For Real(29)

“Do you think the producers will buy it?”

“Why wouldn’t they? It’s not like they know anything about you. I mean, look at me—they totally loved my goodhearted-son-of-a-CEO character at the auditions. They ate it right up. People will believe anything you tell them, as long as you commit to it. All they want is a good story.”

Now I’m really confused. “But … Wait, I thought …”

Will’s eyes widen with delight. “You fell for the CEO thing, too?”

“I mean, I … um …”

“Oh my God, that’s awesome.” Will looks like he’s trying to figure out a way to high-five himself.

I suddenly feel deeply stupid. “So your dad’s not a CEO?”

“My dad’s a math teacher. Do I look like I come from money?” He lifts his blanket and displays his navy blue hoodie, worn jeans, and sneakers, which have a tiny hole in the toe.

“I just thought you were, like, slumming or something. I mean, you said you and Lou were trying to get away from your rich family.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. Lou and I aren’t related. We’re just friends.”

A small bubble of hope rises in my chest. “So … there’s no CFO’s daughter?”

“There’s no CFO’s daughter. And there isn’t anyone else, either.”

His revelation makes my brain feel fizzy, like it’s been marinating in a glass of champagne overnight. As I sit there staring back at him with a goofy grin on my face, I imagine the fictional CFO’s daughter drowning in a chocolate fountain, a whole set of prawn forks sticking out of her flawless neck.

Will is available, and I’m going to make him mine.





By the time we land in Surabaya, I’ve been awake for thirty-four hours. The flight attendant cheerfully announces that it’s seven in the morning local time.

“Is it Thursday, Friday, or Saturday?” I ask Will. Remarkably, he slept through the landing of our second flight and only woke up when the wheels touched down.

He messes with his hair under his hat, then pulls a piece of gum out of his pocket and shoves it into his mouth. He doesn’t even have to rummage for it, and I wonder if he also worried about his bad plane breath in advance. Would a guy be concerned about that if he didn’t find the girl next to him at least a little bit attractive?

“I think it’s Friday,” he says.

“But we crossed the international date line, right? Did we skip ahead or back?”

Will rubs his eyes. “I have no idea. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt.”

We pull our packs down from the overhead compartment—somehow, mine feels like it’s gotten heavier since yesterday—and stumble blearily into the airport. On all the race shows I’ve seen, it looks like the contestants zoom off the plane and straight into waiting taxis, but instead we’re routed down an endless series of hallways and into the line for passport control. Disappointingly, the Indonesian airport doesn’t look any different from an American one. I was hoping for palm-frond floors and walls made of orchids or something.

We answer some questions and have our passports stamped, and as we’re heading into the arrivals area, I spot Miranda waving at me from the end of the line. She was always better at sleeping on planes than I was, and she looks fresh and rested, though Aidan is rubbing his eyes under his hipster glasses. I don’t see Samir, and I pray he’s way behind us instead of ahead. Part of me wants to wait for my sister to get through the line so we can talk, but as soon as I think it, Martin and Zora zip past us, and Will says, “Come on, we better move.” He tugs me toward the exit, and I lose sight of Miranda.

The moment we step outside, the hot, wet air hits me like a slap. It’s so humid that it feels like we’ve just walked into someone’s mouth, and my shirt instantly starts clinging to my damp back. Will and I find the taxi line and toss our backpacks into the trunk of a blue-and-yellow car. I pray it’ll be air-conditioned, but when we slip inside, it’s even warmer. I wish I had changed into shorts on the plane.

“Alun Alun Stadium?” Will says, showing the driver our instructions. “Do you know where that is?” The guy nods enthusiastically. “Perfect. As fast as you can, please.”

“What day is it?” I ask the driver, but he just says, “Yes.” Greg hops in beside him and somehow gets him to sign a release form agreeing to be on camera. Terry and all his sound equipment squish into the back with Will and me, and we’re off.

Logically, I know there are lots of countries where people drive on the left side of the road, but that doesn’t prepare me for the feeling of zooming into what looks like oncoming traffic. Every time a car flies by on the wrong side of us, I flinch. “Relax,” Will says, giving my knee a little squeeze. As if I could possibly do that with his hand on my leg.

We drive onto a massive suspension bridge, the cables glinting red-orange in the morning sun, and as I gaze out the window at the sparkling water underneath, it hits my sleep-deprived brain with renewed force that I’m actually here. I’m hurtling through a foreign country with a cute boy by my side, competing for a million dollars. I’ve never even been to Europe before, and here I am in Indonesia. And for this one moment, I’m not even that scared, just proud of myself.