He blows out a breath. “Yeah, I just need you focused. We still have another team to kill, remember?”
That makes sense. I nod and take another pull off my drink, excitement over the next match already bubbling up.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing Brandon’s empty bottle. “Last night I saw a recycle bin over by the bonfire.” I alter my voice to a snooty tone, an echo of our science teacher, Ms. Burns, and say, “After all, everyone must do their part.”
I get the laugh I wanted, erasing the creases of tension from his forehead, and I take off for the bin. On my way back across the uneven ground, the crowd parts and Lauren steps in my path. My foot rolls at the hatred in her eyes, and I trip, busting my ass in the dirt.
“Shit, that hurts.”
Brandon runs over as I push to my feet, testing my weight on my ankles. “Are you all right?”
I take a moment to assess and then nod, dusting off my wind shorts. “I’m fine.” Brandon’s green eyes show concern, and I smile with assurance I don’t feel. And pretend I don’t hear the snickers trailing behind me.
Operation Sex Appeal was designed to get people to notice me, and I can honestly say I don’t feel invisible right now. But I can also say that, for the first time since we arrived, I’m wondering if maybe being a Casual isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I rinse off my favorite birthday-cake-scented shampoo. I’m still floating from my moment with Justin, and the bathroom is empty, so I start humming my favorite Sugarland song. I curl my lip and shimmy my shoulders, and somewhere during the conditioner, I start to sing aloud.
“All I want to do…”
Bopping my head, my jamming continues as I step out and coat myself with vanilla lotion. Between running and volleyball, I’m forever in the sun, and this is my attempt to keep my skin from looking eighty in ten years. Thoroughly covered, I wrap my hair in a fluffy towel turban-style, put on my new bright yellow bikini and a pair of jean shorts, and pad back to my bunk.
Arctic air-conditioning hits my damp skin, and I shiver as I toss my towel on the floor. Shaking out my hair, I sing, “Baby drive me crazy,” as I comb my fingers through the snarls. Kara’s radio sits next to my hair dryer, so I flip it on and scan the stations until I land on my favorite. Hitting the switch on the dryer, I begin belting the top forty hit over the loud whir.
Crooning into my hairbrush microphone and with the dryer humming in my ear, I almost don’t hear the creaking sound behind me. But mid-head bob, swaying arm still outstretched, I freeze, then promptly spin on my heel.
Brandon is sprawled across Gabi’s bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. The corner of his mouth twitches as he meets my horrified gaze. He winks, and I whirl back around, killing the radio. “What the hell are you doing here?”
God, if you’re listening, please have mercy and take me now.
Brandon chuckles, and I shake my head, choosing to believe this isn’t happening. I don’t look back. I can’t. With my breathing near hyperventilation, I continue drying my hair, hoping with everything in me that he’ll be gone by the time I’m done.
Eventually, every strand is bone dry. I have no choice but to turn off the dryer, wrap the cord around the handle, and put it in my bag. Only then do I turn around.
Sure enough, he’s still sprawled out, silently nodding his head, tongue tucked in his cheek. “That was awesome.”
I throw my head into my hands. “I was supposed to be alone! Everyone’s out at the lake.” I peer at him through the slats of my fingers. “And why aren’t you, exactly?”
He shrugs. “I got bored. I wanted to see if you’d go hiking with me, but after that performance, I’m thoroughly entertained.”
Oh, God. I dive onto the bed and cover my head with my silk pillow from home. Gabi’s bed creaks again, and I know he’s on the move. When my own bed shifts under Brandon’s weight, he tries to pry away the pillow but is unable to overpower my death grip.
He chuckles. “Aly, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you—”
“Ha!”
“Okay, I’m sorry that I embarrassed you. But there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. The moves were quite hilarious—”
That statement earns him my pillow to his head, which he catches without missing a beat.
“But I had no idea you could sing like that. I thought we didn’t have any secrets, but you go and hide something like this?” He tsks and from the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head. “Makes me wonder what other deep dark secrets you have. Relationships, even casual ones, are built on trust, Aly. I don’t know if I can keep dating someone I can’t trust.”
