Page 15 of Alice Chen's Reality Check

I’ve always been good with numbers. It isn’t always a gift.

“You’ve got this,” Chase says, breaking through my thoughts. “Don’t get too in your own head, okay?”

He affectionately taps my forehead, and I resist the urge to swat his hand away. He says, “Hey, you know I’m right. Nothing good happens in there when you’ve got that look on your face.”

Chase never overthinks things, and as far as I can tell, it’s only served him well. He’s like a charmed golden retriever, making friends out of strangers at bar trivia night and getting chosen first for every pickup game of basketball.

Before I can do anything but scowl, Chase jostles my shoulder.

“Hey, there’s the island!” he exclaims, pointing.

I twist around to see and catch my first glimpse of paradise.

The beach is picture-perfect, as if every palm tree has been freshly planted and the sparkling white sand has been precisely arranged and swept—which, considering the army of PAs and crew members on hand, is definitely a possibility. Plush white couches, looking both opulent and ridiculously out of place, are arranged on the beach. Beautiful arrangements of tropical flowers are set against palm fronds, creating a green oasis on the beach.

It’s all gorgeous, but there’s something that makes me feel uneasy about the scene. It looks too perfect, if that’s possible.

When I was sixteen, my mom had to go to an accounting conference in Las Vegas and she brought me along. It was the first time I’d gone on anything resembling a vacation. I couldn’t get enough of the all-you-can-eat buffets, and we even went to see a Cirque de Soleil show.

While my mom attended the conference session on tax credits, I wandered through the lobbies of all the fanciest hotels. They were filled with fake rocks and manicured trees, like they’d tried to take the best parts of nature and re-create it, but instead of capturing all of its wild beauty, they’d killed it. Looking at this beach, I’m struck with that feeling again. The wrongness of it all.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I turn back to Chase. His smile is so genuine and encouraging. I focus on him.

Paradise. Chase. Love.

I try to render my words just as real, just as tangible as my mom’s lunch box of chicken stir-fry.

“We’re in love,” I say, putting weight into each word, “and we’re ready to prove it to the whole world.” I squeeze Chase’s hand this time, and he squeezes back.

“Okay, I like the intensity, but you need to dial it back just a smidge. We’re going for light and fun. Easy-breezy.” Leah squints at me. “You know what? This isn’t working,” she says, gesturing to all of me.

This is it. The moment they realize I don’t belong among all this glitz and glamour, and they kick me—and by extension, Chase—off the show. My stomach sinks. I came on this show for a reason. How will I pay for my mom’s treatment without the prize money?

I’m ready to put on my best teacher voice and convince her with bullet points about why I should be here when Leah claps her hands. “I’ve got it. You need a new look. You can’t be easy-breezy when you’re in that straitjacket!”

I look down at the navy-blue cardigan I’m wearing. It’s literally the most expensive thing I own, and I think it looks cute. It makes melook like I’m someone who summers in the Hamptons. Someone with a personal chef. Someone who doesn’t know what the federal minimum wage is. But I’m realizing now that with Chase in his swim trunks, we look like we’re filming two entirely different scenes. He’s beach Ken, and I’m courtroom Barbie.

I can swing a wardrobe change. I reach for my carry-on, but before I can open it, Leah snatches it out of my hands and starts rummaging through it.

“Let’s take a look at what we’re working with,” Leah says. “Ah, I see the problem. Oversize Hawaiian shirt. Black tank top. Cream turtleneck. Didn’t you bring anything bright and sexy? Who goes to a tropical island with aone-piece Speedo?”

Leah holds up my old forest-green swimsuit between two fingers.

“I thought this was a competition,” I say defensively. I’m starting to regret not taking Cindy’s advice to buy a cute two-piece from Target. Instead, I’d stuck with my tried-and-true Speedo for better hydrodynamics. I figured that comfortable and practical clothes would give me a competitive edge. But I’m realizing now that I probably should’ve prioritized fashion a little more. In my defense, I didn’t have the funds to splurge on a new wardrobe anyway.

“Oh, it is.”

“And I’m not a bikini person,” I say. Bikinis are cute, but they aren’t practical. You constantly have to keep everything in place. How can you possibly swim your fastest under those conditions? It doesn’t help that my mom definitely doesn’t approve of showing cleavage. The one time I wore a borrowed bikini at the public pool, I kept looking over my shoulder like my mom was going to leap out of the bushes and throw a beach towel over my anatomy.

Leah tosses my swimsuit overboard. “You are now.”

“Hey!” I shout, rushing over to the railing. I make it in time to see my swimsuit—$7.50 from Ross—disappearing beneath the waves. In that moment, looking at Leah’s perfect face, I want to tossherinto the ocean.

But Chase pulls me close to him.

“Yeah, I guess that one was getting a little old, huh?” He laughs, smoothing over the moment.

“Exactly. Time for a trip to the wardrobe department,” Leah says. She takes my hand, like we’re girlfriends going shopping, and I will my anger to dissolve.

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