“And I’m not sure you’re right about Trent picking me over Stephanie. I mean, seriously. Steph’s a senior, she’s cheer captain, she’s got that long brown hair and… well… it all came together for her.”
“I am your best friend, Harley.” Her voice is suddenly serious. “I will not let you be intimidated by Stephanie Miller’s boobs.”
“Oh my god, I’m not intimidated by her boobs.”
Still, it really isn’t fair that Stephanie’s never had an awkward phase as long as I’ve known her. She sailed straight from being the cutest little elementary school kid to being the first girl in middle school to—okay, get her boobs—all without even breaking a sweat. And she’s not very nice about it either. My nose wrinkles.
“Besides, you’re a cheerleader now,” Shelly continues.
“Only because Trish got mono and had to drop out.”
I’m literally the worst cheerleader. But I’ve got decent legs and blonde hair, and I can yell really loud—Go Panthers!
“We’ve got to teach you another jump besides The Banana. You look like a dork just jumping up and arching your back like that.”
“Thanks,” I frown, remembering how humiliated I’d been at tryouts last summer. Of course, it all led to my life-saving encounter with Trent—that day at the gym when our love became real. For me at least.
“Gotta run,” Shelly’s saying. “But I’ll strategize more tonight.”
Great. “See you in the morning.” I toss my phone on my bed next to all the rest of my stuff. Then I exhale and flop in the middle of it all, remembering…
It all started last summer at cheerleading tryouts. I don’t count sophomore year when I was completely invisible—at least I hope I was. No, it was a week before school started, and I’d just gotten my braces off. Shelly’d insisted I tryout with her, so we were all at the gym. The boys—Trent included—had been playing basketball on the half-court until Coach Taylor sent them outside. They’d pretended to be pissed, but we knew they were really there checking out the new recruits.
My turn went okay. I did some easy cheers, and then came the jumps portion. I did The Banana, and Stephanie nearly squirted cherry Icee through her nose. Meg leaned over and giggled, “What was that?” under her breath, and Stephanie’d shouted “Next!” like it’d been some sort of Broadway show from which I’d just been cut.
I kept my head down as I walked off the court, hoping my ponytail would hide my burning cheeks. I bit my lip, doing my best not to cry. Usually I’m not so weak, but that’d been about as humiliating as my stupid non-jump. I sat on the metal bleachers staring at my shoes until finally I grabbed my bag and decided to leave. I’d just opened the metal door when Wham!
Next thing I knew, I was laying on the ground with my head in somebody’s lap. A voice was saying something, and my eyes flickered open. The sun was shining right in my face, and the first thing I was able to make out was… lavender. Trent’s head was inches from mine. My stomach flipped, and I bumped our noses as I tried to sit up.
“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back. “Harley, right? Can you stand up?”
“What?” I tried to stand, but my head felt like I’d run into a brick wall. I caught his shoulder. It felt really nice and firm.
“You ran into a brick wall,” he said. “Sort of. David had just thrown the ball, and I missed it. It kind of knocked you out.”
I reached up to touch my forehead, and as he helped me up, my face went into his chest where I caught a deep breath of the woodsy boy-smell coming off him. For a head injury, this could be worse.
“I was knocked out?” I timidly looked up at him, and he smiled.
The sun was shining all golden behind his head, and it made him look like a knight. Or one of those hot angels. Just then Shelly came outside.
“There you are. Sorry, just got my—what happened?”
“Basketball hit her in the head,” Trent said.
I wanted to die. What a dork!
“I think she hit her head on the wall,” he continued. “She might need to go to Urgent Care.”
“Oh my god!” Shelly cried. “Bring her inside. I’ll get Coach Taylor.”
“I’m okay,” I said. My knees were wobbly, but I couldn’t tell if it was my head or Trent’s arm tight around my waist. He was holding my hand even.
Shelly held the metal door open, and next thing I knew, David had joined us.
