For Real (2 page)

My sister stops in the middle of the room and cranes her neck to see over all the people pressing together and spinning apart. “Samir was in here earlier, but I don’t see him now,” she calls over her shoulder. I can barely hear her over the thumping bass. “I’m going to see if he’s in his room, okay? It’ll only take a second. Stay right here so I’ll know where to find you.” I can’t believe she’s about to leave me alone after dragging me in here, but I nod, and she heads for the stairs.

I quickly discover how ridiculously uncomfortable it feels to stand still in the middle of a mass of dancing strangers. Everyone else seems to be moving together like a single sweaty, pulsating organism, but I keep getting bumped around pinball-style by stray hips and butts. For one insane moment, I try to streamline the process by dancing along with them, but as soon as I start thinking about it, I’m paralyzed with awkwardness. I watch a skinny girl to my left undulate against a tall, shirtless guy—she doesn’t seem to be having any trouble, even in her four-inch heels. How is it that everyone but me inherently knows how to dance? Am I missing part of a chromosome?

The skinny girl notices me staring as I clumsily shift
from side to side, and she shoots me a
what are you gaping at?
look. It’s clearly time to abandon ship, regardless of Miranda’s instructions. Being short has its advantages, and I manage to squeeze into a long corridor crowded with girls in filmy dresses waiting for the bathroom. Then I see the comforting flicker of a television beckoning from the room at the end of the hall, and my knotted muscles start to relax as I make my way toward it.

On the screen, a peroxide blonde is flinging men’s clothes out the window of a McMansion while shouting a steady stream of bleeped expletives. I recognize her as Chastiti, one of the four trophy wives from
Sugar Daddies
. In front of the TV, two guys and a girl are sprawled on a ratty orange sofa that’s leaking stuffing the consistency of cotton candy. The whole room has an acrid smell, and I spot a bong shaped like a pair of boobs on the coffee table—classy. Nobody has heard me come in, and I stand very still in the darkness, trying to keep it that way.

“This show is so stupid,” says the guy on the left. “Who watches this crap?”

“
You’re
watching it, dumbass.” The guy on the right chucks his plastic cup at his friend’s head, and a fine rain of beer spatters the carpet.

“Yeah, but, I mean, do people watch it for real? Like, every week?”

“Somebody must, or it wouldn’t still be on,” the girl says. “This is, like, the third season.”

“It’s the fourth,” I hear another voice say, and it takes a minute before I realize with abject horror that it’s mine.
Well done, brain, with your endless store of TV trivia and inability to let an error stand uncorrected
. So much for invisibility.

All three people on the sofa turn and stare at me blearily, and a heavy silence stretches out for five seconds, then ten. It quickly becomes unbearable, and I start babbling to fill the space. “I think a lot of people watch this kind of show ’cause they want to feel better about themselves,” I say. “It’s really cathartic to see other people making horrible choices, you know? And it’s always nice to see someone who has the shoes you want, or the house you want, or the boyfriend you want, or whatever, but who still objectively sucks as a human being, so you can be like, ‘Sure, she’s prettier and richer than I am, but I’m still superior.’ ”

All three of them continue to stare; the guy on the right’s mouth is hanging open a little. “Hi,” I finish lamely. Thank God the room is dark enough that nobody can see me blushing the color of a raw steak.

“Do you
like
this show?” the guy on the left asks, completely missing the point. His eyebrows almost touch in the middle, like two caterpillars making out.

“No, I—I want to work in television. Some reality shows are actually good. Not this one, obviously.” On the screen, Chastiti screams, “If you ever
bleeeep bleeeep
me over again, I will cut your
bleeeep bleeeep
off; don’t you think I won’t!”

Nobody says anything for a minute. Then one of the guys on the couch asks, “Who
are
you?”

“I’m Claire.”

“You don’t go here, do you? You’re, like, twelve.”

I draw myself up to my full, unimpressive height. “I’m
eighteen. And no, I don’t go here.” I don’t tell them I’m only a senior in high school—it’s embarrassing to be a year older than most of my class, but I was still too shy to speak to strangers the year I should have started preschool. “I’m Miranda’s sister,” I offer instead.

“Miranda
Henderson
?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re her
sister
? Seriously?”

