The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  Seeing them comingled is still crazy to me. Gabi, Kara, and I have considered ourselves floaters, not really identifying with any particular group and sitting freely with almost all. But like the rest of the student body, we’ve always followed the Unwritten Law of Fairfield Academy: Thou must not sitteth in the row of tables along the edge unless one is a member of the Beautiful People.

  Gabi coined the term, but everyone knows the law. Those tables are reserved for the most popular jocks and queen bees. Naturally, Brandon and his crew sit there, along with Lauren and the rest of the dance team. You’d expect that to include Gabi, but she never goes along with anyone’s expectations. Up until the camping trip, our home base was somewhere in the middle. Occasionally, I’d wave to Brandon or send a text to be funny, but I never sat with him. He invited me, but I knew I didn’t belong. Lauren would’ve made sure everyone else knew it, too.

  But the Unwritten Law has one amendment: Anyone dating a member of the Beautiful People receives an automatic pass to sit with the elite, which means for the past two weeks, I’ve gotten a pass. Of course, I’ve dragged Gabi with me. Kara tagged along, too, being accepted without complaint and proving what I guessed since the beginning—if not for me, she’d be one of them.

  Now, I watch my new circle own the table. Kara digs furiously through her purse, with a lovestruck Daniel on one side and Gabi on the other, pretending to ignore the equally smitten boy beside her. Carlos waves his hands as he animatedly tells a story to Justin, who I note appears to be dateless, and then I spy Drew.

  Satisfied we are, in fact, students at Fairfield Academy, the junior waves us in, and I lean in so Brandon can hear me over the music. “Did you know Sarah was coming this weekend?”

  He looks over to where Drew holds Sarah snugly in his arms, chin tucked on the crown of her head, having never looked happier. “No, I didn’t,” he murmurs, seeming as transfixed by the couple as I am. “I haven’t talked to Drew much this week.”

  That surprises me, but I don’t dig deeper because Sarah suddenly leaps out of Drew’s lap, barreling toward us. “Aly!”

  I freeze in place as the overzealous dynamo throws her arms around me, even though we barely know each other. Like the rest of the group, Sarah and I have traveled in similar circles for years, but we never quite made it to the jumping-up-anddown-while-hugging stage of friendship.

  Baffled, I pat the girl’s back. “Sarah!” At my failed attempt to mimic her former-cheerleader squeal, I wince and hear a telltale click.

  Gabi smirks from behind her beloved Canon EOS Rebel. “About time you two arrived.” She glances at Brandon and then wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “As lovesick as Drew and Sarah are, at least they know to save the making out for after the dance.”

  A weird look crosses Brandon’s face as I disentangle myself from Sarah’s arms, and I wonder if anyone notices. “That’s only because we’ve been together for a year,” Sarah says, plopping right back on Drew’s lap. “Besides, they have years of catching up to do.”

  Awkwardness descends, made even more obvious by the fact that Brandon can’t look at me. He takes a seat, head down, and though the guys appear oblivious, all three girls look back at me with various shades of concern. Great. Kara stands, giving my elbow a tug. “Come with me to the bathroom?”

  Gabi hops up. “I’m coming, too.”

  I tell Brandon I’ll be right back, pretending I don’t notice the relief that seems to cross his face as I follow my friends into the crowded bathroom/ locker room. Girls are everywhere, misting hairspray, reapplying deodorant and makeup, gossiping, and crying. We squeeze ourselves into an unoccupied crack of space in front of the end sink, and Kara takes out her tangerine lip gloss, pumping the wand before meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  “So what’s Brandon’s deal?” she asks, coating a shiny lip. “He seems like he’s in some type of mood. Is there trouble in paradise?”

  Hard to have trouble in paradise when you’re not in paradise, I think, rolling my eyes like Brandon’s moods are no big deal. “I don’t know. Can guys get PMS?”

  “More like MBHS,” Gabi replies. “Male Butt-Hole Syndrome. It’s an epidemic.”

