Pretenders

by Lisi Harrison

  STOP THINKING ABOUT IT, VANESSA! WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE. WRITE ABOUT BLAKE.

  Blake is my catnip. He makes me feel giddy and playful. I am a spoon sinking into his hot fudge eyes, scraping the edges for every last bit of sweetness I can get.41 And Lily isn’t like any girl I’ve ever met. She makes me want to be less… normal. In a good way. Her best friend is a boy. She never has to study. She skateboards and eats special food and wears highlighter on her nails because she doesn’t want to waste her computer money on cosmetics. Getting to know them has been full of wonder and excitement. A treasure chest full of hope for a super-fun tomorrow. Like discovering a cure or a new country. Christopher Columbus, I know the feeling.

  My EKG may be up but my GPA is down. Way down. Columbus’s would be too if he had to choose between island hopping and reviewing his notes on animism. Point is, the Good Grade Ship has sailed off without me.

  UGH, HOW DID I GET BACK TO GRADES???? FINE. I SURRENDER. I’M GOING TO WRITE ABOUT THE THING I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE THAT WILL MAKE ME STOP THINKING ABOUT IT…

  I joined the debate team to compensate for my weak grades. DT looks great on college applications and I know how to argue. After all, fighting is the soundtrack of my life.42

  The club was all boys. They sat up taller when I walked in. At least one was gearing up to flirt. I couldn’t exactly come right out and tell them I’m taken because, technically, it’s not true.43 Still, my heart was not on the auction block. Intimidating these potential suitors with my skill and confidence was the only way to ward them off. Thusly, I accepted Mr. Cannon’s offer44 to “hit the ground running.”

  Then the orphan stepped up. After arguing in favor of the death penalty I understood why he is called “the Orphan.” News of his parents’ imminent death was a lethal injection to my dignity. So I hit the ground running straight to Principal Alden’s office to review alternative club options.

  His secretary gave me a tissue and had me wait in his office. Apparently, he was grabbing a danish from the teachers’ room.

  One should never underestimate the power of an unexpected Christmas gift from a student. So I scanned the decor to home in on his taste. A framed photo of two Bernese mountain dogs on a hiking trail. A space needle of folders piled high on his desk. A navy cardigan on the back of his ergonomic chair. A list of students’ names on his computer. Some I recognized. Most I didn’t. I leaned closer. There were letters to the right of the names. Grades. Our grades. Grades that would determine our futures. Futures that could be changed with a keystroke. Or the touch of—

  “Miss Riley,” said Principal Alden, chewing. “Denise said you had some concerns. Something about your GPA?”

  “Me? No. I’m fine. I, um, I just wanted to introduce myself,” I stammered. “You know, personally.”

  He wiped his hands on his Dockers and then shook my hand. His was sticky. Mine was sweaty.

  “This must be my lucky day,” he said, more annoyed than flattered. “You’re the seventh student who’s come to kiss my caboose since lunch.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He tapped on the space bar of his computer. The names were gone. “There’s going to be a lot of competition for the Principal’s Award this year. A real nail-biter.”

  “Good, because I haven’t had a manicure in weeks. All that studying…”

  I bolted before he could look at me funny. Because, ver? I had no idea what I was saying. My jammed circuits could only process one thing—that list of grades.

  One simple keystroke… one! That’s all that stood between me and a 4.0. That and access to his office. Maybe a password. But A.J. could teach me to hack and—

  STOP!

  This is exactly the kind of thinking I need to avoid. Anyway, if A.J. keeps doing well at Spencer BMW, my grades won’t matter as much. We’ve had Beni’s two more times since I last wrote. So it’s not like this very illegal opportunity is tempting me in the least. Because it’s not. I’ll work harder and smarter and I’ll forget everything I just saw.

  Starting now.

  Think positive.45

  —Deepak Chopra

  10.1.12

  INT. STARLIGHT AUDITORIUM, THE WINGS—LATE AFTERNOON.

  It’s Monday, October 1st—the first day of blocking. SHERIDAN has learned so much already.

