Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  “Well, then, what do I do?”

  “First off, maybe don’t use people?”

  “I’m not using anyone,” Seb says. “Did you ever stop to think that I might find Dalia very interesting?”

  “Really?” I ask. “What do you like most about her? Personality-wise?”

  “I like her . . .” He stops to think, a smile twitching on his lips. “Point taken.”

  “Why don’t you find someone you actually like? Someone besides Chloe?”

  Seb’s smile fades. “Because there’s no one besides Chloe.”

  Not this again. Yes, I may be more than a little bitter when it comes to Chloe since she has replaced me in the eyes of my former best friend and is superior to me in every way. Even so, it’s insane for Seb to think Chloe is the only person who can make him happy.

  I peer around the classroom, trying to find the anti-Dalia. Someone with substance. My eyes rest on Devon. Devon has a pixie cut and a perpetually angry expression on her face. She paints her nails a deep red color, almost black, and plays the cello. I don’t know too much about her, but she’s different, at least. I think East Bay would implode if Seb dated someone like Devon.

  When I suggest her to Seb, he crinkles his eyebrows and asks, “Who’s Devon?” which is so obnoxious, because she’s been in our school since eighth grade.

  “Two o’clock,” I say.

  Seb glances to his right. “Two o’clock is Briana.”

  “Briana is clearly three o’clock.”

  “No, Lucas is three o’clock.”

  “Oh my God.” I grab the sides of his head and turn his face toward Devon. “That girl. Right there.”

  “That’s Devon?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No. What’s wrong with her?” My defenses flare on behalf of Devon, even though I barely know her and have never actually spoken to her. So she’s not a cookie-cutter Barbie doll. Would it kill Seb to go after someone who’s less than perfect?

  “The girl scares the shit out of me, Analee,” he says in a low voice, dipping his head to avoid Devon’s gaze.

  “I’m sure once you get to know her—”

  “She has a voodoo doll in her locker.”

  I bite back a laugh. “She does not.”

  “It’s decapitated.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I’ve seen it. This is a girl who decided that stabbing a doll with safety pins wasn’t violent enough. This is who you’ve chosen for me.”

  “I’m not choosing anyone for you,” I say. “This isn’t an arranged marriage. I’m only suggesting that you talk to her.”

  “It was made of yarn,” Seb goes on. “With buttons for eyes.”

  “Fine. Forget about Devon.”

  If I had the ability to make a voodoo doll, I would make one of Colton. I’d make his poser glasses out of wire and use black marker to draw the tattoo on his triceps. I wouldn’t physically hurt him—not badly, at least. I’d just give him pubic lice or an incurable penis rash.

  I glance over at Lily, who’s talking animatedly with her lab group. We make eye contact while she’s midsentence, and she breaks it so quickly that I could have very well imagined it. What does she talk about with those people? With Chloe? I wonder if Lily opens up to them the way she used to with me. I was the only person she confided in when her parents separated last year. I was the only one who knew about her embarrassing crush on Conan O’Brien. When she wet her pants onstage in our first-grade Christmas pageant, I was the one who comforted her. I have all of Lily’s past and none of her present.

  As I’m thinking about the logistics of cursing someone, and about whether a Ken doll and a well-placed safety pin would do the trick, a baby-faced man wearing a flannel shirt and tight khakis walks into the room.

  “Hi, guys. I’m Will,” the guy says. “Mr. Hubbard is out sick, so I’m subbing today.”

  “Oh no,” Dalia says, pouting her lips. “Is he okay?”

  As if she cares. I know for a fact that she bet on Hubbard dying in May.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Will says. He smiles at Dalia. “What’s your name?”

  “Dalia. Like the flower, but without the h.”

  “Wow. That’s a really pretty name.”

  “You think? I always hated it.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Blech. Is Will seriously reenacting his jailbait fantasies in front of our entire class?

  “Anyway,” he says. “I guess we should get started.”

