It takes me a second to recall my line, but finally it comes to me. “If I be waspish, best beware my sting,” I retort as Kate.
Petruchio: “My remedy is then to pluck it out.”
Kate: “Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.”
Surprisingly, we fall easily into the rhythm of the iambic pentameter, into the saucy banter. I get into the performance; I always do.
Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Kate: In his tongue.
Petruchio: Whose tongue?
Kate: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.
Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
The class laughs and there are some whistles; I see one or two side-eyes, too.
Normally we would take a bow, but I head immediately back to my seat. Ms. Laves does a quick talk on Shakespeare’s use of double entendre before calling up the next pair. I sneak a glance at Jacen. He catches me and gives me a little wink, like old times. To be honest, I’m relieved we pulled it off since we hadn’t practiced.
When class is over, Jacen calls, “Mariely, wait up.” I slow down but don’t stop. “That was really great today. I knew we’d get our groove back.”
I shrug. “We knew the lines.”
We walk side by side for a few more steps. “Soooo…I hear that you asked Cabot Wheeler to the dance,” Jacen says.
“Uh-huh,” I reply nonchalantly, though secretly doing cartwheels in my head that he’s heard the news.
“You know, you don’t have anything to prove to me or anybody else because of what happened between us.”
I come to a dead stop in the middle of the hall, causing a people jam behind us. I don’t care; they can go around. “What do you mean, prove something?”
“Nothing. Only that you asking Cabot—it’s kind of sudden. You don’t like sudden.”
“Sudden, like you and Himesh?” He has the good grace to at least blush a little. “Hookups are like that, Jacen.”
“You’re hooking up with Cabot?” The doubt in his voice is unmistakable. I have got to play this just right—if anybody can see through me, it will be Jacen. We may not have been the most physically intimate couple, but Jacen knows everything about me. He knows things I haven’t told Willa, mostly about my mom and dad, what happened to them. I used to think I knew everything about him, too, which is obviously not the case. Still, lying to him doesn’t come easily.
I can’t look him the eyes while I do it, so I start walking again and try to deflect as much as I can. “That’s not really any of your business anymore, is it, Jacen? But yes, we are going to the dance, and after that…we’ll see…”
“Listen, if that’s what you want, then I think it’s great. Cabot seems like a nice guy.”
Not the response I’d hoped for. “I don’t need your blessing.”
“I know, but I want you to be happy, and if Cabot is the one to do it, then I’m happy for both of you. In fact, you should bring him to karaoke on Friday night.” A couple Fridays every month the theater geeks get together at a bowling alley that has private karaoke rooms in the back. Jacen and I are undisputed champs. Somehow, I don’t get the idea that Cabot’s hobbies include belting out Broadway show tunes, though.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We might have other plans.”
“Well, if you get a chance, drop by. Himesh has talked me into doing a duet of ‘Don’t Stop Believing.’”
“Journey? You hate Journey. You never once sang a Journey song with me at karaoke night.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” He trails off and looks a little sheepish. I know what he’s not saying for my sake: he’s doing it because it’s the kind of thing you do for someone you care about. Someone you maybe love.
And just like that, I’m not angry anymore. I’m just sad. For both of us. Sad that I thought I could share so much with him and sad that he thought he couldn’t share his real feelings with me.
I guess my fauxmance with Cabot isn’t my first fake relationship after all.
Chapter Eight
Three hours later I’m on my way to lunch wondering how I could have been so wrong about my relationship with Jacen. Our cafeteria is called the Café, and it has an indoor/outdoor bistro setup: little tables for two all over that we push together for a crowd, and a wall of glass garage-style doors that roll up when it’s not raining or six thousand degrees outside. My usual lunch group used to be me, Willa, Jacen, and Himesh. Now it’s just me and Willa. And Damien.
This does not improve my mood.
