The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  Relive last night.

  Delicious tingles explode wherever Brandon touched. My lips burn, and my head gets delightfully fuzzy. I want to lose myself in the sensations, but I hear my doorknob rattle and force my heavy eyelids open.

  Kaitie’s strawberry-blonde ponytail bounces as she runs through the door and straight to my dresser. Amused, I prop my chin on my hand. She begins rifling through the drawers, tossing even more clothes onto the floor, and I scrunch my nose in wonder. But when my favorite baby-blue pajama set lands in a pile of dirty clothes, I decide it’s time to intervene.

  “Can I help you find something in particular?”

  She spins around, eyes bugged out. Busted. Placing a hand over her chest, she exclaims, “God, you scared the crap out of me!”

  I lift an incredulous eyebrow. “Uh, Kaitie, it’s my room.”

  She winces and slides her back down my dresser, pulling her knees into her chest. “Sorry for touching your stuff.”

  I shrug. I don’t really care if she borrows my clothes; she’s just never done it before. Kaitie’s five years younger than me and only just getting to the age where she cares about this stuff. “Is there something you need?”

  “Tonight’s the team sleepover at Baylee’s,” she explains with a defeated frown, “and I don’t know what to wear.”

  Now I get the dilemma.

  Brandon likes to tease that I’m a worrier, but honestly, my sister has that market cornered. She’s an introvert, an extreme one, but while talking to people outside her family and friends is a challenge, Kaitie’s biggest obstacle is her perfectionism. One small mistake or hiccup haunts her forever. That’s why I pushed her to join the junior-high rec team and why I agreed to co-coach it, even though my schedule is utter chaos. Six games and a one-hour practice a week is nothing compared to giving my sister the confidence that I know sports can bring. I’ve experienced it, and I want that for Kaitie.

  I climb out of bed, pausing to ruffle her hair on my way to the dresser. I scour through the mess until I find an old pair of Fairwood Academy P.E. shorts and a Kiss my ace! T-shirt.

  Kaitie grabs them excitedly and hugs me. “Thank you!” Then she sprints for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Gotta pack!” She disappears into her side of the bathroom, but then sticks her smiling face back in. “I’m so glad you’re home!”

  “Me too, doodle-bug.”

  Alone again, I look at the mess and sigh. Since I’m up, I might as well begin the laborious task of separating laundry into piles. Yay! I make decent headway until a muffled Taylor Swift song begins playing from under one of the mounds and I mess them all up again, searching for my lost cell phone. I follow the music to a pair of jeans, singing along with the chorus, and pull the phone out. Brandon’s face grins up at me.

  I fluff my hair and smooth my shirt, then realize he can’t see me anyway. Clearing my throat, I answer the phone before the second verse starts. “Hey, what’s up?” Nice, casual, without a hint of any lusty, hormone-filled innuendo. Well done.

  “Aly?” Brandon sounds far away, and I hear clattering on the other end. “I thought you’d never pick up. I need help. Baylee’s hosting the team sleepover tonight—”

  “I know, Kaitie already ransacked my drawer,” I interrupt, still proud she’s stepping outside of her comfort zone and going. “I don’t envy your mom tonight, that’s for sure.”

  He groans. “Yeah, well, Mom just got called to take over a night shift at the hospital. I’ll be here, but I don’t think the parents want a seventeen-year-old guy alone with a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls.”

  I snort. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Brandon?”

  He clears his throat. “So, yeah, I was thinking, maybe you can ask your mom if you can help chaperone? I mean, considering I’m now your man and all, I don’t guess you have a hot date or anything, right?”

  I laugh at his teasing tone, and then his words sink in.

  I’d be alone with Brandon. All night. Unsupervised.

  My stomach flutters. Normally I’d be on shift at the theater, but I got the weekend off to recover from the camping trip. “Um, I don’t know. Let me go ask and I’ll call you right back.”

  I disconnect and stare at the phone. A slow smile spreads across my face. Then I barrel through the door. “MOM!”

