For Real(70)

Samir is waiting with our next pink envelope when I come out, literally tapping his foot with impatience. “What took you so long?”

I hold out my arms, which are still streaked with pudding. “Um, this?”

“God, Claire, now is not the time for preening. We’re in a race, not a beauty contest. I thought you wanted to beat your sister.”

“I do,” I say, pleased that he still believes that’s my goal.

“Well, so far you suck at it. She’s been gone almost ten minutes. If you really want to get ahead, you have to make some sacrifices, okay?”

I bite back all the retorts that spring to mind and give him my best penitent smile. “Sorry, I’ll try to go faster.”

“You better.” He rips open the envelope and reads aloud:

Make your way to the Chimney Sweep, a famous Glasgow pub. Chimney sweeps are thought to bring good luck at weddings in the UK, and they are sometimes hired to kiss the bride. In the back room of the pub, you will find several replica chimneys much like the ones real chimney sweeps face daily. Both team members must enter a chimney together and search for the loose brick on the inside of the walls, behind which lie your next instructions.

I hope none of the other teams are claustrophobic, or this challenge is really going to slow them down, and it’ll be impossible to stay at the back of the pack. I mean, it’s not like I’m a huge fan of tiny spaces, but at least I’m not going to have a panic attack or anything.

Wait a minute. A panic attack.

I picture the way Will acted that first day on the plane, sweating and shaking and hyperventilating, and I’m struck with a brilliant idea. I must be grinning unintentionally, because Samir says, “God, why do you look so creepily happy? Is squeezing yourself inside a filthy, sooty chimney your freakish idea of fun?”

I just smile at him. “The soot won’t bother me,” I say. “I don’t mind playing dirty at all.”





The pub isn’t one of the landmarks listed on our map, but there are tons of people strolling around Glasgow Green, and Samir and I ask random strangers where it is until we find someone who knows. Everyone stares at my sticky arms like they’re afraid I have some horrible skin disease, but it doesn’t even bother me. When I think about how nervous I was asking Taufik for help in the Indonesian marketplace, I can’t figure out why I was so scared. It’s weird how things that once seemed like a huge deal just fade into the background when there are bigger concerns to worry about.

I navigate us through Glasgow, hoping Samir has a bad sense of direction and won’t notice we’re taking a very circuitous route to the pub. When we finally arrive, Martin and Zora are on their way out, covered in soot and clutching their next envelope. Samir curses. “We’re so behind! If you’d just listened to the stuff I told you before we went in that idiotic Cupid tent—”

“It’ll be fine, Samir,” I say, cutting him off. “We’ll search quickly, okay? There can’t be that many bricks inside a chimney. We can still catch up. We’re not even in last place.” He pushes in front of me and shoves the door open, and I give the camera a little wink as soon as his back is turned.

To my dismay, there’s a bagpiper inside the pub—that sound has always reminded me of dying cattle. But aside from that, it’s a gorgeous space, paneled in carved dark wood that looks like it’s been polished smooth by hundreds of years of rubbing hands. At first I’m surprised by the number of people drinking this early in the afternoon, but they all raise their glasses to us in unison and shout “Sláinte!” when we walk in, so most of them are probably hired extras. I pause to give the drinkers a little salute before Samir practically drags me into the back.

There are four replica chimneys in the room. Through the openings where fireplaces would normally go, I can make out four pairs of feet, including my sister’s red sneakers and Will’s blue ones. As we pass Miranda’s chimney, I hear a muffled voice say, “Reach behind my head … no, wait, ow, not there!” From Will and Janine’s, I only hear high-pitched giggling, which makes my stomach squirm. A producer points us toward the chimney across from my sister’s, and Samir crouches down by the opening.

“How are we even supposed to do this?” he asks. “There’s barely room for one person in here.”

“I guess we just have to squeeze. Should we go in front-to-front or back-to-back?”

Samir frowns as he eyes my pudding-smeared arms. “Back-to-back. I don’t want your skin touching me.”

I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to work, but in the interest of killing more time, I say, “Great, let’s go.”

Samir goes in first, and then I do an awkward hop-scoot-crawl into the bottom of the chimney and worm myself upright. Once I’m standing, our bodies take up the whole space, and there isn’t any room to raise our arms and search. The back room of the pub is pretty dark to begin with, and now that we’re enclosed by sooty black walls, it’s impossible to see anything at all. Samir sneezes, and his head cracks into mine. The tiny enclosure is already starting to heat up from our breath and the warmth of our bodies, and I can tell it’ll be stifling soon. Until this moment, I hadn’t even noticed that Samir was wearing cologne, but now the smell is so overpowering it makes me want to gag. How could Miranda have wanted to get close to this guy on purpose?