For Real

by Alison Cherry

  That is, until we open our next envelope.

  It’s time to take a trip to the LOVE SHACK! A LoveMobile will meet you at the farm’s entrance and transport you and your date to a secret location, where you will have a full hour alone! Though we’ll still be able to hear you when that door closes, no one will be able to see you! So let loose, give in to all your deepest desires, and let those sparks fly!

  When I finish reading, Troy says, “Awwww yeeeeahhhh, that’s the kind of challenge I’m talking about.” When I look up at him, my horror must be evident on my face, because he bursts out laughing. “Come on, baby. Let’s go make some sparks fly.” Then he leans very close to me and lowers his voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t bite. Unless you ask verrrrrry nicely.”

  I swallow hard. Troy already thinks I’m a prude, and he’ll never let me live it down if he thinks the idea of spending an hour alone with him in the “Love Shack” makes me legitimately nervous. I’m sure my face is saying too much already. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, forcing an eye roll. “Let’s get this over with.”

  A producer points us toward the vans, which have tinted windows and giant pink heart decals on the sides. As we climb into the back and set off on the bumpy, swerving ride, I feel a little like I’m being kidnapped. My stomach ties itself into a series of tight knots, and this time it’s more than just motion sickness. This is going to be so, so awkward. Objectively, I know the challenge is cheesy and ridiculous. The producers can’t really expect that we’re going to hook up in their Love Shack. So why can’t I laugh the whole thing off, like I’m sure everyone else is doing? What if my sister is right and I’m taking everything too seriously because I don’t have any romantic experience?

  You can do this, I tell myself. Let Dominique take over. She can handle an hour alone in a room with a stripper. This is pretty much a daily routine for her. But I know I’m going to make a fool of myself somehow, no matter who I pretend to be.

  “Dude, are you okay?” Troy says. “You look awful.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I snap.

  “No, I mean, you look like you’re gonna hurl. Are you gonna hurl? Please don’t do it on me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine, just a little carsick.” Maybe he’ll stay far away from me once we get to the Love Shack if he thinks there’s still a possible threat of vomit.

  A producer is waiting to meet us when we arrive, and he ushers us into a restaurant and leads us through to a tiny private room in the back. In one corner is a table set with a basket of strawberries, a pot of melted chocolate, and a bottle of what looks like champagne but is probably sparkling cider. Piled in another corner is a bed-sized heap of pillows in shades of pink and red and gold. The room smells strongly of incense, and dozens of pink candles cast a flickering glow over everything. Next to the pillows, I spot a large bottle of massage oil. There’s low music with a strong beat playing in the background, the sort I imagine might be used to underscore porn.

  “Welcome to your very own Love Shack,” says the producer, and his tone makes me suspect he thinks this whole setup is as ludicrous as I do. “Your hour alone starts now. Your camera crew won’t be in here with you, but your mikes will remain on. If you choose to remove any clothing, please do not remove your mikes, or we’ll have to stop the timer while we send your sound guy in to reconnect them. Before we begin, I need you both to sign these release forms agreeing that the network is not liable if you contract a sexually transmitted disease while on our show. Do you have any questions?”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say before the conversation can get any more disturbing. It’s bad enough that our sound guy is now swapping out my microphone for the necklace kind, like it’s a given that I’m going to take off my shirt.

  “See you in an hour,” the producer says. “Enjoy yourselves.” He closes the door behind him, and my stomach turns over as I hear the lock engage.

  I cross my arms, then uncross them and wipe my hands on my filthy jeans. I feel intensely awkward standing here in the middle of the room, especially because I’m positive there’s a hidden camera somewhere—they would never let us go unfilmed for an hour. The pile of pillows in the corner actually looks kind of inviting, but after that mention of STDs, I’m not sure it’s safe to touch anything. I set down my pack and perch on the very edge of one the straight-backed chairs, absently rubbing my aching shoulders.

  Troy sits down across from me. “You sore?”

  “Yeah, kind of. It’s fine.”

