The Truth about Faking
by Leigh Talbert Moore
For Mom, who believes;
For JRM, who inspires;
For CGM & LCM, who motivate;
For KCB, who loves each one more than the last;
And for JBP, who said, “What are you waiting for?”
One
My phone whistles at me from my bag. I try to ignore it. Mr. Laraby’s words are still in my head from driver’s ed. class last week: Distracted driving is the number one cause of fatal accidents among teens. His words and that disgusting movie with all the wrecked cars and dead bodies everywhere. I keep my eyes on the road ahead.
It whistles again, and I rationalize. Only my best friend Shelly sends me a hundred texts at once, and it’s usually something like she’s trying turquoise eye shadow or her cat fell in their fountain again. It can wait.
Another whistle and my scalp tightens. My eyes flick to the speedometer. I’m only going 35, surely it can’t hurt just to look. In front of me is a giant Lincoln Towncar. I’m stuck behind Mr. Bender, the slowest driver in Shadow Falls. And the oldest. And the grumpiest.
Again it whistles, and my jaw clenches. What if it’s not Shelly? What if someone’s in trouble, and I’m the only number they can text? What if they’re trapped under something heavy, but not so heavy they can’t text. And I’m their only hope…
Suddenly Bender slams on his brakes—at a yellow light, of course. I stop as well, and with my foot on the pedal, dive across the seat to grab my phone. My shoulders drop. It’s Shelly.
Where are you?
Again Mr. Laraby’s voice is in my head: “Where are you” is the most common text sent before accidents…
All of a sudden, BAM!
My phone flies from my hand onto the dash, and my torso is jerked back by the seatbelt. My foot slips off the brake, and Mom’s Denali goes right into Bender’s Towncar before I can find the correct pedal to push again.
“I wasn’t texting!” I squeal, realizing my eyes are squeezed shut. My whole body is clenched.
Shaking, I try to get control. I inhale and open my eyes as I remember my foot had been on the brake pedal, so I couldn’t have hit Bender. I exhale with the realization: Someone hit me! Oh, thank God. It wasn’t my fault.
Wait. Someone hit me. Now what? I’ve never been in a wreck before, and I try to remember what to do. Exit the vehicle, check for damages… I force my brain to start working again. Shadow Falls is so small, Pete, one of our two local cops, will likely be here in less than two minutes. I unfasten my seatbelt and open the door. My legs wobble as I stand up, and I actually feel a little dizzy. The noise had been so loud and unexpected, I can still hear it.
“God—” A tenor voice cuts off behind me.
I turn around to see a guy in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt bending over the back of Mom’s SUV. He looks about my age, but I don’t know him, which is strange. Everybody knows everybody in Shadow Falls. He straightens up and starts toward me, rubbing his forehead, which is turning pink. I wonder if he hit it on the steering wheel or something.
“Are you okay? I’m really sorry,” he says to me. “I was looking at that car lot over there, and you stopped so fast…”
I look across the median and see a used car lot I’ve never noticed before. How is that possible? Do I have amnesia? But I remember Bender and where I live, so I must be okay. Then I check out what hit me. It’s an ancient blue sports car with a long front-end like a duck. Only now the bill is pointed down. Sad duck.
The guy’s staring at me. “Hey, you okay?” His voice has softened, and I can tell he’s worried. “I’m really sorry,” he says again.
“It’s… I’m okay.” I answer, trying to get my bearings. “The light had just changed…”
“I know,” he says through an exhale. “I glanced away, and when I looked back, there you were. Not moving.”
“It was Bender—” I’m not about to confess I was looking at a text, but I’m cut off.
“What tha HELL!” That voice is not okay.
Mom’s Denali had just given Bender’s Towncar a butt lift, and I can tell he’s pissed—as usual. A veteran of two wars, Mr. Bender isn’t exactly mean, but teenagers top his list of most annoying things on the planet. And don’t even think about pulling your phone out in front of him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy starts again, this time a little nervous. “I was looking off, and—”
“You’re right you’re sorry!” Bender growls. “How old are you? Do you even have a license?”
