For Real (9 page)

“No, of course not,” I say, like that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“I get it,” Piercings says. “You like to play the field. I respect that.” Behind him, the cameraman waggles his eyebrows at me.
Ew
.

“And why do you find yourself shying away from commitment, Claire?” asks Charlotte. “Is it because you don’t believe in love?”

I start laughing. “No. I believe in love.”

“Even after what Samir did to your sister?”

“Sure. One guy being a moron can’t destroy an entire concept.”

“So if you believe in love, why don’t you believe in relationships?”

“I
believe
in them. The right person just hasn’t turned up yet.” Horrifyingly, an image of Will Divine pops into my head, and I feel myself starting to blush. I push the thought away. “I go to a really small school—there are only, like, two hundred guys, and I’ve known a lot of them since I was three. When you’ve seen someone peeing in the sandbox and licking scented markers, it’s pretty much impossible to date him, you know?” Everyone laughs, and I relax a little.

“Sounds rough,” Santa says. “Did your sister have the same problem finding people to date in high school?”

“I guess not, no. She actually dated a fair number of people.”

“How do you explain that?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I have higher standards than she does.”

“Or maybe Miranda’s more open-minded than you are?”

“You don’t know the guys at my school. If you did, you’d understand why I’d rather not open my mind too much.” Everyone laughs again, and a warm feeling blooms in my chest. I’m actually doing this—I’m sitting in front of a bunch of executives, without Miranda, and I’m totally holding my own. They think I’m funny, and in a
ha-ha
way, not a
what a freak
way.

“Tell me, Claire,” Charlotte says. “If a situation were to arise on the show in which only you
or
Miranda could continue racing, would you help your sister and risk being eliminated, or would you save yourself?”

“What?” I say. “That would never happen—we’re on the same team, so we’d be eliminated together, right?”

“Pretend it was a possibility. What would you do?”

I’m honestly not sure. The whole point of us being here is for Miranda to get revenge on Samir, so if he was still in the game, I guess I’d have to let Miranda keep racing, regardless of what I wanted. But what if she’d already gotten her revenge, and Samir wasn’t a factor anymore? I have more to prove than she does. If I wanted to show the world I was a competent, fierce contender who deserved to be taken seriously, I couldn’t afford to sacrifice myself for someone else. Sure, it might make me look generous, but it would also make me look weak. It’s exactly what Miranda would expect me to do, and it would show her that I consider myself disposable. If I think of myself that way, how can I expect her to disagree?

In any case, Charlotte’s question is purely hypothetical. I’ll never really have to compete against my sister in the race. And I can tell what the producers want me to say.

I square my shoulders and look Charlotte right in the eye. “I’d let Miranda be eliminated,” I say. “When it comes down to it, I’m not racing for her. I’m racing for myself.”

* * *

From: “Charlotte Sweeney”

To: “Miranda Henderson” ,

“Claire Henderson”

Subject: Around the World

Dear Claire and Miranda,

I’m delighted to inform you that you’ve been selected to compete on
Around the World
, LifeLine TV’s highly anticipated new race-around-the-globe show! We think viewers are going to respond well to you and your story, and we’re so glad you decided to audition. Welcome aboard!

Because your team is a last-minute addition to the show, you will have very little time to prepare for the race, and we apologize for the inconvenience. Attached are several waivers and confidentiality agreements, which you must sign and return to us via fax or email within
twenty-four hours
. Please include a copy of your valid United States passport. I have also attached a list of mandatory vaccinations required for international travel, which you must receive from an infectious disease specialist or travel clinic as soon as possible.

The race begins in Los Angeles on Wednesday, June 19—eight days from now—and the network will fly you into LAX on the 17th and pay for your hotel accommodations until you depart. Regardless of when you are eliminated from the race, you will not return home until July 12. You may not tell
anyone
where you are going, aside from your emergency contact. Doing so will be considered a breach of contract and is grounds for elimination.

Everything you bring on the race must fit inside one hiking backpack. Additional luggage will not be allowed. Keep in mind that airline size and weight restrictions vary by carrier,
and remember to pack for diverse climates—LifeLine reserves the right to send you
anywhere
in the world! You will not be responsible for any specialty items, such as parkas, snowshoes, or swimwear, but all other clothing must be your own. During the rest periods between legs of the race, you will be provided with sleeping accommodations, but you may choose to bring sleeping bags or bedrolls for napping at other times. You may not bring cell phones, GPS equipment, computers, or any other electronic communication devices on the race, nor may you bring any cash. Feel free to bring paper maps and guidebooks.

Good luck, and happy racing! We look forward to seeing you in Los Angeles.

