The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  Heat floods my cheeks. I scan the crowd, wondering if anyone saw. Couples dance around us obliviously, and Justin tightens his hold around me. “Ready for your close-up?”

  I look up in confusion, and he turns our bodies for Gabi to snap a picture. He mugs for the camera and then taps Gabi on the shoulder. “Give me a copy of that, will ya?”

  She lowers her chin and peers up at him, like she’s waiting for the punchline or looking for his angle. “Sure. No problem.” Then she looks at me as if to say, Is he for real?

  Dazed, I lift a shoulder in response, then lean back into the hard muscles of Justin’s chest, sure that I’ve stepped into some type of alternative universe… until I see Brandon hand Lauren a drink.

  I blink, not really wanting to watch but unable to look away. He sits on the armrest next to her, and Lauren presses her chest against his thigh. She smiles up at him, and he nods before lifting his head. His eyes lock on mine as if he’d felt the weight of my gaze, and he totally catches me staring.

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I drag my eyes away.

  There’s no denying it. Heartthrob Taylor is back in business.

  And I have a mission to complete.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6TH

  3 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming

  BRANDON

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 1:15 p.m.

  Drew chugs his water bottle and towels off the weight bench before switching places with me. Burning off energy in the athletic department during unstructured period is a benefit of being on the baseball team, but one I normally don’t use until the season gets closer.

  Today I’m willing to make an exception.

  I take a deep breath and lift the bar while Drew stands behind me to spot. I press the weight in rhythm with my breathing, trying to block out the image of Justin and Aly.

  They are everywhere.

  My day started with a run-in at the lockers, where no amount of banging my books around could drown out their banter. Then I made my escape to English, only to have them follow. Evans assigned seats the first day, which means Aly still sits beside me and I had a front-row ticket to witness Justin plop his ass on her desktop and pretend some more that he’s extended-hookup material. Of course, once the bell rang and Justin fled for his own class, Aly and I sat in silence.

  The hits just kept on coming as the day went on. There were run-ins with the happy couple in the hallways between classes and again at the lockers, but the last straw came at lunch. Trying to stomach my tacos while Justin sat with his arm around Aly, whispering in her ear, was impossible.

  Worse was the nagging feeling it should’ve been me next to her.

  “You want to talk about it?” Drew asks, easing the burden of the weight as I nudge it back onto the rack.

  I close my eyes, panting. “About what?”

  Drew throws his towel over my head, and I sit up slowly, drained from exertion.

  “The reason you’re killing yourself,” he says. “Whatever has you maxing out on a weight you couldn’t lift a week ago. The thing causing that vein to pop out of your forehead.”

  I stand and grab my bottle of water. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I guzzle the liquid and pitch the empty bottle into the recycle bin near the door. “Just working out.”

  Inside the locker room, I snatch a clean towel and head to the showers. Drew follows.

  “You don’t have to tell me shit,” he says, stepping into the neighboring stall. “But I’m not going anywhere, if you change your mind.”

  I twist the knob, and the water pressure hesitates in spurts before pounding the tile. The hot water jabs at my chest like hundreds of tiny knives, and I close my eyes to duck my head under the torrent. I don’t want to talk about Justin and Aly. I want to pretend it isn’t happening because watching them together has made me realize the friendship I had with her is over. Maybe we’ll be friends again eventually, but we’ll never go back to the way things were. Too much has changed.

  I finish showering and wrap the towel around my waist, heading back to my gym locker. Drew stands with his back turned, pulling on his green Fairfield Academy polo shirt.

  I straddle the metal bench and sit down. “Sorry for being a dick.”

  Drew nods in acknowledgement and closes his locker. “You should talk to her,” he says, tossing his comb into his bag.

  “That’s the last thing I should do.” I stand and twist the combination until my locker springs open. I pull on a pair of boxers and toss my towel into the wire basket against the wall. “I just need to get over it. Keep busy. Hook up with someone else.”

  “You really think that’s better than talking to her?” Drew asks incredulously.

