For Real (20 page)

“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 of 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.

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.