Page 1 of Fabricated

Chapter 1

@RayneMarshall: “When life gives you lemons, make them weapons and throw them at stupid people’s faces.”

Rayne

They say everything happens for a reason, but I’d say they’re too optimistic, too forgiving. And how does one rationalize children dying of starvation, random acts of violence taking an innocent life? How does one say, ‘everything happens for a reason,’ when a man overdoses on drugs instead of choosing to get help, when cancer continues to take so many lives, when a child dies from a heinous act of crime?

Depressing, I know, but when you come from where I have, you see things in a new light, as in there is none. I’m not a stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of girl, more of the accept-the-fate-and-not-question-it variety. Like me standing in front of this mansion. I am not questioning it.

“You’re not going to fit in here,” Jordan says as she rips her sunglasses off and drops her purse to the white marble floor. Yeah, I know.

My heart is pounding as I take in the… shit. I’m not sure what kind of stairs these ones are called, but the stairs from Cinderella? Yep, those. All white marble. Everything is white, to be honest. Off-white walls. Two-toned white marble flooring with a shine so intense you can see your reflection in it.

The house has a modern aura with its greige stucco exterior and black terracotta tile roof. Parts of the structure are in black brick and raw, dark wood. The front yard is checkered greens, the driveway paved by off-white cobblestone. I already knew the backyard had tall black beams holding up a huge pergola. Black-and-white stone holds an infinity pool that looks over a pond. Black lounge chairs adorned with striped accent pillows and throw blankets. A fire pit surrounded by beanbags, floor pillows, and swivel chairs. A tiki bar that connects to one side of the pool along with TVs. Thanks, Google.

Jordan is right, I would not fit in here. Not in this life and not in the next. I’m starstruck. I’d never seen or been anywhere like this in my entire life. Okay, so maybe I should pull the brakes here and clear a few things up. So, this is me, Rayne Marshall, I’m twenty-three, orphaned at birth. Runt of the litter, considering no one ever chose me to be adopted. Child of the States my whole life. Flunked out of college due to juggling three jobs to pay for college and housing. Poor. Broken. And down to my last chance before being homeless.

A month ago, when I was looking for work, I came across a flyer, right? I had no clue people even did that anymore! Anyway, I saw the flyer for a reality TV show. Ages 21 to 25. Check. Must not have a similar life to The Children of Nobility. Triple check.

That was it. The only requirements. And I met those checkboxes. I filled out the application and sent it in via email. For the people who made the flyers, it was unsettling for them to ask me to email it in due to, and I quote, ‘not wasting our natural resources.’

The Children of Nobility were a group of, let’s say, the rich and famous. Their parents are super rich, super important. Part of the 1%, if you catch my drift. Money so old you weren’t entirely sure where it came from. The idea of the show is to shove them all in a big as fuck house and have them live together.To show how the better half of the population lives. This is the fifth season. I’d caught a few episodes, but I would rather read than watch any sort of TV, and I guess they wanted to spice it up a bit this season. And I was the lucky person with the most dramatic trauma, the furthest thing from these kids as can be. I don’t know why they wanted someone with my brand of trauma, I just know this job pays a lot of money, while paying for my bills, as long as I’m in the show.

Perfect? I think so, but… there is this part of me that’s scared. Nervous. I have no clue what this is going to come to but…

“Rayne Marshall?” a small woman with a black pixie cut asks me.

“Yep, that’s me.” I smile as she zooms by, snapping at me to follow.

She wears a mob style suit. Purple. No, I can’t make this up. She is tiny, coming in at around four-nine, her energy polluting the air with stress and authority. Jordan marches behind me with wide eyes, pulling my other suitcase. Up the marble staircase. One, two, three, four, five different hallways. I am lucky number five. To white double doors and I… faint. That is what I want to do. Faint. But luckily, I keep it together.

“Mint green, as per your request. En suite bathroom. Bookshelves and, oh, a balcony. Also, at your request.” She snaps her fingers and two women rush to open my closet. “This is your wardrobe for the show. Hair and makeup will be here every morning. And, oh, Briggs is the name. Manager and director.”

I go to stick out my hand, but she’s already moving again out my door, and that’s when I decide I should take it in. Mint green and light pink bedding. Mint green flowing curtains by the balcony. Off-white walls. Light wood bookshelves line one whole wall with a furry white rug under a hanging chair. There are some abstract paintings on the walls, but I’m not bothered about that. I have my very own tiny library!

“Holy shit, Ray!” Jordan screams, jumping on my bed and doing slow waves of her hands.

“Hurry and go stand in front of the balcony so I can take your picture for social media.” Walking over to the balcony, I duck behind it before half my body peeks back around. A shy smile playing on my face.“Perfect!”

Jordan and I fall onto my bed laughing. My laughter slowly dies as my head snuggles with hers. Clinging to the only person who has ever been close enough to family to me. “Your life is about to change.” She squeezes my hand, smiling.

“Yeah,” I whisper as we look to the ceiling.

* * *

I made the executive decision to stay in my room after Jordan left last night. All night there was loud music and giggling. This is another reason why I requested a door with a lock. Someone even came by and rattled my doorknob and sang, “New girl, new girl, come out, come out, wherever you are.” Like, I think not.

Today is the first day of shooting. I’m nervous. But Briggs informed me to just be myself. “We want the real you. Whoever that may be.” So that’s what I’m going to do. It seemed like solid advice at the time, but the more I think about it, the more self-conscious I become. I am nothing compared to the people who live under this roof. A mere speck of dust among glittering diamonds. Unappealing and disappointing.

I take a deep breath and release it in front of the mirror. My strawberry blonde—heavy on the blonde—hair is in loose curls down my back. They kept my makeup light and chose for some unknown reason to leave my freckles exposed. Makes me authentic. My light blue eyes pop with my newly tinted lashes.

Do you know I can’t be trusted to dress myself? Crazy, considering I’ve been doing it since I was three.

I’m in a spaghetti strap dress with a small V-neck to show off my cleavage, tight around the waist and flaring out at the hips. It’s a royal blue dress, paired with strappy sandals, something I’ve dreamed of affording but never could.

I have my signature necklace on. A dragon with a tiny crown on the top of its head. It’s strange. I’d never seen anything like it, but it was given to me by my birth mother. It’s gold. Real gold from what I can tell, and I’ve never taken it off. It was around my neck when I was left at the nunnery. How cliché of my egg donor. Be more original. I could have been the first ever abandoned baby left at a donut shop or ice cream shop. Imagine the press. I’d be the donut baby. The story would have been so crazy, some fancy, rich British couple would have adopted me. And I’d have lived happily ever after. Such a missed opportunity. British accents are hot. I could have rocked one.

“Okay, sweetie. You need to get out there,” Rhonda, my mother hen or PA—whichever—says with a big smile behind me. I return the smile, even if it’s weak.

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