  I worry he’ll be one of those cool subs, the type to make us sit in a circle and have “real talk.” But then he gets up to wheel a dusty TV in front of us, and my heart swells with hope.

  “You’re going to watch a video today,” he says. “Hubbard wants everyone to take notes.”

  Some people groan, but I am positively elated. There is nothing better than watching a video in class. The lack of awkward eye contact, the dim lighting, the pressure to speak completely dissolved. Will shuts off the lights, and I can make out only Seb’s silhouette by the muted sunshine pouring through the classroom window.

  “I thought of someone else,” Seb whispers into my ear, his breath warming my skin.

  “Who? Selena?”

  He shakes his head. “Selena won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not her type.”

  Will starts the DVD, and the TV screen blinks to life. A narrator who sounds half-asleep drones on about the beauty of life while images of insects and flowers and blood cells flicker on the screen.

  “You might be,” I whisper to Seb. “Why not give her a chance?”

  “Trust me on this one.”

  “But—”

  “She likes girls, Analee. And she’s been dating Sasha Finley for the past six months.”

  “Oh,” I say. So. Devon and Selena are out. There are alternatives, though. Someone outside of East Bay, maybe a cool alternative girl from the nearby arts school.

  “Anyway,” Seb continues. “I have someone else in mind. Someone Chloe would never expect.”

  I keep my eyes on the TV. “Who?”

  An amoeba is on-screen now, or at least I think it’s an amoeba. I’m only half-listening to the narrator as the blob on TV oozes and morphs into new shapes.

  “You.”

  Seb says this not in a whisper but at full volume.

  It’s like I could be on one of those prank shows. I imagine the lights blazing on, the class surrounding me, pointing at me, Matt McKinley with his dumb, openmouthed horse laugh. For a few seconds I can’t respond. I’m worried Seb is making a joke that I don’t understand.

  “What are you talking about?” I say through my teeth.

  “We should fake date,” Seb says. “It’s perfect. You’re not the type I’d usually go for, and Chloe knows that. Plus, you’d be in on it the whole time.”

  I shake my head over and over again as he speaks.

  “Tell me why not,” he says.

  Oh, that I could. The reasons why not are innumerable.

  “I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out. It’s all I can think to say. The truth would be too much to explain, not to mention mortifying. I can’t be Seb’s pretend girlfriend, because everyone at school would suddenly know who I am. Every pair of eyes would watch and dissect my every move.

  Plus, “you’re not the type I’d usually go for” is the worst sales pitch I’ve ever heard, because Chloe is the type Seb goes for, and she is beautiful and smart and confident, which means I am none of those things.

  “You have a boyfriend?” Seb repeats, and if I weren’t already offended, I would be now at his obvious surprise.

  “Kind of,” I say. “I mean, we’re unlabeled at the moment, but . . .”

  “So who is this guy? Does he go to our school?”

  “No.” I rub my fingers over my notebook protectively, like Seb’s words might degrade all its contents.

  “How d
id you meet?”

  My cheeks grow warm. I’m not good at thinking on my feet, and every second that ticks by will make me sound more and more full of shit.

  “He’s a friend,” I finally say.

  “So not an official boyfriend.”

  “Well, no. I guess not officially.”

  “Then? This is perfect. You tell him you’re dating me, and he’ll suddenly be desperate to put a label on things.”

  The problem is that Seb assumes all guys are like him. I doubt Harris would profess his love to me if he thought Seb and I were dating. He might shrink away, give me my space, recede into the depths of the Internet. Our relationship, whatever type of relationship it is, would disappear like it had never existed in the first place.

  “Come on, Analee,” Seb says. “I’ll do whatever you want. Seriously. Name it.”

  I shake my head again. “I’m sorry.”

  I genuinely am. I wish I could be the type of girl who didn’t make a big deal out of every single thing. Better yet, the type of girl someone would want to actually date, not pretend date.

  “I could help you get Lily back,” he says suddenly, and I tighten my grip on my notebook.

