For Real(21)

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.

Both women shake our hands enthusiastically, beaming at us with glossy, bubble-gum-pink mouths, and introduce themselves in thick Brooklyn accents. The one with the purpley-red hair is Jada, and the frosty blonde is Tawny. “What’s that about?” Jada asks, pointing at the writing on Miranda’s T-shirt.

My sister explains about Samir, and both women’s eyes go wide. “Whoa,” Jada breathes. “Which one is your ex? Is he one of the hot ones on the ground?”

“I wish,” Miranda says, and Jada laughs. “No, he’s not here yet.”

“I heard those guys over there are strippers from Vegas,” Tawny says. Anywhere else I’d question her sources, but here, it’s totally believable.

“What’s your story?” I ask. “Are you guys related?”

When I hear Tawny laugh, I understand the meaning of the word “guffaw” for the first time. “No, sweetheart,” she says, and it comes out sounding like sweet-hawt. “Jada and I used to be married to the same man.”

“Um, at the same time?”

She laughs again. “Ha! No, but that would have made it more fun, wouldn’t it, Jada? At least we would’ve had a little entertainment.”

“Ron was handsome and rich as anything, but he was a serious snooze-fest,” Jada explains. “Tawny married him first, and six months after they split up, he married me. We were divorced before the year was over.” Di-VAWCED.

“Jada and I met in yoga,” Tawny chimes in. “It took us six weeks of sun salutations before we figured out we were gossiping about the same boring ex-husband.”

“And we’ve been besties ever since,” Jada finishes, just as we hear a familiar voice behind us.

“Miranda? What the hell are you doing here?”

We turn to face Samir, and I hear Chuck hissing, “Get this, get this!” Three cameras converge on us like seagulls on a stray French fry.

Samir stares at us for a minute, taking in our Team Revenge T-shirts. “Oh my God,” he says. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Miranda opens her mouth, presumably to rattle off a witty comeback, but then she notices the girl standing beside Samir, and her cheeks start turning very pink. For a second I’m afraid she’s going to lose it, but when she speaks, her voice is low and steady. “Funny, Samir, you told me you were auditioning with your brother,” she says. “Once a liar, always a liar, I guess.”

The girl is an Amazon—even in her flat running shoes, she’s at least ten inches taller than me. My eyes are level with her boobs. She tucks her caramel-colored hair behind her ears like she’s embarrassed by this whole scene and extends her hand to Miranda. “Hi, I’m Janine,” she says. “Samir and I were scene partners for our Chekhov class last semester? I don’t think we ever officially—”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Miranda says, her voice ice-cold. “I just didn’t recognize you with your pants on.” I suddenly remember her limerick: He hopped in the sack with that ho Janine Black.… Oh God, this is even more awkward than I thought it would be.