Reality Show Cinderella

Her name was Shaquela. Her parents were big Lakers fans. Every time she talked she'd smack her mouth open and say "Umm" before starting on with her sentence. And then usually followed with "Excuse me Miss," in an attempt to coerce a hall pass and a trip to the bathroom out of Ms. Jennings. God, I hated her. I never could take her loud teasing. It was the mom jokes that really got me. I'd pretend like I had to get something out of my cubby in the coat closet so that no one could see my eyes starting to well up. So every time new seating arrangements came around, I'd pray like a plea-bargaining atheist at the Pearly Gates that I wouldn't have to sit next to her.

Come to find out, she has her very own cable reality show. How I came to find out was flipping channels this particular hung-over Saturday morning. Apparently, and it scares me to wonder how they would find this out, but she spends more time checking her Myspace than anyone else in the world. The world's number one biggest Myspace snoop. Some producer found this intriguing and gave her a reality show.

So it's a dating show where she pairs up a participant with another Myspace member based on their profiles. She says there's a magic number based on the output of a formula that inputs number of profile views, birthday, and number of profile friends. Then, if the date absolutely crashes, which they always do, the unlucky reject gets "deleted." Sure enough, Shaquela still smacked her mouth open and cleared her throat with "Umm" every single time she said anything.

I grew up in Mobile, Alabama where my father was an engineer for an oil company drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. When I was a freshman in high school he got transferred to the company's Fairbanks, Alaska sight. It felt like we were just working our way down the list of states in alphabetical order, moving every few years to make sure we spent time living in each an every one, right down to Wyoming. I can still sing the song my fifth grade teacher made us learn to remember the order.

I went to elementary and middle school with Shaquela. Then, sometime during the end of eight grade she got pregnant by a high school basketball player. Whether or not she had it taken care of, she came back to start ninth grade at the high school in August with the rest of us, and very much not pregnant. The prayer bulletin at Aunt's church said it was complications with the pregnancy that took her baby back up to heaven.

When the television show cut to the first commercial break, I shook myself out of my comatose disbelief and grabbed my cell phone to call Gabe. He was my only childhood friend from Mobile whose voice still recognized. We actually call one another to say happy birthday instead of just leaving a comment on Facebook. Every other three hundred sixty three days of the year we chat online. Unless it's a special occasion, such as needing bail money wired...or this one.

Three rings and I was preparing in my head the message I would leave on his voicemail.

"Hey how's it going?" he answered, taking me by surprise.

"You won't believe this. Turn your tv on Vh1"

I watched the rest of the episode with Gabe on the other line. The only time we spoke was during commercial breaks. I wanted to make fun of her like I would make fun of girls on Los Angeles's Angels and my roommates for watching it.

But this wasn't entertainment. It was tragedy. It was a grade-school classmate who at recess shared her fashion magazine she would buy each month with her petty change allowance her daddy gave her out of his disability check. She said after high school she wanted to go live with her cousin in the A-T-L and they were going to open up a boutique. She said if we were still her friends, she'd give us free clothes. I never flattered myself that she would give me free clothes, I wouldn't wear her ugly clothes anyhow. But even during commercial break, I couldn't bring myself to laugh like I would at the Los Angeles's Angels. This wasn't reality entertainment. This was exploitation.