The Trouble with Faking

Home > Young Adult > The Trouble with Faking > Page 6
The Trouble with Faking Page 6

by Rachel Morgan


  “Yes,” I tell him. “That’s me. The girlfriend.”

  “Well, you’ve got a tough act to follow. I mean, that Charlotte. She was a real keeper.” Damien scrunches up a piece of paper and throws it at his friend. Noah catches it and presses it into a tight wad between his palms. “Anyway, who wants to help me pick out my new tattoo?”

  Damien looks up. “Another tattoo?” He laughs and shakes his head. “I bet your girlfriend will love that.”

  Noah throws the wad of paper back at him. “Fortunately, my girlfriend doesn’t get a say.”

  “How about we swap?” Damien says. “You come finish off this assignment, and I’ll choose your next tattoo.”

  “Not a chance, man. You’ll pick out some girly butterfly or something.”

  “And you’ll fail my assignment.”

  “Or,” Noah says, “I’ll do so well there’ll be an inquiry into why your marks have improved so drastically.”

  “Really? You think your marine biology knowledge will help you with this physics assignment?”

  “My marine biology knowledge will kick your physics assignment’s ass.”

  Damien rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop.

  “Andi, Andi, Andi,” Noah says, turning his attention back to me. “Is this the stuff you sell on your online craft store?”

  “Yes. I’m making pin badges.”

  “Hmm. I thought pin badges were those plastic circles you pin onto your clothes and stuff.”

  “Well, this is the homemade version of that. See?” I hold up the creation I’m currently working on. “First I stitch the larger felt circle onto the pin part. Then I stitch the smaller felt circle onto the larger felt circle, and then the laminated circle with the words gets stuck on top of that.”

  “Huh. And people pay money for that?”

  A second ball of paper hits Noah’s head, and it fills me with giddy warmth to know that Damien’s sticking up for me even when half his attention is on his work.

  “Dude, what?” Noah says. “I was joking. Andi knows I was joking, don’t you, Andi?”

  “Like you were joking during the last conversation we had in this room?”

  “You know, I actually was joking at the beginning of that conversation. You’re the one who decided to take it up a level by launching into racial issues five seconds after we met.”

  I lower my hands. “I didn’t launch into anything. I simply commented on your—”

  Damien groans as he looks at his phone. “I have to deal with something. I’ll be back just now.” He stands.

  “You’re not on duty tonight, are you?” Disappointment tinges my voice.

  “No, but I still need to go check something at reception.”

  “Okay.” I return to the two pieces of felt in my hands, wondering if Noah will leave now or continue to sit here being antagonistic.

  He leans one elbow on the back of the couch. “Guess what,” he says.

  I apply a blob of glue to the back of a laminated circle and stick it to the two felt pieces I’ve already sewn together. “What?”

  “I know your secret.”

  The finished pin badge slips from my fingers. I pick it up quickly, checking that the circle is still stuck in the right place while instructing myself not to panic. “Of course you do.” I look up at him with a strained smile. “You’re Damien’s best friend, aren’t you? Why wouldn’t he tell you our secret?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. He leans a little closer. “Your secret.”

  “My—What do you mean?”

  He gives me a smug smile. “You know what I mean.”

  “Ugh, I hate it when people do that. If you want to say something, just say it.”

  “Really? You hate it when people do that? Then why don’t you say what you want to say?”

  “And what do I want to say?”

  “Oh, Damien, I love you,” he coos in a high pitched voice. “Let’s get married and have babies and—”

  I grab the nearest cushion and throw it at him. It smacks his face, muffling his words, before landing on his lap. Laughing, he picks it up and throws it back.

  “You’re an ass,” I tell him, hugging the cushion to my chest and crossing my arms over it.

  “So I’m right,” he says with a triumphant smile.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Ah, so that means—”

  “You know, I think I should leave.”

  “Hey, no, I’m sorry. You don’t have to go. I won’t say anything else about … that.”

