The Fine Art of Pretending (19 page)

I
punch the steering wheel in frustration. “Get your shit together!”

A movement makes my head turn mid-rant, and the soccer mom in the car beside me smiles in amusement. I lift my hand in an awkward half-wave, the red light changes to green, and I push my foot against the accelerator, taking my frustration out on the floorboard of my truck.

Tonight is Fairfield’s back-to-school dance. Normally, I don’t give a shit about school dances, but Aly wants to go. So here I am, running late, and the closer I get to her house, the more pissed off I become. Not about the dance, but about the fact that going with her tonight is only gonna screw things up more. Turning onto her street, I resume the speech I’ve been giving myself for the last ten minutes.

“Man up. Get your shit together. Figure out how in the hell you’re gonna hold her without attacking her on the dance floor. And do it quick.”

The last week has been the longest ever. Pretending we’re hooking up is exhausting. It’s even more draining pretending to be the same old Brandon and Aly when we’re alone. That Etch A Sketch exorcism didn’t do shit. And thanks to my brilliant idea for a pretend date, I’ve spent the last week denying I’m falling for my best friend.

Pulling to a stop in front of Aly’s house, I take a deep breath. With a flick of my wrist, I cut the engine and listen to the silence. I’ve sat in this exact spot more times than I can count. In many ways, Aly’s house is like my sanctuary. A place I go when my own home feels like a graveyard. I glance up at the bedroom window of the girl who knows me better than anyone, the only person I let see me cry after Dad died. I won’t let this experiment take that or her away from me.

Tonight, I’m going to prove that Aly and I can go back to our normal, easy friendship.

Throwing open my door, I trudge up her sidewalk, plant my feet outside her front door, and ring the bell.

“Coming!”

I step back and see Aly stick her head out her second-story window.

“No problem,” I call back up. “Take your time.”

More time to get my head on straight
.

Aly disappears behind a film of yellow curtain, and I turn to look out at the quiet neighborhood. Up and down the street, the lights blink on, filling the air with a low hum that matches the thrumming of my nerves. Across the street, old Mr. Lawson sits at his usual perch under a gigantic American flag, drinking beer and mumbling to himself. Two little girls ride their bikes around the cul-de-sac, smiling and waving. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill Friday night. Except not.

I thrust my hands into my pockets, jiggling the loose change from my Taco Bell run earlier tonight, and grab my pack of Trident. I toss a stick into my mouth and chew furiously. Supposedly, the smell of peppermint can calm your nerves.

I grab a second stick and shove it in, too.

With the clacking sound of Aly’s shoes approaching the door behind me, I remind myself again about tonight’s mission. All I need is focus. I take another deep breath for good measure and rock back on my heels, ready to greet my best friend. She opens the door, wearing a black dress molded to her skin, and I let the air out in one big huff.

Shit
.

ALY
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY SCHOOL GYM, 7:30 p.m
.

My
stomach thumps along with the bass pounding from inside. I’m standing in line next to Brandon, waiting for him to flash our school IDs (no way was an ID fitting in this getup), frustratingly aware of the distance between us. In
every
sense of the word. If anyone glances in our direction, I’m sure we appear far from the happily hooking up couple we’ve been selling, but what they’re not seeing are the explosive sparks snapping just under the surface.

A couple falls in line behind us, and I feel my date shift. Brandon lowers his head and gives me a small smile—the same odd one he’s worn since picking me up tonight—and holds out his hand. I swipe mine across my skirt and take it, hoping he misses the shiver when we touch.

It’s game time
.

Yeah, it’s safe to say my crush has intensified. In fact, I think it’s progressed from simple crush to severe liking. Possibly even falling. And that scares me to death. The last thing our friendship needs is for Brandon to figure out how I feel and then get weird around me. Or weird
er
. But then, every once in a while, he gets this look in his eyes that makes me think I’m not the only one feeling the change. That maybe, just maybe, the line between fact and fiction is blurring for him, too.

We inch forward in line, and I spy the photo display set up in the corner. Tonight’s theme is “A Year to Remember.” A backdrop shows two silhouettes dancing in each other’s arms, the girl’s head thrown back in laughter. I shift my attention back to Brandon. Can tonight be the night that breaks the curse?

My Wall of Shame was the original inspiration for Operation Sex Appeal. At first, this mission was about feeling lovable, datable. Possibly even landing a boyfriend. In the beginning, I didn’t even know about
Casuals
or
Commitments
, and Justin Carter only became a goal when I decided to experience how the other half lives.

Based on our embarrassing past, I didn’t consider Brandon an option before. He is, after all, the guy who kickstarted the curse. But even though he’s technically another just-a-friend date, for all intents and purposes, he’s also the current man in my life. He’s supposed to be my fake
hookup
, but the longer this experiment lasts, the more he feels like my pretend
boyfriend—
only with less and less emphasis on the “pretend.” Maybe Homecoming doesn’t need to be my endgame after all. Maybe tonight, I found a way to meet both my goals.

Brandon and I may
finally
be on the same page.

Trying very hard not to overthink it, and praying that he doesn’t either, I lace our fingers together, wrap my other hand around his elbow, and lean my head against Brandon’s arm.

Immediately, he tenses. “Aly…”

“Next!”

I step out of the embrace and flash the junior behind the ticket counter a smile. Then, pretending I don’t see the corners of Brandon’s mouth curve down as he distractedly fishes our IDs from his pocket, I turn to take in my first post-makeover dance.

