The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  Great, that’s what I was going for.

  The last bit of hope takes every ounce of air in my lungs with it. If I don’t give in to the emotions roiling inside soon, my chest is going to explode. But I will myself to contain it just a little longer. After everything that’s happened, I can’t break down in front of Brandon. I can’t.

  He stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Want me to bring you home?”

  “Nah.” I force a smile, knowing damn well he can see through it, too. “I’ll get a ride in the Death Mobile.”

  He nods and kicks the bench in front of him. “See you at the game tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.” I rock on the bench, every muscle clenching to hold it together. Please go. Please, please just go. “I’ll be there.”

  We hold each other’s gaze a moment more, and then he walks away. I watch his back, counting his steps until he disappears down the stairs and into the parking lot. Then, and only then, do I let go of the emotions wreaking havoc on my insides.

  Twenty minutes later, Gabi finds me curled on the bench.

  “Hey, girl, I’ve been looking for—” She stops, takes in my blubbering face, red eyes, and runny nose, and says, “I’ll be right back with Kara!”

  Gabi has never been good with emotional stuff. I drag my fingertips beneath my eyes and grimace at the thick coat of black I wipe off. The double doors open, and Gabi reappears, only this time with the entire freaking cavalry in tow. Kara and Sarah fall around me, each grabbing a hand, as their respective dates huddle near the wall, looking completely out of their element. The door opens a third time, and Carlos and Justin join the party.

  Fantastic.

  I don’t have to say much—the fact that I’m bawling like a baby and Brandon is nowhere in sight makes the situation quite obvious.

  Still, Carlos asks, “Where’s Brandon?” Gabi shoots him a death glare and slaps his arm. “What the hell, woman?”

  Ignoring him, she pushes my feet off the bench, tugs me up, and then slides in on one side as Kara takes the other. Wrapping me in a three-way hug, Gabi declares, “Men are idiots.”

  I sniff and look at the crowd standing around awkwardly, more than half of which are guys. Drew lifts his chin in consolation.

  Kill me now.

  Sarah kneels down, leaning her head against my lap. “Are you okay? Gabi’s right, boys are stupid.” She glances back at her boyfriend and clarifies, “Not you, honey. Brandon. What is his deal? He ignores the obvious for years, finally wises up, and then–” She turns to me and asks, “Wait, what did he do exactly?”

  Kara hands me a ball of wadded-up toilet paper, and I drag it across my eyes. “Nothing. We broke up. It was mutual.”

  The looks on their faces confirm that nobody is buying the pre-canned line.

  Sarah pats my hand. “Aly, don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay. You’ll see.”

  Gabi rolls her eyes, and I struggle not to do the same. Sarah means well, but being consoled by someone completely in love? It doesn’t help. And Drew tugging on his ear, mumbling condolences, really doesn’t help. Without a doubt, Brandon is going to hear all about my sob-fest now. Drew’s a sweetheart, but keeping his mouth shut isn’t one of his strengths.

  I hear the gym doors open yet again, and I just know who it’s going to be. In case I hadn’t gotten the message, the universe thought she’d stick it to me one more time. And that comes in the form of Lauren.

  From the expression on her face, I can tell she didn’t know we were there. For once, she doesn’t look plastic or haughty. The confidence I’ve grown to expect from her and all the other Casuals is noticeably absent, replaced with slumped shoulders and a downcast gaze. For about a nanosecond, I see a girl who appears just as lost and sad as I do. Exhaustion radiates from her being.

  But then, registering her audience, the old Lauren returns. Shoulders snapping back, she lifts her chin as her sharp eyes take in my balled tissue and emergency response crew. Smirk in place, she tosses me a haughty, “Have a great night,” and continues strolling past. But after everything that has happened tonight, it lacks the usual sting.

  Gabi pulls Kara to the side, and they start whispering heatedly. I hear the phrase “payback’s a bitch,” and not knowing if they are talking about Lauren or Brandon only makes me cry more. This isn’t anyone’s fault but mine. Carlos shuffles his feet and scratches his arm, reaching out to pat my head like a dog every thirty seconds. Justin taps his foot against the brick wall, eyeing me behind an unreadable mask. Daniel pockets his phone and then takes it back out, obviously lost as to what to do.

