Pretenders

by Lisi Harrison

  GREG: What’s it called?

  ME: Uh, the money goes to poor kids.

  GREG: Which ones?

  ME: The ones who can’t play basketball.

  GREG: Why can’t they play?

  ME: They’re poor.

  Greg laughed.

  ME: Dude, it’s not funny.

  It was worse when I got to school. When Hud and Coops weren’t cracking up they were calling me slick. Logo told everyone I was endorsed by Beyoncé. And when our teams shook hands the Summit guys wore sunglasses to cut the glare. I was trying my best to ignore the backlash but it was getting hard. I missed a few easy shots because of the heckling. We were down by twelve points. Bammer actually benched me for being a distraction. That’s when Greg called a time-out. He walked to the center of the court and told everyone I was wearing the shoes for charity.

  Their laughs turned to applause, which turned into me getting back in the game which turned into us winning. After the game I was mobbed. Everyone except Logo wanted a pair of “Duffys.” I handed out the promo code and the website. A few of them balked at the $175 price tag but I reminded them it was for a good cause. Luckily, no one asked what it was. I was so busy selling shoes I forgot about the Sweat. Which was good because I ended up leaving the six-pack on the porch when I went to look for my shoes.

  Greg dropped me off after the game. I didn’t want to leave my “Duffys” outside in case someone stole them and Mom would have killed me if she saw me wearing them inside. So I snuck in through the back door.

  BUBBIE: Andrew honey, is that you?

  ME: Yeah.

  BUBBIE: Come here. I want you to meet someone.

  ME: One second.

  BUBBIE: I’m old. I might not make it another second. Now.

  I tried to kick off my Duffys.

  BUBBIE: Your parents are out with the Wassermans. You can keep the shoes on.

  Feeling = How does she always know?

  Bubbie was in the kitchen drinking a beer with the Lily girl from school. Lily wasn’t drinking beer though. She was drinking Sweat. Her cheeks looked sunburned and her lips were shiny. She looked cuter than she did the day that I Wiped. I think she brushed her hair.

  BUBBIE: I want you to meet our neighbor, Lindsey.

  LILY: Lily.

  BUBBIE: She’s Jewish.

  ME: Right on.

  LILY: Nice shoes.

  ME: Long story.

  LILY: I like them.

  ME: Really?

  LILY: Yeah.

  BUBBIE: They’re unsightly.

  LILY: Did the Flames win tonight?

  ME: Yup.

  BUBBIE: Lindsey is our dog walker.

  We laughed at Bubbie’s mistake but didn’t bother correcting her.

  ME: Who hired you?

  BUBBIE: I did. Such a nice Jewish girl.

  ME: I thought you said you don’t have any money.

  BUBBIE: I have for some things, not others.

  Lily held up the red-and-pink can of Sweat and asked if we recycle.

  BUBBIE: Andrew will take care of it.

  ME: Did you like it?

  LILY: It’s spicy. Like really spicy. It made my face feel hot. Do you like it?

  I had never tried it but I told her Sweat was my favorite drink. She said hers too. I told her I could get her a discount on a case. She asked how. I said if you come up to my room I’ll give you a promo code and you can order it. She said she was all over that. Bubbie Libby asked me to get her another beer and then told us to have fun.

  I forgot that I had laid the Trendemic clothes out on my bed. She started holding everything up to her like she liked it.

  ME: I bet this style would look good on you.

  Feeling = Dirty and sneaky and disgusting and desperate for money. Is this how Gardner always feels?

  LILY: Seriously?

  ME: Totally hot. I can get you a deal if you want.

  Feeling = I needed to wash my mouth out with Animaul body wash.

  Lily was so excited she opened a PayPal account right there. She ordered the spray-painted jeans, a case of Sweat, the polka-dot turtleneck, and the denim jacket with the studs. I felt guilty because they were mostly boy clothes, so I gave her my Heartbreaker shirt for free. She liked it so much she literally hugged me.

  Feeling = I will never understand girls.