Despite myself, I laugh at his teasing. I sit up but can’t bring myself to look at him. Instead, I focus on a loose thread on the comforter and wrap it around my finger. “No one knows. I’d be literally scared to death to sing in front of anyone.”
“You just sang in front of me and lived to tell the tale.”
“Ah, but see, I didn’t know you were there.” I shift on the bed and slowly lift my eyes to study his face. He’s smiling, but doesn’t appear to be laughing at me. “Normally, I only sing in the bathroom. Besides you, only my toothbrush and hairbrush have been privileged enough to hear these pipes.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You should broaden your audience.”
His green eyes sparkle with sincerity, but I’ve never been good at taking—or believing—compliments. I clear my throat. “So, hiking, huh?”
Brandon’s forehead wrinkles in confusion before a huge smile spreads across his face. “Oh, right, wanna go? I hear the trails in this place are awesome. We can swing by the lake after if you want.”
Anything that gets us away from this moment.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me grab my shoes.”
I throw my hair up in a messy ponytail and step into abused Nikes. It’s just Brandon right now, so I can be myself…or at least myself wearing a bikini. Then I follow him out the swinging cabin door, ready to explore. And, hopefully, forget all about my impromptu concert.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11TH
7 weeks and 3 days until Homecoming
BRANDON
LAKESIDE, 2:30 p.m.
A splash pulls Aly’s attention to the lake, and I sneak another peek. Over the years, I’ve seen her in a bathing suit tons of times, but she’s never worn anything like this—a tiny yellow bikini that leaves very little to the imagination. But mine is filling in the pieces anyway.
Post-makeover Aly is beginning to short-circuit my nerves.
Laughter rings out, and I gratefully turn to watch the chicken-fight. Kara on Daniel’s shoulders and Lauren on Justin’s. The match is at a standstill, each girl pushing yet neither budging.
Aly sits up beside me to scream, “Come on, Kara!” drawing my eyes to her again.
My fired-up imagination conjures a vision of the two of us taking on the winner, her tanned thighs wrapped tightly around me.
A dude in the water calls out to Drew, and, shaking the image away, I turn to see him walking toward us. Thank God. Although he’s spent the majority of his time in the cabin texting Sarah, I could hug him for showing up now. I need a distraction.
Any distraction.
I bump his fist. “What’s up, man? Anything changed in Sarah’s world in the last hour?”
“Fu—screw you.” Drew never curses in front of a girl, a trait that makes him exactly the kind of guy Aly should go after. Unfortunately, he’s whipped. Drew plops onto the sand and squints into the sun. “She’s alone on a new campus and sorority rush just started. She’s freaking out, and I can’t be there for her. I hate it.”
“But you are there for her.” Aly leans back on an elbow and adjusts her top. I avert my eyes, noticing Drew and Carlos do the same. “Don’t listen to these guys. I think it’s sweet you call her so much. Sarah’s lucky.”
Drew shakes his head. “I’m the lucky one. But thanks.” Then he claps his hands and says,
“Almost forgot, guess what I just heard? Tonight’s karaoke in the main hall, baby.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Carlos says. Picking up his guitar from the towel in front of him, he breaks out in a horrendous rendition of the country song “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.”
Aly laughs so hard she snorts. “I thought you were supposed to be a great musician.”
Carlos smiles good-naturedly. “Nah, I play a mean guitar, but I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
Smirking, I lean close to Aly’s ear. “Speaking of carrying a tune…”
“No.” She pushes me away, her eyes wide. “Don’t even think about it, bud.” Sticking out her tongue, she stands up to stretch, and my eyes involuntarily trace the length of her body. She saunters to the dock and spreads her towel near the edge, dangling her feet over the side. She leans down to splash cool water on her heated arms and legs. My mouth goes dry.
Gritting my teeth, I force my gaze back to the chicken-fight in the lake.
This mission needs to end—the sooner, the better. For her and for my sanity.
