The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  “But not Brandon, right, Aly?” I halt mid-backtrack as Baylee’s friend Britney leans her cheek on her hand. “I hear y’all are dating now. He’s so hot.”

  Baylee pretends to gag, and Kaitie scrunches her nose. Aly laughs, and, curious how she’ll respond, I press against the door jamb, still out of sight. This I have to hear.

  “My older sister said he’s a heartbreaker,” another girl interrupts. I think her name’s Ashley. “She says Brandon changes women like he changes underwear.” She gives the group a smug smile before turning to Baylee. Her smile withers. “No offense, Bayls. Or-or you, Aly.”

  My sister looks to the ground, fidgeting with her sleeve, and my hands clench at my sides. I have reasons for hooking up, but it’s none of this girl’s business. And my sister doesn’t need to be hearing shit about me from her own friends. I want to go in there and say that very thing, but the look in Aly’s eyes stops me.

  Her gaze sharpens before the hint of a smile tilts her lips. Resting her elbows on the island, she leans in like she’s about to confide a secret. “Brandon is pretty hot, huh?”

  My eyebrows shoot up. That’s not what I expected her to say.

  “And you’re right, Ashley, he does date a lot of girls. But he never leads them on.” Aly directs this at Baylee, and a grateful smile tugs my mouth. I should’ve known she had my back. Then a sort of faraway look crosses her face as she breaks off a piece of cookie and licks the chocolate from her fingers, staring at the bare wall over their heads. “It’s not as if the boy can help that he’s easy to fall in love with.”

  The grateful smile freezes on my face as cold hits me square in the back.

  Shit.

  Freshman year, I knew Aly wanted more, but I thought she was over that by now. I hope she is because my feelings are still the same. During Dad’s illness, Aly was my rock. She came with her parents to the hospital with a never-ending supply of mindless games and homemade cookies. The night he died, she shot hoops with me for hours without saying a word. Our families were close so I’d always known her, but those months bonded us. She was the one bright spot to emerge from that hell.

  After months of watching Mom cry in that hospital room and a year seeing her battle being a widow, I learned what love really does—it leads to misery. Friendships last. Relationships end. Three years ago, I refused to screw up the one good thing I had going. And I still won’t. My friendship with Aly is way too important to mess with.

  Aly shakes her head and focuses on the girls again with a smile. “Not that I’m in love with him or anything.” She rolls her eyes like that would be absurd, and my lungs inflate again. I lean against the doorframe in relief. “I’m just saying that, despite the number of girls he’s dated or his reputation, Brandon’s one of the good ones.”

  That almost makes me laugh out loud, but I choke it back before I give myself away. One of the good ones. That expression exists for guys like Drew. But for someone who changes women like he changes underwear? Not so much.

  At this point, the girls can keep their cookies. I’ve heard enough. I turn with the intent of hightailing it out of there, and the hardwood creaks under my foot.

  “Hey, no boys allowed!”

  Heaving a sigh, I walk in palms up and say, “Just grabbing a snack.”

  Aly’s cheeks glow pink as she nibbles the corner of her lip. Fidgeting with her ring and staring at the ground, I know she’s worried I heard what she said. It’s wrong to tease her, to flirt and push the issue with preteen witnesses, but I can’t help myself.

  “These smell good,” I say, coming to a stop in front of her. Placing a hand on the counter near her waist, I reach around for the tray with the other and whisper, “They smell like you.”

  I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  A soft puff of air hits my neck as Aly gasps. The warm cookie I’m trying to snag sticks to the pan so I twist it, but the action only brings me flush against her. Breath hisses between my teeth as I shift my hand to her hip. The heat from her body seeps through the thin material of her shirt, and I fist the soft cotton.

  Looking down, I see the pink of Aly’s cheeks has turned a vibrant crimson. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to mine, and her eyes crinkle. So damn beautiful.

  Giggles from the audience kill the mood—thank God—and I unclench the thin material of her shirt. I swallow hard and grab a handful of her special double chocolate chip cookies, this time prepared to stay locked away until morning.

