For Real(17)

“That was insane,” Miranda whispers as we head across the lobby. “What the hell is Twin Cognito?”

“It’s this show where identical twins trade lives and try to trick everyone into thinking they’re each other, and whoever fools people the longest wins. It’s all filmed with hidden cameras. It doesn’t usually last very long, but it’s really funny when a criminal prosecutor has to teach kindergarten or something. Oh, and there was this one episode where one twin ended up getting pregnant by the other twin’s husband.”

Miranda shudders. “That is disgusting. Hey, do you see the other registration table?”

“No. Maybe we should ask at the front desk?”

“I’ll do it. Be right back.”

As Miranda walks away, someone calls my name, and I see Will Divine waving at me from across the lobby. Today he has on a Superman shirt with a button-down over it, the sleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, and he’s still wearing that gray knit hat. I’m so happy to see him here that my stomach does a little flip, and I break into a goofy grin as I wave back. Then I remember Charlotte’s instruction not to communicate with any of the other teams, and I quickly lower my hand in case someone’s watching. Instead, I pull out my phone and text him.

ME: You trying to get me in trouble for fraternizing with the enemy?

WILL DIVINE: What can I say, I’m a rebel. How do you feel about bad boys?

ME: Not good enough to risk my million dollars …

WILL DIVINE: I’m sorry, YOUR million dollars? I believe you mean MY million dollars.

Miranda reappears by my side. “They said to walk straight back toward the coffee bar and there’d be a table on our left.”

My phone chimes again.

WILL DIVINE: If you’re as good at racing as you are at trivia, I have my work cut out for me.…

I bite my lip to keep from grinning, and Miranda looks at me curiously. “Who’re you talking to?”

“Will Divine.”

A crease appears between her eyebrows. “That guy from the last audition?”

“Yup.”

“How did you get his number?”

“He gave it to me the other day.” I tuck my phone back into my bag.

“Oh. Well, just be careful, okay?”

“Of what? We’re texting. It’s not like he’s going to give me an STD through the phone.”

Miranda rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s get more coffee, okay?” She goes ahead of me, and I manage to sneak a little wave at Will before I follow her.

Miranda stocks up on espresso, and then we find the right registration table, where five PAs are lounging around, chewing matching wads of green gum. When we give our names, one of them pulls out a clipboard and makes a couple check marks. I try to see how many other names are on the list, but she puts it away too fast. “Follow Ashleigh, okay?” she says, and a girl with blond pigtails hops up and bounds toward the elevators. She looks younger than me.

Ashleigh leads us to room 618, and by the time we get there, my palms are sweaty and my heart is performing a polka on fast-forward. “I’m really nervous,” I whisper to my sister.

“It’s going to be fine,” she whispers back. “They loved us the other day.” But she and I both know it was only her they loved—there was no us about it. I vow to do better this time. You’re the one with all the knowledge, I remind myself. It takes more than charisma to succeed in a race.

Ashleigh knocks gently on the door before she swipes it open with a key card. “Which of you is Claire?” she asks. “You’ll be in here with the producers first. Miranda, you have your psych eval first, so you can follow me to the eighth floor.”

My whole body goes cold. “Wait a second,” I say. “We’re a team.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ashleigh snaps her gum.

“So aren’t we auditioning together?”

“Not today. Good luck! Have fun in there!” She gives me a perky little smile, then shoves me through the doorway. I whirl around and meet my sister’s eyes for a split second before the door swings closed between us. She suddenly looks wide awake.

On the opposite side of the room are six people in suits, seated in a row behind a boardroom table. One of them is Charlotte, and I’m relieved to see a familiar face. There’s also a large camera on a tripod, manned by a guy with those weird plugs in his earlobes. Everyone is facing the Interrogation Area, where a single chair is flanked by white-hot lights. The pigtailed PA hasn’t made a mistake. I really am supposed to be in here alone. What if Miranda was right and I can’t handle it? She’ll never forgive me if we get eliminated because I pass out on the floor. I squeeze my clammy hands into tight fists and order my body to keep breathing and stay upright.

Charlotte beams at me like we’re best friends. “Claire! I’m so glad to see you. Let me introduce you to our casting team.” She points at each person in turn and rattles off a rapid-fire stream of names, none of which I retain. There’s a guy with a bushy Santa Claus beard, a platinum-blond woman who looks like she just downed a shot of lemon juice, a fidgety guy with a lot of piercings, a freckled woman with a sunburned nose, and a woman who looks remarkably like Oprah. I move forward, shake each extended hand, and try not to look like someone has shot me between the eyes with a stun gun.