  Kara snorts as she scrunches her hair in the mirror, and I itch to ask my friends for advice, to get their help in deciphering Brandon’s confusing guy-speak. But I can’t. They both believe we’re dating for real, and it’s way too late to fess up now. I’m on my own with this one.

  “That may not be a technical term, but Gabi’s right,” Kara says. “Guys are strange creatures. Don’t let it get you down.” She takes a final appraisal of herself and then says, “Well, as long as you’re okay, you girls ready to jet?”

  Gabi nods and peels herself off the wall. They both look at me. The truth is, I’m not ready to go back out there yet, but I do need a moment alone. “You know what, I’ll be right behind y’all. I just need to use the bathroom.”

  Gabi tilts her head, eyeing me skeptically. “You want me to stay with?”

  “Nah, go ahead.” I paste on a sunny smile. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay,” she says. “But if you’re not out in ten, I’m sending out a search party.”

  I laugh because that’s what she was going for and keep the smile up as my friends walk out of the bathroom. Then, once they’re gone, I sink down onto a bench, put my head in my hands, and close my eyes.

  Why does this have to be so confusing? I have my own conflicting feelings to deal with—making myself over into someone better, hoping guys will finally notice me, stressing about becoming a Casual. Isn’t that enough without stressing about Brandon, too?

  Or how he feels about me?

  I grab fistfuls of hair and squeeze, yanking near the roots. Then my thoughts catch up with me and I freeze.

  Could that be it?

  Could the reason Brandon has been acting so crazy lately be because he’s just as confused about me? Maybe even waiting for an opening to see if I feel the same?

  The thought sends a giddy buzz through my limbs, and the mounting tension of the past two weeks fades away. It’s likely I’m getting my hopes up all over again, just as I did that first dance our freshman year. But there’s a chance that this time is different.

  It’s definitely possible.

  “Aw, did Brandon grow tired of you already?”

  Even with my head down, I recognize Lauren’s voice. The confident, entitled tone is often imitated but rarely duplicated. From what I hear, it’s hereditary. Feeling cornered and alone—why did I send Kara and Gabi away again?—I keep my eyes on the cracked tile floor.

  Lauren laughs. “Tell me—how does it feel knowing the only way you were able to get him was to change everything about yourself? Your clothes, your hair… Hell, you actually look like a girl.”

  At that, I lift my head. The crowd around us quiets. Peyton, a sweet, quiet senior, meets my eye across the locker room and gives a sympathetic smile.

  “It’s pretty sad that after three years you had to resort to all that.” Touching her heart, Lauren sighs. She turns to address her audience and raises her voice an octave, clearly enjoying the attention. “Well, at least she knows what he’s interested in. No delusions he wants Aly for her mind.”

  The crowd—everyone other than Peyton—snickers, and Lauren turns to leave.

  And I just sit there.

  The truth of her words replays over and over like a repeating track on my iPod, leaving me unable to come up with any semblance of an intelligible comeback.

  Of course Brandon doesn’t want me. Have I not learned anything since freshman year?

  For a minute there, I actually let myself believe that our fake relationship could be something real. That the last few weeks of pretend meant as much to him as they did to me. But as Lauren just pointed out, if Brandon is confused about his feelings, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.

  He’s just infatuated with Forever 21.

  Out in the gym, Kara and Sarah are shaking it on the dance
floor, with Daniel and Drew rocking from side to side behind them. Gabi is back at the table of abandoned purses, hands laced behind her head, black combat boots propped up on the chair opposite her.

  “You’re on purse patrol?” I ask, sneaking a glance at Brandon. He and Carlos are talking baseball. Again.

  “You know it.” Gabi wiggles a bag of salt-andpepper potato chips at me, and I shake my head. “Dancing’s too much school spirit.”

  That sort of statement coming out of the mouth of a dance team member never fails to make me laugh. Even when the world’s turned upside-down, I can count on Gabi to keep it real.

  “Well, I’m going out there.” This earns me a wide-eyed look of shock from my rebel friend, and I turn to Brandon, already knowing how it will play out. “Any chance you feel like shaking it?”

