Afterwards, we had gone backstage for a photo op. Whoever took the picture cut me out except for my flab-induced arm. I think I was standing by Howie. I couldn't remember.
I wasn't that big of a fan at the time (I still wasn't...were they even together anymore?); however, I did recall what Nick Carter had looked like.
I think 'toothpick' was an accurate description.
I wasn't one to judge, but he had gained quite a bit of weight. In my opinion, it made him look better.
I was a sucker for teddy bears.
But I was sure the music business was just as critical as Hollywood. You didn't get votest one of the sexiest bachelors alive if you didn't have six-pack abs.
"What are you in for?" he whispered mysteriously. I looked at him in confusion.
"In for?"
"What's your crime?"
I blinked. I was brunette, but suddenly I felt like I was having a blonde moment.
"Mine's beer and fries," he continued.
Realization came to me. So did the fact that he had really nice eyes.
"Oh! Um...Oreos," I said. I tugged at my hair. "But it's not that bad," I said. I glanced at my thighs. I vaguely remembered reading that Nick had dated Paris Hilton a year or so ago. My left thigh was probably bigger than her whole body. I bit the inside of my cheek.
"Yeah neither's mine," Nick said. He successfully interrupted my thoughts of annoying tiny women who carried their stupid dogs in their purses. He smiled. "Maybe they'll let us off easy."
At that moment, Richard bounced back on the bus with a comedian whose name I couldn't remember. He was a tall, black hulk of a guy looked totally pissed off at the red suited booger.
Maybe one of our exercise challenges was going to be to burn Sweatin' to the Oldies tapes and bury Richard alive. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch.
"You look like you want to stab him," Nick whispered.
"Wouldn't you?"
He let out a sigh.
"In an instant."
We both leaned back in our seats. Nick propped his feet up against the back of the chair in front of him. Five more people came on board.
In the end, there was no Kevin James. Besides Nick Carter, he would have been the other really recognizable name. Everyone else was more of a 'niche' celebrity.
Except for me. My only claim to fame was being born to Tiffany Sullivan.
"What do you do?" Nick asked. Richard was outside; I heard him chattering excitedly to the camera. He was probably talking about how sad and pathetic we all were.
"I'm currently unemployed," I said.
"Are you a singer or an actress or a model?"
I almost snorted. He thought I was a model? Was he delusional?
"My mom's an actress," I said. "Tiffany Sullivan. She's on Heartbeat."
Nick nodded. "My mom used to watch that all the time."
"Yeah," I said. I was pretty sure every woman in America had seen at least one episode.
"So your tabloid news?" Nick guessed.
I smirked. "That sums it up."
Nick stretched his arms above his head.
"Then you'll be the one to watch out for."
I was going to ask him what he meant, but just then Richard leapt back inside. The bus doors closed and his 'nails on the chalkboard' voice started to ramble. I could sense the cameras all around.
What had I gotten myself into?