“I’m seventeen, sir. Yes, sir, I have a license.” The guy stutters, holding his hands up like Bender’s got a gun on him.
“Then you should know. Ten and two. Eyes on the road!”
“Yes, sir. I just noticed that used car lot, and I need a new car…”
“More like you need driver’s ed,” Bender barks. “Gimmie your license.”
The boy drops his hands and starts digging in his back pocket. I see the flashing lights pull up behind his duck-billed destroyer, and sure enough, Pete climbs out and starts slowly heading our way, silver-metal clipboard in hand. He spots Bender and immediately looks tired.
“We need to move these vehicles from the lanes of traffic,” he says, beginning to write. “You okay, Harley?”
I nod. Pete’s been friends with my parents since they were all at State College together in Glennville, the college town right across the river from us.
“Got your license, son?” Pete asks the guy.
Bender hands it over. He’s just finished writing down all the information for himself, and I figure he’ll be calling the poor guy’s parents in a few hours.
“It’s all my fault…” the guy starts again, but Pete puts a hand up. “Harley, you got yours?”
I slowly climb onto the running board and reach into my bag, still feeling a little off-balance.
“Tom, I’m going to need yours as well,” Pete says.
“I’m not at fault here…” Mr. Bender starts. “I was sitting at the light, obeying the rules of the road, when Harley was shoved into my backside by this… menace.”
The menace looks down, and I feel sorry for him. He seems embarrassed.
“I still need to fill out the report, so I’ll need your license,” Pete’s voice sounds weary. It’s the sound most people’s voices get when dealing with Mr. Bender.
Bender huffs some more and digs into his back pocket, producing a sleek leather trifold from which he pulls his license. Then he stalks back to his Towncar and gets on one knee to examine his bumper. That leaves me standing in the median with the menace.
He shoves a hand at me. “I’m Jason.”
Skinny. Shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes. Not really my type, but a friendly enough smile. I reach out and briefly touch his hand before crossing my arms again.
“So, Harley?” He smiles and fumbles his hand into his pocket. He’s a little shaky, too, I notice. “Your parents bikers?”
“No.” I pull my hair back in a band, ignoring a slight twinge as I do so.
“That a family name?”
I shake my head. “My mom thinks it’s pretty.”
I leave off the part where I’ve always been annoyed at being named after a motorcycle. Mom’s also a little eccentric.
“Yeah,” he nods and seems surprised. “She’s right.”
I look at him a second longer. He’s not bad looking. Not that I’m interested or anything.
“We just moved here from Los Lunas,” he says. “So I’m still learning my way around. You go to Creekside?”
I nod. “Everybody does.”
“Then I’ll say hey when I see you at school!”
“You don’t have
to.” There’s only one guy I want saying hey to me at school, and it isn’t Teen Menace-Crash boy.
“Look, I’m sorry I hit your giant truck here.” He pats Mom’s Denali and makes an apologetic face. “But you’ll be surprised what those body shop guys can do. It’ll be back to normal in a week.”
I slant my eyes. “You do this a lot?”
“No,” he laughs. “I just like fixing up old cars. It’s kind of a hobby.”
“Well, this is my mom’s truck, and she needs it for work. And I don’t really know you—”
“Sure you do,” he jumps in. “I’m Jason James. Just moved here from New Mexico, and you’re Harley…?”
“Andrews.”
He does a little finger-gun. “And I was going to guess Davidson.”
“That’s original,” I say, looking around.
I need to get home and get started. Tomorrow’s an important day. It’s the culmination of Operation Luau, my big plan. The whole reason I was out here in the first place buying a dress, and everything has to be perfect.
“I guess not,” Jason shrugs. “But I really am sorry.”