  Being an understudy is underrated. I’m a ghost. Present but invisible. And, show of hands if you haven’t dreamt of being invisible at some point? Mr. Kimball has been positioning and repositioning the leads for the past hour while I get to kick back in the wings and quill. Passive theater. Who knew?

  In case you can’t tell, I am channeling a good sport—specifically Leighton Meester, who plays Blair Waldorf on Gossip Girl. It’s no secret that Blake Lively’s Serena has a much better wardrobe. She gets boho’s best while Leighton is candy-coated in unflattering blues and yellows. But does Leighton kick off her ballet flats and UGG off the set? No. She sucked it up for six straight seasons. She tasted that costume rainbow. Choked on it, even. But she still showed up. And so shall I.

  Yesterday, Audri and I hung in the blue rocket for hours. It’s this metal rocket ship on the playground in our gated community. We go there to have deep conversations. Usually around dinnertime when the little kids go home. The following was our deepest yet:

  FLASHBACK.

  I love this day. (Me.)

  Why?

  You’re not at your dad’s.

  Yeah.

  Do you like going there?

  Only cuz I miss him.

  Did you ever find out why they split up?

  Audri pulled the pink lace on her sneakers so hard it broke.

  Do you think they still love each other? (Me.)

  Dunno.

  Maybe we could do a musical fund-raiser or something. And use the money to buy them a trip to Paris.

  What’s that gonna do? (Audri.)

  Make them fall in love again.

  This is my life, Sher, not a romantic dramedy.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  Just—

  What?

  Nothing. (Audri.)

  Tell me.

  Fine. It means that everything with you is always so…

  What?

  … Dramatic!

  “Dramatic” echoed through the rocket ship. It felt like a slap every time I heard it. Not because I thought being dramatic was bad. But because she did.

  What’s wrong with being dramatic? (Me.)

  Nothing. It’s just all you talk about.

  So?

  Sometimes I want to talk about other things.

  Like what? Tennis?

  She shrugged. What’s wrong with tennis?

  Nothing. I just never knew you were so into it.

  I’m not sooo into it. (Audri making air quotes.) But I like it. And I’m good.

  Do you like it more than acting?

  No… I dunno… It’s just something different.

  Different like Octavia, the girl who cursed my audition?

  She looked out at the treetops that lined the play area.

  Or different like tight jeans and Jagger and everything else you’re suddenly into.

  She didn’t answer. I got all quiet too because if I kept talking, I’d cry. So I just sat there for a minute, running my finger along the metal grating. The rustling leaves sounded the way my loneliness felt.

  Does all this have to do with your parents’ divorce? (Me, finally.)

  All what?

  Admit it, Audri. You’ve been weird lately.

  Weird because I like a sport and a boy and someone other than you? That’s not weird, Sher. It’s normal.

  Not for us.

  (More silence.)

  Most people have more than one friend or hobby.

  So?

  So, the only thing you have more than one of is personalities.

  They’re not personalities. They’re personas. An
d I thought you liked them.

  I do. I love them. But they’re not enough.

  I could channel more.

  Audri smiled.

  Sher, you’re my best friend. I don’t want that to change.

  So why are you doing all of this?

  I want variety. Like an ensemble cast instead of a one-woman show. Sometimes I get sick of acting and costumes and drama. It’s nothing against you.

  I always suspected Audri needed more. Which is why I tried so hard to give it to her. I just never thought that “more” meant more than me.

  You okay?

  My insides churned. Yeah.

  I lived in fear of this “talk” for years. Not because I don’t have other friends. I do. And I know my parents love me even though H&M get more attention. But Audri was mine. I didn’t have to share her with anyone.… Anyway, that’s what I thought. Mine… mine… mine.

  Maybe I was more like Octavia than I thought.

  So what do I do now? (Me, trying not to cry.)

  Nothing. That’s the point. Don’t do anything. You be you and let me be me.

  But what does that mean, exactly?