  “It’s 2:00 a.m.and I’m bored outta my mind.”

  Talking to myself is not a good sign. Since leaving Aly in the kitchen, I’ve spent hours going through our yearbook, determined to find Aly another guy to set her sights on. Anyone other than Justin. The problem is that the rest of the clowns at our school aren’t good enough either. So that leaves me with Plan B: getting her to realize she’s not a Casual and calling an end to this charade.

  How I expect to convince her of that is still a big fat blank.

  Sprawled across my bed, tossing a baseball over my head, my eyes keep darting to the sketch I pinned to the wall. I broke my personal rule of never hanging my work where anyone can see it, but this one feels important. Like it somehow holds the answer to my problem.

  I pitch the ball again, perhaps a little too forcefully, and it bangs against the ceiling. Starving isn’t helping my mood. After those stolen cookies hours ago, I ventured back down only one other time, to grab a few slices of pizza, and ended up interrupting a spa treatment. Why girls like coating themselves in green goop, I’ll never know. About an hour ago, after what felt like hours of non-stop pounding bass and preteen giddiness, things started quieting down.

  The girls have to be asleep by now. All the girls.

  If I sneak downstairs, grab a couple slices of pizza, and come right back, no one will ever notice. I slowly crack open my door and listen.

  Silence.

  Carefully, I make my way down the stairs and step over mounds of passed-out girls on the floor before padding into the kitchen. The pizza box on the counter calls my name. I flip the top, grab a slice, and look out the window.

  The woven hammock strung between the two oak trees in the backyard is gently rocking back and forth. I lean closer and see a pair of bare legs push off the ground. Even with the dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves of the trees, I know it’s Aly.

  My eyes shift between the hammock swaying softly under her body and the sanctuary of my room. Where I want to go and where I need to go. Pizza box in hand, I hesitate and then turn and walk out into the cool night air.

  I’ve never been good at doing what I should.

  Aly doesn’t see me coming. She’s staring up at the stars in a simple tank top and shorts, her hair piled on her head in a messy ponytail. She’s sexy as hell.

  Damn.

  “Hey,” I say roughly.

  She jumps. Hand to her heart, she looks at me and says, “Holy cannoli, Brandon, you scared the crap out of me!” She takes a deep breath and lets it out on a laugh. “If I wasn’t before, I’m definitely awake now—Hey, is that pizza?”

  I grin and hold out the box. She scoots over, patting the space next to her on the hammock. When I lower myself down, my weight causes her to sink against me. We’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh. She leans over to grab a slice, and the tips of her breasts glide across my stomach. I clench my teeth, holding back a groan.

  The slight breeze carries the sound of chirping crickets and distant cars. Wisps of hair blow around her face. I grab a slice and turn it around to gnaw into the stuffed crust. “Having fun?”

  Aly pops a pepperoni into her mouth. “Yeah, the girls are sweet and totally think I know what I’m talking about. I feel like Yoda.”

  She grins and kicks her foot out to swing us. It only makes me more aware of how close her body is. Grabbing onto the distraction, I say, “Well, we are getting old and wise. We’re gonna be seniors on Monday.”

  “I know. Can you believe it?” Aly slaps my chest e
xcitedly. “Before you know it, we’re gonna be at A&M.”

  “That’s the plan,” I say, handing her the last slice and tossing the box on the ground. “But let’s get through this year first. Fast-forward too much and you’ll miss that road trip you’ve been planning forever.”

  For as long as I’ve known her, and that’s been a while, graduation for Aly has meant a nationwide road trip. She has a huge map of the United States tacked on the back of her door with all the places she’s read about and wants to visit highlighted in a rainbow of colors. The thing’s practically covered. I have an open invitation to join her, but there’s no way I could swing that. Who’d cut the grass, take out the trash, and cook when Mom works?

  I wouldn’t know what to do, leaving my responsibilities behind for an entire summer.

