LeGrand clears his throat. His voice is incongruously deep for such a baby face, and the way he talks makes it clear he both knows how deep his voice is and is ashamed of it. “I was—um—I was told all meals would be provided?”
“Oh, of course, dear.” Their hostess’s lipstick has migrated to her front teeth, making her smile look bloody. “Breakfast is on us! And all your meals during the competition will be on-site. Now that you’re here, the only thing you have to worry about is not being found.”
LeGrand wilts with relief. Mack is glad, too. She doesn’t want to start on an empty stomach, and she doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. Especially not Ava.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” one of the men trills in falsetto.
Mack’s stomach turns. She might not be able to eat after all.
A computer. A tiny apartment in a run-down city. Nobody to talk to and nothing to do for the rest of her life but get by. That’s all she needs. She can do this. She has to.
They file out of the bus. As they go, their hostess hands them each a nicely bound, laminated packet. “What’s your name?” Rebecca asks her, settling further into her role as leader. She has that quality, that extra bit of charisma, that sets her apart. It makes everyone look closer, trying to figure out if she really is prettier than she seems. She acts pretty. Maybe that’s it.
Beautiful Ava shifts closer to her, then steps away, then steps closer. She looks back and makes eye contact with Mack. Rolls her eyes like they’re both in on some sarcastic observation.
Mack has no idea what it is.
Their hostess laughs at Rebecca’s question. “I’m Linda! I was going to introduce myself last night, but you all fell asleep so fast, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Ava makes a small, doubtful noise. Mack deliberately moves away from her, to the back of the group. LeGrand’s there. He stares down at his packet with an alarmed expression. Mack opens her own.
Legalese. She skims the terms. Limits of liability. A repeat of the nondisclosure agreement. Permission to be filmed. Release of rights to their own images. Agreements to do interviews and press and promo after the fact, if the company so chooses.
Mack will sign whatever she needs to. And then she’ll take the money and run. There’s no way her history won’t be used for something like that. But with $50,000, she can disappear. She skips past the dozen or so legal pages to the itinerary and schedule. The Star Diner is listed for the morning, along with instructions. Which are all in the packet. Oh, god. They’re going to have to sit there while Linda reads the entire packet aloud to them.
A rush of air-conditioned cool reaches out to claim them as they enter the diner. Out of his gas station but never out of his comfort zone when helping other people, Brandon holds the door for everyone, smiling and nodding at each of them, though most don’t notice. Rosiee, the woman with all the jewelry, smiles at him. His grin gets big and sloppy. It’s still that big and sloppy when Mack slinks past him. He frowns slightly, trying to figure her out. But LeGrand brings up the end of the line, and Brandon lets the door close, sealing them in the frigid diner with the AC and the permanent scent of bacon. Later that night, when Mack changes, she’ll still smell it, permeating her bra.
Mack chooses a table in the middle and tucks her bag under her feet. No one else brought their stuff in except the walking toothpaste commercial, who is clutching her purse as though it’s a life preserver. But then, odds are no one else has everything they own in a single duffel bag.
A man with thick forearms, fuzzy with dark gray hair that’s missing from his head, comes out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. “Hey-oh, look at this crew! Let me guess: You want gluten-free options. How about a cruelty-free, free-range piece of avocado toast? The avocados were raised in a hippie commune and sung to sleep every night, and they were never allowed to be friends with a single piece of gluten.” He laughs at his own joke.
Rebecca raises her hand politely. “Actually, I have food allergies, and—”
The man waves dismissively. “Imaginary. Your generation, honestly. In my day, you know how many kids were allergic to peanuts? None! Now everyone is so sensitive. Sensitive to this, sensitive to that. Grow a pair and learn how to eat like an adult!” He delivers it all with the cadence of a well-practiced speech.
Rebecca’s smile doesn’t shift, and she hasn’t lowered her hand. “I could literally die if I eat tree nuts or shellfish, or anything that has come into contact with them.”
“And yet here you are! Still not dead!”
“Gary,” Linda says in a singsong tone. “We know about Rebecca’s allergies. A separate breakfast has been prepared. Remember? Ask Ray.”
Gary lets out a dismissive burst of air from his incongruously full and red lips. “Right. Fine. Anyone else need special care for their special bowels? Hmm? I know it’s hard to leave Mommy’s basement and come out into the real world.”
“Gary.”
He raises his hands, grinning. “I kid, I kid. These young folks can take a joke, right?”
“For the record, I live in my parents’ garage, not their basement,” Jaden mugs. Gary laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I like this one. Would you feel the muscles on this guy? Wow!” Gary squeezes Jaden’s shoulder, then nods. “I know who my money’s on.”
“You’re allowed to bet?” beautiful Ava asks.
“No,” Linda snaps. She takes a deep breath, and her smile goes back into place. “No, but some people in the town will naturally take an interest. It’s the biggest thing to happen here in years. Now, will you please take their orders so we can get down to business?”
Gary grumbles. “We built an international chain from the ground up, a global dining phenomenon, but sure, yeah, I’ll take orders like a little waitress.” His scowl is carved into his face, but he gets to work.
“Hey, who’s Ray Callas?” Brandon chirps, looking up from where he’s reading a framed magazine article about the small-town diner that took over the world. Another older man pauses where he was coming out of the kitchen.
“Me,” he says.
“My dad’s last name is Callas. What a coincidence! Maybe we’re related.” Brandon beams, eager and genuinely excited by the connection, but Ray shakes his head.
“No.” Without further comment, Ray helps Gary distribute glasses of water and well-loved menus.
Mack orders pancakes and eggs and bacon and sausage and toast and fruit and orange juice. Gary raises a bushy eyebrow. “You got an appetite.” He leans closer. “You a boy or a girl? How am I supposed to tell with this?” He gestures at her neutral haircut and her baggy clothes.