WHEN I was A TEEN REALITY STAR
UNTIL RECENTLY, one of the best-kept secrets in my life, even to myself, was that I once spent three weeks when I was 16 filming a reality TV show in Puerto Rico. The show was called Girls v. Boys: Puerto Rico, and the concept was exactly what it sounds like. There were eight cast members total – four boys, four girls. We filmed on Vieques, a four-mile-wide island, rough and green and hilly, with wild horses running along the white edges of the beach. The show was built around periodic challenges, each team racking up points toward a $50,000 jackpot. Between competitions, we retreated to a pale-blue house strung with twinkly lights and generated whatever drama we could.
My school let me miss three weeks of high school to do this, which still surprises me. It was a strict institution – the handbook prohibited sleeveless shirts and homosexuality – and though I was a good student, my conduct record was iffy. But, according to rumour, the tiny Christian institution had already sent an alumnus to compete on The Bachelorette. There was something, maybe, about that teenage religious environment, the way everyone was always flirting and posturing and attempting to deceive one another, that set us up remarkably well for reality TV.
In any case, I told the administrators I hoped to “be a light for Jesus, but on television”, and got their permission. In December 2004, I packed a bag full of graphic tees and handkerchief-size denim mini-skirts and went to Puerto Rico, and in January I came back blazing with self-enthrallment – salt in my hair, as tanned as if I’d been wood-stained. I invited friends over to watch the first episode, and felt gratified but also deeply pained by the sight of my face on a big screen. When I went off to college, I felt this was a good opportunity to shed my televised