  Not in the kitchen. Not in the living room, office, or laundry room. I plow through her bedroom and pull up short when I finally find her sitting at the vanity in her bathroom.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, taking a seat on the huge, claw-footed bathtub. “You’re looking good.”

  She meets my gaze in the mirror with a hint of amusement shining in her eyes.

  Okay, it’s about to get thick in here. There’s no way she’s gonna go for me having a co-ed sleepover with the guy she now believes to be my quasi-boyfriend. Maybe before she saw us at the camping trip, but not now. This is going to take a lot, a lot of sucking up.

  “Seriously,” I say, smiling big. “Dad’s not gonna know what hit him. Sting either. He’s going to take one look at you from up on that stage and pull you into his harem.”

  Dad is taking her to see Sting…again, a date-night tradition from back in college when they discovered their mutual love for The Police. And tonight, the thing that’ll keep her from suggesting herself as the new chaperone.

  Mom taps her blush brush on the makeup mirror and gives me a pointed look. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing with the flattery, missy. Though, I do look pretty hot if I say so myself. My men deserve nothing but the best.” She picks up her eyeliner and, without looking at me, asks, “So what is it? You need more new clothes? You broke something? What?”

  I sigh and fidget with the star sapphire ring on my finger. So much for sucking up. “You know how Kaitie’s going to that sleepover thing? At Baylee’s?” Mom nods, so I continue. “Well, Brandon just called. His mom was pulled into work at the last minute and can’t stay to chaperone, and nobody thinks it’s a good idea for Brandon to do it by himself. That’s just asking for a lawsuit or a scandal of epic proportions.”

  She sits back from lining her eyes and folds her arms. “And?”

  I clear my throat and convert my smile into sweet and innocent. “So we thought maybe I should go over there. Help watch the girls, show off my mad baking skills, keep the dragons of gossip away. You know, be a good big sister and bond with my team.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. She shakes her head, staring pensively at her reflection, and purses her lips. “Kaitie’s really been looking forward to that sleepover. It’s the only thing she’s talked about all week.” She pumps her mascara wand in the tube and makes the requisite mascara-face in her mirror. With mouth open and words distorted, she says, “And I know Sheila must be disappointed missing the sleepover, too.”

  I bounce my foot but keep quiet. My input now can only work against me.

  After leaning in to comb through and inspect her eyelashes, Mom turns to me. “Okay.” I sit there, flabbergasted, as she pauses, squints, and then nods. “I trust Brandon, and more importantly, I trust you. You can go.”

  I totally didn’t see that coming. I mean, I was hopeful, but severely doubtful. Jumping up from my perch on the bathtub, I lean down, breathe in Mom’s heavenly scent of roses and baby powder, and smile at her reflection. “Thank you!”

  Her mouth says, “You’re welcome.” The look she gives in the mirror says, You better not make me regret it.

  I nod to both messages and slink out the door, then dash back to my bedroom. I pull up my recent calls and tap Brandon’s name. The moment he picks up, I blurt, “I’m in.”

  It’s not until after we hang up, with me promising to be there by six, that nerves set in.

  I touch my lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine. Our kiss sent me reeling, but I’m not naïve enough to think it affected Brandon the same way. He’s hooked up with countless girls, girls with a t
on more experience than me. For all I know, he could’ve thought kissing me was like kissing his sister.

  Or air.

  What if he was bored kissing me?

  I let the horror of that thought sink in for about thirty seconds before squaring my shoulders. It’s not like it matters if he was bored anyway because it’s not happening again. This mission is about getting Justin. Brandon and I already had our shot, and he turned me down. My eyes flit to our Homecoming picture on the Wall of Shame.

  It was freshman year, three years ago, but it still stings when I think about it. I can’t let myself go down that path again. Brandon is my friend. And my fake hookup.

  That’s it.

  Still, as I pick up my duffle bag and dump the clothes inside it onto the floor, I can’t stop the butterflies from taking flight as I ponder what pajamas I should bring tonight.

  “They’re here!”

  I hear Baylee’s squeal from behind the closed red wood door moments before it opens and an excited ball of energy envelops me in a hug. “Thank you so much for coming! Now it’s really gonna rock!”

