For Real

by Alison Cherry

  The woman who was dressing my sister touches my arm, and I jump—I forgot she was there. “Clothes off,” she orders.

  I undress mechanically, and when she hands me a purple shirt and underskirt, I put them on without a fight. The shirt ends just below my rib cage, but when I try to pull it down to cover my stomach, she slaps my hands away. Then she starts wrapping me in yards and yards of purple and gold fabric, folding it into my waistband, pulling it over my shoulder, then pleating the remaining fabric and tucking it in near my belly button. She doesn’t use any pins or fasteners, and I’m afraid the whole ensemble is going to fall apart the second I move. But when I test it, it feels surprisingly secure.

  The woman glues a ruby-colored bindi to the center of my forehead, slips a few gold bracelets onto my arms, and surveys her work. I guess I must look acceptable, because she gives me a little shove, and I stumble out of the dressing room and into the crowd.

  Troy is waiting for me with our crew, wearing a cream-and-gold robe that looks great against his dark skin. “Whoa,” he says, looking me up and down. “Fancy.”

  I smooth the fabric of my sari, trying not to show how much my hands are shaking. “Yeah. I’m a little worried it’s going to fall off, though.”

  He shrugs. “No big deal. I usually take my clothes off while I’m dancing.”

  Against my will, I smile a little. “Try to keep them on this time, okay?”

  “I can’t make any promises, baby. These abs can’t be contained for long.”

  Samir and Tawny pass us on the way back to the dressing room, and Samir accidentally-on-purpose bumps me with his shoulder. “Too bad I can’t stick around to watch you two dancing together,” he snorts. “That’s going to be a hot mess.”

  Did Miranda mention to him that I have a thing about dancing? Or is he just trying to rattle me? I try to think of a snappy comeback that’ll rope him into an argument and slow him down so my sister can pull ahead. But I’m not great with comebacks even at the best of times, not to mention when I’m so nervous I can barely breathe. Before I can say anything at all, he’s walking away.

  Miranda and Steve take their places onstage, and the whole crowd whistles and cheers. Steve looks a little fidgety, but my sister’s totally calm and composed, as if she performs dance routines in a sari every day. Before I manage to fight it back, a wave of jealousy and anger consumes me. Why did she have to take so much in the genetic lottery? Did she really need all the coolness, all the poise, every ounce of fearlessness? Couldn’t she have left the tiniest bit for me? Miranda didn’t even want to come on this show in the first place, and everything is still so easy for her, while I have to struggle for every accomplishment. And because my sister is the way she is, she’ll never even understand how hard this is for me or how much I’ve already overcome.

  “I guess we should go up there and wait,” Troy says, breaking my train of thought. “You ready?”

  I am the opposite of ready. For a second, I consider finding the redheaded producer and telling her I’m done, that the race is more than I can handle. Miranda doesn’t need my help to beat Samir; if I left right now, she’d be absolutely fine. But quitting would only cancel out the small amount of headway I’ve made and show my sister that she’s been right about me all along. This dancing challenge might be a massive failure, but I have to at least try, if only to prove I’m not a helpless little girl who spends her life cowering inside her comfort zone.

  I give Troy a tiny nod, and he starts pushing through the crowd. The stage feels like it’s physically repelling me like the wrong end of a magnet, and I have to fight to take each step forward. If I can barely make myself walk, I have no idea how I’m going to make myself dance. But before I know it, I’m standing in the wings and awaiting my three minutes in the spotlight.

  My sister looks fluid and gorgeous as she whirls around the stage, shimmying her hips to the peppy Bollywood beat. She’s not even doing anything sexy, but she looks so comfortable in her own skin that she’s captivating to watch. I glance over at Steve, expecting him to look as awkward as I will—maybe it’ll make me feel better. But he’s doing this goofy, ridiculous move that involves hopping from side to side and doing a wave motion with his arms, and he’s so committed to it that it’s hilarious instead of embarrassing. The bride, who’s sitting front and center, laughs uproariously and claps her hennaed hands, and the groom seems to be recording the performance with his phone.