  The old saying “misery loves company” is a complete load of crap.

  I grab Kara’s arm. “Guys, I just wanna go home, get in my jammies, throw a blanket over my head, and wallow. Can we please get outta here before the entire dance comes pouring out to get the gossip firsthand?”

  There’s no doubt in my mind Lauren is working her phone, spreading it as we speak.

  Kara’s eyes widen, coming to the same conclusion. “Daniel, we gotta go.” Grabbing my arm, she pushes me forward. She totally gets self-preservation.

  Daniel, obviously happy to have a task to do, yanks his keys from his pocket and tromps ahead. I turn to offer the group a halfhearted wave filled with balled-up toilet paper, then follow him, arm in arm with Kara, to the parking lot.

  When they drop me off ten minutes later, the house is dark. I let myself in quietly, my shoulders slumping in relief. My parents are great at the whole listening without judgment thing, but I really can’t handle going through the whole ordeal again. I grab a Coke from the fridge and a container of Double Stuf Oreos from the pantry and creep up the stairs to my room.

  Setting my heartbreak cure on the nightstand, I throw myself onto the bed and stare at the painted ceiling-scape Gabi created. The bright yellow sun and fluffy clouds that greet me each morning normally make me smile.

  Not tonight. They’re too damn joyful.

  I grab my silky, yellow, cheerful pillow and chuck it at the ceiling, grunting with the effort.

  Now that felt good.

  Leaning my chin back, I stare at the Wall of Shame and laugh in disgust. I didn’t even get a just-a-friend picture from tonight’s dance to add to the wall. Somehow, that’s even more pathetic.

  I shake my head and survey the photos, remembering each dance, each guy. Each time I wasn’t enough. Then I eye the calendar mounted over my desk.

  The countdown to Homecoming is on; it’s time I got back to business. My priorities slipped the last few weeks, but from now on, my eyes are set firmly on the prize. This is about being confident and Casual. And getting Justin to ask me to Homecoming.

  He is supposed to be the end goal, not Brandon. Now I remember why.

  I kick my shoes across the room and fold myself into bed. I have an early practice in the morning, followed by our rec team’s second volleyball match. As tempting as it is to ditch both, I can’t let down my team, and I won’t disappoint Kaitie or Baylee. Brandon either. Everything that happened tonight was my fault, not his. Tomorrow, I’m just going to have to put my head down, plow through on autopilot, and endeavor to get through the match without making things between us worse.

  If that’s even possible.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 28TH

  5 weeks until Homecoming

  BRANDON

  FAIRWOOD CITY PLAYGROUND, GYMNASIUM, 12:45 p.m.

  I glance at the gym’s closed metal doors and unfold last night’s sketch from my pocket. In it, Aly sits on the bench I left her on last night. Her hair is up in the messy ponytail of pre-makeover days, but she’s wearing last week’s lace halter top. Tears pool in her usually sparkling blue, makeup-free eyes. My stomach hurts.

  I’ve gone through some horrible shit in my life. I’ve watched my dad battle a sickness and lose. I’ve watched my mom work to utter exhaustion to try to support us and my sister cry over forgetting the sound of our dad’s voice. But walking away from Aly, both my longtime fr
iend and the girl I’ve seen the last three weeks, was honestly one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

  Being on the dumped end of a break-up fucking sucks. Hell, it sucks being in a break-up period. My normal hookups just sort of fade, both parties growing bored and moving on to greener pastures. That’s the joy of Casuals. No drama, no pain, no tears.

  No fear.

  And fear is exactly what I feel as my gaze darts back and forth between the sketch and the gym doors, every cell in my body on red alert for Aly’s appearance. A screech on the linoleum makes me jump. I look up, but it’s only Baylee doing warm-up drills. I glance again at the clock and tap impatiently on the bench.