  I glare at him.

  “Seriously. Here. I’ll do the sticking.” He picks up the tube of glue and waits expectantly for me to continue sewing felt pieces together.

  I pick up a dark blue circle and a pale blue circle and choose a pink thread. After a few minutes of silent stitching, Noah says, “Sooooo, why are you wearing one orange sock and one blue sock?”

  “Because life is too short to worry about matching socks,” I retort.

  “I see.”

  We go back to not talking.

  I stitch.

  Noah waits.

  I ignore a call from my mom.

  More silence.

  When I can’t take it any longer, I clear my throat and ask, “How did you and Damien become friends?”

  “Is this the part where we ask random questions to fill the awkward silence until Damien gets back?”

  “Partly. But it’s also a genuine question, since you’re quite different from the friends he had at school.”

  Noah rolls the tube of glue in his hands. “You mean the respectable, hardworking, Valedictorian-material friends?”

  I smile, already knowing the direction this conversation is headed in. “If I say, ‘Yes,’ you’re going to say something like, ‘What makes you think that’s not me?’”

  “Exactly. And I might also add that you shouldn’t judge people because of how they look.”

  “You mean the way you judged me because of how I look?”

  “Hmm. Yes.” He tilts his head to the side and considers me. “You’ve still got a bit of that self-righteous look.”

  “How?” I demand, throwing my hands up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Andi.” He smiles. “I’m just joking.”

  “Oh, terrific. You get to insult me and then wave it off as a joke. I should try that.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Noah, you look like the kind of guy who might steal my car. Oh, wait, sorry. That was a joke.”

  Noah blinks, then frowns. “You look at me and you see a criminal?”

  “Oh, COME ON. You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

  “I could take it if it actually was a joke,” Noah says, standing up. “The difference is, you’re not joking.”

  “How do you know I’m—”

  “Because you’re angry,” he says simply. He opens the door. “I’ll see you around, Andi.” The door swings shut behind him.

  I deflate against the cushions, trying to convince myself that I have nothing to feel bad about and wondering why I let this guy get to me so easily in the first place.

  I bend over, line up the cue stick with the white ball, slowly pull the cue stick back, and bring it forwards fast. The white ball flies across the table, misses the striped ball I was aiming for, hits one of the solid balls, and sinks it. It’s the first ball I’ve successfully sunk. If only it were mine.

  “Thanks, Andi,” my opponent says.

  “Okay, it’s official. I suck at this.” I’m at the George, a room below ground level at Smuts used mainly for relaxing, watching TV¸ and playing pool or table tennis. It’s a little bit like an underground pub—at least, what I imagine an underground pub to look like, since I’ve never been in one.

  I arrived as the first eight-ball game kicked off. Damien beat Yashen, then Noah beat Damien, and then Damien decided I should have a turn. I told him I suck, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I looked around for an opponent who might also be terrible
at pool, and my eyes landed on Mike sitting on a couch in front of the TV watching rugby. Mike, the guy I’m supposed to like.

  “Hey, Mike,” I called. “Do you play?”

  “Oh, not really. I’m kinda useless at pool.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Me too.”

  Twenty minutes later, it turns out there’s only one useless pool player in this room, and it isn’t Mike. “Here.” I hold my cue stick out to Damien. “This is your game now. My pool-playing days are over.”

  “I guess I should kiss my winning streak goodbye then,” Mike says with a good-natured grin as Damien steps up to the table.

  “Not necessarily,” I tell him. “You’re actually pretty good.”

  “Okay, Damien.” Mike does a series of exaggerated arm stretches. “Bring it on. Let’s do this.”

  I laugh, and Damien gives me a raised-eyebrow look that most likely means, This is the guy you like?

  I shrug and smile back at him, intending for my expression to say something like, The heart wants what the heart wants.

  I take a few steps back and lean against the bar so I can watch them from a comfortable distance. After a minute or so, Noah leaves the group of guys watching rugby and wanders over to my side. I can’t think why he’d be interested in my company after our last disastrous conversation. Perhaps he’s come over to get back at me for calling him a criminal.

