We make our way to the empty shuffleboard table in the back, and Aly calls over her shoulder, “Cheers!” Turning back with a grin, she smacks my bum and plucks one of the blue weights out of the case. “Ladies first.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” I tease. “All right, do your worst.”
With the feel of her hand lingering on my arse, sending ripples of awareness to other areas as well, I step to the side and motion her forward. She sets the weight on the table and leans over to line up her shot, her face a mask of determination. She gives the weight several practice pushes, and I take a step back to give her room.
Her movements cause her skirt to rise, exposing the smooth skin of her upper thigh. I swallow and avert my eyes as her weight skids across the table.
“Pure luck, my butt,” she crows. I look back and see it stopped right on the edge. A perfect slide—if I don’t bump it off.
“Beginner’s luck perhaps,” I reply, picking up a red weight. I push it across and not only do I miss her weight by a mile, mine crashes off the edge into a pile of sand. Aly snickers.
“Oh, sod off,” I say with a grin.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t get better from there. We play three games, and despite my best efforts, Aly wins them all.
“Obviously, the problem is I am unaware of my own strength,” I say in response to Aly’s third victory.
She giggles and her eyes twinkle. “Whatever you say, love.”
I fold my arms across my chest, but can’t help but smile. “Are you ready to eat now, or shall we continue the royal arse-kicking?”
The minx laughs again. “Food, please,” she says melodramatically, allowing her body to go limp against the side of the table. “I’m positively famished.”
I shake my head and walk to the other side to gather the weights. While I stack them in the box, Aly strolls ahead, past the rows of coin-operated pool tables and older guys leering around their cues. She doesn’t seem to notice the attention, but I do. She stops in front of a flashing video game and peers down with a smile. I dig in my pocket and drop a stack of quarters in front of her.
“Might as well keep the winning streak alive,” I say. She looks up, the red and blue lights from the machine lighting up her wide eyes, and I lift the box of weights. “I have to bring these back, but let’s see how that beginner’s luck holds up against a bunch of zombies.”
Aly laughs. “Challenge accepted.”
She plops the quarters in the machine, and prerecorded screams echo behind me. I stroll up to the counter, nodding at the purple-haired guy kicked back on a stool, fingers flying over his cell phone. His eyes shift to the box of weights when I set them on the counter, then back down again to his hands.
“Do you mind?” I ask, drumming my debit card on the counter. “I’m kinda on a date here.”
The guy sighs and pockets his phone, then takes his sweet-ass time ringing me up. By the time I walk back to where I left Aly, I expect to find her knee-deep in zombie bodies.
Instead, I find another body.
A polo-shirt-wearing guy’s body, leaning over her with his arms caging her on either side of the machine.
Polo-Boy’s head looms over hers, his mouth entirely too close. He lifts his hand and skims it down Aly’s arm. She lurches and glances over, widening her eyes at me in a silent plea.
Long strides cover the distance between us, the world tinted red. I grab the fabric of the guy’s shirt and force him around. “Get your hands off her.”
Polo-Boy looks me over. “Just keeping the girl company.” He stands up tall and, despite being several inches shorter than me, sneers dismissively. “You shouldn’t leave pretty little things like this alone. You never know who might come around to steal her.”
Just keep talking, asshole.
My hands clench at my sides. Deep breaths rack my chest. The guy lifts his chin and laughs, and my entire body tenses as I rear back, ready to strike.
A soft hand grabs my fist. “Brandon, leave it alone.” I drag my gaze away from his and glance down into Aly’s frightened eyes. “Please, let’s just go eat.” She steps between us and lowers her voice. “Don’t let this jerk ruin our pretend date, okay?”
Pretend.
More than the gentle pleading in her voice, the seemingly innocuous word strips me of all fight. I blink and stare down at my hand. What the hell am I doing?
All around us, people are watching, hoping for a show. Polo-Boy is smiling, acting like it’s just another Saturday night. Like he does this all the time. But I don’t.
