Page 31 of Unscripted

Chiara rolled her eyes at Ella and turned back to the clothing rack. From it she pulled a short, white off-the-shoulder dress with jewels stitched across the neckline. Even on the hanger, I could tell that it would dip precariously low on my chest. I also knew it would be wildly short on me. What would have probably hit mid-thigh on her would likely settle right under my butt.

“Wear this,” Chiara said, shoving the garment into my hands.

She was already moving on and grabbing her own dress, so I had no time to reply.

Overhead, a producer’s voice announced, “Fifteen minutes, ladies. Sound is coming in to switch out your mic packs.”

A chorus of shrieks and “I’m not ready yet!” filled the room.

Like clockwork, the same sound woman who had mic’d me earlier in the driveway entered. Looped in the crook of her elbow were five mic packs.

The mic packs.

This was yet another staple of the show. Every contestant wore a portable mic pack on their person, all day and all night. I had been informed by Harry that the only acceptable time not to wear my mic was if I was in the pool or shower. Even in bed we would be expected to wear it right until falling asleep and then put it back on first thing in the morning.

The physical pack itself left much to be desired.

We had been mic’d earlier with fancy, tiny lavalier mics. Mine had been discreetly clipped onto the neckline of my dress, and off I went with it. I had almost forgotten it was on me; it was so subtle. These new ones, the ones that the public loved the Bellas wearing—according again to Harry—were bulky and could be seen from across the house.

The microphone itself was round and about the size of a quarter. It was clipped to the end of a black, plastic rope, and worn as a necklace, dangling just below the clavicle. A wire attached the mic to its pack, which was mounted on a black, one-inch-thick canvas belt that clipped around the waist. The whole thing gave off “90s pop star,” only way less cool.

The sound woman began passing out mics, instructing us all to put them on so she could test pitch levels and make sure they were transmitting properly.

The scrap of fabric that Chiara picked for me was still clutched in my hand. Just as I turned back to the clothing rack to swap it out for something a bit less revealing, the same PA from before swooped in and, in a matter of seconds, wheeled out the rack. So that was it then. There would be no time to argue or to find something else to wear.

I pulled on the dress, shimmying it up over my thighs and butt and settling it on my body in the most covered-up way I could manage. In a shocking twist, it hit just at my fingertips, which was a relief. At least my ass wouldn’t be on display.

My boobs, however, were out for the world to see.

“Looking hot, America!” Jess called out.

“It’s not too . . . ” I said to the room, gesturing at my chest.

“Your tits look ace!” Olivia cried out. At least, I think that’s what she said. Her Scottish accent was so thick I had been struggling to understand her from the moment we met.

Taking her word for it, I slipped on my shoes, put the mic around my neck, and clipped the belt around my waist. It looked ridiculous but at least I wasn’t alone in that. No matter how great everyone looked, a black canvas belt around the waist of a cocktail dress did not make for high fashion.

Soon enough, the sound engineer deemed us all good to go, and we were walking out of the glam room. A flutter of nerves filled my stomach as I trailed after the girls into the hallway.

I wondered who I would talk to that night. If I would “crack on” with anyone. I was so distracted by my spinning mind that I didn’t take much note of the fact that we had halted in the hallway instead of walking out into the garden.

“Hi, loves,” a voice rang out, breaking me out of my spell. Not only was the voice not coming from the speakers above us, but it was one I was quite familiar with.

Harry stood in the hallway, blocking the door leading outside.

“If you could all just wait here one moment, I’ll be letting you know when it’s time to walk out.”

The rest of the girls chatted excitedly around me. I scooted over to where Harry stood, relieved at seeing a familiar face.

“What are you doing here? I thought I wouldn’t see you until tomorrow,” I asked.

“A producer cues you in every night, just so we make sure that the boys are all ready and nothing needs to be reshot. It was supposed to be one of the senior people, but there was an issue with camera transmission, so they subbed me in. I’ll be edited out in post.”

He paused, looking me up and down before smiling and nodding in approval. “The white dress was definitely the right choice,” he said, winking at me.

I was about to ask him how he knew about my dress dilemma when I remembered that everything we did was watched and listened to. My wardrobe choice happened just five minutes ago and yet Harry already knew about it. Of course he did.

I knew this was how it worked; that it was the entire point of the show I had agreed to go on. Still, it was rather unnerving to be so blatantly reminded that my life was not my own anymore; that my privacy was nonexistent.