My Fake Boyfriend is Better Than Yours

by Kristina Springer

  And apparently the sad-looking girls we’re walking away from would agree. They were probably hoping Sienna would stay and talk more about her trip. Personally, I don’t get the sudden attention. Is it because of her new style, the boyfriend development, or her family’s recent wealth? All I know is nobody hung on every word of the curly-haired, T-shirt-and-jeans-wearing, single, $1.75-in-her-pocket Sienna of last year. I’m hoping that girl is still in there somewhere.

  We walk toward school and Daphne Mason, this girl who made fun of me for wearing knockoff Ugg boots last year, opens the door for us. “Hi, Sienna! Hi, Tori!” she greets us. I give Sienna a questioning look but she’s staring straight ahead with a confident smile. A flash of hurt crosses Daphne’s eyes, obviously because Sienna didn’t respond. I could have girly-squealed and hugged Daphne and she’d have the same look, I’m sure.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m totally freaking. What’s the deal with Sienna? And why did she stop e-mailing me? Because of this Antonio? Maybe she was too busy making out in one of her three bedrooms to type a few words and hit Send.

  Part of me wants to yell and demand to know why she stopped writing. Part of me wants to remind her that just because you get a shiny new friend, in this case a boy, you don’t go and dump the old one. Like that song we learned in Girl Scouts when we were in second grade about making new friends but keeping the old. How one is silver and the other gold. I’m the gold one.

  I don’t say any of this, however.

  We walk through the crowded hallways until we reach the seventh-grade corridor and my new locker, number 142. Sienna leans her back against the locker next to mine and has a dreamy look on her face. I test my new locker combo. A moment later I pop open the door and hang my backpack inside.

  “So, how did you meet this guy?” I ask, not sure I’m buying this whole I-have-a-boyfriend thing.

  “Oh, it was really great. He was there with his parents for the summer too, staying down the beach a ways. And this one night there was this super lame luau that my parents dragged me to. I was standing near the guys who dig up the cooked pig from the ground and when I looked up Antonio was standing right next to me. He said, ‘That’s pretty gross.’ And I said, ‘Yeah. I may go vegetarian.’ And he said, ‘I’ll join you.’ And that was it. We hung out every day after that.”

  “That’s, er, romantic. I guess,” I say.

  “Isn’t it though?”

  “Did you guys kiss and stuff?”

  “Tori!” she scolds, like she wouldn’t talk about such things. Like we didn’t spend hours in my bedroom last year practice-kissing on our forearms. But then she nods. “We did. He’s a great kisser.”

  “Really? What was it like?”

  She waves her hand in the air. “Oh, you know. Awesome.”

  No. I don’t know. She knows that I don’t know. “Yeah. Sure,” I say instead.

  Okay, now Sienna’s had her first kiss too. If I’m to buy this whole story, that is. So let’s review: she ditches me for the summer, doesn’t call or write, gets a new boyfriend, has her first kiss, and comes back looking like she should have paparazzi following her. Wait. Does she have paparazzi following her? I look around the hallway, eyeing everyone. No. Of course not. I’ve been frequenting too many celebrity gossip blogs.

  “I miss him,” Sienna pouts, pursing her pink lips.

  “Who?” I ask, caught up in my own thoughts.

  “Antonio, of course. Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Oh yeah, your new boyfriend. Of course. I’m totally listening to you, Sienna. Sorry, I guess I was distracted. I think my jeans are too tight or something.” I wiggle my hips and pull at the knees of my jeans.

  “Oh.” Sienna looks my jeans up and down and slightly wrinkles her nose. “Those are, uh, real cute, Tor.”

  My jaw drops. No, she didn’t. I look down at my jeans. They are cute. She totally just dissed my clothes.

  Okay, the Sienna of three months ago, my best friend Sienna, the Sienna who wouldn’t think twice about going to school in flannel pajama pants, would never make fun of my clothes. How could she have changed so much?

  3

  It’s lunchtime and we (we being not only Sienna and me but all of the seventh-grade girls) have basically done nothing today but talk about the fab Sienna, her fab life, and her fab boyfriend. It’s getting fabulously annoying.