I mean, sure, I’ve gotten into a few fights in my life, but never at a place like this. Never with a complete stranger. And never over a girl.
Aly laces her arm around mine and tugs gently. I nod, slowly and wordlessly, and walk away.
Behind us, Polo-Boy snickers.
“What an asshat,” Aly mutters. “Thank you for that.”
I give her a tight-lipped smile. She shoots me sideways glances as we walk to the dim restaurant section lit up by twinkle lights. I nod at a waitress in a fluorescent teal shirt, and she asks, “Two?”
“Yes, please,” Aly answers, a little too loudly.
The girl grabs a couple sets of rolled utensils and old, peeling menus and leads us to a back booth. We pass a middle-aged couple and a family of four, but other than that, the restaurant is empty. I drop onto a vinyl bench seat that smells strongly of bacon.
“I don’t know why,” Aly says, sliding in across from me, “but I’m craving a bacon cheeseburger.” Her smile is so bright it’s like she swallowed a light bulb. Obviously, my caveman behavior freaked her the hell out—not exactly the feeling I was going for tonight.
I give her the chuckle she’s clearly looking for, wishing I could explain what happened back there. Wishing I understood it myself. Instead, my gaze drops to the graffiti’d tabletop.
Names proclaiming forever love have been carved into the thick wood. I glance back at Aly absently playing with her hair, and my stomach convulses, almost as if Polo-Boy had snuck back and landed a sucker punch to my gut.
The waitress brings us two waters, saying she’ll be right back for our order, and I snatch my glass, gulping it in three long swallows. Crunching on the ice, I curse myself for not noticing the signs. I’ve never let myself fall for a girl before, but I’ve had more than enough experience watching Drew.
This is bad.
Aly closes her menu and beams at me. “I’ve decided. Bacon cheeseburger it is. What do you want?”
What do I want? To go back in time and stop your stupid makeover. To stop the urge to put Polo-Boy’s head through a wall. To stop fantasizing about scooping you up, dragging you back to my truck, and kissing you until you can’t see straight.
“Chicken wings,” I tell her.
The waitress appears again, miraculously with another water, and takes our order. It can’t come quick enough. My empty stomach churns, and my wired body thrums on the cracked vinyl seat. All the tension and awkwardness of the previous week is back and then some.
I force a smile for Aly and continue chomping on a mouthful of ice, shattering it into tiny pieces. Working my jaw back and forth, I will myself to get over it. To act like nothing has changed. As far as Aly is concerned, it hasn’t. She doesn’t know how badly I screwed things up tonight.
And she never will.
ALY
BRANDON’S TRUCK, 11:15 p.m.
Brandon speeds down McAllister Drive, the glowing neon lights from the passing fast food restaurants casting an eerie glow on his intent expression. He grew quiet during dinner and hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words in a row since, but tonight has still been one of the best nights of my life. Certainly, the best date. There’s no denying it anymore; my crush is back full force.
And that’s a problem.
Three years ago, Brandon told me he doesn’t do relationships. He’s proven that every day since with the countless girls he has dated. A night of fun and defending my honor isn’t going to
change that, as much as I may wish otherwise. He dates Casuals, and while that is exactly what I’m trying to become, I can’t casually hook up with Brandon. He means too much. It would mean too much. And there would be no going back when it ends.
It’s not as if my feelings even matter. The only reason we went out tonight is because of my plan to get Justin’s attention. And it’s working. My confusion between fact and fiction kept me preoccupied this past week, but I haven’t missed the glances he’s been casting in my direction. Operation Sex Appeal is trucking along right on schedule, and I didn’t even have to annihilate Lauren Hays…as if I had any clue how to do that anyway. They called it quits all on their own. I don’t know if it’s because Justin wised up or if a week is the norm for a Casual hookup, but he’s a free agent again. If I lose focus now, it will be as if the last two weeks were for nothing. Especially since the boy who has me discombobulated doesn’t want me anyway.
I’ve gotten over a crush on Brandon in the past. I can do it again.