I feel my cheeks grow hotter, if that’s even possible. I know what these people are thinking—I’ve seen that same expression reflected back at me all my life. How could this girl, this short, dark-haired, socially challenged girl with the glasses, be related to gorgeous, willowy, outgoing Miranda? I watch them search me for some sign of my sister’s grace, her unique sense of style, her warm, breezy way of putting everyone she meets at ease. They don’t find it. I got all the awkward genes in the family. And all the spouting-media-theory-at-total-strangers genes, apparently.

“Seriously,” I say. For some reason, it comes out sounding like an apology.

As if to prove that we actually are related, Miranda comes barreling into the room just at that moment and grabs my hand so tightly it’s painful. This is not the happy, bubbly Miranda of ten minutes ago; she’s wild-eyed and breathing hard, and the glow of the television reveals tearstains on her cheeks. I’ve never seen my sister lose control like this in public. Something must be very wrong.

“Come on,” she says, her voice choked with anger. “We have to leave.
Right now
.”

“Mira, what happened? Are you okay?”

Miranda drags me out of the room without answering. We rush down the hall and past the bathroom line, and a chorus of whispers swirls in our wake. I clutch my
Doctor Who
tote bag to my side to avoid whacking people as we stampede through the living room. “What’s going on? Why are we—”

My sister stops just short of the front door. Samir is standing directly in her warpath, and he isn’t wearing a shirt. The girl in the kitchen was telling the truth—there’s a large
CXLVI
inked onto his right bicep. I have no idea if an IQ of 146 really makes you a genius, but even if it does, tattooing it on your body definitely bumps you back down a notch.

“Get the hell out of my way,” Miranda orders in a tone that could cut steel. Her cheeks are bright pink, the way they always get when she’s furious.

He doesn’t move. “Come on, Miranda, stop being so melodramatic. She’s just a friend. We were saying good-bye.”

“Most people say good-bye to their friends with their
pants on
, Samir!” Miranda shouts. “And if you don’t move out of my way, I will
show
you melodramatic!”

My face goes hot as I realize what’s happening. I wish I could storm up to Samir and punch him right in the face, but even if I were brave enough, there’s no way I could escape from Miranda’s viselike grip. The room has gone quiet, and everyone is staring at the three of us. Someone has even turned down the music.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Samir says, rolling his eyes.
“God, grow up already. You know I love you, so why are you being so possessive? I’m moving
in
with you!”

“Not anymore, you’re not.” Miranda shoves past him and out the front door, hauling me along behind her. She’s squeezing my fingers so hard they’re going numb.

Samir follows us out onto the porch, but slowly, as if my sister isn’t really worth pursuing. “Miranda, come back inside. Let’s talk about this like adults.” He sounds more like an irritated babysitter than a repentant boyfriend.

We’re already halfway across the lawn when Miranda whips around. “I am
done
talking to you, Samir, about this and everything else. I hope you and your
friend
have a super-awesome, happy little life together!” She lets go of me and takes off down the block, and I jog to catch up.

Samir stays where he is, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “You’re gonna regret this, you know,” he calls after Miranda. “Wait till you’re stuck in some sad corporate cubicle, looking at pictures of me walking the red carpet with a supermodel on each arm. You’re gonna think, ‘That could have been me, if I’d just gotten over myself before it was too late.’ ”

Miranda doesn’t respond, but by the time we reach the car, tears are streaming down her face. When I put my hand tentatively on her back, it only makes her cry harder. I want to say something comforting, but I’m at a total loss—nobody has ever soothed me after a breakup, since I’ve never had anyone to break up
with
. What finally comes out of my mouth is an extremely unhelpful “What the
hell
?”

“I know,” she sobs. “I went upstairs to find him, and he
was in bed with … with that stupid bitch, Janine … and I can’t … and he didn’t even …” Now she’s crying too hard to speak in coherent sentences. When I glance back toward the house, Samir’s still on the porch, leaning jauntily against the doorjamb and watching us.

Come on, Claire
, I tell myself sternly
. Your sister’s falling to pieces right in front of you. You have to do something
. “We need to get you out of here,” I say.

“I don’t think I can drive.” My sister swipes furiously at her eyes, obviously enraged to be showing any weakness. Her mascara smears across her cheeks like zombie makeup.

