For Real(57)

I’m totally speechless. Nobody has ever called me a kick-ass woman before. Nobody has ever called me deep or adventurous or brave, either. Is that really what Will sees when he looks at me? Is that what millions of viewers will see when they watch the show? Even if I don’t feel like that girl, is it possible I’ve started to become her without even noticing?

After a few seconds, when I still haven’t said anything, Will drops his eyes again. “I told you it was embarrassing.”

“No. It’s not. Not at all.” I reach out and touch his arm. I want to thank him for the compliment, but you can’t really say Thanks for noticing how awesome I am. So I settle for “I’m glad you, um, found what you were looking for.”

“Me too.” He smiles. “Ready to keep walking?”

He links his arm through mine, like he’s more comfortable touching me now that he’s told me how he feels, and he leads us to the left. We haven’t seen any other people up until this point, but on the corner of the next block, we spot a restaurant that’s still open. It looks exactly like a restaurant in Greece should look—the outside is painted bright white, and the plaster walls are crumbling slightly at the corners to reveal the bricks underneath. The planters out front overflow with red flowers that are blooming so enthusiastically it’s almost indecent. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the place is jam-packed, full of flickering candlelight and music and laughter. I tiptoe closer and peer through the window.

There’s some sort of party going on; most of the tables have been removed, and couples are dancing in the middle of the parquet floor. Many of the women look a little unsteady in their heels, and waiters in black circulate through the crowd with bottles of wine, compounding the problem. Best of all, everyone is wearing masks sparkling with sequins and adorned with ribbons and feather plumes the colors of tropical birds. It’s a real, live masquerade party, straight out of a movie. This place looks like my heart feels right now—glittery and bright and whimsical.

“That looks like so much fun,” I whisper to Will.

“We should go in.”

“I’m sure it’s someone’s private party. They’d realize they don’t know us right away and throw us out.”

“Maybe not if we were wearing these.” He holds up two masks.

I gape at him. “Where did you get those?” Tonight feels so magical that it seems possible he’s conjured them out of the air.

“They were in the planter. Someone must have left them when they went home.”

One of the masks is small, covered in plain black sequins, like a really shiny bandit mask. The other is shaped like a butterfly and decorated with iridescent blue and green feathers. Three gorgeous peacock plumes swoop up from beside each eye hole, and I trace their softness with my finger.

Will holds it out to me. “Here, try it on.”

I slip the elastic band around the back of my head. It takes a minute to get the mask settled over my glasses, but when it’s in place, I feel more like the kick-ass woman Will was describing earlier. “How do I look?”

“Dazzling.” He puts on the bandit mask. “And me?”

“Kind of like … a bank robber from a Broadway musical.”

“In a good way, I assume.”

“How could that possibly be bad?”

He smiles and holds out an arm to me. “So, shall we?”

I thought we were just playing, but I realize now that he’s serious about crashing this party. “Will, we can’t actually go in. I’m wearing yoga pants. You have a Batman logo on your shirt. This is, like, a fancy-rich-people party. We don’t belong here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The mysterious Lady Dominique belongs anywhere she damn well pleases.” He takes my hand, does an exaggerated bow over it, and presses his lips to my knuckles. I feel it through my whole body, and I giggle.

“Okay, seriously, though. We’re just going to waltz through the front door? Someone’s going to notice. See that big guy with the clipboard? He might be a bouncer.”

Will shrugs. “Then I guess we better find the back door.”

Before I can protest, he grabs my arm and leads me around the back of the building, where there’s a parking lot full of cars and catering vans. “That probably leads to the kitchen,” he says, pointing at an unmarked metal door in the corner. “Follow me.” Tiptoeing like he really is a bank robber, he slinks through the shadows toward the door and tugs on it. It’s locked, of course.

“Let’s just wait here for a few minutes and see if anyone comes out,” he whispers. “I used to work for a catering company, and we were always forgetting stuff in the van.” He crouches down against the restaurant’s back wall and gestures for me to sit beside him.

“We really don’t have to do this,” I say. “We could get in trouble. What if the network finds out and sends us home?”

“How could that happen? Nobody here knows who we are. They don’t know we’re from the race. If they catch us, they’ll toss us out, and we’ll be right back where we are now, only with a good story. What do we have to lose?”

He’s right. I love that he’s not content with pretending and playing it safe and looking in on adventures from the outside. It’s frightening to be with someone who’s always testing the limits and pushing things to the next level, but it’s also totally thrilling. I want more than anything to be worthy of this, to be that brave girl Will thinks I am. So I crouch down next to him, close enough that our shoulders are touching, and we wait for our opportunity to slip into the unknown.