The crush-in-question glances at me before turning back to the road. We drive down the quiet, tree-lined street of my neighborhood in silence. I don’t know what to say to fix this. I don’t even know what happened or if it’s all just in my head. One minute everything seemed great—we were joking and laughing—and the next it was like he threw a wall up between us.
His truck rumbles into my driveway, and without hesitation, Brandon hops out. He comes around to my side, opening and leaving his hand on the door.
The tension between us practically crackles.
“Want to come in?” I ask. “I’m sure I can hustle up some brownies or something. Maybe we can have a rematch on Wii?”
I realize him staying will mess with the whole “getting over the crush thing again,” but I don’t want him to leave. I want the joking and laughter back. I want the flirtation.
Brandon scuffs the toe of his boot on the ground. “Nah, it’s getting late. Long day, you know?”
“Sure, yeah,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Absolutely.” It has been a long day. Practice, our first rec match, and then work for us both. But if he wanted, I’d easily find the energy to hang out.
Especially if hanging out involved making out.
Whisking away that notion, as if that would ever happen again, I scoot to the edge of the seat. But I hesitate to move any further. With Brandon standing right in front of me, we are at eye-level. Kiss-level. That whisked-away notion comes right back as the memory of our dared kiss plays in my mind. The taste of the forbidden fruit. But he makes no move to lean in.
“Well, thanks again for tonight. I had a wonderful time.”
Brandon nods. “Me, too.”
I take his hand as he helps me down, and a zing runs up my arm. His other hand steadies me once my feet touch the ground, and a glutton for punishment, I lift my head, waiting for him to inch toward me, to pull me closer. My teeth bite into my lower lip as I search his face for any clue about how he is feeling.
He simply stares back, a trace of a smile on his full lips.
“Goodnight, Aly.” His low, silky voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ll call you later.”
I mumble a goodbye, barely hiding my sigh of disappointment. He closes the passenger door, and I begin the slow trek up the red-brick path leading to my front door. I let myself in, knowing he won’t drive away until I do, and watch him back away through the white wisp of my curtain. Then I sink against the hardwood.
I’m in so much trouble.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27TH
5 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming
BRANDON
BRANDON’S TRUCK, 7:15 p.m.
I punch the steering wheel in frustration. “Get your shit together!”
A movement makes my head turn mid-rant, and the soccer mom in the car beside me smiles in amusement. I lift my hand in an awkward half-wave, the red light changes to green, and I push my foot against the accelerator, taking my frustration out on the floorboard of my truck.
Tonight is Fairfield’s back-to-school dance. Normally, I don’t give a shit about school dances, but Aly wants to go. So here I am, running late, and the closer I get to her house, the more pissed off I become. Not about the dance, but about the fact that going with her tonight is only gonna screw things up more. Turning onto her street, I resume the speech I’ve been giving myself for the last ten minutes.
“Man up. Get your shit together. Figure out how in the hell you’re gonna hold her without attacking her on the dance floor. And do it quick.”
The last week has been the longest ever. Pretending we’re hooking up is exhausting. It’s even more draining pretending to be the same old Brandon and Aly when we’re alone. That Etch A Sketch exorcism didn’t do shit. And thanks to my brilliant idea for a pretend date, I’ve spent the last week denying I’m falling for my best friend.
Pulling to a stop in front of Aly’s house, I take a deep breath. With a flick of my wrist, I cut the engine and listen to the silence. I’ve sat in this exact spot more times than I can count. In many ways, Aly’s house is like my sanctuary. A place I go when my own home feels like a graveyard. I glance up at the bedroom window of the girl who knows me better than anyone, the only person I let see me cry after Dad died. I won’t let this experiment take that or her away from me.
Tonight, I’m going to prove that Aly and I can go back to our normal, easy friendship.
Throwing open my door, I trudge up her sidewalk, plant my feet outside her front door, and ring the bell.
“Coming!”
I step back and see Aly stick her head out her second-story window.
“No problem,” I call back up. “Take your time.”
