The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  Lauren’s horrified face tells me it did. Suddenly, I can no longer feel the seat beneath me. All sensation below my waist is gone. There’s a roaring in my ears, and I clamp my teeth shut.

  I attempt not to cower as Lauren huffs. She rolls her tongue in the pocket of her cheek, eyeing me up, then swivels to her hungry followers—eager to lap up every morsel of her hate to spew in future gossip—and starts whispering. The evil look she casts in my direction tells me she’s getting the last word. As if I didn’t already know.

  I bounce in my seat, eager to keep the ball rolling. To prove I’m a Casual who can stand toe-to-toe with the best and hand it right back. But I’ve got nothing. Every comeback I think of sounds juvenile.

  What are you whispering about, huh?

  If you have something interesting to say, why don’t you share with the rest of us?

  Lauren, you’re nothing but a mean, mean, not-nice girl.

  Yeah, that would do it. I shake my head in disgust.

  Ms. Evans, the senior advisor, emerges from her office and effectively shuts Lauren up. At least for the moment. I straighten my shoulders and grab my pencil, ready to bury myself in whatever project Ms. Evans has for us, no matter how idiotic.

  “The dance Friday night was a huge success,” she says, riffling through a large stack of papers on her desk. The heady smell of newly photocopied pages permeates the air. “Lauren, you did a fabulous job managing the committees. You clearly inherited your father’s business sense. He must be so proud.”

  At the praise of her corporate big-shot father, Lauren’s plastic smile falters briefly before returning to its former radiance. “Thank you, Ms. Evans. I learned everything I know about delegation from him.”

  “Excellent. Now, our next event is Spirit Day. It’s our job to plan the main event. The junior class, as you may remember, is in charge of the Homecoming Dance the following week. Let’s see, I have the theme they chose somewhere…” She shuffles her papers, spreading them around her desk before locating what she is looking for. “Here it is: ‘Starlight Fairytale.’”

  I keep myself from gagging, but the rest of the class erupts in groans. Could they be any more cliché? It’s not that the one we picked last year, “Under the Sea,” was that poetic, but choosing a non-lame, school-wide event to tie into that cheesefest of a theme is gonna be a challenge.

  Spirit Day is normally a joke, consisting of class team-building exercises and skits before whatever random event the senior class comes up with. In the past three years, I have suffered through jitterbug lessons to coincide with the “At the Hop” theme, luau lessons for the “Polynesian Sunset” theme, and swimming lessons to go with the “Under the Sea” theme. The previous senior classes were very big on lessons.

  Lauren speaks up, her voice oozing superiority. “Ballroom lessons. It’s perfect.”

  How original.

  Ms. Evans nods. “That’s a good option. It certainly goes with the fairytale ball aspect of the theme. I’ll write that on the board. Anyone else? Any other suggestions?”

  The classroom becomes eerily silent. None of Lauren’s friends would dare come up with their own idea, but as everyone just witnessed, Lauren and I are not friends. This is my chance to stick it to her and, for once in the school’s history, get a stinking fresh idea.

  I rub my forehead and stare a hole into my desktop.

  Fairytales. Cinderella. Stargazing. Telescopes. Prince Charming. Stars.

  Do I know any star names? Isn’t there one named Beetlejuice—or is that Michael Keaton? I’m much more knowledgeable about Hollywood stars.

  Ian Somerhalder, Ryan Gosling, Kanye West, Taylor Swift…

  Wait, that’s it!

  “Ms. Evans?” The rest of the class turns toward me, and I sink lower in my chair. “W-what about a talent show? I know it’s a stretch on the word ‘starlight,’ but actors and musicians are considered stars, aren’t they?”

  Expressions of shock and astonishment meet the suggestion. Then the room explodes in conversation and I can’t tell if it’s due to the brilliance of my idea or its sheer stupidity. My bouncing foot rattles the desk in front of me, and I gnaw off the rubber eraser on my pencil.

  Ms. Evans’s voice rings over the noise. “What a unique and interesting idea, Alyssa. Does anyone else have an idea to contribute?” She scans the silent room and then writes “talent show” under “ballroom lessons.” “Why don’t we take a vote? All in favor of Aly’s idea to have a talent show as the Spirit Day event this year, please raise your hands.”