  Sea and I exit the lunch line and carry our full trays to the nearest empty table. It’s not the table we sat at last year. Not even close. Last year we sat at one of the farthest tables along the back wall of the cafeteria. The closest ones are always reserved for the cool kids. I guess they can’t be bothered to carry their trays too far.

  The view is definitely different from up here. It’s much brighter and not as cramped. And it’s missing that strange smell that always lingered in the back part of the cafeteria—a mix of old dirty mops and the orange powder that janitors sprinkle all over when a kid yaks on the floor.

  I look over at our old section of the cafeteria and see Tami and Jenna. We sat with them every day last year. They’re both giving me a questioning look—probably wondering what the heck I’m doing up here—so I wave and shrug. Beats me what I’m doing up here. Sienna led the way and took a seat and no one said boo about it. I just followed, which is new in our relationship. Last year Sienna would follow me more. Not that I had great places to go or anything.

  I look back at Sea, who is going on and on about something, her fork poised over her plain salad with light Italian dressing. A world of difference from her standard giant-cookie-and-chocolate-milk-shake lunches of the past.

  “. . . and Antonio said, ‘I’ll give you another ten if you put her name in the song,’ ” Sienna is saying.

  “That’s so sweet!” Avery Andrews coos, and the others—Natalie Simmons, Talia Bordecki, and Maya Torreni—aww in chorus. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard in your whole life, Tori?”

  I nod absentmindedly. I’ve been trying to block out the Antonio-is-wonderful talk since third period. It’s been story after nauseating story the entire morning.

  I check out Sea’s nails while she talks. She used to bite them to the nub but now she has a fancy French manicure with a little rhinestone on each pinkie. She pushes a piece of her satiny hair behind her right ear and tugs the lobe between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers. The smoothness of her hair is a pretty amazing transformation, I must admit. I’d love to know what she’s using on it. Probably an eighty-dollar-anounce conditioner composed of crushed pearls mixed with oils only found in flowers that grow on a Tibetan mountainside.

  “And Antonio said the music was almost as pretty as my voice,” Sea continues, pulling on her right earlobe again.

  “Wow,” Talia breathes, putting a hand over her heart.

  Hmph. That’s kind of strange. Sienna’s been pulling on her ear an awful lot today. It reminds me of when we were kids and this older girl named Molly, who used to hang out at my neighborhood playground, was bragging about her expensive custom-made American Girl doll. Sienna told Molly that she too had an American Girl doll—Samantha was her doll’s name, if I remember correctly. Well, there was no Samantha doll. At least, I never saw her. But Sienna would talk about her all the time whenever we were on the playground and Molly was around. Molly would tell Sea to bring her doll along and Sienna would say that she couldn’t because Samantha would get dirty. Back then whenever Sea mentioned Samantha she’d pull her right earlobe like that. I totally knew there was no doll, but I didn’t want to hurt Sea’s feelings so I never said anything.

  “Antonio’s always telling me to keep talking, just because he likes hearing my voice.” Sea giggles and pulls her earlobe again.

  I sit bolt upright and stare at Sea, mouth hanging open. Oh my god.

  Sea gives me a quizzical look. “What?”

  Antonio is like Samantha, as in nonexistent. Ha ha, Sea’s boyfriend is fake! Oh wow, this is too much. I have to keep it to myself. For n
ow, anyway. “Um, nothing,” I say.

  “Have you ever been serenaded?” Maya asks me.

  “Oh sure, all the time,” I reply without thinking. Wait. What’s serenaded?

  “Really?” Sienna says, suddenly turning her attention to me.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. I’m not liking the bit of attitude I’m hearing in her voice.

  “Who?”

  “Who, what?”

  “Who serenades you all the time?” she asks.

  Sienna is giving me a look like I’m full of it. The other girls are looking at me too, waiting for my response. I glance at the table next to us—a bunch of guys from the seventh-grade football team. They’re clowning around, throwing an aluminum foil ball back and forth, and I’m kinda hoping it lands over here. Something to distract all of this attention away from me.

  “Well, my, um . . .” I pause. Who? Who serenades me? I have to say something. Wait. I’ve got it. I sit up straighter and look directly at Sienna. “My boyfriend,” I answer matter-of-factly.

