For Real by Alison Cherry Page A

horrible plane breath in his face? Would it help if I went to sleep with gum in my mouth? Probably not—knowing me, it would end up in my hair. Just in case, I rummage around in my pack until I find a piece, which I tuck into the pocket of my hoodie for easy access.
    Greg turns off his camera to board the plane, and as soon as his lens cap is on, Will’s friendly, easygoing demeanor disappears completely. He’s strangely quiet as we make our way down the jet bridge and onto the plane, and maybe it’s thehorrible lighting, but I notice that he’s starting to look a little green. “You okay?” I ask as we reach our row. “You don’t look so hot.”
    That’s a total lie. He still looks incredibly hot.
    “I’m fine,” he says, shoving his backpack into the overhead compartment. “Do you mind if I take the aisle?”
    “No, I like the window.” I scoot into my seat, and he plunks down beside me and stares straight ahead. When he doesn’t say anything for a good fifteen seconds, I try, “This must be really different from what you’re used to, huh?”
    He looks confused. “What?”
    “Flying coach.” When he still doesn’t react, I continue, “I’m sure this is nothing like your dad’s private jet.”
    “Oh, ha. Right.” But he doesn’t elaborate. He just stares at the blank video screen on the back of the seat in front of him like he wants to be left alone.
    As I turn toward the window and watch the waves of heat rising off the tarmac, it occurs to me that maybe Will was only acting sweet and flirty earlier because we were being filmed. After all, this show is centered on romance, so he probably knows he’ll get more screen time if he’s nice to me. Maybe he’s even angling for one of those special prizes Isis mentioned for getting close to your partner. But the cameras will probably stay off during the flight, and if he’s only pretending to like me, I’m in for an even more uncomfortable twenty-five hours than I’d feared. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and I start missing Miranda like crazy.
    The moment the plane begins taxiing toward the runway,a weird noise starts up nearby, like someone’s taking quick, wheezy, gasping breaths. At first I think it’s a fussy baby, but when I turn to look, I realize the sound is coming from Will . His eyes are squeezed shut, his skin has a clammy, grayish pallor, and he’s digging his nails into the armrests so hard he’s making little dents in the rubberized plastic. There’s obviously something really wrong with him.
    I touch his shoulder. “Will, what’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?” There’s always one on board in movies, but does that happen in real life? Are there enough doctors to go around?
    “Not sick,” Will whispers. “Just really hate flying.”
    I’ve never seen somebody have a panic attack before, but this must be what it looks like. And as scary as it is to see him fall apart, I’m relieved that his sudden withdrawn attitude has nothing to do with me. As the plane starts picking up speed, Will makes a low, terrified sound in the back of his throat, and when the wheels leave the ground, he gasps and crumples in on himself. Very gently, I loosen his death grip on the armrest and give him my hand to hold instead. He clamps his fingers around mine so tightly it hurts, but I grit my teeth and let him squeeze. His fingers are ice-cold and sweaty.
    “What can I do?” I ask. “Do you want some water? Should I get a flight attendant?”
    He shakes his head. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to do but wait it out.”
    “How long does it usually take for you to calm down?”
    There’s a small bump in the air, and he gasps again. “Depends,”he says in a strained voice. “Sometimes half an hour. Sometimes more.”
    “How are you going to do this race if you’re afraid to fly? We have to be on planes, like, every other—”
    He winces. “Claire, you’re really not helping.”
    Wow, I am officially the