The Secret Identity of Devon Delaney

Lauren Barnholdt

Tom Daly

ALADDIN MIX
1230 Avenue of the Americas,
New York, NY 10020

THE SECRET IDENTITY OF DEVON DELANEY

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALADDIN MIX
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 2007 by Lauren Barnholdt

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

ALADDIN MIX is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Tom Daly

The text of this book was set in Arrus.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Aladdin Mix edition April 2007

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Library of Congress Control Number 2007920235

ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-3503-2

ISBN-10: 1-4169-3503-7

eISBN 978-1-439-11253-3

For my sister, Krissi, who always wanted to stay up late reading

Thank you so, so, much to:

My fab agent,
Nadia Cornier,
who didn’t laugh when I told her I wanted to write a tween book. My editor,
Molly McGuire,
for taking over with such enthusiasm, and for her wonderful insight on how to make this book better.
Jennifer Klonsky,
for making things happen so fast, and for loving Devon as much as I do.

My
mom,
for always believing I was going to be a writer. My sister,
Kelsey,
for making my book signings very interesting. My
dad,
my
grandparents,
and my whole extended
family,
for such wonderful support.

Kiersten Loerzel,
for having to deal with a few of my “secret identities” while we were growing up.
Kevin Cregg,
for being a wonderful friend.
Robyn Schneider,
for always letting me vent.
Rob Kean,
for putting up with my craziness on a daily basis.

Abby McDonald
and
Scott Neumyer,
for being wonderful IM buddies.

And, of course,
Aaron Gorvine,
for being so amazing, and for letting me write most of this book at his house.

Of course I’ve lied before. I mean, who
hasn’t? But they were small lies. White lies. Lies that wouldn’t hurt anyone, and that no one even really
knew
were lies. Like when I told my friend Nicole last year at the sixth-grade dance that no one could see her underwear through her dress, even though everyone totally could, especially when the revolving lights passed over where we were standing. (By then, Nicole’s mom had already dropped us off and gone home, so unless Nicole wanted to change into her gym clothes or find someone who had an extra, non-underwear-exposing dress hanging around,
there was nothing anyone could do about it.)

Or when I tell my grandma that her spaghetti sauce is the best I’ve ever tasted, even though I like the sauce they use at Bertucci’s way better.

Or the time my mom asked if I was feeding tuna to the cat, and I told her I wasn’t, even though I was. She couldn’t figure out why he was gaining so much weight when he was on his lean kibble, but since the vet said he’s perfectly healthy, I figured giving him tuna wasn’t a big deal.

But like I said, these are small lies. Minuscule, even. Not life-changing. And besides, I don’t make it a point to lie all the time. Until last summer, of course, when I somehow became the biggest liar in Connecticut, creating a total made-up life that had nothing to do with my real life at all.

My mom says that karma always comes around to get you, and I guess it’s true. Because last summer I was a total liar, and now, right here, in the middle of Mr. Pritchard’s third-period math class, my whole world is about to come crashing down. Mr. Pritchard is at the front of the classroom, and standing next to him is Lexi Cortland, which pretty much means that my life is over. Because Lexi knows I’m a liar. Actually, no, she doesn’t know I’m a liar, she’s the one I lied
to,
and now
she’s here and it’s going to become apparent that I’m a liar because—

“Devi!” Lexi squeals, right in the middle of Mr. Pritchard introducing her to the class.

Mr. Pritchard looks around, and I slink down in my seat. “Oh.” Mr. Pritchard sounds surprised. “Alexis, do you know Devon Delaney?”

“Yes!” Lexi says. “We only spent the whole summer together!”

“Great,” says Mr. Pritchard. “Why don’t you take the seat next to her? It always helps to see a familiar face.”

Lexi beams and makes her way down the aisle toward me. She’s wearing a silver skirt and a beaded pink tank top with a short, fitted jacket over it. Her nails match her lip gloss.

“Devi!” Lexi says. It sounds weird having her call me that, since everyone else at school calls me Devon.

“Hey,” I say, wondering if I should pretend I don’t know her. I could make her think she was mistaking me for someone she
thought
she knew, like the time I thought I saw this girl from my church in the cafeteria but it turned out it wasn’t her. And the girl was all “I’m not Beth.” And I was like, “Oh, okay, sorry.” It wasn’t a big deal. Maybe I can just pretend I’m not Devon. I practice looking confused.

“Oh, hi.” I squint at her like I don’t know who she is.

“Can you believe I’m here?” she says. Mr. Pritchard drones on up front, not even caring that she’s talking. Teachers always let new people get away with everything. “I wanted to tell you I was transferring, I’m so sorry I didn’t, but I thought it would be fab if it was a surprise!”