A/N: Hi, I'm Millie! I'm a new Sarah Dessen writer, but I hope you all like my story. It should be fairly obvious when this is set, but just to clarify: it's before Remy's mother has met Don, before Remy has met Dexter, or even Johnathan. She's just finished with one of the boyfriends mentioned in This Lullaby, Peter Scranton.

The Dexter Show
One

"Remy, honey, do you know another word for glistening?"

This was unusual. For my mom to be anywhere else but behind her beaded curtain at this stage in her writing was practically unheard of. I knew from experience that in the concluding days of her latest bestseller, it was better to stay as far away from her room as possible, unless you wanted to risk a whole lot of profanities hurled in your direction.

But then again, it hadn't been a usual day for me, either.

"Remy?" My mom, who was still lingering in the kitchen doorway in a flowery kimono, seemed to have noticed my silence at last. "You seem tired. Are you tired? What's wrong? Can I help?" That was so like my mom – several hundred questions at once, talking faster than anyone else I knew, demanding an instant answer.

The truth was, I was tired. Escaping the wrath of your boyfriend's other girlfriend – miracle of miracles, Peter Scranton had managed to score somewhere other than just Lakeview - could really wear a person out. But I wasn't about to get into that. For one thing, my mom didn't have the patience. So I just massaged my temples, swallowed a little to ease my ulcer, and said, "Sure, a little. I guess." A vague answer was always best where my mom was concerned.

She remained there, her head cocked to one side, watching me concernedly. "Are you sure?" she pressed. "You don't want to talk about anything?" I shook my head.

"I'm sure," I answered, faking nonchalance. "Just a little boyfriend trouble. But it's all taken care of." Her lips were pursed, ready to argue, but I beat her to it. "He was on his way out anyway, Mom." Her lips formed a thin line, but she dropped it. She knew it by now, as did everyone else. I was Remy: cold, bitter bitch. Not even my own mother could spin it any differently.

"I'm looking for a word to replace glisten," she reminded me, as a way of changing the subject. I got to my feet, following her into her room to her desk. Note to self: buy Mom a thesaurus.

"Glitter, sparkle, glint." At least my mom was benefiting from my AP English education. "What are you describing?" My mom gasped theatrically, clasping a hand to her face.

"Melina's engagement ring from Donovan," she replied, and she held out her own left hand, waggling her fingers, as if she was the one wearing it. "I've just finished the proposal – it was so romantic! They were walking by the riverside, and then this gondola appeared - all part of Donovan's plan of course..."

I pulled a face. As always, my mom's latest book was a thrilling romance, a tale of a love that nothing could quench… She noticed my expression, and gave me a sad smile. She knew how I felt about her stories.

"Oh, Remy," she said, and I shrugged.

"Why does it always have to be a romance?" I asked. Personally, I was a fan of Stephen King, of John Steinbeck. No slushy stuff there. "Love isn't something that deserves to be immortalized in a book. It's a con." My mother sighed.

"My little sceptic," she murmured, and she held a few cool fingers to my cheek, the way she used to when I was younger. For a few, blissful seconds it soothed me. And then the vision of Miss Fayetteville winding up for a punch – which I ducked, thank God – came back to me. I pulled away.

"I have something for you, Remy," my mom said, and I stopped walking away. She swivelled in her chair and patted the bed cover. I sat, obediently, and she hesitated. "It's your Christmas present. Do you mind getting it early?" I glanced at the calendar – November 21st. Boy, that was early.

"Um," I began, but she'd already set about retrieving it. I watched wordlessly, as she pulled a slim envelope out from under a pile of papers – mostly the latest pages of her novel – and laid it gently on her lap. She obviously wasn't finished explaining.

"I gave up this year trying to buy you something you want," my mom said, and I raised an eyebrow, "and settled for something you need." Oh, geez. Another pack of batteries. It was the one thing all my previous stepfathers had in common; I had received a pack of batteries annually from Harold, Win and Martin, respectively. Something you need, they had said, as they had handed over the tiny package, wrapped in glittery paper as if that made a crappy present more special. I held my breath as my mom passed me the envelope.

I turned it over. The address at the top read Remy Starr, c/o Barbara Starr, and then my street name. And then beneath that, I saw with some confusion, was a black stamp, the ink slightly smeared.

R U 4 REAL?

"Mom, what…?" She shushed me quickly, bringing a finger to her lips. She gestured for me to open it, and I did so tentatively. A small slip of paper was the first thing to fall out. It looked like an advertisement. I surveyed it quickly.

R U 4 REAL?
NBC's new dating show airs December 1st.
For one girl, there are three guys. Which one is for real?

"O.K…" I reached inside the envelope, and found another bit of paper. This time, it was A4 size. At the top, it read APPLICATION FORM FOR CONTESTANT. It had already been filled in. "Name: Remy Starr," I read aloud, in horror, and I followed it down the page, recognising all of my details. "Mom!"

"I think it's a good idea," she replied, innocently. "You'll meet some new people – new guys – and maybe you'll see that love isn't the terror you think it is. Maybe you'll even fall in love yourself!" I snorted.

"Um, thanks," I said, replacing the papers inside the envelope. "But no, thanks. It's very thoughtful, and all, but it's not really for me…" My mom's cool fingers closed over mine, and I looked up to meet her eyes. There was a small smile toying with her lips.

"Remy, honey," she said, calmly. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but…" She hesitated, before continuing even more slowly. "I've already applied for you. And you've been accepted."

"What?!" I yanked my hand out of my mom's grip instantly. "Are you kidding me?" She put me in for a dating show? Was she serious? "Mom, I know all I need to know about love, or whatever. I don't need some cheesy, schmaltzy game show to tell me that what I've always wanted is right under my nose, or for some corporate TV station to fix me up with my supposed soul-mate, or whatever this show is about…"

"Remy." My mom's voice was stern now. "I love you, honey, but you do not know everything about love. You still have a lot to learn, especially if you think that everything is a con." I moaned. "Now that form in there is a receipt. You're the female contestant, and it's all fixed ready for you to appear on that show. Filming starts on Monday."

Monday? That was like… I counted on my fingers as my brain struggled to comprehend. That was like… TOMORROW!

"I'm sorry, honey," my mom finished. "But it's for your own good."

"My own good," I echoed, tonelessly, as everything sunk in. I was going on a dating show. Me! I was like Dear Remy, agony aunt for all things relationship. I did not need this. At all.

"I'm quitting," I announced, standing up from the bed and knocking my envelope to the floor. "I'm quitting the show. They can't make me do something I don't want!"

"I don't think you'll want to do that," my mom said, and the usual tack-tack-tack of her typewriter keys started up again. "The prize money is a hundred thousand dollars." Now that made me stop in my tracks.

A hundred thousand dollars! I pulled a face as I envisioned all the ways I could spend it – a perfectly furnished dorm room at Stanford, a designer label wardrobe, a new vacuum cleaner…

And the show wouldn't last forever. It was only a couple of weeks…

I could feel myself surrendering. I was going to have to go through with it if I wanted that money. I was going to have to stand under those lights, and make a complete fool of myself...

Oh, shit.