For Real (32 page)

At one minute to eight, my sister stands up and taps her wineglass with a spoon, and everyone quiets. “I’d like to dedicate this episode to Claire,” she says. “You all saw how she stood up to Samir for me, and this is my way of saying thank you.”

Everyone applauds, and I take a surprised, confused little bow. “I’m flattered, but what does this episode have to do with me?” I ask. Miranda hasn’t told me anything about what happened on the show after I left, claiming she didn’t want to spoil any surprises.

She smiles cryptically. “You’ll see.”

The credits sequence starts, and everyone cheers and settles down in their seats. Chris and Natalie sing along to the superdramatic opening music, adding their own little harmonies and flourishes. When the pink heart-map logo pops up, flanked by animated Cupids, they both shout out the tagline:
Where in the world will you find
your
soul mate?

Miranda’s laptop dings to indicate a new Skype call, and Steve’s face pops up on the screen. He’s watched every episode with us remotely from his dorm room at the University of Minnesota. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “One of the dryers in the basement caught on fire again.”

“Seriously, Steve, how many times do I have to warn you to check your pockets for explosives before you do laundry?” Miranda says.

He grins at her. “I have to keep things interesting around here somehow. It’d be a lot easier if you’d just come visit already.”

Miranda’s friends start
ooooh
ing and making smooching noises, and she blushes bright red, but she’s smiling. Though she keeps claiming there’s nothing going on between them, I’ve caught her on the phone with Steve late at night more times than I can count. Miranda’s been skipping from boyfriend to boyfriend without a pause since she was about fourteen, and I’m glad she’s finally taking some time for herself. But I do hope the two of them will get together eventually. I suspect Steve is one of the few guys who might actually deserve her.

Episode six opens with the Proposal Ceremony from last week, when Janine and Troy were eliminated in Sweden. After a brief reshuffling of partners, Miranda is left to race with Will Divine. Natalie boos loudly and throws a Cheez-It at the screen, and one of our cats bounds off my dad’s lap to chase it.

It’s been two months now, and though I don’t exactly miss Will, seeing him onscreen every week still makes my stomach twist. I never spoke to him again after our last interview, but watching the show has cleared up a lot of things for me. By this point in the season, I’ve seen Will “reluctantly open up” to every single one of his partners, and his stories have been different each time, specifically tailored to
the girl. He was only afraid of flying when he was with me, and it’s clear to me now that he faked his panic attack in the air so I’d see him as vulnerable and reveal my own insecurities. With Philadelphia, he fabricated a girlfriend who had recently broken his heart. With Janine, he talked about his fear of failing his beloved dying grandmother. He told every one of us how beautiful and kick-ass and brave we were, and each of us looked equally flushed and flattered, convinced that we were special.

As disgusting as his strategy was, it was effective—the more of us he charmed, the earlier he was chosen in each Proposal Ceremony, giving him a bigger lead. Up on Acrocorinth, after my mortifying confession that I wanted Will to be my boyfriend, he wished that none of the girls in the race would realize that he didn’t really care about us. All he ever wanted was that shiny, elusive million dollars.

In front of my friends and my family, I pretend to regret having anything to do with Will. But the fact remains that without his encouragement, genuine or not, I never would’ve grown into the person I became on the race. Nothing he said to me was real, but the switches he flipped inside me were. It’s because of him that I pretended to be the bravest, boldest, best version of myself, and somewhere along the way, I slipped inside that girl’s skin and made myself at home.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I want to watch him hit on my sister. “I’m so sorry you had to race with him,” I say now.

“I would’ve picked you if I could!” Steve calls from the laptop.

“I know, honey,” Miranda says, patting the computer screen. “But then you wouldn’t have gotten a trip to Tahiti.”

Steve considers that. “Yeah. I made the right choice.”

“Now, if you were to take
me
to Tahiti to make it up to me, I wouldn’t complain.…”

“Shh,” Natalie says. “Flirt later. I can’t hear Isis.”

Off to the side, my parents have already started whispering a never-ending stream of questions to our neighbor—they’re the sort of people who listen to opera simulcasts and carry public radio tote bags, so reality TV baffles them. Weirdly, they’ve gotten kind of into the race, though they’re still not too pleased that their daughters were on a show with a dating component. I’ve told them over and over that I never had to do anything too inappropriate, and I’m pretty sure they believe me. But watching them watch me lick honey off Will Divine’s neck still ranks among the top five awkward moments of my life, just below the time my dad tried to give me the Sex Talk when I was
sixteen
.

On the screen, the teams are instructed to fly to Nairobi, Kenya. Will and Miranda book a flight through London, and the other two teams go through Frankfurt, which should get them there at the same time. But Will and Miranda arrive at Heathrow in the middle of a thunderstorm, and their connecting flight is delayed six hours. By the time they finally arrive in Africa, I can tell that no matter what they do, the game is over for them.

In the outdoor market where their first challenge is taking place, Screen Miranda reads an instruction card aloud.
“In Kenya, some men dress in women’s clothing for a month after their weddings to get a sense of what it feels like to be their wives. In homage to this, the male member of your team must complete this entire leg of the race dressed in women’s clothing his female teammate chooses at the market. Have fun dressing your date!”

When Tawny and Zora dressed their men earlier in the episode, they chose long, loose, comfortable dresses that allowed Steve and Martin to move freely. But Miranda has other ideas. The shot cuts to her talking directly to the camera, and she says, “I knew we were way too far behind to stay in the game. And you all saw how my sister went out with a bang, right? I knew I had to live up to her amazing example.”

“Oh my God, are you really about to do what I think you’re about to do?” asks Natalie. “Because if you are, you’ll be my hero forever.”