“Hey, Harley, I’m really sorry.” He caught my other arm, and I felt Trent’s grip loosen. His dark head was in the shadow of the gym, and he was definitely not an angel. Go away, David.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to smile and scoot back toward Trent. “Really, I’m fine.”
“I can drive her to the doctor,” Shelly said. I tried to give her my most discouraging look. Just then Stephanie joined the mob.
“What’s up? Harley? Are you okay?”
“We’re taking her to Coach Taylor,” Shelly said.
“What happened?”
“Harley might have a concussion,” David said like it was the most exciting thing to happen all summer.
David was distracted by Stephanie, and I leaned on Trent’s arm. He caught my waist again and smiled, and everything turned perfect. The humiliation of tryouts, the humiliation of being beaned in the head with a basketball, none of it mattered as I stood there with Trent’s arm tight around me. Until Coach Taylor showed up and ruined it. She took me away and led me to the bleachers. Then she started shining her tiny flashlight in my eyes.
“Do you feel sleepy? Like you might vomit?”
Nice. I shook my head, and David started bouncing the dumb ball again. Coach Taylor shouted for all the boys to get back outside and told me to sit where she could keep her eye on me. I watched the guys leave, and just as Trent was going through the door, he stopped and glanced back. It was because he wanted to stay with me, I was sure, and I tried to catch his eye. David shoved him through the opening before he saw me, and I sighed, turning back to the court. Stephanie was watching, but she quickly flicked her attention back to her sheet and called the next name.
As I rested on the bleachers, everything felt sort of soft and glowy. It seemed like music was playing somewhere—and not because of my head injury. It was because I knew Trent was The One, my hero. I tried to remember if I’d thanked him, but it didn’t matter. I was sure he’d ask me out.
A week later we all started junior year, and the next time I saw Trent, he was walking down the hall holding hands with Stephanie.
I press my lips together and come back to the present. Stephanie dumped Trent right after the Valentine’s dance last month (so cold!), and ever since I’ve been waiting, carefully planning my approach.
Operation Luau begins with me giving him time to get over her. It also involves observation and strategic moves. Trent and I have the same algebra teacher this year, only at different times, so every day I’ve been running straight to class after second period and “accidentally” bumping into him as he leaves. He always holds the door for me, and then I smile, and then he smiles. Sometimes he asks about my head and we laugh, although I wish we could forget that part.
I’ve also been observing his taste when it comes to girls, and I’ve noted he has a picture of this blonde actress in his locker with her hair all braided in some Greek-goddess way. She’s also wearing this long, white gown that would never work at school, although prom is a definite possibility. Response: I’ve been sporting fancy braid-designs in my hair every day for a month, and I just bought the perfect dress—it’s flowy, but short and blue to match my eyes (bonus!). And here we are.
Shelly just confirmed he’s interested, or was. Tomorrow I’ll get Mom to braid my hair, I’ve got the dress, and I’ll be wearing my best “ask me to the luau” face when I see him after second period.
Once I get past the wrecked Denali.
Two
I plan out my speech as I walk to the kitchen. It wasn’t my fault, after all. There’s no reason why I should be
grounded or anything. I wasn’t texting while driving or doing something dangerous like that.
My mom’s massage-therapy student Ricky greets me when I get there, and I frown. Problem number two.
Since Mom graduated from the college in Glennville, every semester they send her a senior to help get hands-on training before graduation. Only this time she got the same student twice in a row.
“What’s up, kiddo?” Ricky asks.
“Not much,” I say, grabbing an orange from the bowl. “What’s Mom doing?”
“Dispensing herbal wisdom,” he says like he’s reading a textbook.
Mom’s in her office-slash-yoga room with Mrs. Bender of all people, and I can hear her saying L-Glutamine and colonic massage.
My nose wrinkles. “Gross. What’re they talking about?”
“I don’t want to know,” he grins.