  “Well, isn’t this awkward?” he whispers to me. “The guy you’re pretending to date and the guy you’re pretending to like—facing off over a pool table.”

  I ignore him. It’s better than throwing verbal punches.

  “I’m actually here because I thought I should apologise,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

  “Oh.” I certainly wasn’t expecting that.

  “I was provoking you,” he continues, “so I shouldn’t have been surprised when you retaliated. I just didn’t realise you’d come up with a jab that hit so close to home. It took me by surprise.”

  I look at him. “Are you telling me you are a criminal?”

  He laughs. “No. I’m telling you it’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being one.”

  “Oh. Well, it was the first time someone’s accused me of being self-righteous.”

  “Probably because you’re not.” He smiles at me. “Andi, I was just messing with you. I’m sorry. Some of Damien’s friends are so uptight I can’t help having a go at them.”

  I frown at the floor. “I suppose I’m one of the uptight ones then, since your comments managed to get under my skin.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t give you the uptight label.” He leans back against the bar. “The uptight friends and family give me horrified looks, then whisper about me when they think I can’t hear. You look me in the eye and give as good as you get.” He gives me a mischievous grin. “It’s a lot more fun.”

  A smile sneaks onto my face. “Fun, huh?”

  “Yip. Besides, no uptight person in their right mind would consider wearing the clothes you wear.”

  I raise my chin as I turn my gaze back to the pool table. “Well. I hope you meant that as a compliment, because that’s the way I intend to take it.”

  “Absolutely. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone else wearing combat boots and a ballet skirt, but you’re definitely making it work.”

  “Thanks.” I fluff up my multi-layered tulle skirt.

  “Just a word of warning, though,” Noah says. “When you bend over the pool table, we can see your underwear.”

  “Hey!” I smack his arm, and he flinches.

  “Ow! Watch the healing wound.”

  “What healing wound?” I ask, suddenly alarmed I may have actually hurt him. He reaches back for the neck of his long-sleeve T-shirt and pulls. “Whoa, hey.” I take a step away from him. “I’m not sure stripping is necessary.”

  “Relax, Andi,” he says with an amused smile. “I’ve got a vest under here.” He removes the long-sleeve T-shirt to reveal a tattoo of a bird across his upper right arm and shoulder.

  “Oh, wow, that’s cool.” I lean forward to take a closer look. “Is it really still a healing wound?”

  “No. I was messing with you—again. I had it done the day after I mentioned it to you and Damien, so it’s had a bit of time to heal already.”

  “Okay.”

  I look across at the pool table as Mike groans and says, “Come on, man. Give me a chance before you annihilate me.” He’s still wearing a smile, though, so I guess he doesn’t mind too much that Damien’s beating him.

  “Do you have a lot of tattoos?” I ask Noah.

  “Just the cross, the bird, and the one on my butt.” He gives me a mischievous grin.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You do not have a tattoo on your butt.”

  He laughs but doesn’t answer.

  “Why did you choose a bird?”

  He pulls his T-shirt back on. When his head emerges, he says, “Birds are free.”

  “And you … want to be free?”

  “Yes.” He looks at me as though this should be obvious. “Doesn’t everyone want to be free?”

  “I suppose. What do you want to be free of?” I ask before stopping to consider whether that might be too personal a question.

  He leans closer and whispers, “The demons of my past.”

  I laugh at his attempt to be dramatic and mysterious. “Oh really? You’ve got demons hiding beneath that goofy exterior?”

  “Goofy exterior?” He does a good job of pretending to be hurt. “And here I thought I was rocking the sexy look.”

  I laugh. “Well, your muscular, sexy look may do it for some girls, but I’m not one of them.”

  “Ah, you like the scrawny look, do you?”