  A deep, sexy chuckle comes from behind Baylee, and my pulse quickens. Brandon leans against the door and smiles. Despite my mental pep talk back in my room, and again on the drive over, my palms slick with sweat.

  “Glad to be here,” I say, stepping back from the girl’s embrace. Focus on why you’re here, Aly. “Now put me to work.”

  Kaitie and I came early to help set up, knowing their mom would be getting ready for her shift and Brandon is clueless. We walk through the door, and Brandon grabs the grocery bags and tote from my hands to look inside, brushing his fingers against the inside of my wrist. My eyes dart to his mouth.

  How can such an innocent touch cause my insides to melt and my limbs to get all twitchy at the same time?

  Baylee sticks her head into the closest bag. “What’s all this?”

  Blood rushes to my face as I wrench my eyes from Brandon’s lips. I can’t bring myself to look and see if he caught me. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I answer in an annoyingly breathless voice, “Every sleepover needs movies and spa stuff.” I force a smile at Baylee. “And the right kind of snackage is essential to any party’s success.”

  “Trust her, Bayls.” I finally look up and see Brandon staring at me with an unreadable expression. Could that touch have affected him, too? “Aly’s an expert on snackage.”

  We hold each other’s gaze for an extended moment. I still have no idea what he’s thinking, and I pray I’m just as pokerfaced. Sadly, my sinking gut tells me different.

  “Y’all okay?” Baylee asks.

  That snaps us out of it. I nod, and Brandon turns around to walk into the family room. I notice our sisters exchange a strange look as I fall in step behind him, setting my overnight bag on the bench in the foyer.

  Nope, this isn’t awkward at all.

  Baylee presses play on her “girl power mix,” and I turn myself into Martha Stewart to keep the pesky thoughts at bay. I push the recliner and sofa back and have Brandon remove the coffee table to add more floor space. After laying out the spa products and stacking movies by the television, I set out the snacks in the kitchen. I’m pouring chips into a bowl when Miss Sheila comes down the stairs in her scrubs. She walks up, pulling me into a hug.

  “Alyssa, you don’t know how grateful I am for you bailing us out at the last minute like this. I hate missing the sleepover.” Eyes the same soft green shade as Brandon’s peer at me with sadness as she sighs, squeezing my shoulder. “But I know the girls are in good hands.”

  “I stole every stereotypical sleepover idea from every movie I’ve seen,” I confirm. “The girls will have a blast.”

  She smiles, then darts her gaze to Brandon. “My shift’s from seven to seven,” she tells me, “so I want to catch up with you in the morning, okay?” The pointed look she gives me confirms my suspicions. Mom totally told her about that moment she saw at the campground. I squirm under her scrutiny, and the level of awkward rises.

  She winks, letting me off the hook for now. Then, in a rush of energy rivaling her daughter’s, she kisses her children and runs out the door with a parting, “Behave, you two,” thrown over her shoulder.

  The door closes, and Brandon and I share a look. We’re officially without supervision.

  I zip back around and snag a cookie from the counter.

  When in doubt, pig out. That’s my motto.

  “Anything else left to do?” Kaitie asks, grabbing a chip.

  I give the kitchen and family room a thorough examination. Satisfied that everything is ready, I shake my head. “Nah, just have to order the pizza. You girls head upstairs to clean up.”

  As they clomp up the stairs, I reach for the phone. I feel Brandon watching me, but I don’t look back. Knowing we were going to be alone and actually being alone are apparently two very different things. Adding in the confusing bodily reactions to his mere presence, I’m a big ball of freaking out. I order enough food to feed an army, and I’m just hanging up when long, tan fingers wrap around my elbow.

  “Got a second?”

  Those dang tingles come back, radiating from where his rough hand encircles my arm. Brandon looks down as if surprised to find it there and takes a step back, releasing his grip. The warm sensation lingers.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Pushing himself onto the granite counter in front of me, Brandon rests his hands on my shoulders. “Thanks for doing this for Baylee. It means a lot. To both of us.”

