What’s The Worst That Could Happen?

***

Sari stayed until 3am and the troop arrive a few hours after that. We were exhausted, all of us, but with Mark Zuckerberg at the center of our targets, we had a new determination to succeed. Wes’ shortcomings would have to wait until the company reached a solid footing. Then we’d address it, until then, we had a company to build.

BCC players marched into the room in single filed. Taking it all in, they cased the place like it was mystical.

“I’m Elizabeth,” said the wannabe singer from the waiting room and phone call. “I’ve already voice memoed a few song options for your opening credits. Let me know when you’re ready to hear them.”

The male actor rolled his eyes. “Gerald,” he said. “Pleased to officially make your acquaintance.”

“Josie,” said the quietest one who Gerald said was also the best singer. “Hi.”

“Wait,” said a girl who’d just caught the door before it closed. “I’m Maureen.”

Maureen had an arm sleeve and wore dingy, torn black jeans and a mullet that somehow still managed to be hot. Lean muscles traced down her arms and forearms as she carried heavy camera and sound equipment. “Where can I put this?”

I paused at her appeal. “Um,” I replied.

Iris did a double take in my direction and interrupted. “Anywhere, Maureen. Anywhere you want.”

“A real Harvard dorm,” said Elizabeth. “It’s so normal. I expected royal.”

“We could never be royals,” sang Iris. “It don’t run in our blood…”

“I love that song,” Elizabeth said. “Would you like me to sing that in your closing credits as well? I think I could reach that octave if…”

“Where should we sit?” Gerald interrupted her and she gave him a look of hatred. “We don’t want to waste any of your time. We know how busy you must be.”

“Yes, okay,” I said, avoiding Maureen’s piercing gray eyes. “Just here, across from the other couch. I have notes about the…uh.”

Maureen set down her equipment and made her way to the seat next to Gerald. Her arm brushed mine and her warmth lingered on my elbow. I wanted to rub at it, but that would be obvious.

“About what, Soph? Kitty cat got your tongue?” Deacon said, leaning back in his chair like a teasing brother. I wanted to stick my tongue out at him like I used to with my own brothers. “The actual show segments of Flavor of Harvard. This is where elements of the show should come to the forefront. We’ll let the audience vote on nicknames. I have that ready to launch when we decide how much to charge per vote.”

“How much?” Wes asked. “Let’s finalize now.”

“I think we were excessive with the $1.99 voting in round 1 and 2,” Iris said. “Can we discount to $1.50?”

“I was thinking we should increase prices,” Deacon disagreed, but very respectfully with Iris. “Those initial prices deterred no one.”

“Fair point,” Wes replied. “But what kind of company do we want to be? Hands to reduce to $1.50.” Wes and Iris’ hands went up. “It’s done then. Deacon, change them.”

My lip curled into my nose. To witness Wesley clamor for a win of any kind made me want to vomit. His broke ass was the reason we’d come up with the thing in the first place. And now, he was valiantly reducing the rate, obviously to bark an order at Deacon, the smarter, less pretentious of them after all.

Life really was so strange. Weeks ago, I never wouldn’t believed that my granola, sweater-vest wearing, fake feminist kind of boyfriend was just a jealous shmoo. Such a colossal fucking disappointment. And on the other end of the couch was Deacon – exceptionally smart, irreverent, yes, but decent. Maybe even good. I also liked how he looked at Iris. She deserved the world, and I had a good feeling about them as a team or couple or whatever they were.

“Well,” I started. “Thank you all for coming. This meeting will be tight so let’s get going. First, we need a mansion.”

I instinctively looked at Deacon who rolled his eyes in response. “No.”

“What?” I asked. “You’re the rich one.”

“I’m not extra house laying around to set a dating show rich,” he said. “No one is.”

Maureen fidgeted in her seat, twisting, and turning to survey the dorm room. “Why not here?” she asked, her voice raspier than I expected. “Adds to the lore. Harvard dating show in a real Harvard dorm.”

Wes laughed mockingly and I shot him a look. “It’s too small for thirty people. Plus, the noise alone would get us kicked out.”

“I told you they won’t kick us out,” Deacon said. “We’re too valuable to this University. And I think it could work. We’ll have to plan meticulously though. Cut fluff and get them in and out, but all we really need is snippet footage. It’s fake anyway, right? Like the WWE. Let them roll out cots and sleeping bags on the floor, head to foot, we get the necessary shots, and they go home. Still promo alone of a Pennypacker slumber party would be…”

“Sexy,” Maureen said, finishing Deacon’s sentence.

“Exactly,” he agreed.

“But where does the Cowboy pretend sleep though?” Iris asked. “He gets a room to himself like a king while they’re on the floor?”

“I’ve been watching and rewatching Bachelor in its heyday, and that’s kind of how they go,” I said. “Then they flip it for Bachelorette.”

“How many seasons have you watched exactly?” Deacon teased. “For research…”

“Shut up, Deacon. I’m just saying that I agree with Maureen. It could work. Do you have lapel mics?” I asked her. “Noise would be an issue. I mean, we do have neighbors.”

“Some of whom actually go to class and need to study,” added Iris.

Maureen smiled slyly and nodded.

“Alright then,” I said. “It may be a bit chaotic, but we’ll start a dating show in our dorm room. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Silence.

***