  Aly grins and kicks her foot again. A mosquito crawls across my bicep. I brush it off, and my fingers graze her smooth arm. Without thinking, I skate my fingers down to her wrist and lift her hand, noticing how tiny it is inside my own. How soft it feels against my rough skin.

  I look up into her wide eyes.

  Aly exhales a shaky breath. She glances at our joined hands and slowly slips hers away. “I-It’s late,” she whispers. “I better go inside.”

  That’s what she says, but she doesn’t move. She stays lying next to me, temptation snapping between us, and I’m glad. I don’t want her to move. I want a replay of the other night. My heart pounds so loud I know she hears it. We’re so close I feel her quickened breaths on my face, and I’m seconds away from taking her.

  She places her hand on my chest…and pushes to her feet.

  Big blue eyes gaze down at me. Aly worries her lip between her teeth, and everything in me clenches, wanting to mimic that very gesture. The sound of the crickets grows louder in the heavy silence until she finally says, “Good night, Brandon.”

  Her voice is soft, unsure, and if I tried, I know I could convince her to stay. But that would be wrong. Our friendship is too important. “Night.”

  Aly’s gaze lowers to my mouth and the skin burns, feeling her phantom lips on mine. She steps back, turns, and walks back to the house.

  The back door closes with a decided click, and I throw myself against the hammock, the force of it rocking me back and forth.

  What in the hell are we doing?

  I look at the endless sky, fighting the urge to run after her. I search for constellations, one of the few things Dad taught me before he got sick, but I’m not thinking about astronomy. As my eyes trace the lines of the Big Dipper, I imagine I’m tracing the lines of Aly’s body. I replay the last few moments she was out here with me and fill in the gaps of what could have happened had she stayed.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 16TH

  6 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming

  ALY

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 7:22 a.m.

  Don’t throw up, Aly. Do NOT throw up.

  That’s my new mantra as I stand like an idiot outside the main door to Fairfield Academy. I feel Brandon’s concerned gaze drill into the top of my head. When we got here this morning, I didn’t even have to tell him I needed a moment to gather myself before going inside; he just knew.

  “You ready?” he asks, tightening his hand around the handle.

  I’d like to say no, but that will get me nothing. I devised Operation Sex Appeal and Project Pretend Hookup, and now I need to own it. The camping trip was a success. This will be, too.

  Lifting my head, I throw on a brave smile and say, “Let’s do this.”

  Lips that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about lately tighten into a thin line, but Brandon nods and opens the door. I step through and embrace the chaos. Mobs of people are huddled against the lockers. The polished floor beneath my feet reflects the multicolored fliers plastering the newly painted walls, and a glorious mix of antiseptic, perfume, and aftershave stings my nose.

  It looks like and smells like every other first day back to school. But it feels like anything but.

  And just like that, the brief moment of confidence vanishes. I yank on my hem. Our school has uniforms, but yesterday I mistakenly let Kara adjust it. I pull the waistband as low as it can go and rub my eyes with both hands, trying to psych myself back up. They return covered with makeup. I close my eyes, with no other option but to laugh in self-loathing. Any second now, my classmates are going to turn around, take one look at me, and know that I’m a fake. That I’m just pretending. They’ll see through my trendy, Kara-approved disguise and clown-like makeup and laugh me right out of the building.

  Brandon slides his thumbs under my eyes, then takes my left hand and laces our fingers together. A sense of calm envelops me. I look into his eyes, grinning as he sends me a wink. That one flirty gesture eases the mounting tension in my shoulders more than any words he could have said. With a subtle nod, I roll my shoulders back and turn to face the hallway.

  Here we go.

  Brandon gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, then gently tugs me through the crowd, ignoring the people staring like we’re a walking celebrity sighting.

  “I hear Evans’s English course load is crazy,” he says, acting as if today is any other day. He maneuvers us around a group of gawking girls, adding, “I’m depending on you to have my back for essays.”

  The girl in the center openly sneers at me, a look of pure venom on her face. I swallow. “Deal,” I reply, striving to match his relaxed tone. And failing miserably. “But only if you have my back in calculus.”