I have tried super hard to like Damien, or at least stomach him, for Willa’s sake, but I just can’t. Yeah, he’s cute in that frat boy, mouth-breather kind of way, but it’s not enough to overlook his narcissistic arrogance. Plus, his out-of-the-blue pursuit of my best friend? Something about it feels off. I see Willa settle a hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear. He turns and says something back, making her whole face light up. After all the crap she’s been through recently with her dad’s new relationship and the Finn situation, I hope for Willa’s sake that I’m wrong about Damien.
“Hey, Mariely.” Cabot appears next to me out of the chaos that is our cafeteria, a deli sandwich and a bag of chips in his hand, and a Dr Pepper. He smiles, a super easygoing smile like we’ve know each other for years, not hours. “How’s your morning been?”
“Eh,” I answer. He raises an inquiring eyebrow, but I shake my head. Even I know a hookup, fake or real, is not about emotional support. “There’s no need for the gory details. How was yours?”
“Chilly.” He points his chin toward a table close by where a coven of Audrey’s friends is sitting. “Chilly” isn’t doing the stares they’re giving us justice, however.
“More like subarctic,” I say. “I have a hoodie you can borrow.”
“Nah, I’ll just have to remember to bring my ski jacket from now on.” We share a conspiratorial grin, and suddenly I’m not feeling so down anymore.
“Hi, Cabot,” Willa says when we take our seats next to each other. “Welcome to our little part of the social world order. You know Damien, right?”
“There’s only about a hundred and fifty of us in the whole senior class, Willa. Everybody knows everybody. And we have econ together,” Damien answers. “’Sup, man? Heard about what happened at your party last weekend. Sorry I missed it—I had to be up early the next day to shoot a PSA, you know—but Willa told me everything. You and Audrey. Mariely and Jacen. What a disaster, right?”
Cabot glances at me, but I’m staring at Willa. Seriously? How can she not see that this guy is a douche?
“Yeah, it pretty much sucked,” Cabot says.
“Shit happens, right? So, I guess you and I can split the limo now since we’re all going to the dance together.”
“We are?” Cabot and I say in unison.
“That’s always been the plan,” Willa reminds me. Sure, when the plan was me and Jacen and Willa and Damien. But as Damien just pointed out so eloquently, shit happens. I don’t know that Cabot’s up for making it a foursome at the dance.
“We don’t have to, though, if you don’t want,” I tell him.
Cabot pops the top on his Dr Pepper. “No, all of us together. I’m into it. That sounds fun.”
“Good, then it’s a plan,” Willa says. “Cabot, you’re in visual arts, right? What’s your focus?”
“Photography and painting.”
“Two tracks? Why? Isn’t that a crazy amount of work?” I ask, opening up my bag and pulling out my lunch, a thermos of ramen.
“Well, photography because I’m good at it, and painting because I love it…I’m just not that great at it.”
“Why not focus on the thing you’re good at—makes life a lot easier,” Damien says over a mouthful of food.
Cabot nods. “Probably, but that saying, do the thing that scares you? Painting scares the hell out of me.”
“Do you have to
do two senior projects? I would probably just end myself if I had to do two,” Willa adds.
“Our senior seminar class is doing a gallery show in the spring. Our theme is ‘moving forward’ and we’ll have performance art, poetry readings, short films. I’m doing a comparative study of photorealism art and photography.”
“Photorealism?” I ask.
“It’s where you try to re-create a moment as realistically as possible, like in a photograph.”
Damien shakes his head. “Just take the photo, dude…so much easier. Hey, Willa, we’re going to crash at your place after the dance, right?” Damien asks.
“You mean our place?” Finn McCain, Willa’s new stepbrother-to-be, comes up to the table. Willa’s shoulders go rigid.
“Do you need something, Finn?” asks Willa, her tone not welcoming. I think Willa is being a bit stubborn about the whole thing, myself. So far, Finn seems pretty cool. He also has no love for Damien, so that’s extra points in my book.
“You’re not answering your texts, and my mom wants to make sure you don’t forget about the fitting this afternoon.”