I try giving him a warm smile and hope he’ll take it as me letting him off the hook. Then I walk to the back of Mom’s SUV. The doors are only pushed in a little, but when I pull the handle, they won’t budge. I bite my lip. Mom needs the Denali to haul her massage table and equipment around, and she’ll be pissed if she has to cancel appointments. I look impatiently in Pete’s direction.
“I need to go,” I say to myself.
“I’ve got my phone if you want to use it.” Jason’s followed me.
I glance up at him. “That’s okay. I mean, I’ve got a phone. But thanks.”
At last Pete starts walking back toward us. “Can you drive your vehicle?” He asks me.
“I think so,” I say.
Pete hands us the papers to sign and then tears off our copies. I take mine and climb back into the Denali, turning the key as I watch Bender huff into his land-barge. Jason walks up to my door.
“Sure you’re okay?” He asks.
Both hands are in his front pockets, and his dark eyes are very round. Puppy-dog.
I nod back at him.
“And I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Okay…” I say with a touch of hesitation. Then I shrug. “I mean, sure.”
He lights up. “Later, then.”
I resist rolling my eyes and instead do a little smile back before hitting the button for my window. As soon as Bender’s clear, I turn the wheel toward the entrance to our neighborhood. I’ll be home in less than two minutes.
Shadow Falls the neighborhood is neither shadowy, nor has waterfalls. It’s basically the hub of Shadow Falls the town. Way back when it was built, graduates of State College wanted to get out of the city, with all it’s crime and bad schools, but still live close enough to work there. Developers spotted this tract of land right across the river and got to work drawing out long, winding streets with cul-de-sacs sprouting off every curve. From the air, it must look like some giant, alien plant life.
Creekside is the only high school here. It’s built on this trench the developers dug to look like a real creek running down to the river, and it’s populated with kids who’ve known each other since before kindergarten. That includes me and my best friend Shelly.
My phone rings out again, and I grab it. It’s her.
“Did you get my texts? Where are you?”
Shelly’s voice is urgent.
“Ugh, wreck. Bender. Main and Spring. You would not believe.”
“Oh my god! Are you hurt? Do you need me to call Mom’s lawyer?” Ever since Shelly’s parents got divorced last summer, she’s been whipping out her mom’s lawyer like she’s a mob boss.
“I think I’ll be okay,” I say. “Pete was on it. The perp confessed his guilt.”
“Well, good, because I’ve got the greatest idea, the solution to your problem. Mom got a new book— ”
“Not another one,” I interrupt with a groan. Shelly’s mom turned into a self-help fanatic after the divorce, and she’s always trying some new theory for finding happiness.
Shelly charges on. “It’s all about how doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results means you’re crazy…”
“Mm-hmm.” I can’t see where this is going yet or what problem of mine she’s solving.
“Then it talks about the concept of Mr. Right, and how that’s a myth used to keep modern women under control.”
“Last time was religion.” I glance out the window as I navigate the winding neighborhood streets. Our church is at the center of Shadow Falls, and everything sort of converges on that point.
“Whatever,” she says. “This time it’s about how Mr. Right is a myth.”
A big hydrangea bush is growing where my street meets Shadow Falls Lane, and today it’s bursting with bluish-lavender blossoms. As Shelly talks, I gaze at the huge fists of flowers and realize they’re the exact same shade as Trent Jackson’s eyes. He’s my non-mythical Mr. Right, hottie future-husband. Well, I’m still working on that last part.
Last year, sophomore year, Trent started at Creekside High School and literally stopped every girl in her tracks. Unfortunately for me, I had no chance with him. My legs went up to my armpits, and when I smiled, you had to put on your sunglasses to block the reflection off my braces. But over the summer the braces came off, and my body got more proportional.
And Stephanie Miller got Trent.
A frown touches my lips, and I turn into my driveway just in time to hear Shelly’s last words. “…put you through assertiveness training.”
I jump. “What?” My name coupled with assertiveness training can not be a good thing.
“It’s the whole reason he dated Stephanie all last fall and not you. Brian says he asked about you in August, and he watches you constantly—”
“Stop! Who asked about me in August?”