  “I’m around her all the time, remember? If you’re dating me, I could put in a good word for you. You guys could become friends again.”

  There’s an involuntary pull in my chest when he mentions Lily. What would she think about her former best friend dating the most coveted boy in school? It might convince her to give me another chance. It could remind her that I’m worth something, something that Seb can see and that she once did too.

  I glance at her now, to find her watching us. Lily hasn’t looked at me in four months, but because I’m talking to Seb, she’s looking at me now. Even after months without speaking, I know Lily at her core. She’s thinking there is no world in which the heartthrob and the social outcast make a go of it. She’s telling herself that she’s imagining things.

  If I were a braver person, I would plant a giant kiss on Seb right now. I would show Lily that everything she thinks she knows is wrong. And Chloe, and Matt, and Dalia, they would all collectively lose their shit. God, it would be satisfying.

  I’m not a brave person, though, so instead I scoot approximately one inch closer to Seb.

  “I’ll think about it,” I whisper. My voice is so soft that I can barely hear myself.

  He whips around to face me full-on. “You will?”

  “I mean, it’s an insane idea and I don’t think anyone would actually believe it.”

  Seb gives me a conspiratorial smile, one altogether different from his cheeky one. “They’ll believe what we want them to believe.”

  I feel myself dangerously close to swooning. Not because he’s kinda dreamy—although, to be fair, Seb is objectively the dreamy type, in a stereotypically muscular, boyish, boring way. It’s the confidence with which he says the words. Like he’ll will them into existence simply because he wants to. I wish I knew what it felt like to have that confidence as my default, instead of fear.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Analee’s Top 5 Reasons to Fake Date Seb Matias

  1. Make Harris jealous.

  2. Win Lily back.

  3. Learn to be a socially competent person.

  4. Help him with Chloe.

  5. I wouldn’t be alone.

  Analee’s Top 5 Reasons NOT to Fake Date Seb Matias

  1. It might push Harris away.

  2. Lily won’t care what I do.

  3. Social competence is overrated.

  4. Seb and Chloe might be better off without each other.

  5. I wouldn’t be alone.

  HARLOW IS IN THE KITCHEN when I get home, speaking animatedly to her laptop while gesticulating with a banana. She stops midphrase when she sees me walk in.

  “Analee, hi!” She taps the keyboard to stop recording and jumps to her feet with impressive energy.

  “Hi,” I say. “Sorry to interrupt your—”

  “It’s a bride-to-be nutrition series,” Harlow says.

  Of course it is. Everything Harlow does becomes part of her brand. Her food, her exercise, her upcoming marriage to my father.

  “So, how was your day?” she asks, still holding the banana.

  “Fine.” I don’t elaborate. I never do. We both stare at each other. The banana points at me, inappropriately erect. I wish these awkward silences didn’t exist between me and Harlow, but it’s become a daily ritual. She asks, I answer, and in the deafening silence I make a beeline to my room so that I can spend time with Harris.

  But when I start to exit the kitchen, Harlow says, “Wait.”

  I turn, and she’s giving me her giant Harlow eyes. I wonder how many men she’s hooked with those eyes, how many times her parents gave their little girl whatever she wanted when she batted those long lashes.

  Harlow motions toward the blender. “Do you mind helping me test-drive this recipe?”

  Oh, how I really don’t want to.

  “I should probably start my homework,” I say, inching away from her. “What about Avery?”

  “She’s at Olivia’s. I swear, the girl has a new best friend every week.” She shakes her head in exasperation, but I see the glint of pride in her eyes. Harlow loves the fact that Avery is popular. I wonder what she would have done if Avery had turned out more like me.

  Inwardly, for the first time, I bemoan Avery’s absence. She’s the usual guinea pig for Harlow’s kitchen and yoga experiments. I don’t tell Harlow that I have a Hershey’s bar in the front pocket of my book bag, and that I’m looking forward to eating it all in one sitting as soon as I get to my room.