  I zip my khaki pants. “Yeah, I do,” I lie. “Aly’s got a lot on her plate right now. She’s convinced she needs to be someone she’s not, and she refuses to hear anything I have to say about it.” I step into my unlaced sneakers. “The girl is stubborn as hell.”

  Drew sucks in his lips, repressing a smile. “Gee, that must be annoying.”

  “You’re not funny, dude.” I hike my leg up on the bench to tie my shoe, and Drew walks around the other side.

  “You’re really gonna let this go.” He leans against the cool steel wall behind him and crosses his arms. “You’re gonna give up and go bag another Casual, aren’t you?”

  Grabbing my bag, I shove my locker shut. “I’m not giving up anything. I never wanted a relationship. That’s your deal.” He shakes his head like I’m in denial, pissing me off. “Getting back to fun and easy is exactly what I need.”

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10TH

  3 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming

  ALY

  THE ZONE, 7:20 p.m.

  A fast-flying ball slamming into the cage in front of us sends me crashing into Justin’s chest. Apparently, dating for Casuals includes a heart rate check.

  “You get ten points for originality,” I say, breathless, craning my neck to look at him. “But your plan has one tragic flaw. I suck at baseball.”

  Justin squeezes my shoulders. “You happen to have your own personal batting tutor this evening,” he says, leaning down to place his mouth against my ear. “And I’m prepared to offer extensive hands-on instruction.”

  His lips brush the side of my neck, and my stomach jolts. Spinning around, I take a step backward and press my back against the metal cage.

  A week going out with Justin Carter and that touch highlights the extent of our lip action. It hasn’t been for lack of trying on his part; I’m just a skittish freak. When he tried kissing me at the party last weekend and I pulled away, I think we both chalked it up to nerves. But after pulling away again tonight, I can’t help but wonder what the hell is wrong with me. The perky blonde currently eyeballing Justin from the counter would have zero problems making out with him.

  “Aren’t I the lucky pupil?” I ask, going for blasé, but a nervous laugh leaks out. “Then by all means, lead me to the classroom, professor.”

  He eyes me curiously but takes my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. Walking beside him, I cast a sidelong glance and berate myself for acting so crazy. Justin Carter is holding my hand. This is what I wanted. I spent weeks trying to make this very thing happen.

  Get your head in the freaking game, girl!

  We stop in front of a cage halfway hidden behind a trophy case, and Justin pulls open the gate.

  “Typically these places have rules about one person at a time in these things,” he says, ushering me inside and pointing to a sign that states that very thing. “But the owner is one of Fairfield’s biggest boosters, so he won’t give us any problems.”

  He sets down the bat and a helmet and leads me to the sidewall for the grand tour. “Now, we don’t have to worry about tokens because we paid for thirty minutes, but this button right here is important. It sends a signal to the pitching machine on the other end. See that yellow light over there? That means the machine is ready to go. When you hit this button, the red light
turns on, and balls start flying about every twenty to thirty seconds. When the light goes off, your turn is over and we switch.”

  I eye the machine ready to spew projectiles at my face, and swallow.

  “You want to go first?”

  “Sure,” I say with fake bravado, totally suppressing a traumatic flashback from P.E. “Bring it on.”

  He holds out a helmet covered in scratches and gouges, with yellow foam cushioning hanging loose on the inside. It looks like it survived a crime scene. With only a slight shiver, I reach out to grab it—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he gently pulls me forward, and that slight shiver gives way to a mega one.

  Justin runs the back of his hand across my cheek, and when I stiffen, he sighs. “Aly, you need to relax. I’m not gonna bite. Well,” he clarifies with a wicked grin. “Not unless you want me to.”

  My pulse thumps madly in my ears and I try to smile back, but my mouth doesn’t cooperate. “I guess I’m just nervous,” I admit, forcing my body to relax. It’s weird being this close to him, alone.

  Justin tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But why? You know me. We’ve been friends for years.”