  Way too soon, the music ends, Steve and Miranda bow, and it’s my turn.

  I’m so terrified now that I feel oddly removed from the world. Troy walks out to the center of the floor, confident and sure, and my feet follow against my will. Miranda says something to me as she hurries past, but my head is full of a strange rushing noise that blocks out all other sounds. As I stand in the middle of the stage and stare out into the enormous audience, my vision starts to tunnel, and tiny sparks wink to life around the edges. I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and I take a giant gulp of air and forbid myself to pass out. There’s only one thought in my mind, and it blares over and over, loud as a siren.

  I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

  The music starts, and I hear the thumping bass as if it’s coming from underwater. Troy starts dancing, lifting his robe to display his rippling abs and swiveling hips, and everyone goes insane. I watch with detached interest as he flexes his butt cheeks one at a time. Then I see a guy in a yellow robe point at me and laugh, and I realize how ridiculous I must look, rooted to the spot like I’m playing freeze tag. I order my body to move, even just a little, but I’m way past being able to control my limbs. They don’t even feel like they belong to me anymore.

  The redheaded producer is frowning at me from the corner of the room, and her eyes stay locked on me as she says something into her walkie-talkie. Maybe she’s calling in reinforcements to coerce me into dancing. If I don’t start moving right this second, she’ll probably refuse to give us credit for this challenge. Maybe she’ll start the music over from the top. Maybe she’ll make me dance alone. My cheeks feel wet, and I realize with horror that I’m crying. This is, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing I have ever experienced.

  Just as I’m considering fleeing the stage and hiding under a rock for the rest of my life, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch away, sure someone has come to reprimand me. But it’s only Miranda, still dressed in her sari and bangles. “What are you doing up here?” I try to say, but I’m not sure any sound comes out.

  She doesn’t offer an explanation. Instead, she gently turns me to face her and takes both my sweaty, shaking hands in hers. And then she starts to dance.

  It’s simple at first, just an easy side-to-side bounce. I try to forget about all the people staring at me and concentrate on my sister’s face—her bright blue eyes, the tiny constellation of freckles sprinkled across her left cheekbone, the dimple in her chin—and feeling slowly creeps back into my limbs. I start to shift along with her, moving my feet back and forth, and she squeezes my hands to let me know I’m doing okay. When her shoulders and hips start to move, I try to copy her as best I can, and she smiles and nods encouragingly. Then she lets go of one of my hands so she can spin me around, and an unexpected laugh flies out of my mouth.

  I’m actually doing this. I’m dancing. On a stage, in front of people. My body’s not as fluid as Miranda’s by a long shot, but I’m moving to the beat, and it feels … well, it feels kind of good. Nobody’s booing or laughing or throwing things at me. And incredibly, I realize I’m actually having fun.

  Now that I’ve started, dancing feels like something I’ve always been able to do, a skill that’s been locked away inside me for so long I forgot it was even there. I jump up and down and bop my head back and forth, and Miranda grins and does the same. Troy shifts over to the left to make more room for us, and we spin forward to fill the space. As Miranda links her arm through mine and starts doing silly Rockette kicks, the crowd and the cameras cease to exist for m
e altogether, and I suddenly remember how my sister and I used to dance around her bedroom to the Backstreet Boys when we were little. Miranda was the only one who could ever make me feel that free and uninhibited, like I could stop overthinking everything and just enjoy being alive.

  And for a few short minutes, as we spin around this stage on the other side of the world, it seems possible that someday I could learn to be this way all on my own.

  When the song ends, Miranda turns me toward the bride and groom and holds my hand up like I’ve won a boxing match, and the whole room erupts in applause. Everyone’s cheering us on, even the redheaded producer. After a few seconds, I turn and look at my sister, who gives me the most gigantic grin I’ve ever seen. I smile back so hard my face hurts.