  Last night couldn’t have gone worse. All my preparation and self-lectures flew out the window the second Justin put his hands on her. I should have just danced with her to begin with, instead of hanging back with Carlos, trying to gain control over my impulse to scoop her up and drag her back to my truck. Unfortunately, watching her toss her hair around and sway her hips on the dance floor only turned me on more. And when Justin moved in for the kill, I couldn’t take it.

  Our conversation on the breezeway was humiliating, but after I pounded the heavy bag in my garage for an hour, I decided she was right. We needed to end our fake relationship and get back to reality—our friendship, minus the PDA—before we lose everything.

  I just pray it’s not too late.

  At eight-fifty on the dot, the doors finally open.

  I quickly pocket the sketch, stand up, and shove my hands into my deep pockets.

  The army-green coach’s polo hangs loosely on her small frame, almost baggy like her old clothes. With her hair up in a ponytail and worn-out khakis, she looks like the Aly I’ve known for years, except for one small difference. She won’t look at me.

  Eyes down, she stalks across the floor, plops her water bottle on the bench, and drops her bag.

  I clear my throat. “Morning.”

  Aly glances up, but her eyes reach no higher than my chest. “Hey.”

  Seconds tick by in silence. She pulls at her ponytail and bounces on her toes, never once meeting my eyes. I take a step to close the distance between us, and she scampers to the opposite side of the gym, where she pulls Baylee and Kaitie into a conversation.

  Obviously, the last place in the world she wants to be is next to me on the sidelines.

  Which, the more I think about it and the longer I watch her avoid any and all eye contact, is complete crap. I may not be well-versed in the area, but isn’t holding a grudge and being pissed supposed to be the right of the dumpee?

  Aly remains on the other end of the gym until the rest of the team shows up ten minutes later. When she does eventually make her way back to our bench, she sits beside me and wrings her hands in her lap. I stare at those hands, aching to fill the silence between us, to make things right, but no words come.

  She just needs time. That’s all. I’ll give her some space, let these feelings fade, and we’ll be back to normal again. Everything’s fine.

  The down ref nods, signaling the match is about to begin. Aly stands to lead the girls in warm-up stretches, and I call over our setter to talk strategy. My gaze continues bouncing back to Aly, hoping she’ll look at me, smile at me, prove this nightmare isn’t happening. The whistle blows, the girls file onto the court, and Aly finally glances up.

  Her sad eyes devastate me as she says, “Let’s do this thing.”

  The buzzer echoes across the crowded gymnasium. A final look at the scoreboard confirms we smoked Oak Cove 25-2. Aly jumps up, and the parents erupt in applause. After shaking hands with the other team, our girls storm the bench, the sound of their sneakers squeaking across the court like nails on a chalkboard.

  Baylee jumps on my back, kisses my cheek, and screams, “Way to go, bro!”

  She hops down and whirls around to Aly. She grabs her hands, spins her in a circle, and deposits her in front of me before chanting, “Woot! Fairfield kicked some A-S-S! Fairfield kicked some A-S-S!” and leading the others in what can only be described as a variation of the Funky Chicken.

  I shake my head and smile despite the hurt clawing my chest. Baylee’s enthusiasm is nothing if not contagious. I sneak a glance at Aly, and the hole in my chest closes a fraction. A radiant smile lights her face as she watches Kaitie dance around with the rest of the team.

  She’s so beautiful.

  Our eyes meet. Flipping her hair, she smiles uncomfortably and says, “Congratulations, Coach.”

  I cross my arms and nod. “Right back at ya, Coach.”

  We are a breath away from touching, almost as close as we were when I held her on the dance floor. Determined to salvage what is left of our friendship, I lean down and pull her into a hug. It’s awkward as hell, but we have to start somewhere.

  When I pull away, her eyes are red.

  Baylee and Kaitie rush over. “Aly, you and Kaitie are coming to the house for lunch, right?”

  Aly glances at me and shakes her head. “Sorry, we can’t. We need to get home.”

  “No, we don’t.” Kaitie puts her hands on her hips. “Mom’s catering and Dad’s golfing. I wanna go to Baylee’s.”