  “No, we haven’t,” I say, surprised when a flash of hurt crosses his face. Not knowing where else to put my hands, I place them on his chest. “Justin, we’ve hung around the same circles for years, and we’re friends with the same people, but you and I have hardly ever talked. You’ve barely even looked at me in the three years I’ve known you.” I tell myself to shut up, that this is so not first date or Casual-like conversation, but I can’t seem to stop the monologue from spilling out. Lauren’s words from the dance keep haunting me. “Why now?” I ask. “Is it because of the new clothes? The hair and makeup? Or is it because I went out with Brandon?”

  As soon as the questions leave my mouth, I regret them. Now I look like a head case on top of a motor mouth, and really, I’m not sure I want to know his answer. But surprisingly, Justin doesn’t look annoyed or impatient with me ruining the mood yet again. He looks earnest.

  “It has nothing to do with your clothes,” he says, his full lips hinting at a smile. “Or Brandon. Not exactly. It’s you. Aly, you changed this summer. He just managed to notice it first.”

  I shake my head. “You mean my wardrobe changed,” I stupidly persist, glancing down at my current outfit, plucked straight from a store mannequin. If I hadn’t shown up like this at the campground, there’s no way Justin would’ve looked twice.

  “No, you did.” Gently placing his hands on either side of my neck, Justin tilts my chin up so he can look into my eyes. His warm brown eyes seem determined. “There’s a sexy confidence about you now that was missing before.”

  I almost laugh aloud. Confidence? What have you been smoking?

  When I scrunch my nose, he grins. “It’s true. I’ve been watching you the past few weeks. Singing at karaoke night, kicking everyone’s ass at the beach volleyball competition, prancing around the campground and the hallways at school… Something’s changed in you. It’s like you flipped a switch, and this new confident, sexy girl came out.”

  As he speaks, I close my eyes and let the movie memories play. Scared out of my mind on the makeshift stage. Spiking the ball and Brandon throwing me up in the air in victory. Holding his hand in the halls.

  Justin’s right. I did change. The version of me who did karaoke and strutted around the campground had a brighter smile, a bounce to her step, and, strangely enough, a certain confidence. It had nothing to do with what clothes I wore or how I did my hair and everything to do with the guy I was with—and the girl I let myself be when I was with him.

  Even in the midst of monumental discomfort and overwhelming confusion, Brandon helped me feel comfortable with who I was on the inside. He believed in me, and that faith gave me the confidence to step out and try some crazy things. At least, crazy for me.

  I guess I have been pretty badass.

  I open my eyes, and Justin smiles. But now all I can think about is Brandon. How he made me feel those weeks we said we were pretending and the look in his eyes when we decided to stop. And I think about our kiss on the beach.

  I really think about that kiss. Brandon kisses like the boys I read about in books. The boys who can make time stop and worlds change. “Cute and funny” friends don’t get kissed like that, and it sucks that the only reason I did was because of a dare. But there is heat in Justin’s stare. Heat that has nothing to do with a dare. It may only be there thanks to Operation Sex Appeal, but wasn’t that the point of the makeover?

  Justin runs his thumb across my lips, his eyes seeming to ask permission as he lowers his head. He waits, his mouth nearly touching mine, giving me full control. He won’t kiss me if I’m still unsure. That understanding and lack of pressure, along with sensing his desire, makes my decision clear. Here, in front of me, is a great guy who wants me. A guy who, unlike Brandon, sees me as sexy and datable.

  My heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of my chest. I lick my lips and swallow, then close my eyes and erase the distance between us. A puff of air hits my mouth as he exhales in shock, but then, he takes over.

  Kissing Justin is an experience. He’s bold and aggressive. He coaxes my lips apart and draws the bottom one into his mouth, sucking as he spears his hands through my hair. He tugs the ends with just an edge of bite, and it’s more than obvious the boy has skills. But guilt is a twisted knot in my gut. And it’s growing.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing the feelings away. Brandon has never—will never—think of me as anything more than a friend. The back-to-school dance proved that.

