For Real

by Alison Cherry

  I laugh. “What? Cheese? Wouldn’t you rather be invisible or something?”

  “No, think about it. I could turn toxic waste into cheese and solve the pollution problem and hunger problem at the same time. And I could turn trash into cheese and sell it, so I’d be filthy rich. Plus, I’d always have a snack.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”

  “Well, duh. Who hasn’t?” He smiles at me, and I see that his color is almost back to normal. “What would yours be?”

  “Teleportation. My town is super boring, and I’d love to be able to pop over to Thailand for lunch or something and be back in time for calculus class.”

  “Ooh, that’s a good one. And you’d win the race for sure.”

  “I wouldn’t even need to do the race. I could just teleport into a bank vault, grab a million dollars, and zip back home.” He laughs. “Okay, your turn for a question.”

  “Say we get off the plane in Surabaya and the airport’s full of zombies. What’s your survival plan?”

  I love how effortlessly creative he is. “All I’d really have to do is run faster than you, right?” I say.

  “Good luck with that. I did track in high school. I’m super speedy.”

  “Well, in that case, my plan is to hop on your back and kick you until you speedily carry me to safety. Maybe Greg would let me use his camera as a weapon. Seems like it would be good for bashing in zombie heads.”

  “I doubt you could even lift that thing. You probably weigh, like, forty-seven pounds.”

  “I’m not that small!”

  “You’re minuscule!”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind me riding you.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I feel my face turning bright pink. “Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

  Will smirks at me. “You want to ride me, huh?”

  “That’s not—” I sputter. “What I meant was—”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I wouldn’t mind.”

  If my face gets any redder, I’m pretty sure it’s going to catch on fire. I look down so my hair swings in front of my cheeks and take a couple deep breaths of my own. “And next question. Um … if you could only eat food beginning with one letter of the alphabet for the rest of your life, which letter would you choose?”

  “Ooh, good one.” He thinks about it for a minute, and I take that time to concentrate on banishing my blush. “I’d choose P. I’d be able to have pizza and pasta and pad Thai and peanut butter. And pie, obviously.”

  “What would you put the peanut butter on?”

  “Pumpernickel. With peach preserves.”

  I laugh. “Nice.”

  “What would you pick?”

  “Maybe S. I’d have tons of variety if I could eat soup and salad.”

  He snorts. “That’s cheating, unless all your ingredients start with S.”

  “Oh, yeah, and pizza isn’t cheating at all. ’Cause ‘cheese’ and ‘tomato sauce’ totally start with P.”

  He grins at me. “Pomodoro and parmesan?”

  The Question Game stretches on for hours—turns out we’re in no danger of running out of things to say. Since we’re flying west, it doesn’t get any darker as night approaches, and the flight attendants eventually pull down our window shades and pass out eye masks to mimic night. But I’m too high on adrenaline to rest, and Will doesn’t seem tired either, so we lower our voices to whispers and huddle closer together under our Cathay Pacific blankets. Our arms are barely touching, but every time he shifts and the sleeve of his T-shirt brushes my skin, shivery electric sparks fly all over my body. The other passengers drift off to sleep, and eventually it feels like Will and I are the only people awake in the world, alone together in the clouds.

  When it’s his turn for a question, he whispers, “Tell me a secret.”

  “What kind of secret?”

  “Something nobody else knows.”

  Ordinarily, I’d never reveal anything personal to someone I’d just met. But there’s something about Will that makes me want to tell him everything. I want him to know me inside and out.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m scared,” I tell him.

  “Don’t be. I’m not going to judge you.”

  “No, that’s the secret. I’m scared.”

  He shifts a little closer, so his arm presses against mine all the way from shoulder to wrist. It’s like he’s saying I’m here, you’re safe without any words. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

  “Just … the race in general, I guess. I mean, I was nervous enough when it was a normal race around the world—I’m not really one of those people who can jump into stuff without thinking about it, you know? I like to plan everything out in advance, and you can’t do that here. And a dating show is, like, a thousand times worse. How am I supposed to do ‘steamy challenges,’ Will? I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.”

