For Real(49)

The redheaded producer is frowning at me from the corner of the room, and her eyes stay locked on me as she says something into her walkie-talkie. Maybe she’s calling in reinforcements to coerce me into dancing. If I don’t start moving right this second, she’ll probably refuse to give us credit for this challenge. Maybe she’ll start the music over from the top. Maybe she’ll make me dance alone. My cheeks feel wet, and I realize with horror that I’m crying. This is, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing I have ever experienced.

Just as I’m considering fleeing the stage and hiding under a rock for the rest of my life, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch away, sure someone has come to reprimand me. But it’s only Miranda, still dressed in her sari and bangles. “What are you doing up here?” I try to say, but I’m not sure any sound comes out.

She doesn’t offer an explanation. Instead, she gently turns me to face her and takes both my sweaty, shaking hands in hers. And then she starts to dance.

It’s simple at first, just an easy side-to-side bounce. I try to forget about all the people staring at me and concentrate on my sister’s face—her bright blue eyes, the tiny constellation of freckles sprinkled across her left cheekbone, the dimple in her chin—and feeling slowly creeps back into my limbs. I start to shift along with her, moving my feet back and forth, and she squeezes my hands to let me know I’m doing okay. When her shoulders and hips start to move, I try to copy her as best I can, and she smiles and nods encouragingly. Then she lets go of one of my hands so she can spin me around, and an unexpected laugh flies out of my mouth.

I’m actually doing this. I’m dancing. On a stage, in front of people. My body’s not as fluid as Miranda’s by a long shot, but I’m moving to the beat, and it feels … well, it feels kind of good. Nobody’s booing or laughing or throwing things at me. And incredibly, I realize I’m actually having fun.

Now that I’ve started, dancing feels like something I’ve always been able to do, a skill that’s been locked away inside me for so long I forgot it was even there. I jump up and down and bop my head back and forth, and Miranda grins and does the same. Troy shifts over to the left to make more room for us, and we spin forward to fill the space. As Miranda links her arm through mine and starts doing silly Rockette kicks, the crowd and the cameras cease to exist for me altogether, and I suddenly remember how my sister and I used to dance around her bedroom to the Backstreet Boys when we were little. Miranda was the only one who could ever make me feel that free and uninhibited, like I could stop overthinking everything and just enjoy being alive.

And for a few short minutes, as we spin around this stage on the other side of the world, it seems possible that someday I could learn to be this way all on my own.

When the song ends, Miranda turns me toward the bride and groom and holds my hand up like I’ve won a boxing match, and the whole room erupts in applause. Everyone’s cheering us on, even the redheaded producer. After a few seconds, I turn and look at my sister, who gives me the most gigantic grin I’ve ever seen. I smile back so hard my face hurts.

I can barely hear her over the noise of the crowd and the adrenaline pumping through my blood, but I see her mouth form the words “You did it.”

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, being myself feels like enough.





It’s nearly midnight by the time Miranda, Steve, Troy, and I find Isis at the Cupid’s Nest in front of India Gate, which looks sort of like an Eastern-style Arc de Triomphe. We check in—Miranda and Steve are third, and Troy and I are fourth, by two minutes—and then my sister and I look around for a place to rest until the other teams show up. There are no benches on the vast plaza, so we finally plunk down on the ground and prop ourselves up with our packs. “So, other than the dancing, how’d your day go?” she asks.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” I say. “Mira, thank you so much. Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done without you up on that stage.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was no big deal.”

“It was a big deal. I was totally freaking out up there, and you—”

“Clairie,” she says, cutting me off, “you’re the one who said we’re a team no matter what, remember? If you need me, I’ll be there for you, okay? And I know you’ll do the same for me.”

I can’t think of a situation in which Miranda would need my help, but I nod. “Of course I will. But every minute counts here, so I appreciate the sacrifice.”

“We’ll just regroup and race faster tomorrow.” Miranda leans back against her pack and stretches her arms over her head as we watch Janine and Aidan jog across the plaza. “God, I’m so sore from squatting down in that stupid goat pen,” she says.

“Troy could help you with that.”

She snorts. “How? By taking his clothes off to distract me?”

“No, apparently he’s a licensed massage therapist. One of the many strange things I learned today.”

“What? How is that even possible? He seems dumb as a brick.”

“Actually, he’s bizarrely smart. He says he’s been acting like a idiot on purpose because that’s what the producers want.”

“Huh. Crazy.”

We sit quietly for a minute, absorbing that and watching the tourists taking late-night strolls, and then Miranda says, “Hey, you want to play the Limerick Game?”