I was living the millennial dream in summer 2011: having graduated college without a job, I moved back to my parents’ house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. By day, I waited tables at Applebee’s. By night, I belted out “Me and Bobby McGee” at a karaoke bar/pizza parlor/possible mafia front alongside a homeless Vietnam vet named Doc.

In July, a week before my twenty-third birthday, I was doing my best Janis Joplin impression when my mother called. “Kristen, they’re holding auditions for Who Wants to be a Millionaire? tomorrow, and you’re coming.”

“In Harrisburg?”

“Yes, downtown. 11 A.M.”

“I’m not going,” I said, haunted by the spectre of my last game show appearance.

“We’ll leave here by 10 A.M.” She woke me up the next morning, groggy and still wearing my Forever 21 skater dress and four-inch heels from the night before.

At the Harrisburg Hilton, we joined hundreds of game show hopefuls waiting to take the written test. The man ahead of us shared tips gleaned from his decade-long quest to make it on the show. “If you make it to the in-person interview, smile a lot. Make your job sound exciting. And say you’ll donate your winnings to your church.”

“I’m agnostic,” I said.

“Kristen!” my mom said. “She’s joking. We’re members of the Holy Name of Jesus parish.”

The test was 30 multiple choice questions covering everything from presidential pooches to Paloma Picasso. They announced the names of people who had passed in alphabetical order. My mother’s name wasn’t among them.

But mine was.

I was ushered into a room with around twenty men—mostly attorneys, all at least a decade older than I. The production staff conducted one-on-one interviews while I filled out a questionnaire about my hobbies and motivations for auditioning. When it was my turn, a handsome twentysomething sat me down and adjusted the camera lens.

“Congratulations on making it to the audition, Kristen. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a waitress at Applebee’s!”

“I’ve never seen someone so excited to work at Applebee’s. I love it.”

For the next five minutes, I told him how I watched the show with my parents as a kid. How my parents called the phone line nightly to try to get in the hot seat. How I dreamed of being a filmmaker and would use the money I won to escape Harrisburg and jump-start my career.

“Speaking from personal experience, film production is a tough field. But I have a feeling you would do well on the show.”

I walked out knowing I had nailed it. Walking back to my mom’s car, I spotted Doc on the street and went to tell him about the audition. As I spoke, a street grate sent my skirt billowing up.

“Marilyn Monroe! Don’t forget me when you’re a millionaire.”

At the end of the month, I received a postcard saying I was in the contestant pool. In mid-August, I got The Call: I was invited to a taping on September 1. My mother told the local news about my appearance, and a reporter interviewed me for an article that ran the day of my filming. It was the first of two articles about my appearance.

Over the next 13 days, I crammed with old Trivial Pursuit cards, filled out paperwork, and put together outfit choices. I sent the wardrobe department two photos: one of me in a dress my grandmother had bought me from T.J. Maxx for job interviews, the other as Joan Holloway from Mad Men.

“Let’s go with the first option,” they emailed me.

On August 31, my parents and I drove to Midtown Manhattan. I had to arrive at the ABC studios by 7 A.M. the next morning, but my nerves kept me awake. My mother gave me an Ambien, unaware that hallucinations were a common side effect. Instead of sleeping, I spent the night convinced the hotel lamp was attacking me. After two hours of uneasy rest, I did my makeup and headed to the studio.

Two P.A.s around my age escorted me to a small room where I would spend the next nine hours with twelve other contestants. The first rule of Millionaire, they said, is you do not talk about Millionaire: trivia talk and flashcards were banned in the green room. Instead, we exchanged small talk.

A charismatic Irishwoman reminisced about her days as a Rolling Stones publicist. A Broadway actress broke out into “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid. A 43-year-old firefighter named John asked me if I had ever starred in a pornographic film. He bombarded me and the female production assistants with similar comments throughout the day.

And one contestant went on to become my first love—but that’s a story for another day.

A producer entered the room to explain the game’s format, which had changed drastically since its Regis Philbin heyday. Gameplay now spanned two rounds. The first had ten shuffled questions, ranging from unmissable to nigh-impossible, with randomly assigned money values. A contestant could bank $25,000 for knowing the sky was blue. If they walked away, they got half their bank; if they missed a question, they received a $1,000 consolation prize. Instead of 50/50 and Phone a Friend, contestants now had two “jumps” to skip questions, forfeiting the corresponding money. 

The second round remained the same: four escalating questions—$100K, $250K, $500K, and finally the million-dollar question.

“Some people think we changed the format so contestants walk away empty-handed,” the producer said. “This couldn’t be further from the truth. We want you to win. People love a winner.”

Contestants didn’t know when they would go on stage. We waited, Hunger Games-style, for our names to be called. By 4 P.M., only three of us remained. A crew member announced that they were filming the final episode of the day.

“Kristen VanBlargan, you’re up.”

Deliriously tired, I went to the hair and makeup artist for touch-ups. “Breathe,” the stylist said. “You’re going to do great. And you look beautiful.”

And then, I was on stage.

(Continued in part two.)