  I laugh harder and shake my head. Damien and Mike look over at us to see what’s going on. “Sorry!” I say. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  They return their attention to the game, and Noah lowers his voice. “You really should go for Mike, then. He’s got that scrawny, nerdy look.”

  “Hmm.” I consider Mike. He’s about the same height as Damien, but slimmer and with darker hair. He wears glasses, but they suit his face, which isn’t that bad-looking. “Actually,” I say, “it’s more of a cute, nerdy look. Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Perhaps I should go over there and support my pretend boyfriend now.”

  “Or your pretend love interest. He looks like he could do with some moral support.”

  Smiling and shaking my head, I walk back to the pool table and stand at one end. “How’s it going here?”

  “I’m the underdog,” Mike says with a relaxed shrug, “so not much has changed.”

  “Well, that’ll make it all the more exciting when you win, won’t it?” I flash him an almost-flirtatious smile so Damien can see I’m keeping up my part of the game.

  “Hey, don’t I get any support from my girlfriend?” Damien jokes.

  I blow him a kiss and say, “Sorry, babe.” Babe? Where on earth did that come from? I’ve never called anyone ‘babe’ in my life.

  Damien leans over the table, aims his cue stick, and shoots. The ball he was aiming for narrowly misses the pocket, rebounds, whacks a group of three balls, and knocks the 8 ball into a pocket.

  “Yes!” Mike pumps his fist in the air, then holds his hand up so I can high-five him.

  “Woohoo!” I shout, smacking his palm with mine. “Go Team Underdog!”

  “Well done,” Damien says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “although it isn’t quite the same when you win by default, is it?”

  I hurry to his side, remembering that A, I’m supposed to be supporting my pretend boyfriend, and B, Damien’s never been a fan of losing.

  “You should come down here more often so we can practise,” Mike says, oblivious to—or choosing to ignore—Damien’s hostility.

  “Okay,” I say, since our Official Mission includes me spending more time with Mike, and if Dami
en’s around, it’ll help out the Side Mission too, which is to make him jealous.

  “Great,” Damien says, although he sounds anything but pleased. He’s doing an excellent job of playing the possessive boyfriend. “Let us know when you’re free and we’ll both come. I can give you guys some tips.”

  “Awesome. I’d like that.” Mike smiles at Damien, but something about it doesn’t look right. Is there a challenge in his gaze? Before I can figure it out, Mike turns and heads back to the TV.

  Damien lets go of me, checks his phone, and says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He heads up the stairs and out of sight.

  I grab a cue stick and turn to Noah. “Just you and me, then. Want to show me how it’s done?”

  His lips turn up. “You’re just worried I’m gonna see up your skirt if I stay over here.”

  “I’m not worried about anything actually,” I say as he pushes away from the bar and comes towards me. “You don’t know this, but I do the bend-over test every time I make a skirt. I’m fairly certain no one in this room has seen my undies and that you, Noah Ferreira, are once again messing with me.”

  He stops in front of me, that smile still on his lips. “I like you, Andi. We got off to a rough start, but I definitely think I like you now.”

  “Oh.” I reach self-consciously for my hair and tuck a strand behind my ear. “Well, I guess you’re not that bad either.”

  He laughs. “But you are terrible at pool. You definitely need some help.”

  “And that’s why you’re here,” I tell him as I fetch the white ball. I may as well practise with the balls Damien and Mike left on the table. I lean over, place my hand on the table, and balance the end of the cue stick over my thumb. I line up my shot and slide the cue stick back and forth, trying to judge if I’ve got the angle right.

  “Terrible,” Noah says. “I’ve never seen anything so clumsy.”

  “Well, a little help would be nice.”

  Noah steps around me and leans over the table to adjust my hand. “Move your fingers this way—that’s right—then hold your thumb against your forefinger.”

  “That feels weird.”

  “It’ll work better for you. Trust me. And you need to keep your other arm steady when you’re moving the cue stick. At the moment you’re flapping your elbow around like a chicken with a wonky wing.”

 

‹ Prev