  “Um, I think I’ll just hang here with Carlos.” He leans back in his chair and gives me a tight smile. “But you go have fun.”

  Yep, he doesn’t even want to dance with me. I’m an idiot.

  Hurt, disappointment, and embarrassment slam into my ribs, almost stealing my breath. Humiliated, and not wanting anyone else to see it, I zigzag through the crowded dance floor to my friends, clenching my jaw to keep from crying.

  Just as I reach them, a familiar voice rumbles near my ear. “I like this one.”

  I spin around, surprised to find Justin standing behind me. He jabs a thumb at the DJ, and I nod, attempting a smile. “Yeah, me too.”

  Eyebrows lifted in question, Justin takes a step closer and starts dancing. With only a slight hesitation, I do, too. We’re part of a group, after all, and it’s not as if Brandon’s wasting energy caring about what I’m doing…even if the rest of our friends seem confused. The six of us stay together for the next two songs, mostly the girls sticking close and dancing in a circle while the guys bounce around the perimeter. But eventually, couples pair off.

  To my right, Kara and Daniel grind on each other like they’re in a Rihanna video. To my left, Drew and Sarah sway slowly despite the upbeat tempo. That leaves me with Justin. Grinning, he dances closer, and for a moment, I feel guilty. As if dancing with him is a betrayal.

  I can’t read Brandon’s expression from across the room, but the very fact that he’s sitting there reminds me this thing between us isn’t real. He’s not worried that I’m dancing with another guy. Brandon knows Justin was the original target for this mission, and with the weird way he’s been acting, he probably hopes I remember it, too.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against all the drama I’ve created. Who knew a little game of pretend could result in such a disaster? Opening my eyes again, I vow for the rest of the night to stop worrying about the stupid makeover and have fun. Or a really close facsimile.

  Fake it ’til you make it, right?

  Swinging my hair around, I move my hips to the rhythm of Beyoncé.

  “You got moves, girl,” Justin says, leaning in close so I can hear him.

  The smell of mint and soap tickles my nose. “Thanks.”

  I lean back and look at him. Really look at him. Before the makeover, Justin would’ve never said anything like that to me. He certainly wouldn’t be smiling at me the way he is now. The player rep he’s so carefully built is definitely there, but there’s more, too. A genuineness in his brown eyes that surprises me. He holds my gaze for an extended moment before glancing down and then away.

  Operation Sex Appeal is working. Right now, on this dance floor, I should be happy. But as Lauren’s words replay in my mind, they zap every ounce of joy from this moment.

  Justin leans forward again and says, “You know, you look great tonight. Brandon’s a lucky guy.”

  A half laugh, half cry escapes my throat. Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away. “You look good, too.”

  And he does. He’s wearing dark-wash jeans and a form-fitting black tee. Simple and sexy as always, and he’s dancing with me.

  Snap out of it!

  The song ends, and the DJ changes vibes, choosing to put on Adele’s slow and sultry version of “Make You Feel My Love.” Pathetically, I look to the cafeteria, but Brandon isn’t there.

  “Wanna dance?”

  I turn back and see Justin holding out his hand. “Um, sure. I guess.”

  He wraps his arms around me, and those brown eyes stare intently into my own. I look away, and we move to the music. Justin’s pulse beats against my cheek.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Brandon’s voice sends my heart into my throat. My head pops up, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are locked on Justin, and his lips are pressed so tight they’re almost white.

  “Hey, she’s your woman, isn’t she?” Justin backs away with his palms up, looking as if he’s fighting a smile. “Just keeping her company, man.” Transferring his gaze to me, the smile softens. “Thanks for the dance, Aly.”

  I nod, but I don’t reply because suddenly Brandon is pulling me close. His hold isn’t as tight as Justin’s, but I feel safe and secure in his arms. He doesn’t dance quite as well as Justin either. Brandon’s movements are stiff and even a touch clumsy. But having him hold me, breathing in the intoxicating cologne I bought him, letting myself pretend it’s real for just a moment is all I need. I lay my head against his chest and close my eyes.

