For Real

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2014 by Alison Cherry
Jacket photograph © 2014 by Verity Smith/Image Brief

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cherry, Alison.
For real / Alison Cherry. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: When shy, intelligent, eighteen-year-old Claire convinces her beautiful, popular sister Miranda to team up and compete against Miranda’s cheating ex-boyfriend on a reality television show, Claire is the one to capture a fellow contestant’s attention.
ISBN 978-0-385-74295-5 (hc : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-307-97992-6 (ebook)
[1. Reality television programs—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction.
3. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 4. Voyages and travels—Fiction.
5. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C41987For 2014

[Fic]—dc23
2013026009

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v3.1

In memory of my dad,
who taught me to embrace the absurd things in life

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Closing Credits

About the Author

On the tiny screen of my phone, I watch Jayden Montoya grill grubs over a campfire. It’s hard to hear much of anything over the noise of the party inside, and I can barely make out the sizzling, popping sounds the grubs make as they sear on the car door he’s using as a hibachi. As Jayden reaches in with a pair of eyelash curlers to select a snack, the firelight ripples over his chiseled abs and biceps. So far, he’s spent the whole episode wearing only a pair of low-slung shorts. The show’s producers have probably forbidden him more clothing to drive up ratings. Not that I mind—Jayden isn’t exactly the smartest one on the island, but he’s by far the best eye candy. I wish I were watching this on a real television. I fear I’m missing nuances of his six-pack.

The camera zooms in on Jayden’s tanned, stubbled face as he pops the grub into his mouth and chews, and I’m impressed that he doesn’t even flinch. Then again, he’s been eating them all season, so he’s probably used to it by now. I’ve heard they taste like chicken with an undertone of almonds, if you can get over the texture.

As Jayden goes for a second grub, someone reaches over
my shoulder and snatches my phone out of my hand. I spin around to find my sister, Miranda, standing on the step behind me, the porch light glowing through her wavy blond hair like a halo. “There you are,” she says. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing?”

I give her my best nonchalant shrug. “Just getting some air.”

Miranda stares down at my phone with a combination of horror and fascination. “Ew, Claire, is he eating
bugs
? What
is
this?”

“The finale of
MacGyver Survivor
. It’s that show where people have to survive on an island by making tools and shelter and stuff out of things like Xerox machines and garlic presses and bowling pins and—”

One of her eyebrows goes up—I’ve always wished I could do that. “You’re watching reality TV
now
? Don’t you want to celebrate my graduation?”

“Of course I do. I’m just … taking a break.” I had intended for the break to last until Miranda was ready to leave, but she doesn’t need to know that.

My sister sighs. “Come back inside,” she says more gently, sitting down next to me on the steps. “Everyone’s dancing. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Maybe that’s Miranda’s definition of fun, but it’s the farthest thing from mine, and she knows it. The very thought of dancing in a crowd of strangers makes me want to vomit—I can’t even bring myself to waltz with my dad at family weddings. “I’m perfectly fine,” I say. “Go enjoy the party.”

“You shouldn’t be out here alone. I can’t keep an eye on you this way.”

“I don’t need a babysitter. It’s not like anyone’s going to attack me. I’ve been out here half an hour, and nobody’s even
talked
to me.”

“If you came in, you could meet some new people.” The edge of pity in her voice makes me cringe. She’s probably remembering the time before she started college, when I was so painfully shy that she was basically my only friend. It’s been a really long time since that was the case, but in my sister’s world, my small, tightly knit group isn’t nearly enough. To her, you’re doing something wrong unless
everyone
wants to hang out with you.

“Miranda, I suck at parties,” I say. “I don’t know why you even brought me.”

She drops my phone back into my lap. “I brought you ’cause I wanted to hang out with you, silly. And what else were you going to do tonight, sit in the hotel with Mom and Dad?”

When I don’t answer, Miranda nudges my shoulder with hers and puts on her best pleading face, her big blue eyes widening to cartoon-character proportions. It’s the look she always used to give me when she’d eaten all her Halloween candy and wanted me to share mine. “Come on, Clairie, please? I barely even got to see you this weekend with all the commencement stuff.”

It’s true, I’ve hardly seen Miranda since my parents and I arrived in Vermont. To be honest, I haven’t seen much of her since she left for Middlebury four years ago. Except for a few days here and there, she’s spent all her school vacations backpacking with friends and boyfriends and her summers
teaching English in exotic locations. I was hoping for a few hours alone with her this weekend, but as usual, there hasn’t been time.

“Plus, Samir and I leave for Brooklyn tomorrow, and you guys haven’t hung out at all,” Miranda continues. “How can I move in with a guy who doesn’t have the Little Sister Stamp of Approval?”

I can’t tell whether she actually wants my opinion of Samir or not, so I try to be diplomatic. “I talked to him for a minute when we got here,” I say. “He seems really … charismatic.” When I spotted him in the kitchen half an hour ago, my sister’s boyfriend was swirling his four-dollar box wine around in an actual wineglass and talking about how “print is no longer a viable form of storytelling in this modern age.” He seemed to be delivering most of his monologue to his own reflection in the kitchen window. As I slipped out the back door, I heard a girl telling her friend that Samir had his genius-level IQ tattooed on his arm.

Miranda doesn’t notice the distaste in my voice. “He’s brilliant onstage. Did I tell you he’s the only person in the whole theater program who had more than one agent come see him in
Angels in America
?”

I know I should keep my opinion to myself—it’s not like
I
have to date the guy. But Miranda has a history of choosing boyfriends who aren’t nearly good enough for her, and it sucks to see her doing it again. “I heard him talking earlier about how print is dead,” I blurt out. “Has he not noticed that you’re a creative writing major? Isn’t your own boyfriend supposed to support you?”

My sister smiles and shrugs. “It’s fine, it’s not personal. He just really believes in what he does. And hey, you guys will have tons to talk about—he just found out that he and his brother got picked to do some race-around-the-world reality show on LifeLine. You watch all those race shows, right? Maybe you could give him some pointers on eating bugs or something.” She stands up and holds out her hand to me, and the porch light glints off the silver rings she’s wearing on every finger. “Come inside with me and talk to him, okay? Just for a little while? It would mean a lot to me.”

I know from experience that Miranda won’t give up without a fight. And if I go inside with her, she’ll probably do most of the talking, anyway. My sister’s been picking up conversational slack for me since we were little kids, and it’s a pattern we still fall into when we’re together. All I’ll have to do now is smile, nod, and try not to say anything stupid. Hanging out with Miranda, her pretentious boyfriend, and a swarm of drunk, dancing college grads isn’t exactly ideal, but it’s still better than not hanging out with her at all.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m coming.”

I glance at my phone one last time—the three finalists on
MacGyver Survivor
are having a fish-gutting contest—and drop it into my bag. Miranda pulls me up, and I brush the splinters from the porch steps off the butt of my jeans.

The party has gotten significantly louder and more crowded since I escaped to the back steps. I hang on to Miranda’s shoulder as we work our way into the packed living room and snake through a sea of grinding bodies and beer breath and hands wielding red plastic cups. One of those
generic pop songs about falling in love in the summer is blasting on the stereo, and my sister manages to sway her hips in time with the beat while she’s walking—I had no idea that level of coordination was even possible. As she exchanges greetings with every single person we pass, squeezing outstretched hands and kissing cheeks, I let my hair fall over my face and do my best to remain invisible. It works, and nobody makes eye contact with me or asks who I am.