  It means don’t keep asking me when I got into tennis. And stop picking fights with Octavia. And don’t look at me like some future star of 16 and Pregnant because I like tight jeans, and don’t roll your eyes when I mention Jagger and—

  Okay!

  Oh, and try to be a good sport about this whole Wicked thing. Let someone else be the lead for a change.

  I wanted to cry: Octavia doesn’t need the lead like I do. She’s never felt alone at her own birthday party or needed applause to feel seen. Or wanted to be someone else so desperately she’s willing to make a career out of it. But I have! I do!

  Not that I said any of that. Audri wanted less drama, not more.

  I’m happy for you, Audri. You deserve the lead. But Octavia?

  I know it’s so random, right? She is good, though.

  She’s skilled. She’s not talented and she’s definitely not nuanced. That stuff makes a difference.

  Just try to be nice.

  I will.

  One more thing. (Audri, pushing it.) Stop acting like being the understudy is the worst thing in the world.

  Why?

  I was the understudy—your understudy—and I was proud of that. I still am.

  You should be. You were great.

  Now it’s your turn. Be great too.

  We hugged. I felt empty and full at the same time. Mostly empty. But I am an actress. So I acted full.

  BACK TO TODAY.

  Dad drove Audri and me to school. His car is getting deep-cleaned because I got carsick in it when I tried to journal about Duffy. So he took the M3 GTR. He pretended it was something he had to do but I know he’s been dying to drive it. Car crushes must be a guy thing because every dude was staring at us when we got out.

  PAUSE.

  Mr. Kimball just dismissed us.

  END PAUSE. SHERIDAN is in HER ROOM.

  I should be doing my Spanish homework but I had to put quill to paper because more happened after we were dismissed and I don’t want to blank on the specifics.

  FLASHBACK to the THEATER.

  So after Mr. Kimball dismissed us, I exited the wings stage left and caught up with Octavia and Audri. They were planning a party. I didn’t butt in because I wanted to give Audri space, but the ears want what the ears want. And my ears wanted to eavesdrop. So I trailed closely behind and learned the following:

  Octavia’s parents go away October 12th.

  She wants to have a party so she can hang with Logan and Audri can hang with Jagger.

  It will be a girl-ask-boy party. This gives them full control.

  After this brief but informative exchange, Good Sport Meester congratulated Octavia on the lead. I said she deserved it. (Oscar, please!) Audri acknowledged my effort with a smile so it all seemed worth it, until Octavia responded.

  Does this mean you’re ready to admit I’m better than you?

  I side-eyed Audri. She looked away. Good Sport Meester was about to Incredible Hulk into Chuck Bass, when Logan walked out of the gym and distracted us all.

  Hey. (Octavia, poking the number on his jersey.) We were just talking about you.

  Oh yeah?

  She and Audri giggled.

  Yeah.

  ’Bout what?

  Nothing. More giggling.

  Logan took a long drink at the water fountain and then wiped his mouth with the bottom of his Flames jersey. Then he turned to me.

  Hey, Sheridan, you weren’t kidding about that GTR.

  Oh, you saw it?

  Killer tail. (Logan.)

  Awwww. I wuv those dogs! (Octavia.)

  It’s a car. (Me.)

  I know. I call cars dogs. (Octavia.) Does the GTR take gas? My cart is electric. It’s totally green and—

  How fast does it go? (Logan.)

  Thirty miles on a full charge. (Octavia.) Owdee and I are going to knit bomb it in emerald yarn for Wicked. Sheridan, since you’re my understudy, I’ll let you knit some of it.

  No. The GTR. (Logan.) How fast does it go?

  Does time travel interest you? (Me.)

  Big-time.

  Then test drive it.

  I can?

  Sure. I’ll take you.

  Octavia tugged his uniform. Looks like you made the basketball team.

  Yeah.

  So cool.

  Yep.

  I told Logan to write his number in my journal. He did.

  Great. I’ll call you later.

  Don’t forget.

  I won’t.