  Why do I insist on torturing myself?

  Ashamed and confused, I pull away and feel a rumble in Justin’s chest.

  “You’re right.” He leans his forehead against mine, and pants of minty breath hit my face. His lips are red and swollen, and they turn up in a mischievous smile. “We’re in a semi-secluded corner back here, but we’re still technically in public. And the things I want to do to you are not meant for children’s eyes.”

  He chuckles low in his throat, no doubt waiting for me to lob a line right back. I will my mouth to smile, to react in some way…but I can’t.

  I’m not here.

  I’m back on the beach with Brandon. I’m on our pretend date playing shuffleboard. I’m dancing in his arms, coaching with him on the sidelines, and playing basketball with him in my backyard.

  The truth doesn’t hit me like the shock to the system I would expect. More like a wave of calm serenity. The feeling of truth.

  I’m in love with Brandon.

  And I’m royally screwed.

  My friendship with Brandon is truly over. I confessed my feelings to him once before, and it’s amazing we were able to move past the embarrassment. That kind of miracle won’t happen twice. The only thing I can do now, what I have to do, is attempt to salvage this date.

  Struggling to breathe, sadness and regret crushing my lungs, I try and compose my features. Losing it in the middle of The Zone won’t do me any good. I stoop to pick up the bat and remind myself why I’m here and what and who I gave up to make it happen. I may not be able to toss back witty, sexy banter like most Casuals, or make out with my date and not see my ex-best-friend/fake hookup’s face, but for the love of everything holy, I can be an effing athlete.

  I shove the helmet on my head. “I believe you promised to tutor me?”

  Justin grins and rubs his hands together, clueless to the hurricane of emotions roiling through my body. “Yes, ma’am.” He turns me around and places his hands on my hips, giving a thorough instruction in how to plant my feet and twist to swing. I exhale, fighting to shake the depression and recapture the feeling I had when Justin caught my eye across the bonfire. Everything I did the past month was to lead me to this moment and what comes next.

  I can do this.

  Justin moves to the sidewall, and I center myself. His hand hovers over the button. “You know, you look pretty hot with th
at helmet on.”

  I can’t help but giggle. The thing reeks of sweat and body odor, and I feel like Darth Vader. “You’re digging the battered helmet head, huh?”

  “I’m digging you, yeah.” His voice is low and sexy, and I know he means it. My smile fades. “Now, imagine the ball as your worst enemy’s head,” he instructs. “I’m giving you permission to whack the crap out of it.”

  My worst enemy? That’s easy. At this moment, it’s me.

  His finger depresses the button, and the first ball flies. But it’s not my face that comes screaming toward me—it’s Lauren’s. The rubber ball and aluminum bat smack against each other, resulting in a deadened ping.

  At first, I’m in shock.

  I actually hit it!

  Then adrenaline takes over and I shout, “Holy crap, what a rush!”

  I do a victory shimmy, and Justin laughs, calling, “Check you out, girl!”

  The pride in his voice is unmistakable, and as the second ball flies out of the machine, a familiar desire to bring my game to the next level, to impress my coach, surges through me. My grip tightens in preparation.

  This time, though, when the ball whacks against the bat, there are no happy endorphins. A sharp sting of electricity zings up my arm to the not-soaptly named funny bone, and I howl.

  “Mudderbrudderfribbadiber,” I curse, dropping the bat. I shake my arm and begin hopping around like a demented flying squirrel. Holy crap, this hurts!

  “Aly, you can’t drop the bat! Another ball’s—”

  Too late. By the time I register the thoomp from the pitching machine, the ball is flying at my head. But I don’t duck like a normal person would do. No, my volleyball training rears its stupid head and I swat the dang thing down with my bare hand.

  “AHHHH!”

  Now the demented flying squirrel has had squirrel babies as I tuck my throbbing hand under my armpit, cradle my other elbow into my rib cage, and continue to leap and mutter obscenities in pain. Justin tugs me against the wall, away from any more mishaps, and pries my hand out to examine it.