For Real(33)

“Come on, Dominique,” he says quietly. “Let’s go swimming. Nobody else is looking. It’s just you and me and the water, okay?”

If Natalie and I were watching this show at home and we saw some girl fall behind because she didn’t want to swim in her underwear, we’d be disgusted. Nat would probably throw Cheez-Its at the television and shout, “Suck it up, wimp!” I’m sure none of the other girls will have trouble with this challenge—the sorority sisters are probably dying to get out of their clothes, and Miranda’s always bragging about how she skinny-dipped in some reservoir in France. She won’t expect me to face this challenge head-on, and I picture the respect that will dawn in her eyes when she hears how far her innocent little sister was willing to go to stay in the race. This is my first chance to prove her wrong about me, and I’d be stupid not to take it.

I slip out of my shoes and socks, then turn away from the camera, pull my shirt over my head, and unclip my mike. My bra is dark purple, which won’t be see-through in the water, and I tell myself it’s the same as a bikini. I wriggle out of my jeans and toss them onto a deck chair. And then I join Will at the pool’s edge, holding my head high like Dominique would.

Who cares if I have a shoelace tied around my head like the biggest dork in the world? Who cares if my butt is covered in neon-colored smiley-faces? If I act like I’m the hottest thing ever, like nothing I’m doing is ridiculous or scary, maybe everyone else will be fooled.

“Cute undies,” Will whispers. He takes my hand, his fingers warm and strong as they lace through mine, and we jump into the pool together.

Things are better once I’m in the water. Will scours the deep end for rat figurines while I take the shallow end, and we’re far enough apart that I almost feel like I’m alone. After the exhausting, sweaty day we’ve had, the sensation of cool water against my bare skin is heavenly.

“Got one!” Will calls after a couple minutes. He holds a figurine up above his head.

“Let me see.” I swim over, and he drops it into my hand. It’s about the length of my palm, gray with a long pink tail. As I hand it back, I catch Will sneaking a peek at my chest, just like he did to Miranda at the auditions, and I suddenly like this challenge a lot more.

“Cool,” I say. “Twenty-four to go.”

Will runs his fingers through his spiky, wet hair—he looks different without his lucky hat—and then his hand dips back into the pool and settles on my waist. “You doing okay with this?” he asks, low enough that I’m not sure Terry’s boom microphone can hear him. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. A little shiver goes through me, and it has nothing to do with the chilly water.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Thanks.” He smiles at me, and then he dives back down, and he’s gone. I hope he’s checking out my legs underwater.

My glasses-on-a-string contraption works surprisingly well, and over the course of the next half hour, I find ten rats. Will scrounges up the additional fourteen. As I towel off and struggle into my jeans, Will presents the rats to the man in the sarong and stands there in his dripping boxer briefs, waiting for our next instructions. While he’s turned away, I can’t help staring at the muscles in his smooth, tan back, but then I catch Greg filming my face and smirking, and my cheeks heat up as I turn away. But my embarrassment does nothing to squash my good mood—conquering my fear has invigorated me, and I smile and hum to myself as I pull on my shirt. If I could get through this, maybe the rest of the “seriously steamy challenges” won’t be a problem.

Maybe I’m more ready for this race than I thought.





Just as Philadelphia and an already-shirtless Blake sprint into the pool area—I guess they didn’t end up in Serbia after all—Will returns to my side with our next envelope. “Go ahead and read it while I get dressed,” he says, pulling his lucky hat on over his wet hair.

The sound guy makes me wait while he reaches up my shirt and reattaches my mike to my wet bra, and then I rip the envelope open and read the instructions aloud.

Make your way by cab to the Pasar Pabean market. In nearby Malaysia, brides and grooms are forbidden to use the bathroom for three days after their weddings, a superstitious practice meant to ensure the health of their future children. In homage to this tradition of “holding in your water,” so to speak, you must navigate this crowded marketplace and purchase one srikaya, one bakpao, and a quarter kilo of ikan asin, all while holding a shallow pan of water between you. If you spill it, you must return to the entrance to have your pan refilled. You may not set down the pan at any time. Present your purchases and your full water pan behind the market to receive your next instructions.

I don’t even understand half the words I just read. “What the hell is a srikaya? And a bakpao?” I say.

At the same time, Will says, “I’m sorry, people aren’t allowed to pee for three days after they get married?”

I start giggling uncontrollably; I am so, so tired right now. “That doesn’t even seem possible, does it?”

“I would just let it flow. Screw my future children. They can keep themselves healthy.”

“I guess we should be happy that’s not the challenge, right?”

As we run out the sliding doors and back into the hotel lobby, I catch Will glancing back at Philadelphia, who has just removed her shirt. It’s not exactly surprising that he wants to see more boobs—he is a twenty-one-year-old guy, after all—but it makes me a little sad that my boobs weren’t enough for him.