The metallic doors that usually separate the large gym from the only slightly smaller cafeteria are open, creating one massive partying space. The gym holds the DJ and dance floor, and the cafeteria hosts the refreshments and guys left behind while their dates dance. A sea of green and white decorations covers the rows of tables holding discarded purses, and at the long table on the edge, right near the dance floor, I find our friends.

Seeing them comingled is still crazy to me. Gabi, Kara, and I have considered ourselves floaters, not really identifying with any particular group and sitting freely with almost all. But like the rest of the student body, we’ve always followed the Unwritten Law of Fairfield Academy:
Thou must not sitteth in the row of tables along the edge unless one is a member of the Beautiful People
.

Gabi coined the term, but everyone knows the law. Those tables are reserved for the most popular jocks and queen bees. Naturally, Brandon and his crew sit there, along with Lauren and the rest of the dance team. You’d expect that to include Gabi, but she never goes along with anyone’s expectations. Up until the camping trip, our home base was somewhere in the middle. Occasionally, I’d wave to Brandon or send a text to be funny, but I
never
sat with him. He invited me, but I knew I didn’t belong. Lauren would’ve made sure everyone else knew it, too.

But the Unwritten Law has one amendment:
Anyone dating a member of the Beautiful People receives an automatic pass to sit with the elite
, which means for the past two weeks, I’ve gotten a pass. Of course, I’ve dragged Gabi with me. Kara tagged along, too, being accepted without complaint and proving what I guessed since the beginning—if not for me, she’d be one of them.

Now, I watch my new circle own the table. Kara digs furiously through her purse, with a lovestruck Daniel on one side and Gabi on the other, pretending to ignore the equally smitten boy beside her. Carlos waves his hands as he animatedly tells a story to Justin, who I note appears to be dateless, and then I spy Drew.

Satisfied we are, in fact, students at Fairfield Academy, the junior waves us in, and I lean in so Brandon can hear me over the music. “Did you know Sarah was coming this weekend?”

He looks over to where Drew holds Sarah snugly in his arms, chin tucked on the crown of her head, having never looked happier. “No, I didn’t,” he murmurs, seeming as transfixed by the couple as I am. “I haven’t talked to Drew much this week.”

That surprises me, but I don’t dig deeper because Sarah suddenly leaps out of Drew’s lap, barreling toward us. “Aly!”

I freeze in place as the overzealous dynamo throws her arms around me, even though we barely know each other. Like the rest of the group, Sarah and I have traveled in similar circles for years, but we never quite made it to the jumping-up-anddown-while-hugging stage of friendship.

Baffled, I pat the girl’s back. “Sarah!” At my failed attempt to mimic her former-cheerleader squeal, I wince and hear a telltale
click
.

Gabi smirks from behind her beloved Canon EOS Rebel. “About time you two arrived.” She glances at Brandon and then wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “As lovesick as Drew and Sarah are, at least they know to save the making out for
after
the dance.”

A weird look crosses Brandon’s face as I disentangle myself from Sarah’s arms, and I wonder if anyone notices. “That’s only because we’ve been together for a year,” Sarah says, plopping right back on Drew’s lap. “Besides, they have years of catching up to do.”

Awkwardness descends, made even more obvious by the fact that Brandon can’t look at me. He takes a seat, head down, and though the guys appear oblivious, all three girls look back at me with various shades of concern.
Great
. Kara stands, giving my elbow a tug. “Come with me to the bathroom?”

Gabi hops up. “I’m coming, too.”

I tell Brandon I’ll be right back, pretending I don’t notice the relief that seems to cross his face as I follow my friends into the crowded bathroom/ locker room. Girls are everywhere, misting hairspray, reapplying deodorant and makeup, gossiping, and crying. We squeeze ourselves into an unoccupied crack of space in front of the end sink, and Kara takes out her tangerine lip gloss, pumping the wand before meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“So what’s Brandon’s deal?” she asks, coating a shiny lip. “He seems like he’s in some type of mood. Is there trouble in paradise?”

Hard to have trouble in paradise when you’re not
in
paradise
, I think, rolling my eyes like Brandon’s moods are no big deal. “I don’t know. Can guys get PMS?”

“More like MBHS,” Gabi replies. “Male Butt-Hole Syndrome. It’s an epidemic.”

Kara snorts as she scrunches her hair in the mirror, and I itch to ask my friends for advice, to get their help in deciphering Brandon’s confusing guy-speak. But I can’t. They both believe we’re dating for real, and it’s way too late to fess up now. I’m on my own with this one.

“That may not be a technical term, but Gabi’s right,” Kara says. “Guys are strange creatures. Don’t let it get you down.” She takes a final appraisal of herself and then says, “Well, as long as you’re okay, you girls ready to jet?”

Gabi nods and peels herself off the wall. They both look at me. The truth is, I’m not ready to go back out there yet, but I do need a moment alone. “You know what, I’ll be right behind y’all. I just need to use the bathroom.”

Gabi tilts her head, eyeing me skeptically. “You want me to stay with?”

“Nah, go ahead.” I paste on a sunny smile. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” she says. “But if you’re not out in ten, I’m sending out a search party.”

I laugh because that’s what she was going for and keep the smile up as my friends walk out of the bathroom. Then, once they’re gone, I sink down onto a bench, put my head in my hands, and close my eyes.

Why does this have to be so confusing? I have my own conflicting feelings to deal with—making myself over into someone better, hoping guys will finally notice me, stressing about becoming a
Casual
. Isn’t that enough without stressing about Brandon, too?