All the best,

Charlotte Sweeney,

Ruby Harris Casting

(
MESSAGE RECEIVED JUNE 11, 7:14 PM
)

WILL DIVINE:
WE MADE IT ONTO THE SHOW! You?

ME:
You are not my emergency contact, so answering that question is a breach of contract and grounds for elimination.

WILL DIVINE:
OMG YOU MADE IT TOO!!!! Congratulations!

ME:
I have no idea what you’re talking about. (!!!!!!!!!! You too!!!!!)

WILL DIVINE:
See you in L A. Can’t wait to fight you for my million dollars.

ME:
I believe you mean MY million dollars.

WILL DIVINE:

The California sun is bright as a spotlight when Miranda and I climb out of the network car and follow a production assistant toward the outfield of Angel Stadium. I hoist my new red hiking backpack onto my shoulders and am dismayed once again by its weight—I brought as little as I could, but the straps are already starting to cut into my shoulders.

Miranda pauses at the edge of the field, where four other teams are already gathered. They’re not doing anything but milling around and shaking hands, but they’re already being filmed from several angles by burly camera operators and sound people with audio mixers strapped around their waists. I squint and try to pick out Will and Lou, but they don’t seem to be here yet. Samir and his brother aren’t either, and I’m glad—I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he arrives and spots us.

“Wow,” my sister says. “We’re actually here. We’re really
doing
this.”

“We are.”

Miranda bumps my shoulder with hers. “Hey, Clairie? I
don’t think I’ve actually said this yet, but thanks for coming here with me. I know this is hard for you, so it means a lot.”

“It’s going to be great,” I say, willing my stomach to unclench from where it’s coiled like a spring in the corner of my torso. “We’re going to rock this race. Samir won’t know what hit him.”

“Go, Team Revenge,” Miranda whispers fiercely. She grins and holds out her hand for one of those cheesy exploding fist-bumps. I start to feel a little calmer as I touch my fist to hers. This past week, I’ve finally felt like my sister and I are a true team—she’s even the one who managed to convince my parents I’m responsible and mature enough to go on the race. During the day, we shopped for clothes and gear, and we spent our evenings poring over strategy websites and watching old race shows online. Every time one team sabotaged another, we took notes and discussed similar tactics we could use on Samir. My sister consulted me on everything and took my opinions seriously, and for the first time, it felt like we were equals reaching for the same goal. I pray this dynamic won’t break down the second the stress of racing kicks in. I’ve seen lots of teams turn against each other when things get rough.

Our PA leads us onto the field, where she hands us over to a scruffy guy in a backward Angels cap. His name tag says
CHUCK
, and from the number of electronic gadgets on his belt, I gather he’s in charge. He nods appreciatively at our matching T-shirts, which are bright red and say
TEAM REVENGE
in white letters. Natalie made them for us as a going-away gift—on shows like this, teams tend to nickname each other
right away, so it’s best to get there first. Nat also bought me lucky smiley-face underwear, and I’m wearing that, too. I need all the luck I can get.

“Miranda and Claire,” Chuck says, checking our names off on his clipboard. “Welcome. Let’s get you guys miked up, okay? You can put your packs over there.”

There are a bunch of backpacks lying on their sides near second base, and we add ours to the pile. We barely have them off our shoulders before a sound guy appears beside me and tucks a small battery pack into the back pocket of my jeans. Then, before I have time to process what’s happening, he has his hands up my shirt, threading a wire around my body and clipping a microphone the size of a pencil eraser to my bra. When I squirm, he rolls his eyes as if I’ve recoiled from a handshake. “This’ll go a lot faster if you hold still,” he says, totally deadpan, like he touches strangers’ boobs every day. Which, come to think of it, he probably does.

Miranda is similarly violated—she handles it better than I did—and then we’re released, so we wander toward the group of other racers on the lawn. Two guys who could easily be models are sprawled on the grass with their eyes closed, soaking up the sun, and a pair of girls in matching sorority T-shirts sits beside them, giggling at everything they say. The girls look eerily alike, despite the fact that one of them is blond and the other is African American. A team of guys with glasses and oversized superhero shirts are eyeing the girls warily, as if they’ve just remembered they forgot to get vaccinated for cooties. Off to the side is a pair of slightly
older women, maybe thirty-five, in pink yoga pants. They look the friendliest, so Miranda and I approach them.

“Hi,” my sister says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Miranda, and this is Claire.”

It’s kind of annoying that she still introduces me to strangers as if I can’t speak for myself, like she used to when we were kids. “Nice to meet you,” I say, just to prove I can talk.