Free For Real by Alison Cherry Page B

Revenge,” Miranda whispers fiercely. She grins and holds out her hand for one of those cheesy exploding fist-bumps. I start to feel a little calmer as I touch my fist to hers. This past week, I’ve finally felt like my sister and I are a true team—she’s even the one who managed to convince my parents I’m responsible and mature enough to go on the race. During the day, we shopped for clothes and gear, and we spent our evenings poring over strategy websites and watching old race shows online. Every time one team sabotaged another, we took notes and discussed similar tactics we could use on Samir. My sister consulted me on everything and took my opinions seriously, and for the first time, it felt like we were equals reaching for the same goal. I pray this dynamic won’t break down the second the stress of racing kicks in. I’ve seen lots of teams turn against each other when things get rough.
    Our PA leads us onto the field, where she hands us over to a scruffy guy in a backward Angels cap. His name tag says CHUCK , and from the number of electronic gadgets on his belt, I gather he’s in charge. He nods appreciatively at our matching T-shirts, which are bright red and say TEAM REVENGE in white letters. Natalie made them for us as a going-away gift—on shows like this, teams tend to nickname each otherright away, so it’s best to get there first. Nat also bought me lucky smiley-face underwear, and I’m wearing that, too. I need all the luck I can get.
    “Miranda and Claire,” Chuck says, checking our names off on his clipboard. “Welcome. Let’s get you guys miked up, okay? You can put your packs over there.”
    There are a bunch of backpacks lying on their sides near second base, and we add ours to the pile. We barely have them off our shoulders before a sound guy appears beside me and tucks a small battery pack into the back pocket of my jeans. Then, before I have time to process what’s happening, he has his hands up my shirt, threading a wire around my body and clipping a microphone the size of a pencil eraser to my bra. When I squirm, he rolls his eyes as if I’ve recoiled from a handshake. “This’ll go a lot faster if you hold still,” he says, totally deadpan, like he touches strangers’ boobs every day. Which, come to think of it, he probably does.
    Miranda is similarly violated—she handles it better than I did—and then we’re released, so we wander toward the group of other racers on the lawn. Two guys who could easily be models are sprawled on the grass with their eyes closed, soaking up the sun, and a pair of girls in matching sorority T-shirts sits beside them, giggling at everything they say. The girls look eerily alike, despite the fact that one of them is blond and the other is African American. A team of guys with glasses and oversized superhero shirts are eyeing the girls warily, as if they’ve just remembered they forgot to get vaccinated for cooties. Off to the side is a pair of slightlyolder women, maybe thirty-five, in pink yoga pants. They look the friendliest, so Miranda and I approach them.
    “Hi,” my sister says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Miranda, and this is Claire.”
    It’s kind of annoying that she still introduces me to strangers as if I can’t speak for myself, like she used to when we were kids. “Nice to meet you,” I say, just to prove I can talk.
    Both women shake our hands enthusiastically, beaming at us with glossy, bubble-gum-pink mouths, and introduce themselves in thick Brooklyn accents. The one with the purpley-red hair is Jada, and the frosty blonde is Tawny. “What’s that about?” Jada asks, pointing at the writing on Miranda’s T-shirt.
    My sister explains about Samir, and both women’s eyes go wide. “Whoa,” Jada breathes. “Which one is your ex? Is he one of the hot ones on the ground?”
    “I wish,” Miranda says, and Jada laughs. “No, he’s not here yet.”
    “I heard those guys over there are strippers from Vegas,” Tawny