Magic Mansion Jordan Price (best non fiction books of all time txt) 📖

Sound, she’d be shocked if more than a handful of viewers in Magic Mansion’s key demographics had ever heard of it, let alone seen it.

Even so, the execs had dug in their heels, and she was stuck with Monty Shaw and his piercingly nasal vowel sounds.

Good thing he was so easy on the eyes.

A writer scurried out from the trailer and Marlene explained the problem. Since they could hardly have Jia Lee change her well-established stage name this late in the game, the writers were instructed to henceforth read Monty’s first line aloud for excessively obnoxious vowels in all other non-name words. They tweaked the script, fed Monty his new line… “And…action.”

“This modest Oakland duplex is the home of Jia Lee, the Far East darling of L.A.’s magic circuit. Miss Lee’s exotic good looks and flawless presentation have made her the first female guest of honor at the Portland Magic Jam, and her Asian-inspired show, Apple Blossom Vanish, ran at the Parks Theatre for a stunning sixteen-week engagement.”

Monty approached Jia’s front door, walking just a bit gingerly. He had a good flare for narrative. Marlene would give him that. He lowered his voice and said, “Jia’s been told we’re taping the reactions of magicians who’ve been chosen for a third round of auditions, so let’s see how she responds to the news that she’s actually won a spot in the Mansion.” He rapped on the door and sang out, “Magic Mansion!” in an accent toned-down enough to come across as charmingly Aussie rather than strange and foreign—Marlene hoped so, anyway. You never could tell what was going to rub a WalMart clerk in Nowhere, Indiana wrong.

Jia’s door snapped open, chain on. Half a face appeared in the gap. “You weren’t supposed to be here ’til two.”

“Magic Mansion,” Monty repeated chipperly.

Camera one zoomed close. On the mobile monitor, Marlene saw the wreck of the magician’s duplex. Plastic drop cloths covered the furniture, and masking tape hung in curls from the window frames. The ceiling was half-purple with color-change ceiling paint that went on dark and dried light to keep painters from leaving any gaps in the paint, and a wide rust stain spread across the center, marking the spot where something unfortunate had overflowed in the bathroom above.

The door slammed shut.

“Jia Lee,” Monty sang out, and maybe the crazy vowels weren’t too bad after all. He made her name sound fun, like some kind of drinking game. “We’ve got an envelope with your name on it.”

“It’s one-thirty!” The door was thin. The boom was in place, and the words projected right through the plywood.

Monty glanced back somewhere beyond the camera as if looking for direction and gave a charming shrug, then turned back to the door and called out, “C’mon out, Miss Lee—let’s not keep the cameras waiting!”

Camera two zoomed in on the doorknob turning. The boom picked up a rattle of the chain, though foley could re-do it if it wasn’t clear enough. The door opened.

Jia Lee stared at Monty Shaw, wide-eyed in abject mortification, then snatched the bandanna off her long black hair. A smear of purple paint, white around the edges, lay across her cheek like warpaint. She wore an old 7-Up T-shirt stretched taut across her chest, sleeves cut off and beige bra straps plainly visible, and a pair of heather gray yoga pants splattered with purple. Even in her state of disarray, she was gorgeous. Her eyelids had pronounced folds, and her nose was probably too flat for the taste of most American men—but there was something classically proportioned about her features that was set off beautifully by her state of dishevelment and surprise. She looked foreign enough to say “flied lice,” but her accent was as apple-pie American as you please (unlike Monty’s) when she repeated, “It’s one-thirty.”

“C’mon out, Miss Lee, and let’s see what the producers wanted to tell you.”

Camera one zoomed in on the cheap plastic dropcloth catching on her sandals as she struggled to get through her front door without showing them any more than she absolutely had to. She slipped out the door, then held her head high as she sized up Monty like an empress holding court. A five-foot-one empress in paint-splattered yoga pants. “Very well.”

Marlene was unsure if she’d ever heard someone use the words “very well” in conversation—but if anyone could get away with it, it was Jia.

“You’ve got a letter from Magic Mansion,” Monty said with excruciating perkiness. “Let’s see what it says.”

Cameras swarmed Jia as she took the letter, slipped her thumb underneath the seal, and opened the envelope. She scanned it once, and once again. Her expression shifted, something subtle. Joy, or panic? “I got in,” she whispered, then clasped the letter to her 7-Up T-shirt and repeated, “I got in.”

Marlene could have called cut, but it was only video, not film, and the afternoon had been humming right along. She sized up Jia and told her, “Good reaction. Can you give me one that’s a tad more excited? And then, Monty, you congratulate her. Wendy, come over here, make her messy hair more of a sexy-messy for me, a couple of strands in front, there you go. Okay. Jia, take it from the spot where you open the door and say it’s one-thirty, and this time, smile when you get the news. But don’t overdo it—make sure you still seem standoffish.”

Jia nodded and said, “No problem.”

Chapter 7

OPENING CREDITS

Show business contained far more preparation (and waiting) than actual performance. It seemed that way to Ricardo, anyway. He’d been awake since 4 a.m. to arrive at the studio by seven and shoot Magic Mansion’s intro. Each contestant would have their half-second in the spotlight at the beginning of every episode. They were to turn toward the camera and perform some sort of magical flourish. They’d been asked, in one of the half-million questions they’d been subjected to in the application process, whether they had a signature move. Those moves