Aly may think she wants to be a Casual, but she’s wrong. Really, this whole thing seems to be about people seeing her differently, but she can get the same results without the sexy clothes. They are messing with my head, and they’re just not her. If I can get her to realize that, maybe things can go back to normal. It’s definitely worth a shot.
I walk over, and Aly scrunches her tiny face, squeezing her eyes shut. I squat down and, putting my years of girl knowledge to use, sweetly say, “Come on, do it for me?”
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes closed. “Uh-uh. Brandon, don’t do this to me. I love you to death, but there’s no way I’m getting up on a stage in front of all those people.”
“But think of it as another step in Operation Sexy Clothes Makeover Thing—”
She huffs. “Operation Sex Appeal.”
“Yeah, that. Listen, what better way to shock everyone’s preconceived notions of quiet little Aly than by having her kick major ass at karaoke night?”
And then maybe we can call an end to this whole thing.
Aly’s eyes open. A slow smile twitches her lips, and I’m sure I got her.
Then her hands shoot out.
I have just enough time to snap my arm around and bring her with me before we fall. We hit the surface in an ungraceful splash, the tepid water welcome on my sunburned skin. I pop up first, wipe the stinging sunscreen out of my eyes, and wait for her red head to emerge. A second later, she does, sputtering, laughing, arms flailing. Instinctively, I pull her close so she can catch her breath, but I should’ve known better. As soon as she’s within arm’s reach, she smiles wickedly and dunks me again.
Oh, it’s on now.
Full-on war breaks out as we wrestle in the water, laughing and dunking. Aly nails me right in the eye, and I hear a distant voice say, “They’re so cute together.”
Aly looks at me, and we share a conspiratorial smile.
ALY
MAIN HALL, 8:05 p.m.
Relaxed against Brandon’s hard chest, I feel calm. I’m confident that, despite anything he might say otherwise, I’ll be enjoying the show from a safe distance at the back table, cheering on the brave souls who don’t suffer from stage fright.
In the front of the room, our advisor directs a few football players to move the makeshift stage while the AV guys set up the sound system. Someone turns on a microphone, and the feedback screeches through monster-sized speakers. Wincing, I turn away and discover Lauren glaring at me.
She and Justin are standing next to the only two empty seats at our table, the ones that happen to be right next to where Brandon and I are sitting.
The seating arrangement is pure luck. My planned afternoon catnap turned into an extended siesta, thanks to forgetting to set the alarm on my phone. Brandon woke me up when he came to get me for dinner, and I ran around like a hamster on speed to get ready.
Judging by the way Justin’s eyes skim over my black sleeveless top and dark jean skirt, I did all right.
“You look incredible, Aly,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. Brandon clears his throat, and Justin lifts his chin. “Being with this chump obviously agrees with you.”
He reaches over to fist-bump Brandon and lets the tips of his fingers graze my shoulder. The temperature in the already-warm building skyrockets. Lauren snatches his hand, wraps it around her waist, and practically sits in his lap.
The girl is messing with my plan. Operation Sex Appeal keeps adding layers. The newest dimension: annihilating Lauren Hays.
Our advisor calls a name over the audio system, and our nut-job of a wide receiver walks up to kick off the show. A familiar drumbeat rolls out the speakers as he begins a quasi-decent version of “Ice, Ice Baby.”
I snuggle further into Brandon’s chest, getting quite comfortable with the dynamics of our fake hookup, and feel his arms tighten around me. He leans close and whispers, “Please go up there with me.”
Leaning my head back, I whisper-reply, “No.”
Warm breath tickles my neck as he tries again. “Aly, I’m willing to make an absolute jackass out of myself because, unlike you, I really can’t sing. But I want to do this for you. Please? Just one song? I’ll be up there the whole time, I promise.” He gently lifts my chin to meet my gaze. “You trust me, right?”
It may be the sincerity in his warm eyes. It could be the gentle pleading of his voice. Or maybe it’s the inexplicable tingly sensation that spread over me when he whispered in my ear. But suddenly—and without checking with my brain first—a breathless, shaky voice comes out of my mouth and says, “Okay.”