  One by one, hands shoot up. With each one, so does my confidence. Even Lauren’s lapdog, our class secretary, hesitantly votes for my suggestion.

  Lauren surveys the room with a mild grimace, then nods with the enthusiasm of a dental patient. “I agree. Aly’s idea is wonderful. It’s exactly what we should do.”

  Sure it is.

  I barely hold in my snort as victory shoots through me. I did it. I actually did it.

  “Splendid. And what an example of graciousness, Ms. Hays.” Ms. Evans turns her back to circle “talent show” with a bright purple marker, and Lauren nails me with a lethal glare.

  And there goes my momentary surge of confidence.

  While I did want to steal Lauren’s thunder in theory, the reality is not as exhilarating as I hoped. If I’m reading her stare correctly, the verbal bashing earlier was mere child’s play.

  And only the beginning.

  I decide to take what glory I can from that small victory and leave before I have my ass handed to me. Grabbing my backpack, I dart to the podium.

  “Mrs. Evans, I completely forgot that I need to pick up my sister before volleyball practice.” I gesture toward the giant wall clock over the door. “I have to run. Is that okay?”

  “I’d say you earned the right to leave a little early,” she says with a smile. “We can handle it from here. I’ll fill you in on anything we decide tomorrow in homeroom.”

  “Thanks.” Feeling the heat of Lauren’s stare, I hurry through the door, pausing only to turn and close it behind me. Lauren waves and smiles sweetly.

  Message received: Game on.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2ND

  4 weeks and 2 days until Homecoming

  BRANDON

  TEXAS SPRINGS CARWASH, 4:30 p.m.

  I ram my phone back in my pocket and reread the same page in Hamlet for the thirteenth time. I still don’t see how this is supposed to be English. I have no clue what these people are saying. Chomping on a Twix, I chug my Dr Pepper in the off-chance a sugar rush is the missing ingredient in my story comprehension, then I pick the play back up and try again.

  Didn’t think so.

  This is the exact situation where I’d normally call Aly. My fingers itch to do it now, to hear her perky voice and have her explain this crap to me, just as she’s done with countless other assignments. Hell, I just want to call Aly. But that’s not an option. She needs space, and I’m going to give it to her. For now. Everything will go back to normal in a few days.

  It has to.

  Every day, our falling out becomes more obvious in the things I can’t share with her, talk to her about, or get her opinion on. And with assignments like Shakespeare thrown at me, it’s hard to miss how much we fill each other’s gaps. I speak math, and she speaks whatever version of English this is supposed to be. Together, we pull each other along just enough to stay in the honors track. But apart? My chances don’t look so hot.

  The ding overhead signals a car is waiting, and I gladly dog-ear my page. Stepping from behind the register at the front desk, I walk outside, ready to greet the latest customer. Even the blast of heat smacking me in the face can’t tempt me back to Shakespeare.

  But the metallic-blue BMW idling out front sure can.

  My steps slow as I watch Lauren fluff her hair and smack her lips at her rearview mirror. Just what I don’t need today.

  Before I can backtrack and grab one of the guys to help her, the driver-side door op
ens. She steps out in her skimpy dance uniform, and I grudgingly walk over.

  “Lauren.”

  Smiling, she places her cold hand on my arm. “My car’s really dirty, Brandon. I think I’m gonna need your special treatment.”

  Ignoring the innuendo, I brush her hand away and grab the clipboard off the wooden peg. A minute passes with nothing but the sound of my pencil scratching on the work-order form and cars speeding on the highway. Lauren’s come in enough times that I can fill out her information in my sleep.

  When I hand her the torn-off copy, her fingers ensnare my wrist. “Sorry about Aly.” Her voice begs to differ, a fact she confirms when she says, “Actually, I’m not. She isn’t good enough for you.”

