For Real(48)

The woman who was dressing my sister touches my arm, and I jump—I forgot she was there. “Clothes off,” she orders.

I undress mechanically, and when she hands me a purple shirt and underskirt, I put them on without a fight. The shirt ends just below my rib cage, but when I try to pull it down to cover my stomach, she slaps my hands away. Then she starts wrapping me in yards and yards of purple and gold fabric, folding it into my waistband, pulling it over my shoulder, then pleating the remaining fabric and tucking it in near my belly button. She doesn’t use any pins or fasteners, and I’m afraid the whole ensemble is going to fall apart the second I move. But when I test it, it feels surprisingly secure.

The woman glues a ruby-colored bindi to the center of my forehead, slips a few gold bracelets onto my arms, and surveys her work. I guess I must look acceptable, because she gives me a little shove, and I stumble out of the dressing room and into the crowd.

Troy is waiting for me with our crew, wearing a cream-and-gold robe that looks great against his dark skin. “Whoa,” he says, looking me up and down. “Fancy.”

I smooth the fabric of my sari, trying not to show how much my hands are shaking. “Yeah. I’m a little worried it’s going to fall off, though.”

He shrugs. “No big deal. I usually take my clothes off while I’m dancing.”

Against my will, I smile a little. “Try to keep them on this time, okay?”

“I can’t make any promises, baby. These abs can’t be contained for long.”

Samir and Tawny pass us on the way back to the dressing room, and Samir accidentally-on-purpose bumps me with his shoulder. “Too bad I can’t stick around to watch you two dancing together,” he snorts. “That’s going to be a hot mess.”

Did Miranda mention to him that I have a thing about dancing? Or is he just trying to rattle me? I try to think of a snappy comeback that’ll rope him into an argument and slow him down so my sister can pull ahead. But I’m not great with comebacks even at the best of times, not to mention when I’m so nervous I can barely breathe. Before I can say anything at all, he’s walking away.

Miranda and Steve take their places onstage, and the whole crowd whistles and cheers. Steve looks a little fidgety, but my sister’s totally calm and composed, as if she performs dance routines in a sari every day. Before I manage to fight it back, a wave of jealousy and anger consumes me. Why did she have to take so much in the genetic lottery? Did she really need all the coolness, all the poise, every ounce of fearlessness? Couldn’t she have left the tiniest bit for me? Miranda didn’t even want to come on this show in the first place, and everything is still so easy for her, while I have to struggle for every accomplishment. And because my sister is the way she is, she’ll never even understand how hard this is for me or how much I’ve already overcome.

“I guess we should go up there and wait,” Troy says, breaking my train of thought. “You ready?”

I am the opposite of ready. For a second, I consider finding the redheaded producer and telling her I’m done, that the race is more than I can handle. Miranda doesn’t need my help to beat Samir; if I left right now, she’d be absolutely fine. But quitting would only cancel out the small amount of headway I’ve made and show my sister that she’s been right about me all along. This dancing challenge might be a massive failure, but I have to at least try, if only to prove I’m not a helpless little girl who spends her life cowering inside her comfort zone.

I give Troy a tiny nod, and he starts pushing through the crowd. The stage feels like it’s physically repelling me like the wrong end of a magnet, and I have to fight to take each step forward. If I can barely make myself walk, I have no idea how I’m going to make myself dance. But before I know it, I’m standing in the wings and awaiting my three minutes in the spotlight.

My sister looks fluid and gorgeous as she whirls around the stage, shimmying her hips to the peppy Bollywood beat. She’s not even doing anything sexy, but she looks so comfortable in her own skin that she’s captivating to watch. I glance over at Steve, expecting him to look as awkward as I will—maybe it’ll make me feel better. But he’s doing this goofy, ridiculous move that involves hopping from side to side and doing a wave motion with his arms, and he’s so committed to it that it’s hilarious instead of embarrassing. The bride, who’s sitting front and center, laughs uproariously and claps her hennaed hands, and the groom seems to be recording the performance with his phone.

Way too soon, the music ends, Steve and Miranda bow, and it’s my turn.

I’m so terrified now that I feel oddly removed from the world. Troy walks out to the center of the floor, confident and sure, and my feet follow against my will. Miranda says something to me as she hurries past, but my head is full of a strange rushing noise that blocks out all other sounds. As I stand in the middle of the stage and stare out into the enormous audience, my vision starts to tunnel, and tiny sparks wink to life around the edges. I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and I take a giant gulp of air and forbid myself to pass out. There’s only one thought in my mind, and it blares over and over, loud as a siren.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

The music starts, and I hear the thumping bass as if it’s coming from underwater. Troy starts dancing, lifting his robe to display his rippling abs and swiveling hips, and everyone goes insane. I watch with detached interest as he flexes his butt cheeks one at a time. Then I see a guy in a yellow robe point at me and laugh, and I realize how ridiculous I must look, rooted to the spot like I’m playing freeze tag. I order my body to move, even just a little, but I’m way past being able to control my limbs. They don’t even feel like they belong to me anymore.