The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  The Fine Art of Pretending

  RACHEL HARRIS

  Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Harris

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: June 24, 2014

  Rachel Harris

  The Fine Art of Pretending: a novel / by Rachel Harris – 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A girl decides to change her image and gets her best friend to agree to be her pretend boyfriend to raise her profile, but when the time comes to end the charade both of them are surprised to find their feelings aren’t pretend anymore.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Ben & Jerry’s, Barbie, Big Mac, BMW, Cadbury Adams USA LLC (Trident), Canon, Cartier, ChapStick, Charlotte Russe, Chuck Taylor, Chunky Monkey, Clinique, Coke, Crown Royal, Diet Mountain Dew, Disney, Dr. Pepper, Dumpster, Etch A Sketch, Evian, F-150, Facebook, Forever 21, Google Hangout, Grease, Hulk, iPod, Jeep, Jenga, Juicy Couture, Kanye West, Kleenex, M&M’s, Mad Dog, McDonald’s, Nike, Oreo, Quarter Pounder, Rack Room Shoes, Raisinets, Red Bull, Reese’s Pieces, Sephora, Sprite, Seven Up, Sevens, Sugarland, Super Swamper, Taco Bell, Taylor Swift,Twitter, Twix, UFC, US Weekly, Wii, Wizard of Oz, YouTube

  Cover design by: Kate Kaynak

  Interior layout by: Jenny Perinovic

  ISBN 978-1-939392-28-2 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-939392-27-5 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  For everyone

  who has ever chased a dream,

  dared to try something new,

  or found beauty in their own skin,

  this one’s for you.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 7TH

  Exactly 8 weeks until Homecoming

  ALY

  FAIRWOOD CITY MALL, 12:20 p.m.

  The cleavage popping out of my scandalously low-cut halter top heralds the beginning of Operation Sex Appeal. I turn sideways and adjust the neckline, alternately slouching and straightening as tall as my five-foot frame can go, but the fidgeting doesn’t make a bit of difference. After three and a half years covering my horribly disproportionate chest as much as possible, there’s just no hiding the girls now.

  I take a deep breath and silently repeat my new mantra, the words of wisdom that Kara quoted when I agreed to this makeover.

  If you want to recreate yourself in a new image, you must embrace your inner vixen.

  But as my teeth worry my lower lip and I scan the piles of halter tops, miniskirts, tiny shorts, pushup bras, and anxiety-inducing bikinis around me in the dressing room, I ask myself the million-dollar question: Do I even have an inner vixen?

  Shaking the urge to grab my oversized volleyball camp tee, I close my eyes and try to imagine the male population’s reaction to the girl staring back at me—Alyssa Reed 2.0. A vision of the packed assembly hall at Cypress Lake campground materializes in the darkness. Across the room, a blurry-faced guy with messy dark hair turns toward me, shock registering as he really notices me for the first time. The rest of the room quiets as he glides through the mass of bodies, slow-motion style, to take me in his arms, thread his fingers in my hair—

  “Incoming!”

  My heart jumps into my throat. I twirl to meet Kara’s overly enthused hazel eyes peeking over the slatted half door, and twin surges of heat blossom in my cheeks.

  “This batch has jeans and shorts for the camping trip next week, and I got a ton of dress options for the back-to-school dance.” She stands on tiptoe, scans my outfit, and smiles in approval. “That’s hot. Who would’ve believed you were hiding such a killer body under all those hideous man-shirts and baggy pants?”

  I roll my eyes and pull at my neckline again. As the self-declared fashion guru of Fairfield Academy, Kara considers my relaxed style a personal affront, and as my best friend, she’s made it her life’s ambition to reform me. Somehow, whether by fierce will or pure stubbornness, I managed to deflect her obsessive makeover attempts for the last three years, only to succumb last night in a moment of pure, unadulterated desperation.

  To say her elation rivaled that of a five-yearold on Christmas morning would be a gross understatement.

