For Real(68)

When we get on the plane, I put my earbuds in so Samir won’t try to talk to me again. Somehow, I totally forgot about the motivational playlist Natalie made me before I left for the race, and I listen to it on repeat for most of the trip, even the techno-ballad by Refried Death that I know she included just to annoy me. The songs make me feel like my best friend is cheering me on from a distance, like I still have an ally somewhere in the world, and by the time we arrive in Glasgow around two in the afternoon, I’m feeling pumped up and ready.

Samir and I make our way through passport control, then out to the parking garage, where we spot a row of Around the World cars. I slide into the driver’s seat before he can get there, then spend several minutes meticulously adjusting the mirrors. When I can tell he’s gotten good and antsy, I finally say, “Oh no. Is this car a manual? I don’t know how to drive stick. Do you?”

Samir heaves an exasperated sigh. “Oh my God, Claire, are you serious? How did you not notice that the second you sat down? Look at the freaking gear shift!” Miranda and Steve pull out in front of us and zoom off, and Samir punches the back of the seat. “Crap, they’re already ahead of us! Get in the back! How did you do so well on the last leg of the race when you don’t pay attention?”

I shrug and switch places with him as slowly as I can. “Sorry, I’m really spacey today. I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Well, pull it together. Do you think you can manage to navigate, or am I going to have to do that, too?”

“No problem,” I say, unfurling the map. “I’m great with directions.” The moment we get to the highway, I call out a wrong turn.

We’re one of the last couples to arrive at Glasgow Green. As Samir sprints toward the terra-cotta fountain, I lag behind, making exaggerated panting sounds. “I can’t keep up with you,” I complain. “Your legs are, like, twice as long as mine, and my pack is way too big for me. It makes it really hard to run.”

“God, just give it to me,” he snaps. Samir’s not a big guy, and it delights me to see him struggle to run with both our packs. It’s pretty cool outside for July, but by the time we locate the kilt-clad local who has our next instructions, his forehead is dripping with sweat.

I take a look at the world’s largest terra-cotta fountain, but I can’t figure out what’s special about it. I mean, it’s ornate and everything, but when it comes down to it, it’s just a big, orangey-red fountain. Who even keeps track of the sizes of various terra-cotta fountains? Probably the same people who try to get in the Guinness World Records books for stuff like skateboarding while holding a goat for the longest distance.

I tear open our envelope.

It’s time for Cupid’s Questions, the game that tests how much you know about your date! You’ve had hours in the air to bond, and if you’ve hit it off and gotten close, you deserve a reward! Enter one of our pink tents, where your Cupid will ask you a series of questions. You will both write down your answers, and if they match, you will earn a point. Rack up ten points to receive your next instructions!

This should be pretty easy to drag out—Samir and I haven’t talked at all since we were paired up, so he hasn’t learned a thing about me. I head toward the row of small pink tents across the field, but Samir grabs my arm. “Memorize this, okay? I was born in Santa Barbara, but we moved to Hartford when I was two. My mom’s name is Shalini and my dad’s is Dev, and they’re computer programmers, and I have two older sisters and one older brother, and all of them are doctors. I’m allergic to cats and peaches, and my favorite color is red, and my favorite film is Fellini’s 8?, and I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little, but now—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Samir, I’m not going to remember any of this. You can’t cram hours of bonding time into two minutes.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? Tell me about yourself really quickly.”

“We’re wasting time. Let’s just go in there and do the best we can, okay?”

“The best we can isn’t going to cut it if we don’t know anything about each other, Claire! God, it’s like you want us to lose!”

I try not to smile. “I’m sure they won’t ask us anything that hard.”

“What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite band?”

It would look suspicious if I refused to tell him, so I’ll just have to hope they don’t ask those questions. “My favorite food is coffee ice cream, and my favorite band is Rhetorical Impasse, okay? Now come on!” I push into a tent before he can stop me.

Our “Cupid,” a blond woman in her twenties, is wearing feathered wings and a white polyester robe that ends midthigh. She’s also carrying a quiver of plastic arrows, which snags on the fabric of the tent every time she moves and makes her scowl in a very uncherubic way. Samir and I sit down in a matching pair of red vinyl armchairs, and our Cupid hands us red dry-erase pens and mini whiteboards with little hearts around the borders. This is almost as cheesy as the Love Shack. Robby positions himself across from us with his camera, next to Cupid.

“Question one,” she says with a thick Scottish accent that makes me want to laugh. “How many siblings does Claire have?”

Crap—Samir obviously knows the answer to this question. When our Cupid dings a little bell after fifteen seconds, we both hold up our boards. Mine says, “One.” Samir’s says, “One sister: Miranda Henderson.” He’s clearly angling for extra credit. What a suck-up.