“I’ll drive. Where are your keys?”

Miranda hesitates, like she’s not sure I should be driving her beloved car. But her desire to leave wins out, and she hands over the keys. I unlock the door, and she slumps in the passenger seat like a marionette with cut strings.

I’m not certain which way to go, but I head in the general direction of the hotel where my parents and I are staying. After a few minutes of riding in silence, Miranda takes a deep, shaky breath. “I almost moved in with him,” she says quietly. “I really thought I was going to end up with him. How could I have been that stupid? You saw right through him, and you only met him for, like, six seconds.”

I feel awful for her, but I can’t help being slightly pleased that she’s given me credit for being right—that isn’t exactly a frequent occurrence. “You weren’t stupid,” I say. “You loved him. There’s no way you could have known that he’d, um, do
that
.”

“The worst part is that I’m pretty sure he’s done this before,
to other girls, but I thought—I mean, he told me that he—I don’t know, I just thought I was different or something.” She swallows hard, and two more tears trail down her cheeks. “God, he sucks
so much
.”

“I’m so sorry, Mira,” I say. “I wish there were something I could do.” She sniffles in reply.

When we stop at the next light, my sister seems to become aware of our surroundings for the first time. “Where are you taking me?” she asks.

“I was heading back to the hotel. Is that okay? There’s an extra bed in my room … maybe we could get some ice cream and watch a terrible movie or something? It might help take your mind off things.”

She gives me a weak smile. “Thanks, Clairie, but I’m just going to go home.”

“Do you want me to stay with you in your apartment tonight? Maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“No, I mean
home
home. Back to Braeburn.”

“You want to drive to the Catskills now? It’s eleven-thirty.”

“So?”

“What about all your stuff?”

“It’s packed. I can load up the car and be on the road in an hour. There’s no traffic, so I should make it home by four.” Miranda sits up a little straighter, and before I know it, she has total control of the situation again. “I’ll drop you at the hotel on the way, okay? Can you tell Mom and Dad what happened?”

I wish she’d give me a chance to take care of her a little; Miranda’s so self-sufficient that I never get a chance to do
anything for her. But I guess she doesn’t really need me now, either. “Do you want company?” I ask in a last-ditch effort to be helpful. “I could come with you.”

I’m sure she’s going to tell me no, but instead she says, “Really?”

“Sure. I can help you load the car, too.”

“That would be great, Clairie. Thanks. I assumed you wouldn’t want to. I know you like to stick to the plan.”

“I don’t care about the plan,” I say. “I want to help. I’m totally here for you.”

“Thanks. Turn right at the light, okay?”

It isn’t exactly the evening I imagined, but in a terrible, warped way, it’s actually better. I obviously wish Miranda’s whole life hadn’t crumbled, but part of me is glad I don’t have to share her with a hundred other people tonight. Instead, I get hours of one-on-one time to bond with her, plus whatever time she spends in Braeburn making new plans for the future. My sister wants me with her as she starts to heal, and the image of me hiding out on the back steps with my phone won’t be the one that lingers in her mind until the next time we’re together.

I have another chance to prove myself, and it starts right now.

* * *

I call my dad as soon as we’re on the road and tell him Miranda and I are headed back to Braeburn. He’s disappointed that we’ll have to cancel our family brunch at the
Mangy Moose in the morning, but I explain what happened at the party, giving as few embarrassing details as possible. He asks to speak with Miranda, but I can see she’s not in the mood, so I tell him she’s driving and promise to text him when we get home.

Unfortunately, Miranda doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk to me, either. She’s in her own world, and as we get farther away from Middlebury, I watch her withdraw into herself more and more. Within twenty minutes, I’m bored out of my mind and wondering why I’m even here. I try to turn on the radio, but my sister switches it off immediately. “I don’t want to form associations,” she says. “I’m going to hate whatever songs I hear right now for the rest of my life. That asshole doesn’t get to ruin any music for me.” For a second I consider pulling out my phone and watching the rest of
MacGyver Survivor
, but Miranda would probably toss me out on the side of the road if I did that. So I settle for texting my best friend, Natalie, to tell her I’m on my way home, then silently watch the road signs tick off endless identical miles of highway.