  “You know, I could help with that. There’s even massage oil over there.”

  I must be even more tightly wound than I thought, because that one little comment is all it takes for me to snap. Before I can stop myself, I’m yelling. “Troy, knock it off, okay? Stop making stupid innuendoes, stop coming on to me, and stop trying to touch me! Just because we’re stuck in this ridiculous room together doesn’t mean I’m actually going to do anything with you, okay? I’m sorry if you have some sort of weird expectation because this turned out to be a dating show, but I’m not going to take off my clothes. If that’s what you were after, you should have picked Philadelphia as your partner.”

  Troy rolls his eyes. “I don’t want you to take off your clothes. Trust me.” He says it like the very thought disgusts him, which is actually kind of insulting.

  “Then why do you keep feeding me cheesy pickup lines and getting pissed at me when I reject you?”

  Troy shoves his chair back and starts pacing around the room. “Oh my God, Claire, I’m not pissed that you’re rejecting me! I don’t want to hook up with you. You’re covered in paint, and you smell like goats, and you’re way too young for me. Not to mention the fact that I’m gay.”

  I blink at him. “Wait, seriously?” Suddenly, nothing makes sense.

  “Yeah, seriously. Is that a problem?”

  “I mean, no, of course it’s not a problem. But if you like guys, I really don’t get why you’re pissed at me right now!”

  “I’m pissed because you’ve been acting like a judgmental asshole all day! The second you looked at me, you wrote me off as a moron!”

  “Well, aside from the toothpaste idea, it’s not like you’ve done much to change my opinion, Troy! ‘Can we get some samoas in New Delhi?’ ‘Come on, Indian cabdriver, drive rápido!’ ‘Yeeeeah, baby, fasten your seat belt, you’re gonna have funnnn doing steamy challenges with Troooooyyyy.’ ” I stand up and imitate his stupid gyrating dance to drive my point home.

  “I’m playing a character! This is a television show! The producers wanted a big, stupid frat boy, and that’s what I’m giving them, okay? You could at least try to see past the surface.”

  Somehow, even though I know Will’s CEO-dad story is fake, it never occurred to me that other people’s backstories might be, too. How did that not cross my mind until now? Then again, it doesn’t change the fact that Troy’s advances, real or not, are grossing me out. “Fine, play an idiot for the cameras if you want,” I say. “I don’t care what image you present. But leave me out of it, okay? If you don’t even want to touch me, stop offering to massage me! The fact that you’re gay doesn’t make it less creepy!”

  “I’m a licensed massage therapist, Claire! You said you were sore, so I was trying to help you! But that was obviously a mistake. Don’t worry, I won’t make it again.” He puts his hands up in sarcastic surrender.

  I stare at him. “You … what?”

  “You don’t even believe me, do you? ’Cause someone who looks like me couldn’t possibly have a real career, right? I mean, how could I think actual thoughts when all my blood is being diverted to my giant pecs?”

  “No, I just … you’re not screwing with me right now? You really went to school for massage therapy?”

  “Want me to prove it? I can name every muscle in your body. Ready?” He grabs my forearm and starts pointing. “Brachioradialis. Extensor carpi ulnaris. Extensor pollicis longus. Extensor digitorum communis …”

  I yank my arm away. “O
kay, God, I believe you. But … wait, are you even really a stripper? Or did you make that up, too?”

  “I strip to pay my student loans. Drunk bachelorettes tip really well, okay?”

  This is becoming more fascinating by the second. “What about Blake? Is he a massage therapist, too?”

  “Blake’s in business school.”

  This totally explains the bizarre way Troy has been acting all day, trying to offset every smart idea with idiotic, testosterone-fueled behavior. His intelligence isn’t a fluke. He’s trying to cover it up. I try to think of something to say, but my mind is reeling, and all that comes out is an inarticulate “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I guess you couldn’t have known.” He stops pacing and plunks himself down on the pillow heap.

  “I could have been less of a jerk, though,” I say, and he doesn’t argue.