  “No you’re not. Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t exactly get to practice a lot—I’m from this tiny town, and there’s nobody good to date there. And now millions of people are going to get to see how insanely awkward I am in … those kinds of situations.” My embarrassment makes me feel overheated, and I pull my blanket down around my waist, but then I feel too exposed and pull it back up.

  Will turns so he can look me straight in the eyes. “Claire … you know there’s nothing actually real about reality TV, right?”

  “Yeah, of course I know that. The producers manipulate the story and fabricate drama, and things are filmed out of order, and—”

  “No, I mean, everything. You don’t have to be yourself when the cameras are on. People come on these shows, and they get characterized as the nerds, or the daredevils, or the bimbos, but that isn’t necessarily who they really are, it’s just who they’ve become for the producers and the viewers. You can be anyone you want.”

  This probably should’ve occurred to me before now; maybe I’m not the reality TV expert I thought I was. But even if playing a character is an option, I’m skeptical I could ever pull it off convincingly. “I can’t just become someone else like that. I don’t have acting training like you do.”

  “You don’t need acting training. All you have to do is play a version of yourself who isn’t afraid. When the producers put you in a situation that makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to let them know they’ve shaken you up. Let Claire take a break, and let your fearless alter ego take over.”

  “You really think that would work?”

  “Totally. You should name her. What’s the strongest name you can think of?”

  I picture a cartoon version of myself: taller than Janine, with glossier hair, dressed in giant, ass-kicking boots and wielding an enormous sword. That girl never lets anyone intimidate her. She eats steamy challenges for a snack.

  “Dominique,” I tell Will.

  “Great. I love her already. When you get scared, let Dominique take the reins. She can handle anything. She’ll do the whole race for you, if you want.”

  “Do you think the producers will buy it?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? It’s not like they know anything about you. I mean, look at me—they totally loved my goodhearted-son-of-a-CEO character at the auditions. They ate it right up. People will believe anything you tell them, as long as you commit to it. All they want is a good story.”

  Now I’m really confused. “But … Wait, I thought …”

  Will’s eyes widen with delight. “You fell for the CEO thing, too?”

  “I mean, I … um …”

  “Oh my God, that’s awesome.” Will looks like he’s trying to figure out a way to high-five himself.

  I suddenly feel deeply stupid. “So your dad’s not a CEO?”

  “My dad’s a math teacher. Do I look like I come from money?” He lifts his blanket and displays his navy blue hoodie, worn jeans, and sneakers, which have a tiny hole in the toe.

  “I just thought you were, like, slumming or something. I me
an, you said you and Lou were trying to get away from your rich family.”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing. Lou and I aren’t related. We’re just friends.”

  A small bubble of hope rises in my chest. “So … there’s no CFO’s daughter?”

  “There’s no CFO’s daughter. And there isn’t anyone else, either.”

  His revelation makes my brain feel fizzy, like it’s been marinating in a glass of champagne overnight. As I sit there staring back at him with a goofy grin on my face, I imagine the fictional CFO’s daughter drowning in a chocolate fountain, a whole set of prawn forks sticking out of her flawless neck.

  Will is available, and I’m going to make him mine.

  By the time we land in Surabaya, I’ve been awake for thirty-four hours. The flight attendant cheerfully announces that it’s seven in the morning local time.

  “Is it Thursday, Friday, or Saturday?” I ask Will. Remarkably, he slept through the landing of our second flight and only woke up when the wheels touched down.

  He messes with his hair under his hat, then pulls a piece of gum out of his pocket and shoves it into his mouth. He doesn’t even have to rummage for it, and I wonder if he also worried about his bad plane breath in advance. Would a guy be concerned about that if he didn’t find the girl next to him at least a little bit attractive?

  “I think it’s Friday,” he says.