More time to get my head on straight.
Aly disappears behind a film of yellow curtain, and I turn to look out at the quiet neighborhood. Up and down the street, the lights blink on, filling the air with a low hum that matches the thrumming of my nerves. Across the street, old Mr. Lawson sits at his usual perch under a gigantic American flag, drinking beer and mumbling to himself. Two little girls ride their bikes around the cul-de-sac, smiling and waving. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill Friday night. Except not.
I thrust my hands into my pockets, jiggling the loose change from my Taco Bell run earlier tonight, and grab my pack of Trident. I toss a stick into my mouth and chew furiously. Supposedly, the smell of peppermint can calm your nerves.
I grab a second stick and shove it in, too.
With the clacking sound of Aly’s shoes approaching the door behind me, I remind myself again about tonight’s mission. All I need is focus. I take another deep breath for good measure and rock back on my heels, ready to greet my best friend. She opens the door, wearing a black dress molded to her skin, and I let the air out in one big huff.
Shit.
ALY
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY SCHOOL GYM, 7:30 p.m.
My stomach thumps along with the bass pounding from inside. I’m standing in line next to Brandon, waiting for him to flash our school IDs (no way was an ID fitting in this getup), frustratingly aware of the distance between us. In every sense of the word. If anyone glances in our direction, I’m sure we appear far from the happily hooking up couple we’ve been selling, but what they’re not seeing are the explosive sparks snapping just under the surface.
A couple falls in line behind us, and I feel my date shift. Brandon lowers his head and gives me a small smile—the same odd one he’s worn since picking me up tonight—and holds out his hand. I swipe mine across my skirt and take it, hoping he misses the shiver when we touch.
It’s game time.
Yeah, it’s safe to say my crush has intensified. In fact, I think it’s progressed from simple crush to severe liking. Possibly even falling. And that scares me to death. The last thing our friendship needs is for Brandon to figure out how I feel and then get weird around me. Or weirder. But then, every once in a while, he gets this look in his eyes that makes me think I’m not the only one feeling the change.
That maybe, just maybe, the line between fact and fiction is blurring for him, too.
We inch forward in line, and I spy the photo display set up in the corner. Tonight’s theme is “A Year to Remember.” A backdrop shows two silhouettes dancing in each other’s arms, the girl’s head thrown back in laughter. I shift my attention back to Brandon. Can tonight be the night that breaks the curse?
My Wall of Shame was the original inspiration for Operation Sex Appeal. At first, this mission was about feeling lovable, datable. Possibly even landing a boyfriend. In the beginning, I didn’t even know about Casuals or Commitments, and Justin Carter only became a goal when I decided to experience how the other half lives.
Based on our embarrassing past, I didn’t consider Brandon an option before. He is, after all, the guy who kickstarted the curse. But even though he’s technically another just-a-friend date, for all intents and purposes, he’s also the current man in my life. He’s supposed to be my fake hookup, but the longer this experiment lasts, the more he feels like my pretend boyfriend—only with less and less emphasis on the “pretend.” Maybe Homecoming doesn’t need to be my endgame after all. Maybe tonight, I found a way to meet both my goals.
Brandon and I may finally be on the same page.
Trying very hard not to overthink it, and praying that he doesn’t either, I lace our fingers together, wrap my other hand around his elbow, and lean my head against Brandon’s arm.
Immediately, he tenses. “Aly…”
“Next!”
I step out of the embrace and flash the junior behind the ticket counter a smile. Then, pretending I don’t see the corners of Brandon’s mouth curve down as he distractedly fishes our IDs from his pocket, I turn to take in my first post-makeover dance.
The metallic doors that usually separate the large gym from the only slightly smaller cafeteria are open, creating one massive partying space. The gym holds the DJ and dance floor, and the cafeteria hosts the refreshments and guys left behind while their dates dance. A sea of green and white decorations covers the rows of tables holding discarded purses, and at the long table on the edge, right near the dance floor, I find our friends.
The Fine Art of Pretending Page 11