  The song is about things a person would do for the one they love. Listening to the lyrics, dancing with Brandon, knowing that I’m most likely falling for him…it’s intense. Especially since I have no clue what he’s thinking or feeling. Are the lyrics messing with his head, too?

  He clears his throat, and I look up.

  Brandon doesn’t look swoony or contemplative. He looks pissed. “Looks like you two were having fun.”

  My head jerks at the gruff accusation. The feel of his arms around my waist and the tingle radiating from the hands splayed on my back are forgotten as I ask, “Are you angry with me?”

  “No.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Why should I be?”

  The tightness in his eyes and tension in his shoulders call bullshit, but I have no idea why he’s mad. Nothing he’s done in the past week has made any sense at all. But then, neither have I. “On your word?”

  Brandon shuts his eyes. For a tense moment, I wonder if he’ll be honest with me. If he’s so angry or upset that he’ll actually lie. But then he says, “No. Not on my word.” He groans in obvious frustration, and pinpricks of apprehension stab the back of my neck. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.” When he opens his eyes again, the soft green is dull with exhaustion. “Wanna go get some air?”

  I swallow heavily. No, not really. When in the history of the world have those words ever led to a happy ending? Never. But since I don’t really have a choice, I do what I have to do.

  With Adele’s voice singing about a highway of regret, I follow him through the gym door. Out on the dimly lit breezeway, Brandon slumps onto a wooden bench, his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands. I lower myself beside him, waiting for whatever bomb he’s about to drop.

  Laughing darkly, he looks straight ahead into the black night, avoiding meeting my eyes. “This pretend thing isn’t working out too well, is it?”

  He’s breaking up with me.

  The ridiculousness of that thought hits me like a cold wave, and I squeeze my eyes against the onslaught. You can’t break up what was never together. But my heart didn’t get that memo. Instantly, my nose burns, and my head feels as though it’s caving in. I blink rapidly, fighting to keep the tears from escaping, and swallow to relieve the pressure.

  I can’t let Brandon see how upset I am.

  “I guess you’re right,” I answer, my shaky voice betraying me anyway.

  He says nothing to that, so we sit in silence—me trying not to have a panic attack, him staring at the brick wall, still refusing to look at me. The warmth of his body practically scorches my left side, but it’s as if he’s a million miles away. As if seventeen years of knowing each other and the last thre
e as best friends never existed. We’re simply two strangers sharing a bench.

  And that hurts worst of all.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” I say in a low voice. He turns his head in acknowledgement and looks at me. His eyes are so sad it crushes me. “I had no clue things would get so messed up. All I wanted was for guys to look at me differently. To finally see me.”

  Brandon gives me a small smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “And it worked.” Raking his hand through his disheveled hair, he adds, “At least it gave me an excuse to hang out more with my best friend,” clearly trying to make me feel better.

  It doesn’t.

  Hearing him call me that used to make me happy. Now it’s like a knife to the heart. How could I be so stupid to believe a guy like him would ever fall for me? That he’d feel anything close to what I have the past few weeks?

  Brandon doesn’t do relationships. I knew that.

  Approaching footsteps have us falling silent again as two shadowed figures turn the corner. When the soft light falls over them, I see it’s Adam and Chelsea. Walking, holding hands. Him giving her the same smile he once gave me. It’s as if the universe is a vindictive bitch, holding a flashing neon sign: See, Aly? You’re never going to be good enough.

  He glances at Brandon and then back at me, forehead wrinkling in concern. It only makes it worse. I give a subtle nod to show everything is fine, but I don’t bother with a smile. Adam knows me well enough to see through that.

  I wait for the happy couple to disappear into the shadows. “You’re right, Brandon. The past few of weeks have been fun.” I pause a moment to gather courage, then say, “But we should probably end this pretend whatever-we-are thing before we ruin our friendship.”

  An inner-voice mocks me. Are you sure you haven’t done that already?

  Brandon opens his mouth and hesitates, and stupid hope builds—only to be demolished when he closes it again. He shakes his head and then looks over with what can only be relief in his eyes. “You’re right.”