  I inhale deeply and glance at the security camera. As much as Lauren deserves it, Earl will kick my ass for throttling a customer. Instead, I keep my eyes on the page and shake off her hand. “Your car will be ready shortly. Wait inside and I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

  Sidestepping her huff of disappointment, I slide behind the wheel, throw back the cramped driver’s seat, and fire the ignition. Twangy country music—the kind Aly always listens to—pours out of the speakers, and I punch the button to change the channel. I drive to the red canopy around back where the vacuums are and yank the parking brake. Throwing open the door, I haul out the slick front floor mats and bang them against the wooden fence bordering the rear of the lot. As I bend down to grab the second set from the rear, Drew walks out the employee door.

  “I see the viper’s here,” he calls, jerking his head toward the building where Lauren waits.

  “Yep,” I snap, bashing the second set against the canopy poles. “Aren’t I lucky?”

  Drew crouches beside the trunk of the car, keeping a safe distance from the flogging. With eyebrows drawn, he says, “I guess she figures she’s got a shot now that you and Aly aren’t together anymore.”

  I stuff the mats through the automatic mat cleaner. “Well, she’s wrong.”

  He stands and strolls over, grabbing the hose to vacuum the driver side. “You know, I get why some guys go for her over-the-top routine,” he says, raising his voice over the hum. “But personally, it completely turns me off. I’m not into that shit anymore.”

  I look down and kick the machine in front of me.

  Yeah, me neither.

  Drew hangs the vacuum back up and leans across the hood. “Listen, dude, I don’t know what happened with Aly, but something is obviously eating at you. You know if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I wrench the mats out of the machine and hurl them to the ground. The hum of the vacuum kicks on and I pick up the hose to do the passenger side. Drew grabs it out of my hand.

  “I got this.” He pushes my shoulder toward the employee door. “Go take a break.”

  Adrenaline is tearing through my veins, and I don’t even know why. The last thing I need to do is sit around the break room, but seeing Lauren and being around Drew’s too-perceptive stare is just pissing me off more.

  I lift my chin. “Thanks, man.”

  Drew nods and begins suctioning the sunflower seeds wedged in the crevices of her car. I jog to the employee break room, arms and legs shaking, heart pounding. Inside the cool room, I sink onto the duct-taped sofa and kick my feet up on the makeshift table. With fingers itching to draw, I close my eyes and pray for numbness to take over.

  Twenty minutes later, Drew finds me with my eyes squeezed tight and my head in my hands, still waiting.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3RD

  4 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming

  ALY

  LONESTAR THEATRES, 8:15 p.m.

  Gabi looks up from flipping through a copy of US Weekly as I back into the employee break room, buttery popcorn and Coke in hand. I’m exhausted and staring at three more long hours. I fall into an empty seat at the stained utility table, and Gabi frowns, stealing a handful of my dinner.

  “You need to have a party.”

  “Huh?” I take a ginormous sip of my caffeinated drink, waiting for the buzz to hit my veins. “Exactly what part of my dragging ass screams ‘celebration’ to you?”

  “None of it,” she admits. “Which is my point. You, my girl, need a pick-me-up.”

  What I need is to snap out of my Brandon-fog. According to the countdown calendar, I have one month left to somehow solidify myself in the Casual group and get Justin to ask me to Homecoming. Writing horrifically bad poetry and crying into my pillow is no longer a luxury I can afford.

  “A party, huh?”

  I’m not convinced a ton of strangers trashing my house will do what Gabi hopes, but it will serve another purpose. My parents are out of town for the weekend, my sister is spending the next two nights at Baylee’s, and I have the house to myself. What better way to prove I’m a Casual than throwing a party when the ’rents are away?

  As if sensing possible victory, Gabi nods. “Yep, and if you give me your key when I clock out at four tomorrow, I’ll have everything ready when you get home. All you’ll have to do is take a shower, get gorgeous, and enjoy.” She scarfs another mouthful of popcorn and leans back in her folding chair, waiting for my assent.

  It takes about five seconds. “Okay, I’m in,” I say. “But you better help me hide the valuables.”

  We pass the bag of popcorn back and forth between us, each working the contacts on our phones to spread the word. I hesitate over Brandon’s name before sending a quick text and then turning off my phone. If he replies, I’ll spend way too long overanalyzing every word, and I have to get back to work. When nothing remains of my dinner but a smear of neon-yellow liquid on the table, I head back out before the eight-forty-five rush trickles in.