“Trent.” She says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I almost drop my phone.
I can’t swallow. It’s possible I’m having one of those mini-strokes. “Oh my god, Shelly. What did he say? Tell me his exact words.”
“You know, ‘What is she like,’ that kind of thing.” Her casual tone is giving me chest pains. Maybe I’m having a heart attack. “With your dad being a reverend and all, guys don’t know what to expect.”
I shake my head. I’m sitting in my driveway and I cannot move. I’m completely paralyzed. Maybe it is a mini-stroke.
“What did Brian say?” I ask, trying to restart my breathing.
“I don’t know,” she says. “That’s not the point.”
“Shelly!”
“Oh my god! Chill. I’m sure it was all good things, you know Brian. But I’m even more sure Trent would’ve asked you out then.”
My head is spinning, and the wreck, everything is forgotten. August? That was right after he saved me at the gym… we could be engaged right now. Okay, maybe not engaged. But promised?
“…of course, Stephanie came along and just swooped him right up.” She pauses, waiting, but I’m imagining my wedding dress. It’ll be white, of course, and floor-length. And with a lavender-blue sash to match his eyes. I’ll wear my hair in a French braid. Maybe one of those four-stranded braids or an around-the-head, crown style…
“And that’s my point,” Shelly breathes loudly. “You’re always so distracted and aloof, it makes guys think you’re not interested.”
“I am not aloof! I can’t believe you’re just now telling me this!”
“I’m telling you this because it’s part of my great plan! Although I don’t like encouraging obsessions-”
“Obsessions?”
“You’ve spent way too much mental energy on this guy. All last year it was nothing. Then he dates Stephanie six months, and you’re still crushing on him. You’re fixated.”
“I am not fixated, and he just broke up with Stephanie. And clearly
it could’ve been something, only you chose not to tell me.”
“Like it would’ve made a difference.”
“It might’ve.” I’m finally able to move again, so I grab my bag off the passenger’s seat and pull the keys from the ignition. I hop down and slam the door shut.
“Look, I didn’t call to argue,” Shelly continues. “I called to tell you I’ve decided to help you.”
“Help me? How?”
“You never listen—with assertiveness training! I’ve observed your behavior. And whenever you’re confronted with a guy you like, you freak and become closed.”
“Is freak the clinical term?”
“I’m going to help you open up and Break the Cycle!”
That’s probably the title of her mom’s new book.
“Well, I’ve kind of been working on a plan already—” I smile at how Operation Luau is so in the bag now.
“First we have to set your goal,” she interrupts. “What is your goal?”
“What?” I grunt as I climb over the backseat to get my dress now that the back doors are jammed shut. I drop back to the driveway and shake it out as I walk inside.
“Dating Trent? Making out with Trent? Marrying Trent?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say marrying Trent,” I lie. “That’s silly!”
“So making out with Trent.”
A million butterflies take off in my stomach at the thought of kissing him. “That sounds like a good goal.”
“OK, then. You’re going to model my behavior, and by the end of the week, we’ll have you at the Spring Luau with Trent.”
“Model your behavior?” I ask, but she keeps talking.
“After which, the two of you will proceed to an intense make-out session.”
“Shelly!” My butterflies just had babies at that thought. “But I don’t know.” I balance the phone on my shoulder as I open my door. “I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to you know. Model you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She acts offended, but she knows it’s the truth.
Ever since her parents’ split, it’s been really hard keeping up with Shelly. Last summer she went off the charts, dumping Brian, who’d been her boyfriend since middle school. Now she’s been jumping from guy to guy like she’s trying to set some Creekside record for most males bagged in a single year. She’s starting to get a rep, and it’s been taking all my creative efforts to keep it from my parents. That part kind of pisses me off. She knows how I feel about not embarrassing Dad. I hurry to the next problem as I drop all my stuff on my bed.
The Truth About Faking Page 1