  We’re both quiet for a minute, and then I say, “You know they’re recording everything you tell me, right? So you’ve blown your cover now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They won’t air any of this, except maybe the part where you’re shrieking at me not to touch you. They want me to seem dumb and horny and uncomplicated.”

  “Why do you have to act how they want? You’re already on the show, it’s not like they can do anything to you now.”

  “Are you kidding? They’re still totally in charge. If they don’t like what I’m doing, they won’t give me any airtime, or they’ll manipulate things so I get eliminated earlier. Stuff like that happens all the time. And I want that million dollars. Prancing around in a G-string is starting to get really old.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” I take a strawberry and bite into it, then hold the bowl out to him. “Want one?”

  “Sure. I’m starving.”

  We pass the bowl back and forth until all the berries are gone, and neither of us says anything the whole time. I know I should be thinking deep thoughts about the mismatch between surface appearances and interiors, but the only thing running through my mind is I’m locked in a room in India, eating strawberries with a stripper masseur. How is this my life?

  I finally ask, “Do you think anyone’s really going to hook up in here? Do you think anyone already has?”

  This clearly hasn’t occurred to Troy, and his face changes. I laugh as I watch him struggle out of the pillow heap while trying not to touch anything with his bare hands. “Probably not. But … just to be safe.”

  He sits back down in the chair across from mine, and we stare at each other awkwardly. “So, what now?” he asks.

  It would be easy to sit here in silence for forty-five more minutes, listening to the porny music and reading magazines. But the producers have put us in this room to bond, so maybe we should just give in and get to know each other. After all the stupid assumptions I made about Troy, I kind of feel like I owe it to him. So I pour him a glass of sparkling cider and extend it like an olive branch. “Tell me,” I say. “If you could only eat foods starting with one letter for the rest of your life, which would you pick?”

  And amazingly enough, the rest of our hour flies by.

  The moment we’re released from the Love Shack, the producer sits us down for a quick interview in the main restaurant area while another guy sweeps into the back room to prepare for the next couple. “So, how did you enjoy your date?” our producer asks, totally deadpan.

  “Our date was niiiice,” Troy says, waggling his eyebrows and slipping seamlessly back into the role of a meathead. “When things get hectic, it’s always good to take some time out with a lady friend, if you know what I mean. And Claire’s quite the little wildcat when you get her riled up.” I feel like I’ve actually made a friend over the last hour, and it’s sad to see him disappear again.

  “Claire, did you learn anything about Troy that you didn’t know before?” the producer asks. “Aside from the obvious. We’d prefer you not talk about that.”

  Troy nudges me as if to say, See?

  “Troy has hidden depths,” I say, and I give my best mysterious smile.

  “Good job,” the producer says. “Here are your next instructions.”

  This is probably our last challenge for today, and I give a little sigh of relief. If I could get through an hour in the Love Shack, I can get through anything. Then it’ll be a brand-new leg of the race, and I’ll get a brand-new partner who isn’t actively trying to look like an idiot. Maybe I’ll even get Will back.

  Troy reads our instructions aloud.

  Make your way by taxi to the Saubhāgya Ballroom. Before an Indian wedding, it is traditional to throw a sangeet party, during which family and friends of the bride and groom entertain the couple by performing songs and dances. When you arrive at the party, you will don traditional Indian clothing, and then you will have three minutes to entertain the wedding party with your sexiest dancing. Bring your hottest moves!

  Troy grins at me. “Hellllll yeah! Sexy dancing? I am alllll over this. Let’s go!”

  Every time I think I’ve reached my maximum level of discomfort, the producers find a way to push me one step farther, so it figures they’ve finally landed on the one thing I hate most in the world. As we start our treacherous journey back toward the center of the city, all I can think about is my ridiculous, failed attempt to dance at Miranda’s graduation party. It was humiliating enough that I couldn’t do what came naturally to everyone else when I was an anonymous body in a sea of strangers. And this time, people will actually be paying attention—I’ll be front and center, showcasing my paralyzing performance anxiety for a wedding party, a bunch of producers, and millions of viewers. Will it count if I stand in the middle of the stage, frozen with terror, while Troy sexy-dances around me? In front of all those judging eyes, will I even be able to stay on my feet for three minutes, or will I just keel over in a mortified heap?