  I key my code into the register and squat down to inventory the candy. A few minutes later, a pair of jean-clad, muscular legs appears opposite the glass case. When I pop up, I am eye-to-chest with Justin.

  After fouling things up so badly with Brandon, I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more depressed. Apparently, I was wrong. Staring at Justin, all the mistakes I’ve made the last month rush back. If I had just stayed focused on my mission—getting his attention—Brandon and I wouldn’t be in such a mess right now.

  But as the expression goes, the past is the past. I can only go forward. Regain focus. There are still four weeks to turn Operation Sex Appeal from a complete and utter failure into a victorious mission of triumph.

  And that starts tonight.

  “Hey, here to see a movie?” Wincing at my impressive observation skills, I say, “Err, what I meant was, what movie are you here to see?”

  Justin flashes a lopsided grin and points at the little boy standing next to him. “I’m taking Chase to see the new cartoon that just came out.”

  “Trolls?”

  Chase jumps up and slaps his hands on the counter. “Yeah, Trolls!”

  Justin laughs. “Obviously, my man here is excited. And since no movie would be complete without snacks, we thought we’d come see the expert.”

  I smile at his brother eagerly eyeing the options. “Chase, buddy, what’s your favorite kind of candy?”

  “M&Ms,” he says decidedly. “And Reese’s Pieces. And Raisinets. And—”

  “Ah, a chocolate lover, huh?” I interrupt. If he’s anything like me, he could go on forever. “A kindred spirit. Tell ya what—why don’t you narrow it down to two of your absolute favorites, and I’ll see what I can do to get your brother to buy them?”

  “Two?!” he asks, beaming up at me, all thick lashes and wide brown eyes.

  I nod with a smile, but when I look back at his older brother, my throat constricts again.

  “Two, huh?” Justin arches his eyebrow and places his elbows on the counter. He leans in and whispers, “So what are you going to do to convince me?”

  Holy cannoli. All of the blood in my body pools in my cheeks, and I swallow hard. What on earth possessed me to suggest I had any power over this boy? Justin is a force to reckon with
, and I’m a dork of epic proportions. Seeing Chase so excited was impossible to resist, but faced with the older Carter brother, looking surprisingly eager for me to pay up, I’m clueless.

  “Um, offer my employee discount?”

  Mortified, I close my eyes and groan.

  Truly, Aly, your flirting skills are unmatched.

  Hidden behind a veil of darkness, I laugh sarcastically. “Are you convinced or what?”

  “I guess,” he says, his voice warm and amused. “But your negotiation skills could use some work.” My eyes snap open, and he grins. “I’m teasing. Anything the boy wants, he can have.” He reaches down and ruffles Chase’s hair. “Big brother’s treat.”

  “Yes!” Chase does a fist pump, looking utterly adorable, and then turns to me with an expression implying the topic is of grave importance. “I’ve decided. I’d like Reese’s Pieces and Raisinets, please.”

  Grateful to be back on an even playing field—talking to a six-year-old—I reply, “Both very fine choices, young man.” I grab the candy and, without meeting Justin’s eyes, ask, “Anything else?”

  “A large Coke,” Justin answers, resuming his position against the counter. I fill the cup with sticky soda, trying to slow my breathing, and he continues. “As for anything else, guess only you can answer that.”

  Even I can’t misinterpret that line. My heart pounds in my ears, and a giddy smile threatens to erupt as I pass Justin his drink with trembling hands. He wraps his hands around mine, removes the drink with his left, and caresses my empty hand with his right. Slowly, I meet his eyes, and his mouth kicks up in the lopsided grin that sets girls’ stomachs fluttering.

  “I’m glad I saw you tonight, Aly.”

  “Yeah, you, too,” I say breathlessly, mentally shaking myself for being the world’s worst flirt. “It’s, uh, really sweet of you to spend your Friday night with your little brother.”

  His lopsided grin morphs into a slow and sexy smile, and I instinctively bite my lower lip. “Aly, I’m not a complete asshat.”