  Friday, October 5, 2012

  Crushed Mountain Dew can.

  Glow-in-the-dark Frisbee.

  Mud-covered Nike Air Max basketball shoes with the swooshes covered in silver duct tape.

  Reusable water bottle in blue.

  Three used sparklers.

  Nerf water pistol.

  Purple-stained Popsicle stick.

  Basketball.

  Dollar bill L 89751377 D.

  Adidas Roundhouse basketball shoes.*

  Color: Aluminum. Logos covered in duct tape.

  Heartbreaker shirt.*

  I added two new things to my collection. Four if you count Duffy’s nameless Maltese puppies. Who, by the way, keep scratching my closet door. They must be picking up the scent of Duffy’s things. Ha! If anyone ever read that last sentence they’d swear I was a serial killer.

  Thanks to Bubbie Libby’s biannual trip to the bank, where she deposited six Social Security checks, I have been promoted from dog walker to dog sitter. This means I pick up the dogs after school and keep them until dinner. That’s $35/week. If I hadn’t spent most of my computer money on clothes, I’d be one semester away from typing on a crisp new Apple, instead of the rotten one I’ve had for years.

  Unfortunately I have $86.27. Total. That’s right. I have murdered my life’s savings. The ironic part? I finally have a life.

  Vanessa gets most of the credit for giving me such great advice. All remaining credit, however, goes to me for taking said advice and executing it. I have had success with pointers #1–4 (Be friendly, Stay under the radar, Be a good listener, Don’t be a know-it-all) but #5 has been the real game changer. More on that in a minute. The rotten Apple has rebooted. Back to my British Identity and Literature paper.

  Rebooting.

  Pointer #5: Dress like the people you are trying to befriend. Eat the same foods. Drink the same drinks. The following chart details the times I have done that and the great success that ensued.

  EXECUTED #5 GREAT SUCCESS

  Drank Sweat at Duffy’s house. It went down like liquid fire. Felt like a fever, looked like a sunburn. I said I loved it. Duffy invited me to his room. He gave me his secret discount code. This shows he’s starting to trust me.

  Saw piles of avant-garde on Duffy’s bed. I said polka dots and studs are totally my thing. Spent one hour online-shopping with Duffy. He smelled salty from sweat. I smelled spicy like Sweat. He was the chips to my salsa.

  Wore spray-painted jeans and Heartbreaker shirt to school. Was invited to join the style club. They had a Preppy, a Goth, a Label Lover, a DIY, a Romantic, a Boho, a Diva, a Sporty, a Vintage, a Rocker, a Tease, a Grunge, and a Gaga. They were short a European and a Skater. Not anymore.

  In addition, I received six compliments from Pubs. That Sheridan girl said I am doing a great job channeling Bryanboy. Compliment or insult? I Googled immediately. Born Bryan Grey Yambao, “Bryanboy” is a male fashion blogger from the Philippines with over 200,000 followers. A compliment indeed.

  Wait, it gets better. Duffy introduced me to his friends Hud and Coops as “the biggest contributor to his charity.” But the very best part? Duffy talks to me at school. Duffy talks to me at home. Today he called me Lil.

  Naturally my parents had some inquiries. The Lily they raised doesn’t wear spray-painted denim and studded jackets. So naturally, they wanted to know where I got the money and—more importantly—when my wardrobe became so “sui generis.” They asked whom I was hanging out with and if Blake’s style had been “compromised” too. A “Say No to Drugs” lecture was gathering strength. From there, it
would spiral into a tornado of parental anxiety set to blow me back to Homie-land. Weathering the storm meant locking their fears in the storm cellar. It meant I had to lie.

  Rebooting.

  “Guess what, Mom? I was asked to join the prestigious Noble High style club. High Style, for short.”

  “What’s so high style about a shirt stained with fake blood?”

  “Look past the shirt. Focus on what the shirt represents.”

  “Slaughter?”

  (Sigh.) “Maybe I’m explaining it wrong. Forget fashion. If you’re thinking fashion it’s no wonder you’re confused. Think politics. Think style of politics.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” She winced, like I was a bad smell.

