The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  In two months, when Homecoming rolls around, a new and improved Alyssa Reed will walk into the twinkle-lit ballroom. One with a new look, a new reputation, and a new man.

  BRANDON

  TEXAS SPRINGS CAR WASH, 12:45 p.m.

  “Who’s coming out tonight?” Justin asks, shouting to us from inside the minivan.

  I look over from my perch, scrubbing the rear driver-side tire. “Don’t think I can, man. Mom’s off and wants to have a family dinner.” I toss the brush into a bucket and grab a clean towel. “She’ll probably crash early though, so give me a call before you head out.”

  Carlos and Drew are under the red canopy next to ours, vacuuming a Lexus with the radio blaring. Carlos stops singing off-key long enough to say, “You know I’m there.”

  Drew catches my eye as he shrugs. “Sorry, guys.”

  I shake my head as he ducks back down to wipe the interior. He’s spent the entire summer dragging ass because his girlfriend is heading to Austin for college. Now that she’s actually leaving, I can only imagine how much fun he’ll be during the camping trip next week.

  If I learned anything from Dad’s death, it’s that life’s short. Our senior year should be spent having fun and hanging out, but Drew doesn’t get that. He keeps wanting me to ask out one of Sarah’s friends—as if I need to be chained down like him. Between school, baseball, work, looking out for Mom and Baylee, and now coaching with Aly, a relationship is the last thing I need. That would just add stress and I have enough of that shit already.

  My phone beeps in my pocket, and I pull it out, laughing as I read Aly’s text about La Cantina. I’d forgotten about the last time we went there—and the mysterious “secret ingredient” in the restaurant’s queso.

  Carmela’s it is.

  “Yo, Brando.” I pocket my phone and glance up to see Carlos smirk. “A customer needs your assistance out front.”

  Great. Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, I saunter to the front of the car wash prepared for battle. Half of the Fairfield Academy baseball team works here, and as captain of the team, I’m the unofficial manager on duty. The title sounds more prestigious than it is because, really, I have one role: handle problems and irate customers.

  Squinting through the waves of heat radiating from the pavement, I see a metallic blue BMW idling.

  Shit.

  Over the summer, Lauren Hays started bringing in her brand-new car a few days a week, dropping unsubtle hints and flaunting her tight dancer’s body. Drew’s already taken, Carlos is an ex who refuses to go back to her, and Justin is a regular hookup who doesn’t require maintenance. That leaves me. And the girl’s yet to take a hint.

  Lauren’s essentially the female version of Justin. She likes to have fun, loves being caught having it, and always needs someone new on her arm. It seems I’m her latest victim, but I’m not interested in spoiled brats who throw Daddy’s money around. Mom works too hard and I bust my ass too much to have patience for princesses. Lauren’s a genuine pain in my ass.

  But she is smoking hot.

  As I get closer to her car, the driver-side door opens. Lauren steps out in a tight white T-shirt stretched over a black string bikini top, cutoffs so short they’re practically pointless, and tall shoes that make her tan legs go on for miles. She lifts her dark sunglasses on top of her light blonde hair, and when she steps in close, coconut wafts off her skin like she took a bath in sunscreen.

  “Hook me up, Brandon?” she says. “I was on my way to get a new bikini for the camping trip, but then I saw how dirty my car was.” Her mouth curves into a flirty smile, knowing she was here just a couple days ago. The car’s so clean you could eat off the damn hood. I take the keys from her outstretched hand, and she curls her fingers around mine. “Just give me the Taylor special. You know what I like.”

  Gliding past me on her way to checkout, she stops when she reaches the main door to blow me a kiss. The second the door closes, the laughter begins.

  “Brando, that chica wants you bad.”

  I look back to see Carlos, who apparently followed me to the front, shake his head. Glancing at the door Lauren disappeared through, he throws his arm around my shoulder, and says, “Trust me, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait ’til the camping trip starts. Four days of uninterrupted game play? You best be bringing your garlic, crucifix, and holy water, cuz that girl’s vicious.”

  ALY

  FAIRWOOD CITY MALL FOOD COURT, 2:40 p.m.