Willa huffs and holds up her phone so he can see it. “Yes, it’s on the family calendar, five o’clock, right where her assistant put it. See?” Since Mia came into Willa’s life there are now personal assistants, and family calendars, and an actual red carpet event coming up where they are going to make their family debut. Mia is having a dress custom-made for Willa by a local designer, which for some (ME!) would be a dream come true. For Willa, however, Mia might as well be sticking burning pine needles under her fingernails, she’s that tortured by this whole process.
She and Finn lock eyes in some kind of silent, epic battle of wills. The air fairly crackles between them and I’m surprised the rest of us can’t see actual sparks. I can’t tell if the charge is caused by fury or disdain or magnetic attraction, but it’s definitely electric.
Finally, Finn gives. “Don’t be late,” he says before stalking off.
I look at Willa to see if she felt all the Finn-induced voltage but she’s blatantly avoiding eye contact with me…which means she totally did. I duck my head and try very hard not to smile big enough for others to see.
Oblivious to what just went down between his girlfriend and the hot movie star’s son, Damien asks her, “Did you find out if I can be your plus one for the event?”
Willa rolls her eyes and pushes away from the table. “Come on, Damien, let’s go to class. I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll text you later, Mar.”
He doesn’t know it, maybe Willa either, but I have a feeling that Damien’s days at our lunch table are definitely numbered.
“That was weird,” Cabot says after they leave.
“Oh, that? Your run-of-the-mill dysfunctional family stuff. You know, when your father’s new fiancé is a paparazzi-chased movie star.”
Cabot reaches for his Dr Pepper. “It’s hard to be the new guy at this school, movie-star mom or not.”
“Yeah, but I bet being cute, rich, and having girls throw themselves at you kind of takes the sting out of it, right, Mr. Cute and Rich?” I tease.
His glance travels to where Audrey is sitting on the other side of the room. “Only for a little while,” he says, more to himself than to me. I wonder how badly he’s taking his breakup when I see Jacen stand up from a table not too far from ours. Himesh is with him, and they’re laughing at something together. Indignant anger boils up in me. Why are Cabot and I the ones sitting here unhappy? We didn’t do anything wrong. Why aren’t we laughing?
“Do you have plans for Friday night?” I ask.
He grins wryly. “My calendar has gotten unexpectedly clear in the last week.”
“Good. How do you feel about karaoke?”
He tilts his head. “Am I supposed to have a feeling about karaoke?”
“Yeah, it’s super fun. Some of the theater nerds are getting together on Friday night in a private karaoke room at Goodnight Irene’s. If you don’t have anything to do, it might be good for us to get out, you know. Plus”—I lower my voice—“it would go a long way toward showing everyone we’re legit.”
A crease furrows across his forehead. “I’m not really a singing-in-public kind of guy, or singing anywhere for that matter.”
“It’s really low-key, and I promise you don’t have to sing if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t have asked, but Jacen and Himesh are going and…”
The crease disappears and Cabot nods knowingly. “And you want to show him you’re not sitting at home in your pj’s crying into your Ben & Jerry’s while watching Pride and Prejudice on a Friday night.”
I giggle. “How do you know that Ben & Jerry’s goes with Pride and Prejudice? Though in my case it’s the Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson 1940s version, and actually, I prefer Wuthering Heights.”
My rambling makes him laugh. “I have a mom, Mariely. I sat through a costume drama or two or twenty during my parents’ divorce. And actually, I prefer Häagen-Dazs.”
Divorced parents? This surprises me. I pretty much assumed that along with his car and the clothes came a happy home and perfect life. Not so much, obviously. The way he said it though, so matter of fact rather than somber or bitter, I can’t tell if the divorce was a recent event or something he’s lived with for awhile. Not that the timing matters when it comes to how you feel about it—when your family breaks apart, you’re never really whole again and the pain stays with you forever. I know from experience.