  “Your boyfriend?” she says, giving me a doubtful look. Like she doesn’t believe me. “What boyfriend?”

  I smile widely. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? If Sienna can make up a fake, conveniently long-distance boyfriend, then I can too. “My boyfriend,” I say smugly.

  Sea narrows her eyes at me. “What’s his name?”

  I feel like we’re in a Ping-Pong match and the other girls are all sitting in the stands watching us volley the ball back and forth.

  “Sebastian,” I answer quickly. I’ve always loved that name. I named my first boy Barbie doll Sebastian and I plan on naming a kid Sebastian. If I ever have a kid, that is.

  “Sebastian what?” she counters.

  Oooh. That’s harder. I’ve never thought about fake last names. I look off to the side, and into the big window of the kitchen where the lunch ladies are cooking. One of them is pouring a huge pot of boiling water into a metal bowl full of holes. “Colander!” I practically shout, proud of myself for thinking something up so quickly.

  “Sebastian Colander?” Sienna says slowly, scrunching up her nose.

  “Yes, it’s Italian.” For spaghetti strainer, I think, and stifle a giggle.

  “Why are you only mentioning him now?” she asks.

  “Well, you’ve been talking a lot about your trip and Antonio. And I didn’t want to brag,” I add. Oooh, burn. Okay, normally I wouldn’t be trying to zing my best friend but she totally started it. Coming back to school with fake hair, a fake tan, and a fake boyfriend doesn’t make you a different person. Maybe just a fake person.

  Sienna suddenly has nothing to say. She purses her lips and studies my face, like she’s hoping I’ll crack and give something away. The girls are eyeing me now too.

  “So tell us about Sebastian, Tori,” Avery prompts. “Where did you meet him? What’s he like?”

  “Oh, well, he’s perfect. Gorgeous. Funny. Brilliant,” I lie, laying it on thick. But hey, as long as I’m going to have a fake boyfriend, I should have a rockin’ one, right? Who makes up a fake boyfriend covered in zits with swamp breath?

  Sienna crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.

  “We met at art camp,” I continue, “in Chicago. Remember that one my mom sends me to for two weeks every July, Sea?”

  Sienna nods but still gives me a skeptical look.

  “He’s in eighth grade, and we were both taking this two-hour landscape class and I accidentally spilled some green paint on his lap, and, well, the rest was history.” Okay, that story came rolling out a little too easily.

  “Wow. That’s so romantic, Tori! Why doesn’t stuff like this ever happen to me?” Avery whines.

  Because you almost failed creative writing last year, I think.

  “Seriously, Tori,” Natalie pipes in from next to Avery, “you and Sienna both had these great summers and now you both have these awesome boyfriends. You guys should like, double-date or something.”

  “Yeah, we totally should. Right, Sea?” I briefly smile and then frown. “Oh, but both of our guys live out of town. Shoot. I guess it wouldn’t work.” I hope my disappointment in this convenient fact is really coming across.

  “I guess not,” Sienna agrees.

  Judging from her expression, it’s obvious that this new development is bothering the heck out of her. But there’s not a whole lot she can do about it. I guess if she wanted to be the first to hear about Sebastian and me, she should have, I don’t know, taken a minute to call me over the summer.

  4

  I jump off the last step of the afternoon bus and trudge toward my house, fishing for my key in the front of my backpack. Mom won’t be home until after five, so I’m on my own until then. Last year at this time Sienna and I would be sitting at my kitchen counter smearing peanut butter on apple slices and swapping stories about who at school had changed the most over the summer and who we thought was cute. But that was last year. I didn’t feel like inviting Sienna over today, and anyway, it’s not like she stopped and said, “Oh, hey, Tori, my mom can give you a ride back to my house in our big fancy new car and we can play my new Wii and order pizza.” Nope. She just climbed into the passenger seat of her car with a casual “IM you later?” tossed over her shoulder. I nodded and boarded the giant yellow bus of gloom.

  Once inside, I call Mom to let her know that I got home okay and then pull two tangerines out of the fridge and set them on the counter in front of me. I check the clock. 3:05. I’m already bored. I contemplate going online even though Mom told me I couldn’t but then decide against it. She’s always a sneaky one with those parent spy programs and she’ll just find me out and yell at me later if I do. I consider calling Dad. It’s not Sunday or Wednesday, the days we have scheduled calls, but I want to talk to someone, so I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Hello?” his warm voice greets me.