  I topple into my chair in the crowded food court, arms laden with bags from Charlotte Russe, Forever 21, Rack Room Shoes, and Sephora. Fresh from Kara’s salon, my hair bounces around my shoulders like a freaking Pantene commercial. It’s a good thing I rarely spend any money, saving instead for my nationwide road trip next summer, because my pathetic checking account has definitely taken a beating.

  Gabi plops down across from me with our trays of food. She slides my chicken fajita nachos toward me, and the smell of jalapeños reinvigorates my tired brain.

  Who knew shopping could be so exhausting?

  “Our nail appointment is in twenty minutes,” Kara says, setting down her tray of highly nutritious and tasteless salad. “So better eat quickly, girls.”

  Circling a finger over her tray, I say, “I hate to tell you this, Kar, but that’s not food. That’s what food eats.”

  I smile to show I’m teasing, and she glances at the pink Cartier watch on her slender wrist. “Nineteen minutes,” she says, looking back up with a wicked grin.

  I lift my hands in surrender. “Hey, as the daughter of a caterer and a lover of all things yummy, I’m just trying to do my civic duty.” She rolls her eyes, and I pop a chunk of cheese-coated chicken into my mouth.

  Shopping doesn’t just make me exhausted—it makes me ravenous. And these nachos are seriously calling my name. I eagerly dive in, and after several minutes of blissful eating and watching brave power-walkers lap the food court in the face of such scrumptious temptation, I notice Gabi scowl.

  I thought we’d moved past the drama for the afternoon.

  Wiping my hands on a crumpled napkin, I ask, “What’s going on in that multicolored head of yours, Gab?” She looks over in confusion. “I see that gloomy face. Is this still about my makeover mission?”

  “No.” She plucks a pepperoni off her pizza and wraps it in a long string of congealed cheese. “I don’t love it, but I get it. The gloom and doom is because Lauren just walked in.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  Gabi nods and shoves the pepperoni in her mouth. I follow her gaze to where the captain of the dance team stands texting on her phone. Lauren Hays is the master of the fake smile when she wants something and the giver of the evil-eye when you fail to do it. She’s pretty much ignored me since freshman year, but she and Gabi have a love-hate relationship. They’re both on the dance team, so they tolerate each other. It’s just that Gabi refuses to bow to the captain’s every whim, and Lauren has zero patience for anyone with a backbone.

  I pinch the ends of my freshly highlighted hair between my fingers and sink a little lower in my seat. This new look is barely an hour old. I don’t think I’m ready to unveil it to the queen of the senior class now.

  What if she hates it?

  What if she doesn’t even notice?

  Honestly, right now, I don’t know which outcome would be worse.

  Kara narrows her eyes, seeing what I’m doing, but I don’t care. I never claimed to be brave. Or sexy. Operation Sex Appeal is all about working from the outside in.

  I glance back at Lauren and relax a smidge. Luckily, she keeps her nose in the air as she walks in our direction, which means I may be in the clear. I slowly release a breath, afraid to make any sudden movements—but then her dang phone beeps. She glances down to retrieve it from her purse, and when she looks up, her gaze lands right on me.

  “Oh, how cute.” I grit my teeth at the despised word as Lauren sidles up to my side of the table. “Has someone been playing d
ress-up?”

  Blood drains from my face, and I see Gabi stiffen across from me. “Shut the hell up, Lauren.”

  “Oh, Gabriela, I’m just teasing her.” Lauren’s smirk morphs into one of the fake, plastic smiles I’ve seen her give a hundred others. Swiping a fry from Gabi’s tray, she says, “I think it’s sweet our resident tomboy wants to break out of her shell.”

  Her blinged-out phone beeps again, and she looks down. When she does, I attempt to regroup and rally…but the excitement, the hope, and the eager anticipation of the morning are gone. Now, all I feel is stupid. Like I am playing dress-up, in clothes and in a persona that I couldn’t pull off in a million years, so why even bother?

  Lauren huffs a sigh. “As much as I’d love to hear what on Earth brought this on, I have to run. As class president, there’s much to do before the camping trip and all.” She wiggles her fingers in farewell and adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. “Tootles.”