The next thirty seconds are a montage of my sister dressing Will Divine. First comes the short red skirt, so close-fitting he can barely separate his thighs. Then comes the purple bra with cups pointy enough to satisfy 1980s Madonna and some sort of pink tunic. Then come the heavy beaded necklaces and the strappy gold sandals with stiletto heels—I don’t know what those were even doing in a Kenyan market. Will’s hairy toes poke out the front by at least an inch, and he can barely balance without clinging to Miranda. Last of all, my sister plucks off his stupid gray hat and replaces it with a pink headscarf, which the laughing merchant gleefully ties for him. As he totters off to do the next challenge, there’s a shot of his lucky hat lying abandoned in the dust.

By this time, Natalie and I are laughing so hard we’re crying. When Nat insists on rewinding the sequence and watching it twice more, nobody objects. After what Will put me through, there’s nothing more delightful than watching him stagger around like a drunk sorority girl, looking exactly as ridiculous as he made me feel. For the next twenty minutes, we watch him try to herd cattle and learn a traditional Bantu dance in his insane outfit. As I watch him curse and trip over his own blistered feet, that last breath of sadness over what happened between us flies out with my laughter and dissipates into the air.

When Will finally stumbles into the Cupid’s Nest with my sister hours after the other teams, perfectly composed Isis takes one look at him and lets out a legitimate guffaw. When she manages to rearrange her face into a sympathetic expression, she says, “Welcome to the Cupid’s Nest, Will and Miranda. You’re in last place. Your race around the world has come to an end.”

We all knew that was coming, but everyone in our living room boos and shouts in protest. Natalie throws more Cheez-Its, one of which hits Chris in the face. “It’s okay,” Miranda calls out. “I’m still glad I did it.”

As if on cue, Isis asks, “Miranda, what has this race taught you?”

“I learned to be flexible enough to change my expectations,” my sister answers, and I feel like she’s talking directly to me.

Isis nods at her sage words. “And, Will? What have you learned?”

Will pulls off a gold shoe and flings it furiously into the darkness. “I learned that being a girl
sucks
.”

“It’s not so bad,” Miranda answers. “Nature made us stronger. It’s the only way we could possibly deal with men.” Isis holds up her hand and gives my sister a totally undignified high five.

As everyone in our living room breaks into applause and whistles, I scoot closer to Miranda on the couch and link my arm with hers. “Thanks, Mira,” I say quietly.

“There once was a dumbass named Will …,” she says in response.

I grin. “He seemed oh-so-charming until …”

“He proved he was evil …”

“And caused an upheaval …”

“So kicking his butt was a thrill.”

On the screen, there’s a closing shot of Will struggling into his pack and walking away, tottering unsteadily on one gold heel.

“Man, karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” my sister says.

“Yeah,” I say. “For real.”

Closing Credits

Thank you, thank you, thank you to the following people, without whom this book and I would both be total disasters:

Wendy Loggia, my genius editor, who looks at a manuscript and so clearly sees what it could become. Thank you for never settling for anything less than my best work. You were so, so right about … well, everything.

My astonishingly awesome agent, Holly Root, who talks me down and builds me up and makes me laugh while she’s doing it. Thanks for standing by me through all the years (and books) it took to get that dancing-sisters scene out into the world.

Everyone at Delacorte Press who has worked so hard to make my books beautiful and get them into readers’ hands. Special thanks to my cover designer, Heather Daugherty; my copy editor, Stephanie Brommer; my publicist, Lydia Finn; and Krista Vitola.

My whip-smart beta readers, some of whom have read this book so many times they can recite it from memory: Lindsay Ribar, the gentlest note-giver in all the land; Corey
Ann Haydu, who points out which scenes I’ve forgotten to write; Nicole Lisa, who keeps me PC; Liz Whelan, my taskmaster; Jennifer Malone, who makes me smile with her green highlighter; Kristen Kittscher, my Brain Twin; and Elizabeth Little, without whom I wouldn’t be writing YA at all. Thank you all for the impromptu brainstorming sessions, the last-minute reads, and the endless supply of perspective.

Brandy Colbert and Claire Legrand, who always answer my frantic texts and reassure me that my book is not, in fact, irreparably broken.

The many, many people who let me turn their offhand comments into reality-show concepts and band names, notably Adam Bowker, Liz Nett, Rae Carson, Rachel Hawkins, Steve Berns, Sean Kelso, Jerad Schomer, Jenna Scherer, Julia Reischel, and Lissa Harris. I’m lucky to have friends who say such fantastically weird stuff all the time.

Shannon McCarty, Jay Bienstock, Hilary Weisman Graham, and Clifton Early for answering my endless questions about the logistics of reality television.

The Lucky 13s, a supportive and lovely group of writers. I’m so honored to share shelf space with you.

My nonwriter friends, for reaching into my deep, dark revisions cave and pulling me back out into the sunlight at regular intervals. Sometimes it’s really nice to complain about my first-pass pages and have someone say, “I don’t know what that means. Want to get some pizza?”

Erica Cherry, the best sister and friend a girl could have. May we never fight while throwing pomegranates at each
other (or while throwing anything else, for that matter). I would gladly circumnavigate the globe for you.

And my mom, Susan Cherry, who reads every draft, listens to me rant and rave, and never stops believing I can do it. I love you, for real.

About the Author

Alison Cherry, author of
Red
, lives in Brooklyn, New York. She is a professional photographer and spent many years working as a lighting designer for theater, dance, and opera productions. She once faked an important appointment so she could leave rehearsal in time to watch the finale of
The Amazing Race
. Visit her at
alisoncherrybooks.com
or follow
@alison_cherry
on Twitter.

Have you read

Red?

Redheads hold all the power in Scarletville—and everybody knows it. That’s why Felicity is scared down to her roots when she receives an anonymous note:
I know your secret
.