  “This shirt speaks to the need for child labor laws in third world countries.”

  “And what do those jeans say? I ran out of canvas?”

  “They’re a nod to the graffiti movement in New York City, circa 1972.”

  “More like an affront.”

  “Graffiti is how inner-city kids express themselves. It’s protest and politics through art. That’s what High Style is. It’s not about who we’re wearing. It’s about why we’re wearing. Get it?”

  “And who’s paying for these… highly artistic expressions?”

  “That’s the best part.” I smiled.

  “It is?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yes, not yep.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” she said.

  “We make the clothes ourselves.”

  “Explains the fit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pardon me.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Lily, you have to admit, they have a certain masculine edge, don’t you think?”

  “Exactly! I knew you’d get it. Typically protestors are male. Now you know why I’m so excited for our exploration of the women’s movement.”

  “When is that?”

  “Spring. Once the weather warms up. Because of the skirts and all.”

  “I completely understand,” she said, the furrow between her brows suggesting otherwise.

  Rebooting.

  Vanessa wondered what inspired my new “look.” She said people were talking about me and asked what happened to “staying under the radar.” I told her they talked about me just as much when I wore my sweats. At least now it’s good stuff. To which she replied, “True.”

  Blake, however, was harder to convince.

  “Did you lose a bet?”

  “No.”

  “Your mind?”

  “No!”

  “Join a circus?”

  “No.”

  “A band?”

  “No.”

  “A busker troupe?”

  “Stop! I’m just experimenting.”

  “With Lady Gaga’s rejects?”

  “Better than the Wright brothers.”

  “Better than the Wrong brothers.”

  “Better than the Coxsackie sisters.”

  I used banter to evade Blake’s questions. It worked for an entire week. Yesterday I broke.

  He came over after school to “ride” the dogs. We stood on our boards, held the leashes, and let them run. It felt like water-skiing. We were having so much fun he actually dropped the subject of my clothes until I put on the mirrored aviator sunglasses I bought from Duffy. I had no idea LUV U, I C U, and HOT 4 U flashed across the lenses until Blake cracked up. He was laughing so hard he smashed into a parked car.

  “Okay, what’s his name?” he asked, sitting on the curb. A nameless dog jumped on his lap. He rubbed its ears. He kissed its nose. And then, “Oh. My. God!”

  He knew.

  I buried my face inside my studded jacket. Looking at Blake was like staring truth in the eye. I rarely liked what it reflected back.

  “Andrew Duffy?”

  My insides lurched at the sound of his name.

  “The basketball guy?”

  “Stop.”

  “That’s why you’ve been dressing like Snooki?”

  “Maybe,” I squeaked.

  “He is cute,” Blake admitted. “I just pictured you with someone more—”

  “Intellectual? Fringe? Dot gov?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Sure. I pictured you with someone rational and friendly. And you’re with Trike.”

  “Mike.”

  “Psych.”

  A Maltese licked the back of my hand.

  “I can see why you like him, though,” Blake said, leaning back on his elbows. “He’s… different.”

  I clarified. “He’s different because he’s normal.”

  “Which is different for us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I get it.”

  “I know.”

  On the way back Blake asked if Duffy liked me too.

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Has he tried anything?”

  “Blake!” The thought of kissing Duffy terrified me. The ratio of things that could go well to things that could embarrass me for life was 1:1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.

  “Has he texted or asked to hang or anything?”

  “No. He invites me over to shop.”

  “Ha! That old excuse.” Blake held the nameless dog’s leash with one hand and tipped his paperboy cap with the other, proof that he subscribed to the I-shop-for-love channel.

  “You think it means something?” I asked, jumping a crack in the road.

  “Of course it does.”

  “What?”

  “It means he’s using clothes as an excuse to hang out. Guys are shy. They need a way in. Shopping is his way in.”

  “You think?”

  “Um, Snooki, have you seen my wardrobe?”

  “Yes, Amelia. I have.”