  Kara watches her sashay away, then spears a chunk of lettuce with her spork. “Did she just say tootles?”

  Gabi chuckles, but I’m too busy recalculating to respond. I’ve come too far to give up now, but Lauren just called my transformation cute and sweet. The same two words that have followed me my whole life. I don’t want to be the same old Aly in a new designer wrapper. I want real change.

  Clearly, a makeover is not going to be enough. If I want people to take me seriously, I need to add another layer to Operation Sex Appeal.

  But what?

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 8TH

  7 weeks and 6 days until Homecoming

  ALY

  ALY’S HOUSE, 5:45 p.m.

  I sit at my vanity, staring at the free gift-withpurchase bag stuffed with makeup, and try to remember which products Kara used yesterday. The idea of a beauty regime is as foreign to me as losing a volleyball match, but desperate times call for desperate measures. After applying the coral blush to the “apples” of my cheeks (another new term for my vocabulary), I grab the berry-stained lip gloss I’m almost certain is right. I unscrew the cap, pump the wand, and raise it to my mouth.

  A sudden rap on the door makes the wand skitter across my cheek, leaving a zigzag stripe of Blackberry Bloom in its wake.

  “Lovely,” I mutter, yanking a handful of tissues out of a crochet-covered box. Regardless of how often I’ve watched Gabi and Kara do this, obviously makeup application skills cannot be obtained through osmosis. I toss the balled-up Kleenex into the waste bin and bellow, “Come in, Kaitie!”

  Instead of my younger sister, Brandon lets himself in, a notebook with sketched-out game plans tucked under his arm. When he spots me in the corner, he does a double-take, eyebrows shooting up over his jade-colored eyes. “I see Kara got to you. Should I even ask why?”

  Well, at least he noticed.

  In reply, I walk to the huge mirror over my dresser that acts as a massive picture frame for my ultimate Wall of Shame. My feet sink into the plush yellow comforter, and I point to the latest entry.

  “Exhibit A,” I tell him. “Junior Prom.”

  Brandon hops up beside me, leans in to inspect the picture, and nods. “I don’t get it.”

  I exhale and stare at the picture taken three months ago—two weeks after Adam and I had broken up. Adam was my first boyfriend. My only boyfriend. And up until our breakup, I assumed things were going great. We’d been going out for four months, and I’d foolishly thought he could be the one. Maybe not the forever one, but the one for a good while. The one to see me as desirable.

  The one to break my curse.

  “When I added this picture the other night,” I say, “I had an epiphany.”

  Brandon scratches the back of his neck and squints. “An epiphany?”

  “Yes, an epiphany. Look again. Do you not notice a demoralizing theme to the dance pictures?” I pause for him to inspect the evidence and sigh when he shrugs. “All my dates are friends, Brandon. Every Homecoming, Winter Formal, and Spring Fling picture shows me with a bunch of girlfriends, an ex-boyfriend pity date, or a just-a-friend guy date. Starting with you.”

  Freshman year, Brandon and I went to Homecoming together. I’d had a thing for him ever since I could remember, so I admit I’d gotten my hopes up that night. In my crush-addled brain, we made the perfect couple—our moms were friends from high school, our little sisters were friends from the womb, and our families sat together in church. He was on the honors track with me at school, and we were both athletes. We’d grown closer during his dad’s illness, and I was convinced we were meant to be. But that night, despite hitting it off, laughing at all the same cornball jokes, and declaring our mutual love for Monty Python, we decided—well, technically he decided—that we were better off as friends. And from that day on, we were best friends. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered our moms had cornered him into taking me when no one else asked.

  So I guess technically, now that I think about it, Brandon wasn’t my first just-a-friend date on my Wall of Shame. He was a parental-enforced chaperone.

  That’s even worse.

  Brandon leans against the wall and tilts his head. Dark brown bangs fall into his eyes. “Okay. And that has to do with this,” he says, waving his hand over my new layered cut, Kara-approved clothes, and half-Clinique applied face, “how?”