  I can barely hear her over the noise of the crowd and the adrenaline pumping through my blood, but I see her mouth form the words “You did it.”

  And for the first time in as long as I can remember, being myself feels like enough.

  It’s nearly midnight by the time Miranda, Steve, Troy, and I find Isis at the Cupid’s Nest in front of India Gate, which looks sort of like an Eastern-style Arc de Triomphe. We check in—Miranda and Steve are third, and Troy and I are fourth, by two minutes—and then my sister and I look around for a place to rest until the other teams show up. There are no benches on the vast plaza, so we finally plunk down on the ground and prop ourselves up with our packs. “So, other than the dancing, how’d your day go?” she asks.

  “I’m just glad it’s over,” I say. “Mira, thank you so much. Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done without you up on that stage.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was no big deal.”

  “It was a big deal. I was totally freaking out up there, and you—”

  “Clairie,” she says, cutting me off, “you’re the one who said we’re a team no matter what, remember? If you need me, I’ll be there for you, okay? And I know you’ll do the same for me.”

  I can’t think of a situation in which Miranda would need my help, but I nod. “Of course I will. But every minute counts here, so I appreciate the sacrifice.”

  “We’ll just regroup and race faster tomorrow.” Miranda leans back against her pack and stretches her arms over her head as we watch Janine and Aidan jog across the plaza. “God, I’m so sore from squatting down in that stupid goat pen,” she says.

  “Troy could help you with that.”

  She snorts. “How? By taking his clothes off to distract me?”

  “No, apparently he’s a licensed massage therapist. One of the many strange things I learned today.”

  “What? How is that even possible? He seems dumb as a brick.”

  “Actually, he’s bizarrely smart. He says he’s been acting like a idiot on purpose because that’s what the producers want.”

  “Huh. Crazy.”

  We sit quietly for a minute, absorbing that and watching the tourists taking late-night strolls, and then Miranda says, “Hey, you want to play the Limerick Game?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I want to do right now.”

  “You first. Do Troy.” She looks down at her watch and times out a minute.

  When it’s time, I clear my throat and recite:

  “There once was a stripper named Troy,

  Who acted quite dumb as a ploy.

  He took off his pants,

  Did a butt-shaking dance,

  And said, ‘Viewers, I hope you enjoy!’ ”

  Miranda laughs. “Nice,” she says. “My turn.”

  “Do Isis.”

  She thinks for a second. “No fair. Nothing rhymes with ‘Isis’ except ‘crisis.’ Which is kind of ironic.” We both look over at our host, who’s dressed in a crisp linen suit without a single wrinkle. A crisis wouldn’t dare get close to her.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Do Steve instead.”

  When a minute has elapsed, she says,

  “There once was a fellow named Steve,

  Who everyone thought was naïve.

  But he’s sharp as a tack,

  Not a geeky sad sack—

  He has proven that looks can deceive.”

  “Oh, reeeeeally,” I say. “What happened during your hour in the Love Shack? Did the sparks fly?”

  My sister laughs. “Oh God, wasn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen? And no, of course nothing happened. We just ended up having a ton in common, which was surprising, you know? I thought he would, like, babble on about Dungeons and Dragons for an hour, but we actually spent most of the time talking about Russian novels. And he’s really funny. I was totally impressed.”

  “That’s awesome, Mira. I’m glad you guys had fun.”

  “I’m going to pick him again for the next leg, if I can. He was a great partner.”

  That makes me think of Will, and I scan the plaza for him, but he’s still nowhere to be found. I haven’t seen him since the elephant challenge this morning; Philadelphia’s probably slowing him down with all her inane flirting. If she gets him eliminated, I will seriously gouge out her eyes with my fingernails, glitter eye shadow and all. I bet that would boost ratings.

  “What’re you looking at?” Miranda asks.

  “Nothing. Just trying to see if anyone else has gotten here yet.”

