For Real(2)
I know I should keep my opinion to myself—it’s not like I have to date the guy. But Miranda has a history of choosing boyfriends who aren’t nearly good enough for her, and it sucks to see her doing it again. “I heard him talking earlier about how print is dead,” I blurt out. “Has he not noticed that you’re a creative writing major? Isn’t your own boyfriend supposed to support you?”
My sister smiles and shrugs. “It’s fine, it’s not personal. He just really believes in what he does. And hey, you guys will have tons to talk about—he just found out that he and his brother got picked to do some race-around-the-world reality show on LifeLine. You watch all those race shows, right? Maybe you could give him some pointers on eating bugs or something.” She stands up and holds out her hand to me, and the porch light glints off the silver rings she’s wearing on every finger. “Come inside with me and talk to him, okay? Just for a little while? It would mean a lot to me.”
I know from experience that Miranda won’t give up without a fight. And if I go inside with her, she’ll probably do most of the talking, anyway. My sister’s been picking up conversational slack for me since we were little kids, and it’s a pattern we still fall into when we’re together. All I’ll have to do now is smile, nod, and try not to say anything stupid. Hanging out with Miranda, her pretentious boyfriend, and a swarm of drunk, dancing college grads isn’t exactly ideal, but it’s still better than not hanging out with her at all.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m coming.”
I glance at my phone one last time—the three finalists on MacGyver Survivor are having a fish-gutting contest—and drop it into my bag. Miranda pulls me up, and I brush the splinters from the porch steps off the butt of my jeans.
The party has gotten significantly louder and more crowded since I escaped to the back steps. I hang on to Miranda’s shoulder as we work our way into the packed living room and snake through a sea of grinding bodies and beer breath and hands wielding red plastic cups. One of those generic pop songs about falling in love in the summer is blasting on the stereo, and my sister manages to sway her hips in time with the beat while she’s walking—I had no idea that level of coordination was even possible. As she exchanges greetings with every single person we pass, squeezing outstretched hands and kissing cheeks, I let my hair fall over my face and do my best to remain invisible. It works, and nobody makes eye contact with me or asks who I am.
My sister stops in the middle of the room and cranes her neck to see over all the people pressing together and spinning apart. “Samir was in here earlier, but I don’t see him now,” she calls over her shoulder. I can barely hear her over the thumping bass. “I’m going to see if he’s in his room, okay? It’ll only take a second. Stay right here so I’ll know where to find you.” I can’t believe she’s about to leave me alone after dragging me in here, but I nod, and she heads for the stairs.
I quickly discover how ridiculously uncomfortable it feels to stand still in the middle of a mass of dancing strangers. Everyone else seems to be moving together like a single sweaty, pulsating organism, but I keep getting bumped around pinball-style by stray hips and butts. For one insane moment, I try to streamline the process by dancing along with them, but as soon as I start thinking about it, I’m paralyzed with awkwardness. I watch a skinny girl to my left undulate against a tall, shirtless guy—she doesn’t seem to be having any trouble, even in her four-inch heels. How is it that everyone but me inherently knows how to dance? Am I missing part of a chromosome?
The skinny girl notices me staring as I clumsily shift from side to side, and she shoots me a what are you gaping at? look. It’s clearly time to abandon ship, regardless of Miranda’s instructions. Being short has its advantages, and I manage to squeeze into a long corridor crowded with girls in filmy dresses waiting for the bathroom. Then I see the comforting flicker of a television beckoning from the room at the end of the hall, and my knotted muscles start to relax as I make my way toward it.
On the screen, a peroxide blonde is flinging men’s clothes out the window of a McMansion while shouting a steady stream of bleeped expletives. I recognize her as Chastiti, one of the four trophy wives from Sugar Daddies. In front of the TV, two guys and a girl are sprawled on a ratty orange sofa that’s leaking stuffing the consistency of cotton candy. The whole room has an acrid smell, and I spot a bong shaped like a pair of boobs on the coffee table—classy. Nobody has heard me come in, and I stand very still in the darkness, trying to keep it that way.
“This show is so stupid,” says the guy on the left. “Who watches this crap?”
“You’re watching it, dumbass.” The guy on the right chucks his plastic cup at his friend’s head, and a fine rain of beer spatters the carpet.
“Yeah, but, I mean, do people watch it for real? Like, every week?”
“Somebody must, or it wouldn’t still be on,” the girl says. “This is, like, the third season.”
“It’s the fourth,” I hear another voice say, and it takes a minute before I realize with abject horror that it’s mine. Well done, brain, with your endless store of TV trivia and inability to let an error stand uncorrected. So much for invisibility.
All three people on the sofa turn and stare at me blearily, and a heavy silence stretches out for five seconds, then ten. It quickly becomes unbearable, and I start babbling to fill the space. “I think a lot of people watch this kind of show ’cause they want to feel better about themselves,” I say. “It’s really cathartic to see other people making horrible choices, you know? And it’s always nice to see someone who has the shoes you want, or the house you want, or the boyfriend you want, or whatever, but who still objectively sucks as a human being, so you can be like, ‘Sure, she’s prettier and richer than I am, but I’m still superior.’ ”