  I slump onto my pile of pillows and try to sit as ladylike as possible in my belt of a skirt. “Once I saw documented proof of how embarrassing my high-school experience has been, I speed-dialed Kara. As you can imagine, she was more than eager to offer her services.”

  He plops across from me on the bed and tosses me Mr. Sniffles, my beloved stuffed penguin. Brandon shakes his head and pierces me with his grass-green eyes. “Aly, it’s not been embarrassing. You’re the star of the girls’ volleyball team. You’re smart and fun to be around. And,” he adds with a waggle of his eyebrows, “you’re best friends with me.” I roll my eyes, and he smiles. “So what’s the problem? It’s not like you’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

  I hug my penguin tight and inhale the vanilla mist scent I douse him with weekly. Of course Brandon doesn’t get it. He’s a guy and he’s Mr. Popular. But then, if anyone can be honest with me about this, it’s him.

  I bite my lip and stare at the white-and-blue poofball on top of Mr. Sniffles’s hat. “But why don’t I have one now?”

  My eyes dart up. Brandon leans on an elbow and scrunches his mouth.

  “I mean, you’re right, I’ve had a boyfriend before. And things were great with Adam—up until he broke up with me to start dating Chelsea.” Chelsea who is beautiful, trendy, popular, and all the other things I’m not. I swallow the lump of lingering pain and disappointment and lick my lips. “So it’s gotta be me, right? There’s something intrinsically wrong with me. I’m like one, giant guy-repellant.”

  The mattress sinks as Brandon shifts closer. He lifts my chin with his finger and brushes my hair back, looking intently into my eyes. I can’t read his expression, but his penetrating stare makes me squirm. More than anyone—and that includes Gabi and Kara—Brandon knows me. He’s seen me happy, he’s seen me hormonal, and he’s seen me hurt. He witnessed every awkward stage of puberty. But with the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s like he’s seeing even the parts I hide. My insecurities, my fears…how sitting this close to him still makes my tummy go nutty.

  Releasing a sigh, Brandon says, “I’m gonna let you in on a secret. Give you a glimpse into the demented male mind. But it can’t go further than this room.” His eyes go wide as he pretends to look around and leans in conspiratorially. I can’t help but laugh, and that earns me his special grin, the one that hitches on one side and makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. Grabbing my hand, he says, “Aly, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect. Really. The only reason you don’t get asked out more is because of a stupid game we all played years ago.”

  My nose wrinkles in confusion. “Wait, what?”

  Brandon exhales a breath. “A game, and
yes, before I explain, let me say again that I know it was stupid.” He stares at me until I nod, a knot of nerves bundling in my stomach. He swallows and looks away. “A few years ago, a bunch of us were sitting around. We were bored and needed to waste time, and someone took out a yearbook. It really wasn’t that big a deal at the time.”

  I scoot closer. “Go on.”

  “We—well…” He shoves his hand through his hair and gives me a sheepish look. “Basically, we sorted the girls in our class into two groups: the Casuals and the Commitments.”

  He pauses for my reaction. All I can do is squint in confusion, and he continues. “A Casual is someone you know is always up for a good time. A girl you can hook up with for a while with no strings attached. Pure fun, no commitment, no feelings.”

  “Love ’em and leave ’em?” I ask with a frown.

  He winces at my choice of words, but nods. “Pretty much. Sometimes you hook up for a few weeks, but it’s nothing serious, you know? But these girls don’t mind because that’s not what they want. They’re in it for fun, too.”

  I nod, getting a decent picture of what he’s talking about…and where he’s going with this.

  “A Commitment,” he continues, “is the opposite. They’re the ones who deserve and want an actual relationship. They’re the type you ask to be your girlfriend and bring home to meet your parents.”

  “And where do I fit into these two groups?” I ask, although I already know.

  “Well…” He clears his throat and runs his hand over the back of his head. “When we did this game, we all agreed you are a Commitment.”

  Of course I am.

  I know, call me a traitor to my gender, but while the chauvinistic ranking system sucks, that’s not what annoys me the most. What does is being lumped into the Commitment group.