  “You suck at lying. You’re looking for Will, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. “Okay, so what if I am? He should be here by now.” Miranda gives me a look, half knowing and half concerned. “What? Spit it out.”

  “I just don’t want you to get too attached to him, that’s all.”

  “I’m not attached to him. I just like him, okay? If you and I can’t race together, we should race with other people we like, right? You like Steve. I like Will.”

  “I don’t like Steve the same way you like Will. Steve and I both know it’s a game. I’m afraid that maybe you forget about the game when you’re with Will.”

  I think about how he looked at me when I was in my underwear, how his hand felt as it settled against the skin of my bare waist. “Well, not everything is a game, okay?”

  “It is when you’re on television.”

  “He likes me, Miranda. He does. You haven’t seen what he’s like when we’re alone and the cameras are off. The stupid ‘steamy challenges’ are a game, but that other stuff is real.”

  “I mean, I can’t tell you for sure that it’s not. But you should try to keep your defenses up, or you’re going to get hurt.”

  “I don’t need to defend myself from him!” A couple walking by turns to stare at us, and I lower my voice. “Do you not believe someone could like me that way? Is that the problem?”

  “Claire, no. But he’s an actor, and this is a show. I have a lot of experience with actors, and I know what they’re like. Trust me.”

  “You can’t assume that all actors suck just because one of them does! Will isn’t like Samir!”

  She sighs. “Listen, I hope you’re right. And if you want to race with Will, I can’t stop you. But we’re not actually here to find our soul mates, okay? We’re here to—”

  “I know why we’re here,” I snap.

  “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t want you to think that—”

  “I said fine, Miranda.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  Awkward silence stretches out between us, so thick and palpable I feel like I could poke it with my finger and watch it wiggle like Jell-O. I want everything to go back to how it was ten minutes ago, and I think about asking her for another limerick topic, but now the atmosphere is all wrong for our lighthearted game. I suggest finding something to eat instead, and we wander around the plaza until we find a food stall. Neither of us says much of anything as we eat our pakoras. I tell myself everything’s still fine, that we’re just tired. But Miranda’s words grate on me, and I don’t start to feel better until I spot Will and Philadelphia checking in with Isis. As soon as he spots me, Will smiles and wave
s. I know my sister’s wrong about him. There is something real going on between us. She’ll see.

  It’s nearly two in the morning by the time Isis assembles us for the Proposal Ceremony, and by that time, everyone is tired and cranky. Blake and Vanessa arrive last and are swept away for their exit interview, and I hear Vanessa telling the producer they “got a little sidetracked in an alley for a while, but it was totally worth it.” I take my place across the semicircle from Will. Philadelphia is still clinging to his arm, but I just smile, knowing I’ll probably get to separate them any minute.

  “I hope sparks flew for everyone in the Love Shack today,” Isis says. I have no idea how she delivers these lines with a straight face. “Before you choose your dates for the next leg of the race, I have a special prize to award. The bride and groom enjoyed all your performances enormously, but they agreed that one couple had the hottest moves of all. And that couple, who will receive the Sexy Strut award of five thousand dollars each, is … Will and Philadelphia!”

  Will lets out a whoop, and Philadelphia screams and jumps into his arms. Her legs wrap all the way around his waist like they belong there, like they’ve been there before. I suddenly feel a bit sick. Thank God I didn’t have to watch them dance together.

  “Congratulations,” Isis says. “How did you feel about your performance today?”

  “Will and I are such a great team,” gushes Philadelphia. “I honestly can’t believe I got paid to dance sexy with him. I would have given you guys money to do it.”

  Isis lets out a practiced, tinkling laugh. “I’m glad you enjoyed doing it as much as everyone enjoyed watching you. It’s thrilling to watch you connect with your partners in meaningful ways.” She claps once. “All right! Now it’s time to choose your dates for the next leg of the race! We’ll start with the girls this time. Zora, you’re up first again—congratulations. Who would you like to spend the next leg of the race with?”