Showered, with no visible signs of yesterday's damage, dressed, Jamal is ravenous. He heads downstairs for the kitchen.
The Clubs are not expected to cook for themselves, any more than they are expected to choose wardrobe. "It's like we're back in grade school," Spasm had sneered, first day in the place. That was before they'd lost the second challenge, and voted his sorry ass off the team.
Even so, meal times are fixed, and Jamal has missed breakfast. Nevertheless, he has been living on his own for five years and he is capable of cooking a meal. He begins searching through the refrigerator and cupboards for eggs, bacon, pans, cups, a process made more difficult because the mansion housing the Clubs has been designed for its visual imprint, not utility. To begin with, the kitchen has been painted a primary blue, a color that makes all food look unappetizing. And nothing is where it would logically be.
He has managed to locate a frying pan when Jade Blossom enters. To Jamal's immense disappointment, she has exchanged the startling bikini for a tank top and baggy shorts, as if she were off for a morning at the mall. Still, she looks adorable. "That's ambitious," she says, noting Jamal's obvious search for the makings of a meal. "If you're looking for food after Holy Roller's been through here, good luck."
"I'm just amazed the guy even fits in the building."
"Or through the canyons."
"They got him inside the truck. It was the truck that had to get up the narrow road." Jamal will never forget the comic insanity of Clubs move-in day . . . the face of the elderly female neighbor whose shiny Jag had to wait while the American Hero convoy of camera limo, Club Humvee, and moving van negotiated the hairpin curve just outside the gate. Riding with Jamal and Toad Man, Spasm had thought to have some fun with the woman. "What do you think, should I give her a little thrill? When was the last time she popped?"
"You shouldn't distract the lady while she's driving," Toad Man had said with great indignity, beating Jamal by milliseconds. (There were useful wild card powers, and then there were the ridiculous ones: Spasm's ability to make other people orgasm or sneeze at will struck Jamal as proof that life made no fucking sense. Jamal wouldn't miss Spasm, now that he had deservedly joined the Discards.)
Getting Roller out of the truck and into the mansion had taxed even the great minds of the American Hero team: ramps had been built to allow the gigantic ace to shuffle his way to the front door, but getting all five hundred pounds of the man out of the truck . . . well, it took both camera crews and a lot of sweating and cursing. "They should have used a crane," Toad had said, in all seriousness. "Isn't that what movie people use?"
Jamal had failed to answer, as Holy Roller began, in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting voice, to alternately berate the grips for cursing ("Gentlemen, please! To hear the Lord's name and everyone else's taken in vain on such a beautiful day! It's a shame, it is!") while alerting them to the glories of God's plan ("Join the righteous, my friends! Find the joy!") was theater no one dared interrupt.
Now, alone in the kitchen with beautiful, unapproachable Jade, Jamal is half-worried that Roller is right outside . . . listening . . . and, if listening, judging.
"Now they have to use that truck to keep us supplied."
"Another good reason to vote him off."
Jade shook her pretty head. "They'll keep Roller around as long as they can. He's too much like the people watching this shit."
"How'd you get to be so cynical, so young?"
Jade can't be more than two years younger than Jamal. "Go to a few auditions as an actress and see what it does to you."
Jamal realizes that beautiful Jade has no idea what he does—granted, their introductions had been perfunctory, but Jamal has since pored over the online bios. Jade obviously hasn't, or she would know that he has been on his share of auditions, too. More proof that he has no chance with her. "Why did you join American Hero, then? It's really the same shit, isn't it?"
She has found a box of Cheerios and casually opens it. As Jamal looks for a bowl and a spoon, he sees Jade eating right out of the box. Not that he objects—she could put her mouth on anything he owns—but he's so hungry he's almost salivating. "I like shows like this. Laguna Beach, Survivor, Great Race. They're the only thing I ever watch."
Nothing in this cupboard. "So you know exactly how to play the game."
"Yeah." She crunches away. "They sort of cast these things. There's always the old guy, the biker, the crazy one—" and here she smiles "—the minority."
"Only me?" Jamal gestures gracefully toward Jade. "What about Chinese-American girls?"
"My category is hot girl. Hot girl trumps the whole minority thing." This is as true as it is irritating. "The other category in reality TV is freaks, but . . ." And here Jade smiles very fetchingly. At that instant, Jamal is lost—she can be as bitchy and self-centered as she wants, she will have to rip his heart out of his chest and stomp it. "On American Hero the freaks are the majority. Which is why even a . . . hugely fat white man is someone they have to hold onto. Will someone answer the fucking phone? Please?"
Jamal realizes he has been hearing a chirping from the living room. Toad Man hollers that he will get it. "Hullo," they hear him say. "This is Buford."
"So you've got your strategy all figured out. Be the hot girl."
"And let you big strong men knock each other off."
"How am I supposed to knock these other guys off? My wild card is nothing but defensive. I take a licking and keep on ticking. Big whoop."
Jade is still crunching. "I thought you were the big jock!"
This is a surprisingly perceptive thing for a woman as self-involved as Jade to say. "Who says I'm a jock?"
"You walk like a jock. You talk like a jock. I know jocks . . . all my brothers play sports."
Toad Man appears in the kitchen doorway, blinking, as always, in apparent bafflement. "Hullo. Ah, they want us. Griffith Park Observatory. Does anyone know where that is?"
Wet, glistening, still in her bikini, just out of the pool, Diver drips in the hallway. "In Griffith Park."
Holy Roller is at the other end of the hallway, blocking it like a cork in a wine bottle and—to Jamal's amusement—preventing Art and the camera crew for getting any useful footage. "Praise God. Another challenge. May the Lord be with us!"
The Clubs disperse to their rooms for last-minute prep for cameras, including Jade Blossom. Jamal realizes that the woman has taken the box of Cheerios. And that he still hasn't had breakfast.
Jade has come surprisingly close to explaining everything there is to know about Jamal Norwood. Forget the wild card—his life changed from what he wanted to something else long before that rainy night in 2001.
Jamal's father, Big Bill Norwood, was the best athlete in a South Central neighborhood noted for NBA stars and NFL running backs, for all kinds of major and minor league baseball players. "No hockey players, though," Bill used to say. "No ice."
Jamal was good, too, with the speed and eye-hand coordination of a world-class athlete. What he lacked was size, topping out at five-nine, 160 pounds in his junior year at powerhouse Loyola High. He could be the best basketball or football player the world had ever seen, but no scout or coach would look at him long enough to notice. That's assuming the coach's eyes noticed him at all, since he was a head shorter than his teammates.
Jamal had already experienced the humiliation of being passed over for the varsity baseball team at Loyola, even though his batting average was the highest on the team. He made the mistake of complaining to Bill one night on the drive home.
Big Bill simply shook his head. "Forget about being a pro athlete," he said. "You're never going to make it."
"But I'm good, Dad! As good as the Wilkes brothers!"
"I'm not talking about 'good,' Jamal! You are good, probably in the top five percent of all the athletes your age. I'm just saying you're never going to be a pro athlete. You've got too much going on."