Brandon beams. He lowers his head to kiss my cheek, then—before I can call him back—runs at a full sprint to where the song lists and sign-up sheets are. Kara looks over inquisitively, but I can only shake my head. My eyes dart back to Brandon. My face is on fire, my heart is going a mile a minute, and with what sounds like the ocean in my ears, I realize I’m having a mini-panic attack.
What did I just agree to?
Brandon returns with a broad smile, and I concentrate on remembering how to breathe. He crouches in front of me, taking both my hands in his.
“I pulled some strings, and we’re up next.” His smile stretches up a bit on the left side, highlighting the dimple in his cheek. “I didn’t want you to have a chance to change your mind and run off on me.”
I can only assume my face displays what I feel inside: complete and utter terror. I’m about to inform him he’ll have to go up there by himself, that I had an out-of-body experience when I agreed and there’s no way in hell he’s getting me up there, when the advisor calls our names. Gabi and Kara’s expressions change from confusion to shock.
Tell me about it, I want to scream.
Brandon pulls me up, and our table cheers. He shakes his head at my freaked, bugged-out eyes. “Trust me. You’re gonna be great.”
Then he leans down and kisses me.
Okay, it’s not a huge kiss. Barely more than a peck and probably completely done for show. But it’s enough to send all thoughts of stage fright (or anything else for that matter) right out of my head. Numbly, I allow him to lead me to the stage.
In the space of a heartbeat, I’m there, on the platform. With no chance of backing out. At least not without looking like a bigger dork than I will for singing. Swallowing hard, I turn to face my classmates. The crowd seems to have doubled during my short walk from the back table.
In the spotlight, my shirt feels too tight, like a second skin. My skirt too short, too revealing. I tug on the hem, confident I’m about to lose the lasagna I just wolfed down all over the makeshift stage, and draw a shaky breath, waiting to see what song Brandon could’ve possibly chosen for this embarrassing spectacle. When the opening notes of “Summer Nights” from Grease begin, my mouth tumbles open.
Brandon grins, then silently mouths, “Trust me.”
He goes first, and his unnecessa
ry falsetto is so off that I can’t help but laugh. Then, it’s my turn. I sing the lyrics on impulse. He turns so he’s facing me, not the audience, and sings the next line in a register so deep and opposite the first that I fight back another laugh so I can sing mine. And so it goes, me keeping my eyes on him, following his lead, and something—or someone—takes over.
Brandon’s horrifically bad singing helps me relax. Soon it feels like it’s just the two of us, alone and goofing around in my living room. He hams it up playing Danny Zuko, complete with snazzy John Travolta dance moves, and I do my best to match with my wholesome Sandy impersonation.
Talk about an original Commitment girl.
The audience cheers along from the very beginning, even joining in for the background “tell me more”s. Singing with Brandon is so much fun that, before I know it, the song is over, ending on the impossibly long note that he totally murders, but in the best way possible, grin on his face, eyes crinkled, finger extended high in the air.
For one short moment, it’s silent. That short moment feels like a lifetime. Then, to my utter amazement, we receive a standing ovation.
We did it.
I stare at the crowd, stunned, unable to comprehend what just happened, and sense Brandon watching me. I look over, and he smiles. Grabbing my hand, he lifts it in victory, resulting in even more whooping.
My cheeks burn and I bite my lip, but nothing can hold back the smile splitting my face. I feel incredible, blissed out more than I ever thought possible.
Chin lifted a little higher than before, I take a step off the stage and feel my ankle roll in my strappy, platform shoes. A gasp comes from the girl in the front row, and a vision of me smacking my head on the cold, hard linoleum floor in the world’s worst encore plays in my mind. But then Brandon’s hands are there, circling me, halting the ground from meeting my face. Saving me like he always seems to do.
“Oops.” I grab onto his elbow with a grimace, feeling the cords of my neck bulge out. “That was epically embarrassing.”
The Fine Art of Pretending Page 6