  But before I can make my escape, my stupid stomach gives me away. It doesn’t just growl like a normal stomach would. It roars to life. Traitor. Harlow raises her eyebrows at the sound.

  “I guess I could use a snack,” I admit lamely.

  “Great!” She rushes to the freezer and pulls out packs of chopped mango and pineapple, and unidentified purple goop.

  “What are you making?” I ask.

  “Tropical acai bowl.” She thrusts her iPhone into my hand. “Do you mind filming? Hold the camera at an angle, like this—” Harlow positions my hand so that it’s hovering over the counter.

  She quickly throws all of the ingredients into the blender, adds a splash of almond milk, and then mixes it all together. Periodically she stops to press the ingredients closer to the blades with a spoon. My arm begins to ache from holding the phone so high. After a minute she shuts off the blender and spoons the dark purple mixture into a large bowl. It looks . . . not totally off-putting. Kind of like frozen yogurt.

  “Make sure you get a clear view of the toppings,” she instructs. I shake out my arm and reposition the camera. Carefully Harlow sprinkles granola, sliced banana, and coconut shavings onto the bowl. It is truly a work of art the way she arranges the toppings into neat, equal thirds. I don’t understand people who put so much care into what their food looks like. I mean, Harlow’s creation looks beautiful, but it all becomes slop once it’s inside you.

  “There,” Harlow says. She dusts off her hands as if she’s worked in the fields all day, then steps back to admire her culinary masterpiece. “Isn’t it pretty? And packed with nutrients, too.”

  “Can I stop filming?” I ask.

  “Did you get a shot of the finished bowl? Here, let me.” Harlow takes the phone and sweeps it over the bowl in a truly dramatic overhead shot. Ladies and gentlemen, the Martin Scorsese of food vloggers.

  The food is beginning to melt by the time she stops filming and brings it over to the kitchen table. She hands me a spoon, then takes one for herself.

  “Okay if we share?” she asks.

  I hesitate. I have this thing about sharing food. A spoon soaked with someone else’s saliva? Mixing with the food I’m about to eat? Shudder. If Dad were here, he’d bug his eyes out at me in his silent warning.

  Oye. No seas extraña. Which loosely translates to “Don
’t be a weirdo.”

  I am constantly trying to be normal for his sake. For everyone’s sake. It gets to be exhausting sometimes.

  “Sure,” I say to Harlow. “We’ll split it.”

  I stick to my side of the bowl to avoid Harlow’s spit, dip my spoon into the purple slush, and take a bite. I’m a little disappointed to find that the food tastes as good as it looks. Icy and refreshing with an added crunch from the toppings. My body practically sings, grateful to have a break from the usual garbage I feed it.

  “How is it?” Harlow asks.

  “Delicious,” I answer truthfully.

  She grins. “Really?”

  “Yes.” I’m shoveling the food into my mouth now. I’ve forgotten my issues with sharing things. I don’t care anymore; I just want to inhale this entire bowl.

  “So how’s school?” Harlow asks, scooping up some coconut shavings with her spoon.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “How’s Lily?”

  I give a halfhearted shrug. Harlow doesn’t know that my friendship with Lily is on life support. “Also fine.”

  “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Lily would love this bowl. She kept her admiration for Harlow under wraps around me, but I saw her name among the many on Harlow’s list of YouTube subscribers.

  “She’s been busy,” I say.

  “Still with that boyfriend?”

  I nod, tensing.

  “Boyfriends are tough,” Harlow says. “It’s easy to forget about the rest of the world, you know? You’re so caught up in the infatuation, the intensity of first love . . .”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say dully.

  “Oh, come on. I’m sure there are plenty of boys at your school interested in a pretty girl like you.”

  I stare back at her. Either she’s blind or all that yoga has bent her brain out of shape. Or she’s just a liar.

  “No one at school is interested in me,” I say. “And I’m not interested in them, either. They’re Neanderthals.”

  “There must be someone—”