  “But we crossed the international date line, right? Did we skip ahead or back?”

  Will rubs his eyes. “I have no idea. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt.”

  We pull our packs down from the overhead compartment—somehow, mine feels like it’s gotten heavier since yesterday—and stumble blearily into the airport. On all the race shows I’ve seen, it looks like the contestants zoom off the plane and straight into waiting taxis, but instead we’re routed down an endless series of hallways and into the line for passport control. Disappointingly, the Indonesian airport doesn’t look any different from an American one. I was hoping for palm-frond floors and walls made of orchids or something.

  We answer some questions and have our passports stamped, and as we’re heading into the arrivals area, I spot Miranda waving at me from the end of the line. She was always better at sleeping on planes than I was, and she looks fresh and rested, though Aidan is rubbing his eyes under his hipster glasses. I don’t see Samir, and I pray he’s way behind us instead of ahead. Part of me wants to wait for my sister to get through the line so we can talk, but as soon as I think it, Martin and Zora zip past us, and Will says, “Come on, we better move.” He tugs me toward the exit, and I lose sight of Miranda.

  The moment we step outside, the hot, wet air hits me like a slap. It’s so humid that it feels like we’ve just walked into someone’s mouth, and my shirt instantly starts clinging to my damp back. Will and I find the taxi line and toss our backpacks into the trunk of a blue-and-yellow car. I pray it’ll be air-conditioned, but when we slip inside, it’s even warmer. I wish I had changed into shorts on the plane.

  “Alun Alun Stadium?” Will says, showing the driver our instructions. “Do you know where that is?” The guy nods enthusiastically. “Perfect. As fast as you can, please.”

  “What day is it?” I ask the driver, but he just says, “Yes.” Greg hops in beside him and somehow gets him to sign a release form agreeing to be on camera. Terry and all his sound equipment squish into the back with Will and me, and we’re off.

  Logically, I know there are lots of countries where people drive on the left side of the road, but that doesn’t prepare me for the feeling of zooming into what looks like oncoming traffic. Every time a car flies by on the wrong side of us, I flinch. “Relax,” Will says, giving my knee a little squeeze. As if I could possibly do that with his hand on my leg.

  We drive onto a massive suspension bridge, the cables glinting red-orange in the morning sun, and as I gaze out the window at the sparkling water underneath, it hits my sleep-deprived brain with renewed force that I’m actually here. I’m hurtling through a foreign country with a cute boy by my side, competing for a million dollars. I’ve never even been to Europe before, and here I am in Indonesia. And for this one moment, I’m not even that scared, just proud of myself.

  “Holy crap,” I say to Will. “We’re in Java.” I leave out the cute boy part.

  “Welcome to the other side of the world, Dominique,” he says. And then he winks at me. If this were a movie, I’d groan at how cheesy that is. But somehow it’s totally different when someone does it to you in real life. I start to feel even more overheated.

  “Aren’t you dying in that wool hat?” I ask to distract myself.

  “A little. But it’s my lucky hat. I have to wear it.”

  “All the time? Or only when you’re trying to win something?”

  “All the time.”

  “Does it work? Are you actually luckier?”

  He thinks about it. “I guess I don’t really know, since I always wear it. But I bet my life would be worse without it.”

  “Or maybe your life would be exactly the same, only your head wouldn’t be hot.”

  Will gives me a very serious look. “Do I really want to take that chance? Think of all the terrible things that could happen. What if I took it off and then our cab broke down, and we had to sit here in the middle of this bridge for hours while the strippers and the bimbos passed us?”

  “Good point,” I say. “Why don’t you keep it on for now.”

  We wind through the streets of Surabaya, past storefronts shaded with slapdash, corrugated-metal awnings and topped with tiny apartments. All the roofs are made of red tile, and everyone seems to have a balcony, even if they don’t have a front door. A man comes out to sweep in front of his shop and shoos away a couple of chickens. When we stop at a light, a woman passes in front of the car lugging an enormous basket filled with unfamiliar red objects. I think it’s food, but I can’t tell if it’s produce or fish.

