For Real (12 page)

I tune back in as Martin asks, “Which company does your dad run?”

Will gestures toward the cameras, then lowers his eyes. “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. He’s not a bad guy, and I don’t want to get him into trouble. That’s just not the kind of life I want, you know?” There’s an undercurrent of pain in his voice, and it makes me want to reach out and put my hand on his cheek. I manage to restrain myself.

The gate agent announces that preboarding is beginning for flight 372 to Hong Kong with continuing service to Surabaya. My heart is suddenly in my throat as we get in line—I’m about to sit next to Will for twenty-five hours. What if we run out of things to talk about right away and I have to deal with an entire day of awkward silence? What if I fall asleep and drool on his shoulder or exhale horrible plane breath in his face? Would it help if I went to sleep with gum in my mouth? Probably not—knowing me, it would end up in my hair. Just in case, I rummage around in my pack until I find a piece, which I tuck into the pocket of my hoodie for easy access.

Greg turns off his camera to board the plane, and as soon as his lens cap is on, Will’s friendly, easygoing demeanor disappears completely. He’s strangely quiet as we make our way down the jet bridge and onto the plane, and maybe it’s the
horrible lighting, but I notice that he’s starting to look a little green. “You okay?” I ask as we reach our row. “You don’t look so hot.”

That’s a total lie. He still looks incredibly hot.

“I’m fine,” he says, shoving his backpack into the overhead compartment. “Do you mind if I take the aisle?”

“No, I like the window.” I scoot into my seat, and he plunks down beside me and stares straight ahead. When he doesn’t say anything for a good fifteen seconds, I try, “This must be really different from what you’re used to, huh?”

He looks confused. “What?”

“Flying coach.” When he still doesn’t react, I continue, “I’m sure this is nothing like your dad’s private jet.”

“Oh, ha. Right.” But he doesn’t elaborate. He just stares at the blank video screen on the back of the seat in front of him like he wants to be left alone.

As I turn toward the window and watch the waves of heat rising off the tarmac, it occurs to me that maybe Will was only acting sweet and flirty earlier because we were being filmed. After all, this show is centered on romance, so he probably knows he’ll get more screen time if he’s nice to me. Maybe he’s even angling for one of those special prizes Isis mentioned for getting close to your partner. But the cameras will probably stay off during the flight, and if he’s only pretending to like me, I’m in for an even more uncomfortable twenty-five hours than I’d feared. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and I start missing Miranda like crazy.

The moment the plane begins taxiing toward the runway,
a weird noise starts up nearby, like someone’s taking quick, wheezy, gasping breaths. At first I think it’s a fussy baby, but when I turn to look, I realize the sound is coming from
Will
. His eyes are squeezed shut, his skin has a clammy, grayish pallor, and he’s digging his nails into the armrests so hard he’s making little dents in the rubberized plastic. There’s obviously something really wrong with him.

I touch his shoulder. “Will, what’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?” There’s always one on board in movies, but does that happen in real life? Are there enough doctors to go around?

“Not sick,” Will whispers. “Just really hate flying.”

I’ve never seen somebody have a panic attack before, but this must be what it looks like. And as scary as it is to see him fall apart, I’m relieved that his sudden withdrawn attitude has nothing to do with me. As the plane starts picking up speed, Will makes a low, terrified sound in the back of his throat, and when the wheels leave the ground, he gasps and crumples in on himself. Very gently, I loosen his death grip on the armrest and give him my hand to hold instead. He clamps his fingers around mine so tightly it hurts, but I grit my teeth and let him squeeze. His fingers are ice-cold and sweaty.

“What can I do?” I ask. “Do you want some water? Should I get a flight attendant?”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to do but wait it out.”

“How long does it usually take for you to calm down?”

There’s a small bump in the air, and he gasps again. “Depends,”
he says in a strained voice. “Sometimes half an hour. Sometimes more.”

“How are you going to do this race if you’re afraid to fly? We have to be on planes, like, every other—”

He winces. “Claire, you’re
really
not helping.”

Wow, I am officially the worst partner ever. “Sorry, sorry. Forget I said that. Maybe you could do deep-breathing exercises?” My fifth-grade teacher made us meditate together first thing every morning to “clear our minds and center ourselves,” and although I’ve always thought it was kind of stupid, maybe there’s something to it after all. I stroke the back of Will’s hand rhythmically with my thumb. “Here, try it. Close your eyes. Now breathe in through your nose for three counts, then out through your mouth for five.”

He tries it once, way too fast. “I feel really stupid.”

“No, you have to do it slowly. I’ll count with you, okay? In, two, three … Out, two, three, four, five. Good, that’s it. Again. In, two, three …”

I coach him through a couple minutes of slow breathing, and by the time the plane levels off, Will’s grip around my hand is starting to loosen. A bit of color has returned to his face, and a proud little voice in the back of my mind shouts,
I did that!

“You’re looking better,” I say.

“I feel better. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” I say. “Now that you know what to do, the rest of the flights should be easier, even if I’m not with you.” The thought of him holding some other girl’s hand as he tries to calm down makes me feel a bit sick, but I try not to show it.

“Keep distracting me,” he says. “Ask me a question or something.”

I’d really like to know more about Prawn Fork Girl, but that doesn’t seem like an appropriate topic. “What’s NYU like?” I ask instead.

“Not that kind of question. Something fun.”

“Oh. Okay.” I scour my brain for something Will might find clever. “Um, if you could choose a superpower, what would you pick?”

He doesn’t hesitate even for a second. “The ability to transform things into cheese.”

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.