  Ignoring the shiver teasing my spine, I look into his sincere expression and nod. “It’s really no problem. This is important to Kaitie, too.”

  We stare at each other, and a tension-filled silence falls between us. I refuse to let my eyes drift down to his full lips. Or let myself wonder if he’s thinking about our kiss as much as I am.

  Or if he wants to do it again.

  Nope, definitely not thinking about the kiss.

  “Brandon, about last night—”

  “Listen, last night was—”

  We both stop, and I laugh nervously. “Go ahead.” Biting my lip, I cast a glance toward the doorway. The last thing this conversation needs is a couple seventh-grade eavesdroppers.

  “Okay.” Brandon swallows and rubs his palms on the front of his jeans. “I just wanted to make sure… I mean, we’re cool, right? Things kinda got sketchy last night, but I don’t want any weirdness between us.”

  Oh.

  Not what I expected, but infinitely better than hearing that kissing me was like making out with his sister. And this works perfectly with my plan anyway. Brandon and I are just friends. Awesome. Good to know we’re on the same page.

  “No,” I tell him. “Yeah. We’re cool. Zero weirdness.”

  I force a smile to prove my point, and we stare at each other some more. With absolutely zero weirdness.

  The seconds drag on in silence.

  “Well, that’s good,” he says, visibly drawing a breath. “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too.”

  Thankfully, the doorbell rings, saving us from any further non-weird comments. Baylee races down the steps, Kaitie on her heels, and squeals erupt from the family room. Brandon laughs and shakes his head. “There’s my cue.”

  For a second it looks like he wants to say more, but he turns on his heel and jogs up the stairs. And I go and greet eight giggling girls.

  Head in the game, Reed.

  BRANDON

  BRANDON’S ROOM, 8:45 p.m.

  I crack my knuckles and look at the sketch I’ve been working on since my forced seclusion a few hours ago. We agreed my presence at the estrogen-fest downstairs would be weird and complicate things. I’m just not sure what it would complicate more: whatever it is that girls do at these things or my friendship with Aly.

  Sketching is a trick a counselor suggested after Dad got sick and I became the man of the house at thirteen. I do it to deal with feelings I can’t or won’t talk about. If I were in a self-analy
tical mood, I’d find it interesting I took out the pad tonight, but something tells me that kind of thinking can only lead to more problems.

  No surprise after the past week, this sketch is of Aly. Two different Alys to be exact, a sort of before-and-after morphing into one girl. The first Aly doesn’t have on any makeup, her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she has on track pants and her ratty Block This! T-shirt. The second Aly’s hair falls around her shoulders, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in cut-off shorts and a bikini top, her daily uniform on the camping trip.

  Staring at one makes me feel happy and relaxed. The other confuses the hell out of me. She’s the same girl with the same cute nose and sassy smile in both pictures, so the answer is obvious.

  The damn makeover is the problem.

  A mouthwatering scent wafts through the crack in my door, and my stomach grumbles. I glance behind me at the clock on the nightstand. For two hours I’ve sat here with nothing to do other than fixate on the girl messing with my head. I deserve some of those snacks I helped put out earlier. Getting up, I throw my pencil across the room and follow my nose to the kitchen.

  At the entrance, I stop outside the door. I’m starved, but the girls are huddled around the butcher-block island, and curiosity has me waiting. Aly turns from the oven and lays a tray of piping hot cookies on the counter. I’m so hungry I could eat the damn tray.

  “Girls, it’s imperative you learn this now.” She levels them with a mock-serious expression, and her rapt audience leans in. “Boys are gonna come, and boys are gonna go. Unfortunately, some friends may even do the same. But dessert, y’all, will never let you down.”

  I smother a laugh as Aly’s signature smile breaks across her face. She grabs a spatula, pries off a gooey chocolate chip cookie, and plops it on a plate. My stomach grumbles again, and I step forward to snag one. Then I hear:

  “Boys suck!”

  And I jump back. What the hell? But no one is even looking in my direction. Apparently, the statement was in regards to the suckiness of boys in general, not me in particular, but going in there now would be like stepping on a live grenade. Not happening, grumbling stomach be damned.