The California sun is bright as a spotlight when Miranda and I climb out of the network car and follow a production assistant toward the outfield of Angel Stadium. I hoist my new red hiking backpack onto my shoulders and am dismayed once again by its weight—I brought as little as I could, but the straps are already starting to cut into my shoulders.

Miranda pauses at the edge of the field, where four other teams are already gathered. They’re not doing anything but milling around and shaking hands, but they’re already being filmed from several angles by burly camera operators and sound people with audio mixers strapped around their waists. I squint and try to pick out Will and Lou, but they don’t seem to be here yet. Samir and his brother aren’t either, and I’m glad—I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he arrives and spots us.

“Wow,” my sister says. “We’re actually here. We’re really doing this.”

“We are.”

Miranda bumps my shoulder with hers. “Hey, Clairie? I don’t think I’ve actually said this yet, but thanks for coming here with me. I know this is hard for you, so it means a lot.”

“It’s going to be great,” I say, willing my stomach to unclench from where it’s coiled like a spring in the corner of my torso. “We’re going to rock this race. Samir won’t know what hit him.”

“Go, Team 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 other right 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 slightly older 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 says. Anywhere else I’d question her sources, but here, it’s totally believable.

“What’s your story?” I ask. “Are you guys related?”

When I hear Tawny laugh, I understand the meaning of the word “guffaw” for the first time. “No, sweetheart,” she says, and it comes out sounding like sweet-hawt. “Jada and I used to be married to the same man.”

“Um, at the same time?”

She laughs again. “Ha! No, but that would have made it more fun, wouldn’t it, Jada? At least we would’ve had a little entertainment.”

“Ron was handsome and rich as anything, but he was a serious snooze-fest,” Jada explains. “Tawny married him first, and six months after they split up, he married me. We were divorced before the year was over.” Di-VAWCED.

“Jada and I met in yoga,” Tawny chimes in. “It took us six weeks of sun salutations before we figured out we were gossiping about the same boring ex-husband.”

“And we’ve been besties ever since,” Jada finishes, just as we hear a familiar voice behind us.

“Miranda? What the hell are you doing here?”

We turn to face Samir, and I hear Chuck hissing, “Get this, get this!” Three cameras converge on us like seagulls on a stray French fry.

Samir stares at us for a minute, taking in our Team Revenge T-shirts. “Oh my God,” he says. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Miranda opens her mouth, presumably to rattle off a witty comeback, but then she notices the girl standing beside Samir, and her cheeks start turning very pink. For a second I’m afraid she’s going to lose it, but when she speaks, her voice is low and steady. “Funny, Samir, you told me you were auditioning with your brother,” she says. “Once a liar, always a liar, I guess.”

The girl is an Amazon—even in her flat running shoes, she’s at least ten inches taller than me. My eyes are level with her boobs. She tucks her caramel-colored hair behind her ears like she’s embarrassed by this whole scene and extends her hand to Miranda. “Hi, I’m Janine,” she says. “Samir and I were scene partners for our Chekhov class last semester? I don’t think we ever officially—”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Miranda says, her voice ice-cold. “I just didn’t recognize you with your pants on.” I suddenly remember her limerick: He hopped in the sack with that ho Janine Black.… Oh God, this is even more awkward than I thought it would be.

Miranda doesn’t shake Janine’s hand, and it hovers there in the air for a few seconds, her violet fingernails shining in the sun. Finally, my sister turns back to Samir. “Good luck on the race,” she says. “I would say ‘May the best man win,’ but that would require at least one of us to be a man.” Then she links her arm with mine and steers me toward the other side of the field. Despite her calm façade, I can feel how tense she is.

Two of the camera guys follow us, and the other stays behind to get a reaction shot of Samir and Janine. “That was great,” I tell Miranda quietly. “You totally threw him off his game.”

Miranda lets go of me and shakes out her hands, like she can fling excess emotion off her fingertips like water. “I cannot believe he had the nerve to bring her here. God, I can barely think when he’s around. Ninety percent of my brainpower goes into trying not to scream or punch him.”

“You seemed totally in control,” I say. “And all that energy is great. It’ll give us an edge in the race.” I give her arm a little squeeze. “I know how much this part sucks, but once the race starts, we’ll get ahead of him, and then you’ll barely have to see him at all. You can do this.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I can,” she says. “I’m totally fine. Everything’s fine.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Will walking past with the boob-grabby sound guy. He gives me a little eyebrow waggle—I guess he doesn’t want to be obvious about knowing me, since we’re being filmed. I eyebrow-waggle back.

Chuck’s walkie-talkie emits a crackle of static and some unintelligible words, and he claps a bunch of times to get our attention. “All right, everyone, come on over here and stand in a semicircle,” he calls. “Isis is on her way.”

I have no idea who Isis is, but she sounds important, so we follow Chuck to the other end of the outfield. He assembles us in front of a banner strung between two poles, rolled up so we can’t see what it says. The last team to arrive ends up standing next to Miranda, and I hear them introduce themselves as Zora and Aidan. They have exactly the same face, but Zora has a nose ring, dark eyeliner, and blue streaks in her dyed black hair, and Aidan looks more like someone who drinks a lot of chai and goes on road trips. If Zora is hard rock, Aidan is her acoustic version.

More garbled words hiss through Chuck’s walkie-talkie, and then a tall, elegant woman comes striding toward us from across the field. Presumably, this is Isis. Her hair is cropped incredibly short, showing off the perfect shape of her head and the swanlike curve of her neck. She’s wearing a filmy white top that contrasts beautifully with her dark skin, and she glides across the lawn in her stiletto heels, which somehow aren’t sinking into the grass like a normal person’s would. She radiates the kind of glow pregnant women are supposed to have, but without the inconvenience of actually growing another human inside her body. As she takes her place in front of the banner, everyone stands up a little straighter. A makeup artist rushes forward to powder her perfect nose.

Finally, when all the cameras are in place, the woman unleashes a radiant smile on us—God, she must bleach her teeth twice a day. “Hi, everyone,” she says. Her voice is lower than I expected, purring and musical. “My name is Isis Everleigh, and I’ll be your host. You are the best of the best, chosen from a pool of thousands of contestants, and I’m expecting some fierce competition as you circumnavigate the globe. Each leg of the race, you’ll be sent to a different country, where you’ll complete a series of challenges before finding your way to a check-in point for a rest. The last team to arrive at each check-in point will be eliminated, and the first team to complete the entire race will win … one million dollars.”

Everyone whoops and cheers at the mention of the prize. I picture myself and my sister pushing in front of Samir and Janine and crossing that finish line first, our hands clasped together as Isis beams down at us and says, “Claire and Miranda, you are the winners of Around the World.” For a moment, it feels possible, and a little flash of excitement zings through me, overpowering the nervousness churning in my stomach.

I grin at Miranda as Isis reaches out with her perfect, manicured hand and pulls the cord on the banner behind her. It unrolls with a satisfying zip, revealing the logo of the show we’re going to win.

And then I register what I’m seeing, and I stop breathing.

The logo is a map, as might be expected from a race-around-the-globe show. But the map is pink, shaped like a heart, and flanked by two cartoon Cupids about to loose their arrows into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Across the bottom of the banner, in curling script, is the tagline: Where in the world will you find your soul mate?

Something is terribly, terribly wrong with this picture.

“Welcome, everyone,” Isis says, “to Around the World in Eighty Dates.”