For Real(32)

Will leans back and lowers his voice. “What do we do? Should we get out?”

“I don’t know. Do you think we’re really behind?”

“Maybe. But other people might have gotten lost, too.”

We pull up beside another cab, and to my relief, our cabbie yells something out the window to the other driver. I don’t understand any of it, but I assume (and hope and pray) he’s asking for directions. Then he does another U-turn, cranking the wheel so hard Will flies into the sound equipment.

By the time we get to the hotel, we’ve been driving around for an hour, and I’m pretty sure I recognize the auto body shop down the street as one we passed five minutes from the stadium. Martin and Zora sprint out the lobby doors as we go to pull them open, and we spot Troy and Janine getting into a cab down the street. I can’t believe they’ve managed to do two challenges in the time it took us to get here. “This sucks,” I mutter to Will.

We ask the woman behind the front desk where to go, and she signs Greg’s waiver and directs us toward the back of the hotel. The pool area is gorgeous, tiled in a warm terra-cotta color and surrounded by palm trees and potted ferns. We’re the only ones here, except for a producer and a Javanese guy dressed in a sarong and holding a stack of pink envelopes. Cushioned beach chairs under canvas umbrellas line the edge of the pool, and when I see them, my exhaustion hits me like a punch to the face. All I want to do is curl up in the shade and let the soothing sound of the breeze rustling through the palms lull me to sleep.

Will approaches the edge of the pool and looks down into the turquoise-blue water. “Oh God,” he says. “Now I get why this is hard.”

Every single inch of the pool’s floor is covered with tiny animal figurines. There must be thousands of them. From here, I can pick out a few orange tigers, a couple of bright green parrots and frogs, and some white polar bears. But most of the animals are various shades of gray and brown, the same colors as rats.

“Are you kidding?” I say. Then something else occurs to me. “Oh God, I’m not even going to be able to see which ones are rats without my glasses.” In the rush to pack for the race, it never even occurred to me that I’d need to buy prescription goggles.

“Can we tie them to your head somehow, so you can swim with them on?”

“There’s an extra pair of shoelaces in my bag,” I say. “I’ll give it a shot. Why don’t you go ask that guy where the swimsuits are?”

I’ve managed to craft a functional glasses-holding device by the time Will comes back empty-handed. “That looks … good,” he says, then bursts out laughing. “I mean, you also look like the biggest nerd I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, this was your idea. Where are the swimsuits?”

“There aren’t any. The producer says we have to swim in whatever we brought.”

I stare at him. “But … I didn’t bring a swimsuit. They said we didn’t have to. Do you have one?”

“Nope.” He slips off his shoes. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

I can’t very well swim in my jeans, and my cotton shirt will never dry in this humidity. I start pawing furiously through my bag, looking for the sports bra and shorts I know I packed, but I can’t find them. And even if I did, where would I change? Maybe I could go inside the hotel and find a bathroom?

“Claire, come on! What are you doing?” Will says.

“I’m looking for something to swim in, but I can’t—”

And then I glance up, and my brain shuts off.

Will is standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. His torso is wiry but subtly muscular, and his smooth, damp skin glints in the Java sunshine. As I try not to stare at the chiseled lines leading down from his hipbones, I hear Isis’s voice in my head: We have some seriously steamy challenges in store for you.

For a second, all I can think is Thank you, God.

And then I think, Millions of people are about to see my lucky smiley-face underwear.

“We’re wasting time,” Will says. “We have to find those rats and get out of here. Just take off your clothes, okay? It’s no big deal.”

Maybe it’s no big deal for him, but it is for me. I hate myself for my nerves and my modesty, and I know I’m wasting precious minutes. But if I’d known coming here would mean that everyone I know would get to see me strip on television, I never would have auditioned. I’m beyond exhausted, there’s a camera in my face, Will is standing in front of me practically naked, and I’m suddenly so overwhelmed that I’m sure I’m going to cry.

“I just … I can’t …,” I say, and my voice comes out so small it’s almost inaudible.

“You can,” Will says firmly. He grabs my shoulders and looks me right in the eyes. “The producers want you to make this into a big deal, but you’re not going to let them win, are you? You’re stronger than they are. You’re going to do this challenge with your head held high, and it’ll be over before you know it. Plus, you have absolutely no reason to be embarrassed about taking your clothes off. Trust me.”

He doesn’t say it in a flirty way, and that’s what makes me believe he really means it. He’s not trying to hit on me; he just thinks it’s an empirical fact that my body is fit to be seen by strangers. I suddenly don’t feel like crying anymore.