I drop into a chair and lean my head on my hand as I watch him dump white powder into the blender followed by a banana, thick orange syrup and ice. Ricky’s super-hot in a Men’s Health cover-boy kind of way. He’s 23, and he likes wearing clothes that show off his well-toned body. He’s also got a majorly obvious crush on my mom. He follows her around, hanging on her every word, and it’s so inappropriate. Especially since he didn’t graduate in December.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Whey protein shake,” he says. Then he walks over to me and slides the band out of my hair, raking his fingers through it. “Gorgeous. And you’ve never put anything in it?”
“You’ve met my dad, right?” I like reminding him of my dad, who happens to have the same platinum-blonde hair as me and clear blue eyes.
“Yes, but with your mom’s coloring… It’ll probably turn after you have babies.”
“Don’t be gross,” I frown, pulling my hair back in the band again. Massage therapists are so earthy.
Just then Mom walks into the room escorting Mrs. Bender to the door. She’s using what I refer to as her honey voice—soothing and sweet, it makes you feel all relaxed and sleepy. And ready to go home.
Mom’s super-hot herself, in a dark and beautiful kind of way. The first time I saw that cartoon movie Pocahontas, I thought it was about my mom. She looks just like that Disney princess—tall and slim with long, silky brown hair and angular features. Except Mom has green eyes and she can’t sing worth a flip.
“Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Bender says. “I’ve had great BMs since I started taking your remedy.”
My eyes widen, and Ricky snort-coughs.
“I’m so glad,” Mom says, still using The Voice. “And try to cut back on the caffeine if you can. I know it’s hard, but it’ll help.”
“All right,” Mrs. Bender agrees. “Bye, Jackie.”
Mom does a little wave and then closes the door, turning back to the kitchen. The instant we hear the door catch, Ricky and I die laughing.
“Sorry,” Mom says, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs facing me. Ricky hits the blender and it makes a loud, whirring noise. “Lois doesn’t get the whole Ew factor of irritable bowel syndrome.”
“No doubt,” I agree.
I watch Mom twist her dark hair into a bun and then push it behind her shoulder. “I’ve got a small headache,” she says. “I think I took too much glucosamine this morning. Or maybe I’m dehydrated.”
Ricky immediately puts his spoon in his mouth and walks over behind her. I watch as he sweeps her hair aside and starts rubbing her neck. She closes her eyes, and I cringe. Massage is their specialty, after all. I just wish she wouldn’t let Ricky touch her like that. Small-town gossip can be brutal, and they’re custom-built for the rumor mill. It makes my stomach hurt.
“You should tell chicken-head to lay off the KFC if she’s having IBS,” Ricky says. Then he winks at me. I press my lips together and look back at Mom.
“I’m the one needing a neck rub,” I say. “I was just rear-ended.”
Mom’s eyes fly open and she jumps up. “What happened?” She starts feeling the muscles around the back of my neck and shoulders, watching my face for signs of pain. “Are you okay?”
“I guess. This guy hit me from behind and then I rammed Mr. Bender.”
“Do you have a headache?” She places her cool palm on my forehead. “I can make you some chamomile tea. Or maybe eucalyptus…”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You feel a little tight.” She stands and rubs my neck again gently. “You should go see Alan tomorrow.”
“I really think I’m okay,” I say again. I’m not into chiropractors.
“And the Denali?” She frowns. “Should I even look?”
“It drives fine,” I tell her. “But the back doors are jammed shut.”
Her hands slide from my shoulders, and she walks to the back door to look out at it. I watch as she bites her lip and glances up at the clock. “It’s already after six…”
“I can drive you around,” Ricky says. “Or cover your appointments while it gets fixed.”
So not surprising.
Mom walks back to me. “Did you at least get a number, honey?”
“Yeah, and Pete was there and everything.”
“Let me see it,” she says. I hand her the card. “I’ll give them a call tonight and see how soon we can get it in the shop.”
