For Real(3)

All three of them continue to stare; the guy on the right’s mouth is hanging open a little. “Hi,” I finish lamely. Thank God the room is dark enough that nobody can see me blushing the color of a raw steak.

“Do you like this show?” the guy on the left asks, completely missing the point. His eyebrows almost touch in the middle, like two caterpillars making out.

“No, I—I want to work in television. Some reality shows are actually good. Not this one, obviously.” On the screen, Chastiti screams, “If you ever bleeeep bleeeep me over again, I will cut your bleeeep bleeeep off; don’t you think I won’t!”

Nobody says anything for a minute. Then one of the guys on the couch asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Claire.”

“You don’t go here, do you? You’re, like, twelve.”

I draw myself up to my full, unimpressive height. “I’m eighteen. And no, I don’t go here.” I don’t tell them I’m only a senior in high school—it’s embarrassing to be a year older than most of my class, but I was still too shy to speak to strangers the year I should have started preschool. “I’m Miranda’s sister,” I offer instead.

“Miranda Henderson?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re her sister? Seriously?”

I feel my cheeks grow hotter, if that’s even possible. I know what these people are thinking—I’ve seen that same expression reflected back at me all my life. How could this girl, this short, dark-haired, socially challenged girl with the glasses, be related to gorgeous, willowy, outgoing Miranda? I watch them search me for some sign of my sister’s grace, her unique sense of style, her warm, breezy way of putting everyone she meets at ease. They don’t find it. I got all the awkward genes in the family. And all the spouting-media-theory-at-total-strangers genes, apparently.

“Seriously,” I say. For some reason, it comes out sounding like an apology.

As if to prove that we actually are related, Miranda comes barreling into the room just at that moment and grabs my hand so tightly it’s painful. This is not the happy, bubbly Miranda of ten minutes ago; she’s wild-eyed and breathing hard, and the glow of the television reveals tearstains on her cheeks. I’ve never seen my sister lose control like this in public. Something must be very wrong.

“Come on,” she says, her voice choked with anger. “We have to leave. Right now.”

“Mira, what happened? Are you okay?”

Miranda drags me out of the room without answering. We rush down the hall and past the bathroom line, and a chorus of whispers swirls in our wake. I clutch my Doctor Who tote bag to my side to avoid whacking people as we stampede through the living room. “What’s going on? Why are we—”

My sister stops just short of the front door. Samir is standing directly in her warpath, and he isn’t wearing a shirt. The girl in the kitchen was telling the truth—there’s a large CXLVI inked onto his right bicep. I have no idea if an IQ of 146 really makes you a genius, but even if it does, tattooing it on your body definitely bumps you back down a notch.

“Get the hell out of my way,” Miranda orders in a tone that could cut steel. Her cheeks are bright pink, the way they always get when she’s furious.

He doesn’t move. “Come on, Miranda, stop being so melodramatic. She’s just a friend. We were saying good-bye.”

“Most people say good-bye to their friends with their pants on, Samir!” Miranda shouts. “And if you don’t move out of my way, I will show you melodramatic!”

My face goes hot as I realize what’s happening. I wish I could storm up to Samir and punch him right in the face, but even if I were brave enough, there’s no way I could escape from Miranda’s viselike grip. The room has gone quiet, and everyone is staring at the three of us. Someone has even turned down the music.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Samir says, rolling his eyes. “God, grow up already. You know I love you, so why are you being so possessive? I’m moving in with you!”

“Not anymore, you’re not.” Miranda shoves past him and out the front door, hauling me along behind her. She’s squeezing my fingers so hard they’re going numb.

Samir follows us out onto the porch, but slowly, as if my sister isn’t really worth pursuing. “Miranda, come back inside. Let’s talk about this like adults.” He sounds more like an irritated babysitter than a repentant boyfriend.

We’re already halfway across the lawn when Miranda whips around. “I am done talking to you, Samir, about this and everything else. I hope you and your friend have a super-awesome, happy little life together!” She lets go of me and takes off down the block, and I jog to catch up.

Samir stays where he is, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “You’re gonna regret this, you know,” he calls after Miranda. “Wait till you’re stuck in some sad corporate cubicle, looking at pictures of me walking the red carpet with a supermodel on each arm. You’re gonna think, ‘That could have been me, if I’d just gotten over myself before it was too late.’ ”

Miranda doesn’t respond, but by the time we reach the car, tears are streaming down her face. When I put my hand tentatively on her back, it only makes her cry harder. I want to say something comforting, but I’m at a total loss—nobody has ever soothed me after a breakup, since I’ve never had anyone to break up with. What finally comes out of my mouth is an extremely unhelpful “What the hell?”