Coming from a broken home is now another thing I’ve discovered we have in common, other than our mutual love of Benjamin Franklin and watching period movies, though I’m not sure he loves the latter. Either way, these are three things more than I thought we had in common this morning, which in my book makes us practically fauxmance soulmates.
And it’s a good thing I’ve set the bar so low, because from the skeptical look on Cabot’s face I don’t believe karaoke is going to be added to the list.
“You promise I won’t have to sing?” he asks, definitely sounding more distressed by this than when he mentioned his parents’ divorce.
Using my fingertip, I draw a cross over my heart. “I swear on a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough you won’t have to sing.”
“Then what time should I pick you up?”
Oh, crap. I hadn’t thought about that—Cabot coming to my house. That cannot happen. Ever. “Actually, why don’t you pick me up from Willa’s? It’s down the street from your house, so I’ll plan on staying there for the night. It’ll be easier for both of us than you coming all the way to my house.”
“Okay. Friday night. Karaoke. It’s a date.”
“A fake date,” I remind him. This fauxmance really is turning out to be the best decision I’ve ever made—an attentive, cute date for the next few weeks, and none of the emotional baggage to lug around after our predetermined breakup.
All fun, no strings. Perfect.
Chapter Nine
Thursday after school, Cabot dropped Mariely off at the Drafthouse. “Today was better, yeah?” he asked her as they pulled up in front.
They were finding a good rhythm: meeting before school, coffee and tea, lunch with her friends, and driving her to work after school, even though she said he didn’t need to.
She nodded. “Yeah, today was definitely better. A few more with Audrey ignoring us like she’s been and I may be able to go into a restroom at school and not worry about getting shivved. Thanks again for the ride.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up afterward and take you home?” A reminder popped up on his phone, his weekly dinner with his father. He turned it off. “I don’t have anything going on tonight and it would be faster for you than taking the bus.” Besides, he was finding he enjoyed hanging out with her. She made him laugh—they made each other laugh, actually. It was an unexpected side benefit of their plan—she’d probably call it a “fauxmance with benefits”—but already he thought he might miss that part of it when this was all over
.
“No, that’s okay. Willa and I have to, uh…work on our senior project later so she’s going to pick me up.”
“So late?”
“Well, it’s the only time I have most days, what with rehearsal, and work and other stuff…”
Cabot didn’t know why she was lying about Willa picking her up, but he knew that she was. He was only trying to be nice because he knew riding the bus after work probably meant she got home pretty late, but if Mariely didn’t want him to drive her home, that was her business—he wasn’t really her boyfriend, after all; he didn’t get a say.
She gathered her purse and her backpack. “I’ll meet you in the morning outside in the parking lot.”
“Sounds good,” he said. She hopped out of the car, and he watched her go inside the theater. His phone dinged again. He stared at the reminder for a few seconds before closing it. If only dismissing the actual Thursday dinners with his dad from his life were as easy as dismissing them from his phone. He scrolled through his contacts for his dad’s assistant and called.
“Hi, Judy, it’s Cabot,” he said to her voicemail. “Please let my dad know that I won’t be able to make dinner tonight. I’m not feeling well.” He tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Canceling on his dad meant there would be repercussions, but after the week he’d had, Cabot was not in the mood for making meaningless small talk with his father.
Cabot headed toward home. He knew he should use this newly freed up time to work in his studio, but while maneuvering through traffic downtown, he decided to take a detour. His mom was going to find out sooner rather than later, probably, that he’d canceled dinner with his dad, so he thought he’d tell her himself—it would make him feel less guilty that doing so would make her have to deal with his father, too, when that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again.
He turned down a side street off West Lynn and parked in front of a remodeled Craftsman-style bungalow. The sign out front read Koenig Gallery. The sign used to read Koenig-Wheeler Gallery, but after his parents’ divorce was finalized last year, his mom had the Wheeler part removed not only from her own name, but from the sign as well.
Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Page 6