  Aly pinches her lips and then, with a tight smile, lowers her voice. “Kaitie, I need to go home. I have an English paper to write, and then I have to go to work.”

  Kaitie opens her mouth to argue, and the fiercest expression I’ve ever seen Aly wear crosses her face. Her eyes flare, almost in desperation, and the cords in her throat stand out against the skin. The effect is so startling Kaitie shuts her mouth and Baylee and I exchange a look.

  Aly grabs her bag off the floor and flings it on her back. “Great job today, Bayls. Brandon, I-I’ll see you later.” She grabs Kaitie’s arm and tugs her out of the building.

  Baylee watches them leave. “Just a wild guess here, but I’m gonna say you two are fighting.”

  Aly’s vanilla scent still clings to the air. I drag my hand across my face and close my eyes.

  Are we fighting? Hell if I know. We argue on a daily basis, but always about stupid crap that doesn’t mean anything. But this feels different. And that’s what scares me.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 30TH

  4 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming

  ALY

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 3:05 p.m.

  News of the breakup went viral before Kara’s car even left the parking lot, and by Saturday afternoon, it was splashed all over Facebook, Twitter, and text messages across the county. When my own phone buzzed with the news, I suddenly found myself sympathizing with the jilted Hollywood starlets who read about their heartbreak in the tabloids.

  The thought of going back to school without Brandon as my safety net had me edgy all weekend, and the reality is even worse. Walking the halls alone, I feel every stare, hear every whisper. Girls regard me with a mixture of pity and triumph, and guys wink and leer as I pass. I’m back on the market again, and their reaction is what I said I wanted when I devised Operation Sex Appeal. Getting attention, being noticed—I thought it would be fun.

  This is decidedly not.

  What’s worse is the ache in my chest every time I see Brandon.

  By the time the final bell rings, the only thing I want to do is dive headfirst into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. But first, I have to make it through an hour with Lauren. As I wait for the senior class board meeting to start, I bury myself in my well-loved copy of Jane Eyre and attempt to look busy.

  A shadow falls across the page.

  “Hey, Aly.” Brandon’s restrained voice is void of all the humor and playfulness our usual exchanges hold.

  I can’t bring myself to look past his scuffed-up Chuck Taylors. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing I guess.” He shuffles his feet. “See you at practice later?”

  My shoulders slump. I’d totally forgotten about our weekly practice.

  Will this day never end?

  “Yep,” I say, flipping a page I didn’t actually read. “I’ll be there
.”

  “Cool.” Pause. “All right, then. See ya.”

  My eyes follow his stride down the aisle and through the door. I sigh. “See ya.”

  I lay my head down on the smooth desktop. It takes a special kind of stupid to mess things up this badly.

  “Now, now, Aly, don’t be sad.” I turn on my ear and find Lauren smiling wickedly from her perch on top of a desk two aisles over, surrounded by minions. “Many girls better than you have been dumped by Brandon Taylor.”

  Clearly, the hint of the human being I glimpsed after the dance has disappeared. Pasting the best impression of a smile I can manage on my face, I say, “Thanks for your concern, Lauren, but I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are, sweetheart,” Lauren continues. The rest of the board members lean forward, blatantly eavesdropping for their latest Facebook-blast, and she snickers. “But are you sure you don’t wanna take a personal day? It’s not like you’re really needed here or anything. Everyone knows Vice President is just a placeholder position.”

  You can handle this. Just stay calm.

  In a tight, overly sweet voice, I say, “I don’t need a personal day, Lauren, because the breakup was mutual.”

  She smirks and rolls her eyes at the gathered crowd. “Sure it was.” Spinning on the desk to face our class secretary, she says in an exaggerated whisper, says, “I don’t know what Brandon saw in her to begin with.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. Obviously, Lauren is not going to get bored with this game any time soon. This is the second time in four days she’s attacked me publicly. And keeping quiet at the dance has haunted me all weekend.

  Say something. Anything. What would a Casual do?

  Clearing my throat, I sit up tall, saying, “More than he saw in you apparently.”

  Every tap, every creak, every whisper silences.

  Holy crap, did that really just come out of my mouth?