For Real(30)

“Holy crap,” I say to Will. “We’re in Java.” I leave out the cute boy part.

“Welcome to the other side of the world, Dominique,” he says. And then he winks at me. If this were a movie, I’d groan at how cheesy that is. But somehow it’s totally different when someone does it to you in real life. I start to feel even more overheated.

“Aren’t you dying in that wool hat?” I ask to distract myself.

“A little. But it’s my lucky hat. I have to wear it.”

“All the time? Or only when you’re trying to win something?”

“All the time.”

“Does it work? Are you actually luckier?”

He thinks about it. “I guess I don’t really know, since I always wear it. But I bet my life would be worse without it.”

“Or maybe your life would be exactly the same, only your head wouldn’t be hot.”

Will gives me a very serious look. “Do I really want to take that chance? Think of all the terrible things that could happen. What if I took it off and then our cab broke down, and we had to sit here in the middle of this bridge for hours while the strippers and the bimbos passed us?”

“Good point,” I say. “Why don’t you keep it on for now.”

We wind through the streets of Surabaya, past storefronts shaded with slapdash, corrugated-metal awnings and topped with tiny apartments. All the roofs are made of red tile, and everyone seems to have a balcony, even if they don’t have a front door. A man comes out to sweep in front of his shop and shoos away a couple of chickens. When we stop at a light, a woman passes in front of the car lugging an enormous basket filled with unfamiliar red objects. I think it’s food, but I can’t tell if it’s produce or fish.

Eventually our cabbie pulls up beside a long, oval field surrounded by a tall iron fence, scrubby trees, and multicolored flags. “Alun Alun,” he announces.

I don’t see any sort of marker that indicates we’re in the right place, but Martin and Zora are getting out of another cab farther up the block. “How much do we owe you?” I ask, pulling out our rupiahs. They’re bright jewel tones, purple and blue and green. I hope we’ll have some left over so I can keep one as a souvenir.

Our driver rattles off something in … Indonesian? I can’t believe I don’t even know what language they speak here. In any case, I don’t understand it, so I fan out the money and extend it so he can pluck out the correct change. He extracts two bills, and I hope he hasn’t taken more than the ride was worth.

“Thank you!” Will calls as we sprint away with our backpacks. Or, rather, Will sprints, and I shuffle along as quickly as I can. I swear this backpack has gotten heavier.

Now that we’re out of the car, the box of pink envelopes at the other end of the field is hard to miss. Standing off to the side is a large crowd of locals who cheer when they see us and an American guy in a pink Around the World shirt, jabbering angrily into his phone. He must be one of the producers. Farther down the field are a couple guys in fringe pants and gigantic lion-head masks decorated with peacock plumes. They’re performing a spinning, squatting dance while a couple musicians accompany them with bells and some sort of wind instrument that sounds like an out-of-tune oboe.

Will extracts a pink envelope from the box, rips it open, and reads the instructions aloud.

At the end of a wedding in the nearby Marquesas Islands, it is traditional for the guests to lie facedown on the floor while the bride and groom walk over their backs and get out the door. In homage to this, one member of your team must crawl one hundred meters while the other team member rides on his/her back. The rider may not touch the ground at any time, or you must start over. When you have completed this task, the head lion dancer will give you your next instructions.

I stare at Will, sure he must be teasing me for the comment I made on the plane about riding him. “It does not say that.”

“See for yourself.” He holds it out.

It really does say that. I suddenly don’t feel the least bit tired. “I seriously have to ride you?”

“Well, I could ride you, if you’d prefer. It doesn’t specify which team member should be on top.” His mouth quirks into a teasing smile, and that insane dimple peeks out at me.

I might die if this conversation goes on for one more second, so I try for the first time to channel Dominique. My kick-ass alter ego wouldn’t let this situation embarrass her. There’s nothing scary or intimidating about sitting on someone’s back. “All right, I’m on top,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Zora is already climbing onto Martin’s back over by a pink flag in the grass, which seems to mark the starting line. There’s another flag way down the field; it turns out a hundred meters is kind of a lot. “So … how do we do this, exactly?” I ask Will when we’ve joined them and shed our packs.

He drops down onto all fours. “Hop on, cowgirl.”

Gingerly, I sit down near his hips, facing sideways. I don’t even want to touch him with my hands, in case he feels how sweaty they are. “Is this okay?” I ask.

“Are you going to be able to hold your feet off the ground? I think you should straddle me.”

Greg’s right in my face with the camera, and I can imagine millions of viewers roaring with laughter at my expression. Dominique straddles people all the time, I remind myself. I take a deep breath, swing my leg around, and squeeze Will’s hips tight between my thighs, then tuck my feet up under his perfect butt. “Sorry if I’m too heavy,” I say. “Rest whenever you need to.”