For Real(47)

Troy reads our instructions aloud.

Make your way by taxi to the Saubhāgya Ballroom. Before an Indian wedding, it is traditional to throw a sangeet party, during which family and friends of the bride and groom entertain the couple by performing songs and dances. When you arrive at the party, you will don traditional Indian clothing, and then you will have three minutes to entertain the wedding party with your sexiest dancing. Bring your hottest moves!

Troy grins at me. “Hellllll yeah! Sexy dancing? I am alllll over this. Let’s go!”

Every time I think I’ve reached my maximum level of discomfort, the producers find a way to push me one step farther, so it figures they’ve finally landed on the one thing I hate most in the world. As we start our treacherous journey back toward the center of the city, all I can think about is my ridiculous, failed attempt to dance at Miranda’s graduation party. It was humiliating enough that I couldn’t do what came naturally to everyone else when I was an anonymous body in a sea of strangers. And this time, people will actually be paying attention—I’ll be front and center, showcasing my paralyzing performance anxiety for a wedding party, a bunch of producers, and millions of viewers. Will it count if I stand in the middle of the stage, frozen with terror, while Troy sexy-dances around me? In front of all those judging eyes, will I even be able to stay on my feet for three minutes, or will I just keel over in a mortified heap?

“What’s up with you?” Troy says. “Why do you have that pinched-up look on your face again? Sad our time in the Looooove Shack is over?”

I don’t want him to know how afraid I am, so I just swallow hard and say, “Um, I don’t really dance.”

Troy shrugs. “No biggie. Just pretend you’re at a party and do whatever you usually do. Trust me, once I turn on my moves, nobody’s gonna be looking at you, girl.”

If only Troy knew that the parties I go to usually consist of popcorn and movie marathons.

Way before I’ve managed to slow my racing heart, we arrive at the hotel where the ballroom is located. Even all the way down the hall from the party room, we can hear the thumping beat of Bollywood music, and when Troy pushes open the door, my knees go weak. Since this is a pre-wedding party, I wasn’t expecting that many guests. But the room is packed with hundreds of people, all grouped around a makeshift stage where three women in blue saris are performing a choreographed routine. Off to the side, I spot Samir and Tawny, dressed in their Indian outfits and waiting for their turn to entertain the crowd. Samir is in a red embroidered robe that falls past his knees, tight gold pants, and a sparkly scarf, and Tawny is wrapped in a hot-pink sari. Both of them are bopping their heads to the music, and neither one looks remotely nervous.

A small redheaded producer leads Troy and me toward two makeshift dressing rooms made of folding screens on the far side of the room. Troy disappears into one of them, and the producer directs me into the other. “When you’re done getting dressed, stand where Samir and Tawny are now and wait your turn, okay?” she shouts over the music. I don’t trust my voice not to tremble, so I just nod and slip behind the screen.

And miraculously, like the universe knows exactly what I need right now, there’s my sister. I launch myself into her arms, ignoring the tiny woman who’s dressing her in a forest-green sari, and Miranda’s hand automatically flies up and starts stroking my hair. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did Troy do something to you?”

I shake my head. “I can’t dance in front of all these people, Mira,” I say close to her ear. “I can’t dance at all, in front of anyone, ever. You know how I get in front of crowds.”

I feel her sigh. “Yeah, I know how you get. But you have to do this, babe. You don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t think I can.” Now that someone I trust is finally here next to me, I feel like I’m about to cry.

“I know it’s scary, but you’re strong,” she says. She rubs my back in the same comforting pattern my mom always used to do when we were little—circle, circle, pat pat pat.

“I’m not. Maybe I should just quit now, before I make a complete fool of myself.”

And just like that, the patting stops. Miranda pulls back, holds me at arm’s length, and stares into my face. I expect to see sternness there, but weirdly, she looks a little desperate. “You can’t quit,” she says. “How could you do that? You’re the one who convinced me to come here, and now you want to back out on me? Because of this?”

“Miranda, I—”

“It’s not like you have to bungee jump or eat live bugs or something. All you have to do is stand on a stage and move around for a couple minutes. You don’t even have to do it well. This is not a big deal, Claire.”

“It’s a big deal to me,” I whisper.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But you keep telling me you can take care of yourself, and I need you to do that now, okay? You’re going to get through this.” She squeezes my shoulders and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, her hair a cocoa-scented whisper against my face. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

I stare after her, openmouthed. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—of course she can’t stay and talk this through with me while the clock is running. But if the two of us really are a team, like we promised each other at the starting line, shouldn’t I be her priority right now? I understand that she wants to beat Samir to the checkpoint, but I’m almost certain there are several teams behind us, so it’s not like she has to pass him to stay in the game. We’ll have plenty of chances to get ahead of him later. Miranda’s always implying that I need my hand held, but now, when I actually do, she’s not willing to help.