  He went back into the gym. I tore out the page with his number and folded it into a tiny rectangle. Octavia glared at me as I stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans and walked my pear-shaped butt down the hall.

  I wanted to shout: You break my heart, I’ll break yours! But I didn’t. That’s the kind of thing a jealous understudy would say. And Sheridan Spencer is no one’s understudy.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  Wednesday

  Feeling = Slack.

  I forgot all about this journal until Coops started bragging that he finished his. I almost said filling a journal with feelings is nothing to brag about. But the guy is in a Darth Vader boot so what else is he gonna do. So I said cool. Even though it isn’t.

  My classes are getting hard but the Flames have already played (and won!) two games. So even if I had feelings, I haven’t had time to think about them. Unless feeling good counts. Because I’ve been feeling that. Especially after we played (and killed!) Cresskill. It was an away game but Coach Bammer ran a live feed on the Noble site so everyone back at school saw my winning shot. They also saw the other eighteen points I scored. The next day I got so many high fives it hurt to dribble. Coach Bammer was talking me up to the team during Monday’s practice. Logo got so bent over it he walked out of the gym. He said he was going to get a drink of water even though there’s a Dasani machine next to the bleachers and Steve Bowman offered him a dollar.

  Another thing I forgot about was that box from Trendemic. Then I got this:

  From: APryce@Trendemic_It.com

  Subject: First and Last Warning

  Date: October 3, 2012

  To: It Guy #71470

  Start selling.

  Anton Pryce

  Tastemaker. Style Sensei. Couture Connoisseur.

  Then I saw an email that my SI subscription is about to run out so I dealt with that and forgot about the box all over again.

  I just opened it.

  Feeling = There is no way I am going to wear any of the following items to Noble.

  Black skinny jeans with neon glow-in-the-dark graffiti written all over them. It says “Tagged, you’re it” on the butt.

  A black turtleneck sweater with white polka dots.

  A white V-neck with fak
e blood smeared all over the front. It says HEARTBREAKER on the back.

  A denim jacket covered in studs.

  Suspenders made of bicycle chains.

  Argyle socks with mini rabbit’s feet dangling off the back.

  Gold basketball high-tops with black laces.

  Six cans of Sweat Energy Drink.

  Animaul unisex pheromone spray and body wash. (Whatever that is.)

  Mirrored sunglasses. Also in gold.

  I locked my door and dumped it on my bed. Each item came with a code and product description. Not that I read them. I knew what these things were made to do: Destroy me.

  Feeling = Two hours later and there’s still no way I am ever going to wear this stuff to Noble.

  Besides, my parents have no clue about this job. They think Coach Bammer is giving me a free ride because I’m so good and he didn’t want to lose me. They wanted to thank him. I begged them not to. I said I promised it would be our secret. Since he could get fired for giving free rides. They agreed not to mention it but said they’d sponsor the Flames the minute they were back on their feet. I said he would appreciate that.

  So I came up with a plan. I’d take the sprays and drinks to school and wear the clothes to other neighborhoods. Faraway ones. Ones that don’t have high school basketball teams or anyone who knows my family.

  Feeling = Lying gets easier with practice.

  Greg is here. Flames play Summit tonight. Home game. Should be epic. I’ll bring some Sweat.

  Later.

  Back from the game. 56–32 Flames. Weirdest night of my entire life. I wish I could tell someone.

  Greg was honking. My high-tops weren’t on the front porch where I left them. No one in my family had seen them. I asked twice. I looked everywhere. Greg kept honking.

  Feeling = Who keeps taking my shoes???

  I had no choice. I grabbed the gold Trendemic ones. Greg laughed at me the entire way to school. I wanted to tell him the shoes were a dare but I couldn’t. So I said I was wearing them for charity.

  GREG: What charity?

  ME: Uh, you know how breast cancer has that pink ribbon? This one has gold shoes.

  (I only know about the pink ribbons because the 3Ms tied them in their hair for the breast cancer dance-a-thon last year and their picture is still on our fridge. Coops tried to steal it twice.)