  As if my change of heart weren’t enough, Kara ensured her success by showing up at practice just over an hour ago, shoving me first into the shower and then into her death mobile, and then stopping only to drag our friend Gabi out of bed before flooring it to the trendiest mall in town. I’m stunned she didn’t drive all the way to Houston.

  “You know, those baggy pants happen to be Juicy Couture.” Granted, that’s as stylish as my current wardrobe ever got, but I still think it should count for something.

  According to Kara’s snort, apparently not.

  “Yeah, Aly, you’re a total label-whore.” Blowing me an air-kiss, she pulls open the door and shoves about six pairs of jeans and at least a dozen dresses onto the closest overstuffed rack. She fluffs her bangs and surveys the hanging options with a concentrated gaze. “Too bad Brandon’s working today. I could really use a male opinion.” She tosses a quick glance to the corner of the room and adds, “And some help, since somebody’s not doing crap.”

  From her sprawled position on the dingy threadbare carpet, the third member of our glorious trio lifts her hand and gives Kara a one-finger salute.

  “I’m in here for emotional support,” Gabi says dryly. She grabs a red-dyed strip of her long black hair and intently studies the split ends. “Besides, I’m not sure I fully support this Project Hot to Trot thing anyway.”

  I release a breath and turn back to my reflection. My two best friends couldn’t be more different, as evidenced by the emotional tug-of-war they’ve put me through ever since we set foot in Forever 21. I know Gabi doesn’t have a problem with the clothes—she changes her style like people change their Facebook status. And while I’m normally lucky to pull off jeans and a T-shirt, she fluctuates between all of them with ease. Gothic black, flowing hippie, dominatrix leather, chilled-out jeans…it all works. Which means she’s stewing about something deeper, and knowing Gabi, that could be just about anything.

  “It’s Operation Sex Appeal,” I clarify. “Hot to Trot makes me sound like a race horse.” I tug the revealing halter top over my head and slip on a floral print dress with a tiered bubble hem, enjoying the feel of the fabric. It’s a far cry from the worn-out cotton of my favorite tee, that’s for sure. “And you don’t have to support what I’m doing—but you should support me. I believe I’ve earned that after living through all your schemes.”

  Back before Kara moved to Texas and Gabi and I were still a twosome, she was actually the more reserved member of our duo. The shift didn’t happen until her dad left in seventh grade and Gabi placed full blame on her mom. But when that shift happened, it happened.

  In the mirror, she lifts her dark-lined eyes to mine and frowns. “I just don’t get why you’re letting Kara do this. You worry too damn much about what other people think.”

  My hands clench around the foreign material. Her words, as truthful as they may be, cut just the same. I draw a deep breath and meet her reflected gaze as I try and find a
way to explain something I’m still figuring out myself.

  “Gab, I’m not doing this to get Kara off my back or to get her to shut up about my clothes. I’m doing this for me.” I look at the strange vision of myself decked out in a dress, of all things. “This is something I have to do. I’ve spent the last three years feeling like I’m watching life from the sidelines, Gab. Don’t get me wrong, you guys rock, my grades are good, and my family’s amazing, but isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of our lives? I thought I’d have scrapbooks filled with pictures of boys and kissing and mementos from dates. But I don’t have that stuff. I have volleyball trophies and pictures from training camps and group pictures at dances with the girls.”

  The space between Gabi’s eyebrows scrunches together. I’m not surprised she doesn’t understand. Gabi never gives a flip what other people think of her. But then, she doesn’t need to because I care enough for the both of us. For a while, it was enough to be friends with the cute guys and have them smile and wave at me in the hall. But over the past year, things changed. Now I want those same guys to see me as more. To see me as someone who is actually dateable. And last night, packing my same old comfortable, cotton wardrobe for the senior camping trip, I realized that the time to make a change is now or never.

  But convincing a rebel like Gabi of that is going to take some finesse.

