Seeing myself on TV was stranger than I would have thought. I’d seen videos of myself walking in fashion shows. And a photo shoot I’d done had been part of a documentary on modeling. But that wasn’t the same as being on a TV show. Even a so-called reality show.

It didn’t feel like watching myself. That girl on the screen seemed like she was someone else. She looked like me, with her bony elbows and gap between her two front teeth. Sounded like me, too. But with each episode that aired, she became less and less the Leah Larkin I knew. The Leah Larkin I believed myself to be.

Some of the strangeness was probably because the show was supposed to be real, but it wasn’t. I knew I’d been acting—knew about all the coaching and retakes. But most people didn’t, so they believed the Leah they were seeing was true. I didn’t know how to feel about that, especially with how much they’d altered the show in editing.

I sat on my dad’s couch, the remote in my hand. I hadn’t seen Jameson again since the last Sunday when we’d lit off the sparkler bomb. It had been almost a week—it was Friday night—and the thought of it still made me smile. It was such a silly thing. So juvenile. But between the obstacle course, the food, the fireworks, and the little stunt with Jameson and his brother, it had been one of the best days I’d had in years.

“What are you smiling about, sweetheart?” Dad asked.

He sat in his recliner, a tray of dinner on his lap. His skin tone looked better, and although he was still hooked up to his oxygen tank, his breathing sounded much clearer. I could probably go back to L.A. soon and he’d be fine.

My heart sank at that thought.

“Aw, where’d it go?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your smile,” he said.

I shrugged. “I’m okay.”

He eyed me for a second, like he didn’t really believe me. “This show you’re on is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“It’s almost all faked,” I said. I had no qualms about telling my dad the unvarnished truth. “They told me a lot of what to say and coached me through all those side interviews you see. I was acting.”

“Hmm.”

The show came back on and I sat with my back stiff. The way they’d edited the episodes made it hard for me to predict what was going to happen. It felt strange to watch clips of myself and not know what I was going to be shown doing or saying. I could tell how they’d pieced together different moments and conversations—in the industry, they called them frankenbites—but I knew most viewers wouldn’t be able to tell.

The beginning of the episode had focused on Rudy Barron, a professional basketball player who’d left the NBA last year, and Simone Prince, the daughter of a wealthy hotel mogul. They’d seemed to get along fine during filming, but from the first episode, the footage had been edited to make it appear as if they were enemies. A clip of Simone glaring at something off camera was quickly followed by a shot of Rudy.

Then I was back on screen. Everyone was in the cabin, sitting by candlelight. The episode’s challenge was over, and I already knew Brock had won, earning immunity from being voted off. We’d filmed the end of this episode several different ways. In one of the versions, I was voted off, but Brock valiantly gave up his immunity so I could stay. Another had someone else being voted off, and me making a dramatic show of being relieved. I wondered which ending they were going to use.

Brock got up and looked around. The camera switched to me, glancing in what looked like Brock’s direction. He tipped his head, like he was signaling someone—me, apparently, although I didn’t remember that—and went into a back room.

The camera panned across the rest of the cast, showing them going about their business in the low light. Like it was important to establish that everyone was busy—no one paying attention to Brock.

I got up and slipped into the back room with him.

My stomach turned over. I remembered going in there with Brock. The producers had delivered a message from his wife, but denied his request for a phone to call her back. She’d been laid up with a broken leg, and he was worried about her. But we weren’t allowed contact with the outside world during filming.

He’d told me about it earlier that day, and I’d known he was upset. So when he’d gone back there, I’d sat and talked to him for a while. I hadn’t realized the crew had still been filming.

Low voices carried through the door, but it was as if the microphones couldn’t pick up the words clearly. It sounded like a man and woman speaking, but there was no telling who it really was. The scene cut again to show that the other cast members were still oblivious to whatever was supposedly going on behind that door.

The camera panned to the back room, and subtitles with our names appeared on the bottom of the screen.

Leah: Are you sure you’re okay?

Brock: Yeah, I’ll be fine.

Leah: Good. Come here, then.

Brock: *groans* We really shouldn’t.

Leah: No one will know.

Brock: Are you sure?

Leah: Positive. *sound of a zipper* Trust me.

Brock: Oh f***, Leah. Holy s***.