  Eventually our cabbie pulls up beside a long, oval field surrounded by a tall iron fence, scrubby trees, and multicolored flags. “Alun Alun,” he announces.

  I don’t see any sort of marker that indicates we’re in the right place, but Martin and Zora are getting out of another cab farther up the block. “How much do we owe you?” I ask, pulling out our rupiahs. They’re bright jewel tones, purple and blue and green. I hope we’ll have some left over so I can keep one as a souvenir.

  Our driver rattles off something in … Indonesian? I can’t believe I don’t even know what language they speak here. In any case, I don’t understand it, so I fan out the money and extend it so he can pluck out the correct change. He extracts two bills, and I hope he hasn’t taken more than the ride was worth.

  “Thank you!” Will calls as we sprint away with our backpacks. Or, rather, Will sprints, and I shuffle along as quickly as I can. I swear this backpack has gotten heavier.

  Now that we’re out of the car, the box of pink envelopes at the other end of the field is hard to miss. Standing off to the side is a large crowd of locals who cheer when they see us and an American guy in a pink Around the World shirt, jabbering angrily into his phone. He must be one of the producers. Farther down the field are a couple guys in fringe pants and gigantic lion-head masks decorated with peacock plumes. They’re performing a spinning, squatting dance while a couple musicians accompany them with bells and some sort of wind instrument that sounds like an out-of-tune oboe.

  Will extracts a pink envelope from the box, rips it open, and reads the instructions aloud.

  At the end of a wedding in the nearby Marquesas Islands, it is traditional for the guests to lie facedown on the floor while the bride and groom walk over their backs and get out the door. In homage to this, one member of your team must crawl one hundred meters while the other team member rides on his/her back. The rider may not touch the ground at any time, or you must start over. When you have completed this task, the head lion dancer will give you your next instructions.

  I stare a
t Will, sure he must be teasing me for the comment I made on the plane about riding him. “It does not say that.”

  “See for yourself.” He holds it out.

  It really does say that. I suddenly don’t feel the least bit tired. “I seriously have to ride you?”

  “Well, I could ride you, if you’d prefer. It doesn’t specify which team member should be on top.” His mouth quirks into a teasing smile, and that insane dimple peeks out at me.

  I might die if this conversation goes on for one more second, so I try for the first time to channel Dominique. My kick-ass alter ego wouldn’t let this situation embarrass her. There’s nothing scary or intimidating about sitting on someone’s back. “All right, I’m on top,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Zora is already climbing onto Martin’s back over by a pink flag in the grass, which seems to mark the starting line. There’s another flag way down the field; it turns out a hundred meters is kind of a lot. “So … how do we do this, exactly?” I ask Will when we’ve joined them and shed our packs.

  He drops down onto all fours. “Hop on, cowgirl.”

  Gingerly, I sit down near his hips, facing sideways. I don’t even want to touch him with my hands, in case he feels how sweaty they are. “Is this okay?” I ask.

  “Are you going to be able to hold your feet off the ground? I think you should straddle me.”

  Greg’s right in my face with the camera, and I can imagine millions of viewers roaring with laughter at my expression. Dominique straddles people all the time, I remind myself. I take a deep breath, swing my leg around, and squeeze Will’s hips tight between my thighs, then tuck my feet up under his perfect butt. “Sorry if I’m too heavy,” I say. “Rest whenever you need to.”

  “Oh, please,” he says. “My backpack is heavier than you. I got seriously lucky having you as my partner.” I know he’s talking about my weight, but I pretend he might mean it in other ways, too.

  Nearby, Martin and Zora are trundling off. Zora’s pretty small, too, but Martin’s face is the color of strawberry jam, and there’s a drop of sweat hanging off the end of his nose. I doubt it’s from exertion—he’s probably as mortified by this as I am.