Ricky pours his shake into a travel mug and picks up his bag as Dad strolls in from his study. Dad’s the exact opposite of Ricky—tall and skinny, wire-rimmed glasses and his nose stuck in a book. I see he’s holding his favorite, Issues in the Presbyterian Church.
“Dr. Andrews,” Ricky says as they pass in the doorway. He always straightens up when Dad’s around. I give him credit for that at least.
“Ricky.” Dad nods, glancing at him.
“See you tomorrow, Jackie,” Ricky calls to my mom as he leaves.
She follows him out. “If you could take Mrs. Simmons at eight, I’ll let you know about my other clients…”
Dad stops at the table and lowers his book.
“Hey, biker chick,” he grins. “How’s life on the road?”
“Sick of the bugs in my teeth.”
It’s our running gag, and it never bothers me when Dad makes jokes about my name. He’s a reverend, but Dad’s cool and we get along.
Mom comes back inside. “Harley was in a wreck,” she says.
“What?” Dad frowns and walks over to me. He lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “You feel nauseated? Dizzy?”
“I was a little dizzy at first, but I’m okay now,” I say, gently moving my chin away. “They never see us bikers, you know.”
“Let me check it out,” he says, heading for the door.
“You can’t really see it…” Mom follows him out, and I’m alone. I pick up Dad’s book to see what issue he’s studying. It’s organized like an encyclopedia, with large headings followed by blocks of text, but I only see a big H before they return. I drop the book and slide back into my seat.
“They’ll probably just replace the doors,” Dad’s saying. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Mom walks back to me. “I could give you a little valerian root if you’re feeling tense,” she says, concern lingering in her voice.
“I’m fine, Mom!” The words come out too sharp, and I wish I could take them back. I just hate being fussed over like a baby.
“Okay,” she smiles, moving away.
“I mean… I’m okay,” I say in a softer tone, looking down. Lately Mom and I keep having these communication fails, and it’s so frustrating to me. Then she always retreats to Dad or Ricky, ignoring what happened. Or ignoring me.
“Bikers are tough,” Dad grins, seeming oblivious. He picks up his book again, and Mom slips her arms around his waist. I watch him give one a squeeze.
“So. What should we do about dinner?” She breathes, resting her chin on his back.
Dad slides his hand down her arm and threads their fingers. “Maybe Harley’ll run out and grab us something. Whatcha think, chick?” He glanc
es at me, and I get the hint. He’s trying to get rid of me.
It’s unexpected that my parents are still so… affectionate. You’d think by now they’d be over it, and they’re such opposites—Mom the earth-goddess, and Dad the gangly nerd. But sometimes I’ll catch her looking at him like he’s a chocolate-dipped strawberry and she’s just come off a wheat-grass cleanse.
I grab Dad’s keys. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I call as if anybody’s listening.
I have no idea where I’ll pick up dinner. I just know to make myself scarce for about a half hour and come back with something. Dad’s Prius lights up and I look around. Without really thinking, I drive straight to KFC.
My eyes fly open before my alarm even goes off. My heart’s beating faster than normal. Operation Luau-day has finally arrived. I throw back the covers and stride to the bathroom to wash my face. Then I start the hunt for Mom. I need her to do a French braid across the top of my head before Shelly arrives to drive us to school.
I find her in her giant office saluting the sun. Mom’s office is a big space with her massage table behind a screen at one end. The whole room is dimly lit, and on hooks in the corner hang robes and towels. Another table holds candles, oils, and a trickly little wall-fountain. There’s weird space music coming from two speakers hidden in the corners, and the whole place smells faintly of sandalwood. Magazines and papers are scattered on her desk along with little packets of different herbal mixtures. On the shelf above are boxes of lotions and bath products she always gets in the mail to try. Apparently all the Earth businesses have learned Mom’s sort of the green guru of Shadow Falls. She’s just about to head into downward-facing dog, but I stop her.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Hi, hon,” she inhales, and sweeps her arms over her head. “How’s the neck?”
The Truth About Faking Page 2