  When we got back Duffy was shooting hoops on his driveway. Blake hugged me goodbye, whispered “get some,” and rolled on outta there. I would have killed him if I didn’t love him so much.

  “Back with the dogs,” I announced.

  “Interesting technique,” he said as they pulled me up his driveway.

  I giggled because I didn’t know what to say.

  Duffy shot a basket. “That your boyfriend?”

  My heart bounced higher than the ball. I couldn’t believe he asked me that.

  “ ’S okay if you don’t want to tell me,” he said, shooting again.

  (Swish.)

  “Tell you what?”

  “If that guy is your boyfriend.”

  I needed Vanessa or Blake or anyone who might know what I should do next. If I said yes, would that make him jealous? Would jealousy make him like me more? Or give up and move on? If I said Blake wasn’t my boyfriend, he’d think I was incapable of being liked. Or that I liked Blake but he didn’t like—

  “I’m getting a new box of clothes tomorrow,” he said. “If you want to come by.”

  “Blake is gay.”

  10.5.12

  INT. LAVENDER BATH—NIGHT.

  SHERIDAN puts quill to paper while soaking in the memories of her first date earlier that evening.

  Logan pulled up to my house and honked. I kissed my parents goodbye and told them to put the camera down. This wasn’t a date. They weren’t missing any big moments. I was simply getting a ride to rehearsal with a friend. Dad said he wasn’t questioning my plan, only my motive. I dug through my purse to hide the fact that his CSI jargon was freaking me out. Did he know I was about to commit a crime?

  Mom tried to explain.

  Your father isn’t questioning the fact that you’re going to rehearsal with this boy—

  Logan.

  Logan. It’s just that he, we, think you’ve spent a long time getting ready.

  So?

  So maybe Logan means more to you than—

  Than what, Mom? A ride? Because
that’s all he is. A ride. I spent a long time getting ready because I am trying to get into character.

  But you’re the—

  It’s okay. You can say understudy. But I’m also a professional. I need to be ready in case Octavia gets taken out by a truck or something.

  Sheridan! (Them.)

  Excuse me for being optimistic.

  Another honk.

  Gotta go.

  I bolted.

  Logan said wow when he saw me. I knew Scarlett Johansson was the right call for a date. Rubenesque undercarriage, sexy, and daring; I needed to be all of those things. And I was.

  My hair was sculpted to the side and loosely curled at the bottom. Like Scarlett I played up my lips with berry-colored gloss (“Maybe she’s born with it”) while downplaying the eyes with mascara and gold shadow. I stuffed my pear parts into skinny jeans and showcased my flat midriff with a boxy tank that “accidentally” shot north when I moved. And my pointy faux snakeskin pumps? Ssssssssssssexy.

  The “daring” is everything that happened next.

  The dealership was closed when we got there. Floppy Beemer was our only witness. I made Logan turn around while I disabled the alarm system, then made him triple swear he’d never talk about this.

  Dude, this is so hot.

  I wanted to turn around and run. Not because I was afraid of getting busted. But because Logan was rubbing his hands together really quickly and licking his lips. Like he was about to eat a giant steak and I was the side of potatoes. If I was going to be anyone’s side I didn’t want to be his. But that was Sheridan talking and this night belonged to Scarlett.

  I lifted the keys from the case and jangled them in front of Logan’s eyes the way he had done to Audri back on the first day of school. The memory gave me a chill. It was hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. My life has changed so much since then. Audri, the play, this crime. None of it seemed possible. And yet, here I was. Helping some Biff drive Dad’s prized possession.

  Let’s do this! Logan snatched the keys from my hand, unlocked the door, and tossed his suede jacket into the backseat. I laughed when he slipped on fingerless driving gloves and said, M3 GTR ready for liftoff.

  I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. The guy blasted out of the dealership before my seat belt clicked, and shot down Old Bell Road doing 90. The speed limit is 35.

  Slow down!

  I can’t! My shoe is stuck on the gas!

  This time he was joking but I didn’t laugh. I squeezed his arm. Seriously! Slow down.