  A couple lockers down, two guys lean against the wall. One focuses on my chest while the other makes some kind of creepy, puckered kissy face. My breathing spikes. I glance at the girls’ bathroom across the hall, and the urge to bolt for a stall is fierce.

  Shouldn’t getting what I want feel better than this?

  “Aly?”

  Brandon’s voice snaps me back to our conversation. “Calculus. Right. Tell me again why I have to take it?”

  He watches me as a crowd of girls heads into the bathroom, and I can see in his eyes that he knows what a head case I’m being. But he plays along anyway. “Because you’re brilliant and tested out of algebra freshman year?”

  Freshman year. Apparently, it was a year of life-altering events.

  Aside from when I stupidly confessed my feelings for Brandon, the day I let Mom convince me to take the placement test would be my do-over. I ended up passing it by the skin of my teeth, but it locked me into the honors track for math. For English, history, and even science, I deserve that placement, but math and I have never gotten along. Thankfully, Brandon’s a mathematical genius. He’s saved my butt more times than I can count, and my only shot of surviving this year is through total dependency on him again.

  He stops in front of my locker, two over from his own. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes tight, advising in my ear, “Don’t let them see ya sweat.”

  Nodding, I turn away, pretending I don’t hear the whispers. I swirl the dial of my cold metal locker and it springs open, and I try to stay busy reattaching pictures and unloading and reloading notebooks until the homeroom bell rings. When it does, I nearly sink to the floor in relief.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready to get out of this hallway, that’s for freaking sure,” I tell him, taking a breath as people scurry left and right. And to think, I only have eight more hours of this.

  Brandon takes my shaky hand and steers me down the winding hallway leading to our class. On the stairwell, his hand slides to the small of my back.

  He’s not really touching you, I chide myself. Remember it’s all for show.

  But the heat from his fingers seeps through my uniform polo and my nervous system sends zings of electricity pulsing down my legs.

  Concern over incredulous classmates fades as my entire body zeroes in on his touch.

  Still doesn’t mean anything.

  I miss a step, and his arm wraps around my waist to steady me. Warm breath tickles my ear.

  Doesn’t mean anythin
g either. Brandon is just being chivalrous. And he’s leaning in close so I can hear him.

  Wait, he’s talking.

  “Sorry, but I totally missed what you were saying,” I confess as we enter the classroom.

  Brandon’s eyebrows draw together. He motions toward two empty seats in the back, and I follow him down the crowded aisle, laser stares pinging the back of my head. Tossing his bag on the floor, he sits on the edge of a desk and crosses his arms. “You okay?”

  The muscles of his arms bulge against the cotton of his shirt.

  Just peachy. My body’s betraying me, and my head’s complete mush, but otherwise I’m fantastic.

  I force my gaze away and slide into my seat. “I’m fine. Caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, I guess.”

  He frowns like he doesn’t believe me. Lacing his hands behind his neck, he studies the ground and asks, “But you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” He lifts his eyes, and his face twists in concern. I hate that my crazy hormones make him look like that.

  “Of course,” I promise. “I tell you everything.”

  Well, practically.

  The bell rings and the rest of the class files in. Brandon taps his fingers on my desk as Lauren Hays’s voice rings out over the P.A. system. “Morning, my fellow Hokies! Your favorite class president here, welcoming you to another new year filled with change, excitement, and discovery…”

  So far, I’d say she has it about right.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18TH

  6 weeks and 3 days until Homecoming

  ALY

  BRANDON’S TRUCK, 5:30 p.m.

  Today’s agenda: Getting back to normal.

  I glance over at Brandon drumming on the steering wheel and pretend to sit in comfortable silence. In truth, I’m completely weirded out. Awkwardness has surrounded us all week, transforming every glance and thrilling touch into an exhausting game of “is it real or is it pretend?” At our first rec team practice, I couldn’t tell what the girls found more interesting: our skill drills or watching sparks fly between their coaches. But today, I’m a girl on a mission.