  I twist the end of my long auburn ponytail into a bun and decide to go the comedic route. “Besides, can you honestly think of anyone better than two hot divas like yourselves to help me attempt this mission impossible? Transforming this…” I sweep a hand over my goober self like a deranged game show host. “…into someone sexy?” I strike a smoldering pouty pose for full dramatic effect.

  Kara snickers as Gabi throws her head against the rickety wall and bangs it repeatedly. She’s never been one for holding back her feelings. Or for being subtle.

  “I so don’t want to be a killjoy,” Gabi says, lifting her head and leveling me with a pointed look. “Do you know how much it pains me to be the voice of reason? But, Aly, you’ve always run from anything that would single you out—and I gotta tell ya, being ‘sexy’? That’s kinda gonna entail some attention.”

  “Experimentation in adolescence is healthy,” Kara interrupts, sounding exactly like her psychiatrist mother. “Besides, I’ll be there to guide her through the testosterone-crazed havoc she’s going to create. Aw, Gab, don’t ya see?” She puts her hand over her heart, tilts her chin, and pretends to hold back tears. “Our little Aly’s growing up.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I say, lobbing a discarded shirt at her head with a mock-scowl.

  Kara sticks her tongue out and tosses the shirt back. I duck. Before I can grab another random garment, a series of tinkling bells erupts from her purse, and she squeals. Gabi and I exchange a look as Kara tugs out her phone, gives her shoulders a shimmy, and says in a decidedly lower voice, “Hey, baby.”

  “Daniel,” Gabi mouths. The current love interest. If the squeal wasn’t enough to clue us in, the sexy, purring quality to Kara’s voice sealed the deal.

  With my personal shopper otherwise occupied, I squat down next to Gabi and squeeze her hand. “Please understand. I need this.”

  She studies me for a moment and sighs. “Listen, you’re my best friend. No matter what, I’m here for you. If you say this is what you want, then this is what we’ll do. Even if I don’t understand it.” She plucks the shirt off the floor and starts folding it, pausing to shoot me a smile. “So I guess I’ll shut the hell up and actually make myself useful.”

  With a grateful grin and renewed passion for the mission, I stand and strip, ready to throw on whatever offending item Kara placed next for me on the rack. The sea of colors in the room makes me feel like I’m playing dress-up in an Easter egg and none of this stuff is me, but I guess that’s the point. To be different. Shake things up. At this point, it certainly can’t hurt.

  My gaze lands on the item hanging on top, a skirt barely long enough to cover my butt, and my eyes pop in shock.

  She cannot be serious.

  Where would this even land on a person of normal height?

  I hold the glorified belt up to myself and stare at Kara for confirmation of her insanity, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of cropped brown hair around her finger to notice.

  “Sounds good. I’ll be ready at six.” Pause. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.” Suggestive giggle. “All right. Bye, baby.” Kara hangs up the phone and falls against the door in a mock-swoon. “Daniel’s sooo hot! He’s going to do quite nicely in this year’s Homecoming picture, don’t ya think?”

  The wannabe skirt flutters to the ground. “Homecoming?” Noting the slight manic quality to my voice, I press my lips together and then smile, attempting to tone down the crazy. “I mean, are you serious? Aren’t you the one who said any relationship over a month is a waste of perfectly good dating time? Homecoming’s, like, two months away.”

  Fifty-six days to be exact, but who’s counting?

  Kara stoops to pick up the skirt, shrugging like it’s no big deal, and I force my fists to unclench. I have to remember that not everyone is as fixated on this dance as I am. Accepting the garment, I push past the topic of my secret obsession and focus back on my shared—and now group-accepted—plan.

  One thing at a time.

  I step into the skirt, which is every bit as horrible as I’d imagined, and then pull on the white sleeveless top Kara pairs with it. The braided straps require the strapless bra I have on, which even after hours of wear still feels like it’s going to fall around my waist at any moment. I discreetly run my hands over my butt—making sure the scrap of fabric she considers clothing is at least covering it—wiggle the cups of my bra, and exhale slowly. My reflection looks like a stranger, and I feel like an imposter. Clearly, this isn’t going to be as easy as I originally anticipated.