Anger bubbled up in my stomach. They’d actually put sound of a zipper on the damn screen in the middle of words I’d never said. My cheeks flushed hot and I turned it off.

“That wasn’t real, Daddy,” I said, suddenly keenly aware that my dad had just watched what was apparently his daughter about to give a guy a blow job in a storage room. “None of that happened. That wasn’t me talking. They made all that up.”

He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Ah, sweetheart.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t want to cry. I was angry, and tears weren’t going to do me any good. I got up and went outside, bringing up Kelvin’s number.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Do you know what they did on that damn show?” I asked. “Have you seen it yet?”

“Babe, you’re three hours ahead of me,” he said. “It hasn’t aired yet.”

“They made it look like I fucking blew Brock Winston in a storage room.”

“Whoa, calm down,” he said. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Are you kidding?” I tried to lower my voice so my dad wouldn’t hear, but it was hard to keep myself under control. “Kelvin, they used fake subtitles. I never unzipped his fucking pants and talked him into a fucking blow job.”

“Leah, take it down a notch.”

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head and my throat felt like it was closing. I gaped at the darkness, my mouth hanging open, unable to get a word out.

“Babe, listen,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm, “ratings are going to be through the roof on this episode. Hang on, I’m checking something. Oh god, Leah, this is perfect.”

“What?”

“Brock saves you at the end,” he said. “I’m looking at spoilers. He uses his win to keep you in the cabin.”

“This is a disaster. I’m screwed, Kelvin. I’m officially Leah Larkin, slutty homewrecker.”

“You’re overreacting.” He sounded distracted.

“God, why do you keep saying that?” I asked. “I’m not overreacting. The world is going to hate me, and I’ll never get a decent job again.”

“I keep telling you, leave that to me.”

“Your most recent suggestion was a dating show with six men and one woman. I’m not so sure about your judgment right now.”

“By tomorrow, the whole country is going to know the name Leah Larkin. You’re not going to be some dime-a-dozen pretty fashion model. You’re going to be the sexy blonde who was hot enough to distract Brock Winston from Maisie Miller. People are going to eat this up. It’s a great story. You can’t buy this kind of attention, babe.”

“It’s not the right kind of attention,” I said. “My reputation is shot.”

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said. “Lay low. Stay in Backwoods Springs or wherever you are. You’re off the grid. No one knows where you are. Disable the GPS on your phone and don’t post anything with your location. Post pictures of your breakfast and shit to Instagram like nothing is wrong. Let this simmer down while I work on what’s next. It’s going to be fine.”

I let out a breath. I had no confidence that he was right, but there wasn’t much else I could do. He was right that no one knew I was here. But I’d have to face the town tomorrow, knowing most of them had watched tonight’s episode. I hated that more than the prospect of what all the gossip columns were going to say. I desperately didn’t want my Bootleg neighbors to think the things in that episode were true. But it was no use talking to Kelvin about that. It wasn’t like he’d understand.

Or care.

“I have to go,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Night, babe.”

I hung up and sank down into my dad’s rocking chair. Against my better judgment, I brought up the Roughing It fan website. The headline read, Leah Seduces Brock! I knew I shouldn’t read the post, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

On tonight’s episode of Roughing It, the moment we’ve all been waiting for… or dreading as we cringed in front of our screens. Leah Larkin, that lanky blonde who’s been after Brock since episode one, finally got what she was after. With no respect for Brock’s relationship status, or apparent care for what it’s going to do to Maisie Miller, Brock’s wife, Leah coaxed Brock into a supply closet for some inappropriate contact. There is little doubt that Brock was helpless against Leah’s seduction. After all, what guy can resist what she was offering when he’s already in a position of weakness?

No doubt Leah Larkin is going to wake up tomorrow and find herself the most hated woman in America.

Tears blurred my vision, so I stopped reading. Oh my god. The most hated woman in America? They were right. Everyone loved the Brock and Maisie story. They were annoyingly sweet, gushing over each other in public every chance they got. Their wedding had been the biggest celebrity news story of the year.

I wanted to post to all my social media accounts and deny everything. Tell the truth. But I stopped myself. I’d be violating my contract if I did. The studio would blacklist me. Maybe worse. They could sue me for breach of contract. Then what would I do? I didn’t have the money to fight a legal battle with a TV studio.

I’d been cast as the villain in this story, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.