  “What’s up with you?” Troy says. “Why do you have that pinched-up look on your face again? Sad our time in the Looooove Shack is over?”

  I don’t want him to know how afraid I am, so I just swallow hard and say, “Um, I don’t really dance.”

  Troy shrugs. “No biggie. Just pretend you’re at a party and do whatever you usually do. Trust me, once I turn on my moves, nobody’s gonna be looking at you, girl.”

  If only Troy knew that the parties I go to usually consist of popcorn and movie marathons.

  Way before I’ve managed to slow my racing heart, we arrive at the hotel where the ballroom is located. Even all the way down the hall from the party room, we can hear the thumping beat of Bollywood music, and when Troy pushes open the door, my knees go weak. Since this is a pre-wedding party, I wasn’t expecting that many guests. But the room is packed with hundreds of people, all grouped around a makeshift stage where three women in blue saris are performing a choreographed routine. Off to the side, I spot Samir and Tawny, dressed in their Indian outfits and waiting for their turn to entertain the crowd. Samir is in a red embroidered robe that falls past his knees, tight gold pants, and a sparkly scarf, and Tawny is wrapped in a hot-pink sari. Both of them are bopping their heads to the music, and neither one looks remotely nervous.

  A small redheaded producer leads Troy and me toward two makeshift dressing rooms made of folding screens on the far side of the room. Troy disappears into one of them, and the producer directs me into the other. “When you’re done getting dressed, stand where Samir and Tawny are now and wait your turn, okay?” she shouts over the music. I don’t trust my voice not to tremble, so I just nod and slip behind the screen.

  And miraculously, like the universe knows exactly what I need right now, there’s my sister. I launch myself into her arms, ignoring the tiny woman who’s dressing her in a forest-green sari, and Miranda’s hand automatically flies up and starts stroking my hair. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did Troy do something to you?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t dance in front o
f all these people, Mira,” I say close to her ear. “I can’t dance at all, in front of anyone, ever. You know how I get in front of crowds.”

  I feel her sigh. “Yeah, I know how you get. But you have to do this, babe. You don’t have a choice.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Now that someone I trust is finally here next to me, I feel like I’m about to cry.

  “I know it’s scary, but you’re strong,” she says. She rubs my back in the same comforting pattern my mom always used to do when we were little—circle, circle, pat pat pat.

  “I’m not. Maybe I should just quit now, before I make a complete fool of myself.”

  And just like that, the patting stops. Miranda pulls back, holds me at arm’s length, and stares into my face. I expect to see sternness there, but weirdly, she looks a little desperate. “You can’t quit,” she says. “How could you do that? You’re the one who convinced me to come here, and now you want to back out on me? Because of this?”

  “Miranda, I—”

  “It’s not like you have to bungee jump or eat live bugs or something. All you have to do is stand on a stage and move around for a couple minutes. You don’t even have to do it well. This is not a big deal, Claire.”

  “It’s a big deal to me,” I whisper.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. But you keep telling me you can take care of yourself, and I need you to do that now, okay? You’re going to get through this.” She squeezes my shoulders and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, her hair a cocoa-scented whisper against my face. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  And just like that, she’s gone.

  I stare after her, openmouthed. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—of course she can’t stay and talk this through with me while the clock is running. But if the two of us really are a team, like we promised each other at the starting line, shouldn’t I be her priority right now? I understand that she wants to beat Samir to the checkpoint, but I’m almost certain there are several teams behind us, so it’s not like she has to pass him to stay in the game. We’ll have plenty of chances to get ahead of him later. Miranda’s always implying that I need my hand held, but now, when I actually do, she’s not willing to help.