For Real(10)

The W is sleek and austere, all white marble and polished wood and minimalist flower arrangements. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to whisper, even in the middle of the day. The décor is the exact opposite of my internal state—I’m insanely nervous, and my stomach feels like it’s on a spinning teacup ride. But I’m supposed to be in charge today, so I hold my head high and try to look strong and confident for Miranda.

My sister hasn’t said much this morning, and I worry she’s still annoyed about last night. Natalie’s aunt Layla wanted to take us out to a drag bar, but I convinced Miranda we needed to prepare for our audition instead. My sister had never even seen a race show before, so I was excited to teach her how much strategy they involve. But she was restless and unfocused the whole evening, fidgeting and complaining that she felt like she was back in a theory class. When Natalie and Layla finally came home at one in the morning, giggling about their six-foot-four waitress named Uvula, Miranda barely said a word before she shuffled off to bed. I haven’t mentioned it to her—I know how upset she is right now, and I don’t want to make things worse. But it still sucks that I finally had a chance to shine and she wasn’t even paying attention.

“You okay?” I ask now as we get in line behind a team of ponytailed girls.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically.

I’m about to reach out and touch her shoulder, tell her that I’m here for her and that she’s going to do great, but she turns away and says, “Save my spot while I run to the bathroom.”

As she walks away, two guys get in line right behind us. One of them is wearing a gray knit hat despite the fact that it’s about ninety degrees, his brown hair sticking out the front in a way that looks both messy and artful. He starts playing a game on his phone while his teammate, an Asian guy who towers over him by six inches, opens a copy of War and Peace. After a few seconds, Hat Guy nudges Tall Guy. “Hey, was it a weasel or a mink that bit that kid’s finger off on Paws of Fury last season?”

Tall Guy sighs. “Do I look like the kind of person who watches Paws of Fury?”

“Are you kidding? That show is awesome. I totally remember that episode, too … some idiot thought he was buying his kid a ferret, and the thing went crazy. What was it, though? Crap, I’m gonna lose this round.”

I usually avoid talking to strangers in lines, especially when I know I’ll have to keep standing next to them for ages. But just like at Miranda’s graduation party, I find I can’t help myself. Trivia is my downfall.

“It was an ermine,” I say.

Hat Guy glances up at me, surprised. His eyes are a bright, startling shade of blue. Now that I’m looking at him more closely, I notice that his T-shirt has a picture of zombies and says GOT BRAINS? He looks back down at his phone and taps the screen, and there’s a cheerful pinging sound. “Nice!” he says. And then those piercing eyes return to me. “You’re good.”

His gaze is really intense, and I feel my face heating up. “One of my many useless talents,” I say.

“It’s not useless at all. A bunch of friends and I are training for the Pop Culture Olympics—there’s a huge prize if you win. So far I kind of suck at it, though.” He shows me the trivia game on his phone, which is asking if he wants to start a new round. “There’s a two-person setting. You want to play?”

“Okay.” Competitive trivia is sure to take my mind off the audition. But when I move closer to him so we can both see the screen, some sort of spicy boy smell hits me and my brain threatens to stop functioning altogether. “I’m Claire, by the way,” I manage.

“Pleasure to meet you, Claire.” He says it in this warm way that makes it sound like more than a formality. “I’m Will Divine.”

“Will Divine? That’s your actual name?” I realize how rude that sounds a second too late.

In response, he digs a worn leather wallet out of his back pocket and presents me with a Pennsylvania driver’s license. It is indeed his real name. I glance at his birthday and see that he’s twenty-one. His hair is shorter in the picture, and I like it better how it is now.

“I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s actually easier to get on a reality show if you have a weird name,” he says. “So I guess it’s good for something.”

“But on your SATs and medical records and stuff, it says, ‘Divine, Will.’ ” In my nervous state, this strikes me as the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I start giggling like a maniac. Horrified, I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. You must hear that all the time. I’m sure it’s really annoying.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. I search his face for signs of irritation, but instead he smiles at me, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. I have an unaccountable urge to reach out and touch it. What is wrong with me?

“This is Lou, by the way,” Will says, gesturing at his partner. Tall Guy looks up for half a second and gives me a flat-handed wave.

“Hey,” I say, but he goes right back to his book.

Will holds up the phone. “Shall we?”

He wasn’t kidding—for someone who’s training for the Pop Culture Olympics, Will is shockingly bad at pop culture trivia. By the time Miranda returns from the bathroom, I’ve answered nine questions correctly, and he’s only gotten three. When the round ends, I look up to find my sister staring at us, shocked and confused to see me interacting with a cute stranger.