  My phone buzzes, and I motion for Gabi to check it. She roots around in my purse, muttering, “It’s like freaking Grand Central Station in this joint.”

  As I lean over to adjust “the girls” again, I smile, waiting for Gabi to relay the text message. The total lack of privacy is one of my favorite things about having best friends. I know everything about Gabi and Kara, and they know all my dirty secrets, too.

  Well, if I had anything remotely juicy to share, they’d be the first to know, at least.

  “Your place tomorrow, five thirty,” Gabi reads in a monotone voice. “Let’s eat after. Your choice: La Cantina or Carmela’s.” She hands the phone over and I text back, Brandon, remember what happened last time we ate @ L.C.? Definitely Carmela’s. See U then.

  “Sounds like a hot date.”

  Spinning around, I bonk foreheads with an overthe-shoulder-reading Gabi. “Ow!” Gabi ignores the collision and widens her eyes expectantly. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Totally hot date.”

  Kara cocks her hip, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to hold off the oncoming headache. “Guys, seriously. Brandon’s meeting me to talk strategy. Coach Connelly roped us into coaching the junior high volleyball team our sisters joined at the rec center. Seems my mad skills on the court, paired with Brandon’s past coaching experience and, well, the fact that I don’t want to do it by myself, makes us the perfect—and only—choices this year.”

  Kara narrows her eyes. “And how do you think he’s gonna react to your new look?”

  “Who, Coach Connelly?” I ask innocently. Kara smiles patiently, and I groan, pulling off the belt/ skirt. “He probably won’t even notice. Or care.”

  Gabi snorts. “Aly, you do realize Brandon’s a guy, right?”

  “A very popular, very gorgeous guy,” Kara adds in a weird tone of voice.

  I lift my head with one leg in a new pair of Sevens. My gaze darts between my two suddenly suspicious best friends, and I stand from my stooped position. “Why are y’all looking at me like that?”

  Kara folds her arms. “Not that I’m not stoked you’re finally willing to accep
t help, but is this makeover really about Brandon?”

  Should’ve known.

  Hiking the jeans up my short legs, I silently lament designers’ inability to realize women with butts can also have a slim waistline and say aloud, “For the bazillionth time, Brandon thinks of me like a sister.” Which, of course, only feeds Kara’s hunch, so I quickly add, “Not that it matters because I’m not into him anyway. We’re friends.”

  A smirk twitches the corner of Kara’s lips, and I exhale in frustrated defeat. We’ve been over this topic so much that I may as well shut up now and save my breath. A platonic male friend is a concept Kara finds inexplicable, and believe me, I’ve tried to explain. She just doesn’t get that some things are easier to talk about with a guy or that, with Brandon, no topic is ever off-limits. Except for maybe the massive crush I had on him a few years ago, but that’s ancient history.

  Gabi grabs a top that actually appears to have more than an inch of material and says, “Hey, if this isn’t about Brandon, and you say you’re not into him, that’s cool. I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, reaching out for the shirt. At least one of them seems to get it. Then Gabi’s grip tightens on the fabric and I’m forced to lift my gaze.

  “But I promise you, come Monday, when the camping trip starts and guys’ eyes start bugging out? He will notice.” She grins sweetly. “And he’s definitely going to care.”

  Yanking the soft cotton shirt from her hands, I turn away and pull it on, fluffing my hair as I survey the result.

  Regardless of what they think, I doubt Brandon will ever see me differently—but other people will. The cute and funny girl who’s “just friends” with all the popular guys is gone. That girl the guys think of when they want to shoot hoops or need an ear to listen, but never when they want a date, has left the premises. The Aly staring back at me has on spanking new clothes that actually show her shape, and wears a determined smile.

  This is going to work. It has to. I’m not doing this for Brandon, or for Kara, or for anyone else. I’m doing it for me. The senior camping trip starts Monday, the kick-off to my last year at Fairfield Academy. And this year, everything’s gonna change.