"Owen. Owen. Owen…? Owen! Owen. Owenowenowenowen… Oh! When? Oh… when?"

He's not nervous. Why should he be? Hell, he's been acting he's entire life. His debut role was Baby Jesus at a Christmas play when he was six months old. He totally nailed the silent "divine child" part, too. Made every geriatric in a mile radius tear up at his radiant beauty. Since then, he's snagged lead roles left and right, even starred in a couple of self-written one acts and co-directed some longer plays.

So… reality show? No big deal. Even if it wasn't really a reality show, per se.

"Better getch'er things, boy, we'll be arriving in aboot five minutes."

The captain of the boat is friendly, the air is fresh on deck, and the sun is just bright enough to cast a cheerful blanket over the landscape without making it (too) humid. Owen is having trouble picturing a more perfect way to enter the campground where he'll be spending the next eight weeks.

A cooler of sodas waiting for him on the shore?

Maybe a bikini model to greet him?

Now, if only he could find his second bag of clothes…

"Alright, boy. We're 'ere!"

He emerges again from below the deck, lugging up his two bags of clothes and single grocery bag of favorite snacking delights, when his eyes first land on… land. Mouth gaping and eyes wide, the bags drop straight down onto the deck.

"Oh my God. This must be where Nature comes when it has to take a really big crap."

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It was a long drive and the dirt road has left him a little dustier than he normally likes to be. He pretends he doesn't care, but he knows he does: a man's image is his statement on himself, his personal business card to the whole world. Straight truth.

He's glad to be out of the car, out from the back seat, and away from the body odor of the driver. It was bad enough that the air had suddenly gotten humid enough to drown a dolphin – he'd been able to handle that with moderate success – but being such close proximity with another person for so long under the sun was a step too far. The driver with the tattooed biceps and scowling face? He was several lunges too far.

The man was inquisitive, overly interested in his home, his family, his reasons for joining the show, and his strategies for winning the money. He'd asked questions the entire ride from the airport and had been visibly pissed at the curt replies. The glint off of his sweaty brown forehead changed angles with every unsatisfactory answer he gave to the queries. But at least he hadn't been chummy, there were few things he hated more than adults that tried to act friendly toward teenagers, smiling knowingly and randomly attempting to drop lingo. "Hey dawg. What up?" "Wanna hang, homie?" "Far out." No… the driver had been annoyingly intrusive, but at least no one had been pretending to be his friend.

"Hey, Jamal! Nice to meet ya, dawg."

What?

He can't help but notice that the stranger has the whitest teeth of any human being he has ever seen. Even as he leaves the car with his luggage in hand he can tell that they're several shades brighter than new kitchen tile and as fake as the sincerity in his voice. Looking away from the pearly whites for fear of permanent retinal damage, he shakes his head. "You've got me confused wit someone else. Ma name's Darrel."

He laughs like Darrel just told a million dollar joke and releases his hand. "Not here, it's not! If you remember the papers, we christened you with an Island Name. In your case, we gave you the best one of them all, Jamal."

His face is unmoved. He is at a point in the day where little is going to make him happy; the best it can do is break even. And the last thing he needs is to be patronized…

Fingers tighten on the luggage handles as he grits his teeth and tries very hard to reply without spitting. "Ma. Name. Is. Darrel. Dawg."

In response, the smile gets turned up to eleven. "The name's Chris Maclean, homie. And a hundred thousand dollar check says yours is Jamal."

No response. They both stare at each other like an old Western, only with luggage and hair gel instead of guns and cowboy hats. The only tumbleweed in Muskoka rolls dramatically between the two.

"Fine," the host admits and laughs like it's all jokes between good friends. He throws up a hand playfully as if to bat away the humor of the situation. "We'll compromise! As supreme commander and host of TDI, I hereby crown you 'DJ.' Learn it. Love it. Use it."

A small suitcase plunks down on a nearby picnic table and pops open, facing Chris. "In exchange for our little concession, you must wear this…"

His hand exits the suitcase gingerly holding a piece of cloth, white as his teeth, and the size of a small rag. With a flick, it travels across the clearing and flops into the hold of a very surprised boy.

DJ turns it over in his hands and stretches it out. Raising it up, and slowly puts it on an imaginary mannequin in front of him. He lifts an eyebrow and stares bemusedly back the host.

"Are you tryin' to Kwanzaa me?"

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"Oh, God. How did I get into this mess?" he mutters. Sighing with resignation, he looks down at his t-shirt and touches an index finger to the outline of the palm stretched across his chest. "Can you believe this? It's a handprint. A. Hand. Print. I could've made this shirt and—"

He looks around and finds himself alone in the tent.

"…and you left while I was talking." Moving a tent flap, he mumbles after the girl that left the room amid his rant: "Thanks for the help, Kriste—Britt—Ange—um, uh… Make-up… Girl…"

The reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the tent entrance recaptures his eye, pushing his new image back to his attention.

"Shaggy hair. When did I ever have shaggy hair?"

Fingers run over his head. They'd required him to grow it out and go to a high-class hair salon downtown after he got the letter. No real explanation, just something about "character portrayal" and a "look they were going for." It was fine by him, the competition and the hair; there was no one at school to make fun of him for it, and his parents thought it was a great way for him to "change himself up and meet new people." It didn't bother him in the least; after all, he was getting a hundred dollar shirt out of it.

"You are so cool, aren't you? Think you're big and bad 'cause you've got a fancy shirt and… a camo undershirt… on? Yeah, you're a real smooth criminal, aren't you…?" His hand pulls a small, crumpled scrap of paper. "…Trent?"

Eyes on his reflection, he laughs and throws out his hands like he heard a million dollar joke. The hilarity doesn't convince anybody.

"How is anybody ever going to believe in you?"

The reflection shakes its head with disappointment, all trace of laughter far gone from his clean-shaved face. His eyes wander around the mirrored world until they settle on an object laying flat on the folding chair near the back of the tent.

"Oh, God. How am I gonna play that thing?"

He'd been told to begin learning how to play the guitar as a start to his transition into some sort of hipster or something, but a mix of excitement and apathy had prevented him from setting out on that task.

"Oh well, I'll just blend in and try not to get put on the spot too many times. Maybe I won't even have to play in front of anybody. Heh, yeah."

Outside and a short ways off, he spies a small crowd of people his age gathering around Chris as he stands at a podium. Taking a deep breath, he steps away from the mirror and nods his head.

"Time to go be Mr. Cool."

He was gonna have to do some serious work on his lines…

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