  “Dad! Hi!” I feel my cheeks pop into a smile.

  “Hey, sweetie, everything okay?” He sounds a little surprised to hear from me.

  “Yeah, good. I just got home from school,” I say.

  “Oh that’s right, first day today. How’d it go? Was it everything you ever imagined?”

  “Oh . . . you know. It was okay.”

  “That good, eh?” He laughs.

  I laugh too. “Yeah. I miss you.”

  “Well, you’re coming up to see me this weekend, right? I’m all set for your visit. I thought we could hit a museum on Saturday and do lunch near the lake. It’ll be great.”

  That does sound great. “Yeah,” I answer. “Wonderful. Well, can we chat more later, hon? I’m kind of covered in paint at the moment.”

  “Oh, sorry, Dad.”

  “No problem. I’m glad you called. Love you, sweetie. See you Friday night.”

  “Love you,” I say, and hang up the phone.

  Dad’s an artist, so he’s covered in paint most of the day. He has this great little apartment in Chicago with a view of Lake Michigan from the bedroom. He always lets me have his room when I visit, and I spend a good chunk of the time watching teeny-tiny people walk up and down the bike path lining the lake. Dad’s a really, really good painter and has these art shows that important snooty people attend. They talk about lines and strokes while drinking wine and eating cheese cubes. He’s not super well-known yet, I guess, but he will be huge someday. I’m sure of it.

  I peel my first tangerine and check the clock. 3:10. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

  Mom comes through the door at 5:15 on the nose with what smells like Chinese food. “Tor? Tori?” I hear her call. I close the book I’m reading and head into the kitchen.

  Mom’s mascara is smudged under her eyes and she looks tired, but she’s smiling anyway. “Well? How was it?” she asks.

  Glorious! Stupendous! Best day of my life! All answers she’s waiting for. “It was okay,” I reply.

  “How are your new teachers?” she pushes, setting a paper plate and a bag full of plastic utensils in front of
me.

  I shrug. “Well, Mr. Matthews has some kind of anger issues. I heard his wife just left him. And Mrs. Wittler kept topping off her coffee with something out of a small silver flask throughout science. I’m thinking whiskey.”

  “Tori!” Mom scolds, slamming down a carton of beef and broccoli on the kitchen counter.

  “What? You asked.”

  Mom shakes her head in one of those “what am I going to do with her?” ways while scooping some of the beef and broccoli onto her plate.

  “Did you catch up with your friends?” she asks. If Mom paid closer attention to me, she’d know my BFFs of late have been Jade, Isabella, and Aubrey, the main characters in the Thornwood Prep books. I read the entire series this summer.

  “Yeah.”

  “How was Sienna’s trip? Did she have a great time? Does she look different?” She plucks two egg rolls from a carton, depositing one on my plate.

  Ha! She wouldn’t believe me if I told her. “Uh-huh,” I say. “She had fun.”

  Mom stops fixing her plate and looks at me and my mostly empty one. “What’s wrong, Tor? Just wiped out from the first day?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m not hungry. Mind if I go to my room now?” I ask.

  “Go ahead, sweetie. We can talk later. Oh! And take your fortune cookie with you. You know you love those.” She smiles.

  I turn and leave, taking the little cellophane-wrapped cookie with me. I don’t love fortune cookies. Not at all, actually. There is no chocolate or raisins or any other remotely cookielike goodness to them. Might as well eat a foam cup. I do, however, love the fortunes.

  Safely behind my bedroom door, I rip away the plastic wrapper and crack open the crescent-shaped cookie.

  “It is better to be deceived by one’s

  friends than to deceive them.”

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Pssh. That’s what he thinks.

  5

  I toss the cookie and the fortune in the trash and take a seat at my desk in front of my computer. I want to Google this restaurant in Chicago I heard about so Dad and I can go there this weekend. It’s something with the word fondue in it. I heard you can dip everything from pretzels to pickles in the cheese they give you. I love cheese. I’m just saying.