The Fine Art of Pretending

by Rachel Harris

  I am.

  She manned up, admitted her feelings, and went for it. That’s awesome. But there’s no way in hell I’m doing the same. Brandon and I are finally getting back to some sort of normalcy in our friendship. I’m not about to mess it all up again.

  Grabbing my cookie, I decide to forgo lunch and head straight for dessert.

  Carlos slips his arm around the back of Gabi’s chair and peers around to look at me. “How ’bout you, girl? What lucky guy’s taking you to Homecoming?”

  “Nah, I think I’m swearing off guys for a while,” I say, lowering my eyes and shoving a corner of cookie in my mouth. “And I think this is one dance that I’ll sit out.”

  Kara gasps.

  “What?” Gabi protests. “You can’t miss your senior Homecoming. Wasn’t that the catalyst for the whole freaking makeover?”

  “Yeah, Aly, you have to come with us.” Kara claws the pearl necklace at her throat and stares at me with pity-filled eyes. “Daniel can hook you up with one of his friends, or Carlos, is there anyone on the baseball team who needs a date?”

  Carlos stands to eye the back table, not at all being covert, and embarrassment flames my cheeks. From the corner of my eye, I see Gabi mouth something to Kara, probably telling her to shut the hell up, and when the first lunch bell rings, I bolt out of my chair.

  Normally I stay for both periods, but I need to get out of here. I seize my tray of uneaten food and shrug, aiming for blasé but fearing it reads more like a tic. “Guys, it’s cool. I don’t care anymore. We have tons of dances throughout the year, and really, it’s only one night, right?”

  I look across the cafeteria and meet Brandon’s eyes. If he were my date, it would be more than just one night or another dance. It would be everything. He lifts his fingers in a wave, and tears burn the back of my throat. Blinking rapidly, I lift my hand in return, then quickly make my escape.

  ALY

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 6:20 p.m.

  The stands in the gym are overflowing. Chairs are set up across the floor for the influx of parents coming in for the Spirit Day Talent Competition. The clamor of voices, screeching of chairs along the linoleum, and occasional shouts of “Go Hokies!” don’t quite cover the sounds of instruments tuning up backstage where I stand, peering around the dark curtain, having a mild panic attack.

  “If you don’t chill out, you’re gonna pass out,” Gabi says, pulling me away from the edge of the stage. “Breathe. In and out. You can do it. It’s an involuntary body response.”

  The lights dim, signaling the start of the competition, and I wipe my palms on the curtain. Out of the three types of contestants—musical, monologue, and variety—our category is up first. There are five acts—three singers and two instrumental performances—and Carlos and I are in the second slot.

  Julie McPherson, a quiet junior most known for her work as a library aide, takes to the stage first. She twists the microphone to the right height, and feedback echoes across the gymnasium.

  Carlos holds the program up to his face to read in the dark. “‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Wizard of Oz, right?”

  “Love the song, hate the movie,” Gabi whispers. I jerk my head to look at her, and she shrugs. “They totally ruined the book.”

  The music begins, and Julie’s voice cracks on the opening line. After clearing her throat, she timidly starts over. Her voice is feather-soft, and snickers erupt from the rafters, causing her to falter again.

  “Assholes,” Gabi mutters, glaring through the curtain at the crowd. From the corner of my eye, I see her look at me for agreement, but I’m focused on the stage, my body tense, willing Julie success and feeling every inhalation and note along with her.

  When Julie pauses to take a deep breath, I watch her visibly give herself a pep talk. Her spine straightens, her chin lifts, and she puts on a smile of determination. She closes her eyes and loosens her grip on the microphone. With each line, her voice grows steadily stronger, building to the long, drawn-out note that she hits perfectly.

  The crowd erupts in applause, and a radiant smile breaks across her face. She bounces, then bows, then runs offstage. I reach out as she scampers past and grab her arm, pulling her into a fierce hug. We don’t really know each other, so I’m sure I’m freaking the girl out, but watching the shy junior overcome her nerves and an unfortunate start gives me an extra dose of confidence that maybe—just maybe—I can pull off the same miracle.

  Julie steps back, her mouth in a small O, and I laugh. “Sorry,” I say, now more than a little embarrassed about my enthusiasm. “I’m just happy for you. Endorphins flowing. Fear and adrenaline, you know?”

  Julie laughs. “Oh, yeah, I definitely know.”

  The stage manager walks up and interrupts. “Aly and Carlos?” We nod, and she ushers us to the edge of the curtain. “You’re up!”

  Julie squeezes my elbow. “Good luck!”

  I turn to say thank you, but she’s already been swallowed by the other performers waiting their turn. Instead, I turn to Gabi and hold out my shaking hands. “I can’t feel my hands.”

  She grabs them, leaning in to say in a strange voice, “Me neither.”

  I look in her eyes, smiling as I realize she’s just as nervous for us as I am. That’s how amazing my friends are. Why did I ever think I had to keep the truth from them? Throwing my arms around her neck, I squeeze her tight. “You’re made of awesome. You know that, right?”

  “I do,” she confirms, squeezing me back. Stepping back, she kisses Carlos’s cheek, then pushes us both forward. “Now, y’all go kick some ass.”

  The smile on my face freezes in place as I glide to the center of the stage, barely feeling the ground beneath my feet. Behind me, Carlos grabs a chair and settles in to finger the strings of his guitar. He nods, looking completely relaxed (which drives me a little insane), and I turn to scan the audience.

  Shadowy outlines and camera flashes are the only things I can make out in the crowd. For that, I am extremely grateful. My parents are out there somewhere, my sister, too, and maybe even Brandon. I hope he is, because none of this would be happening without him. I adjust the microphone even lower and take a deep breath.

  This isn’t a makeshift stage at Cypress Lake. This isn’t about trying to be anyone else. Tonight is for me, and this time, it’s for real.

  Carlos strums the opening chords for the song I chose, an acoustic version of my favorite Natasha Bedingfield song, and I close my eyes.

  A moment later, I open my mouth.

  BRANDON

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 6:30 p.m.

  “Dude, you need to relax,” Drew says, slapping me on the back. “Aly’s gonna be great.”

  I crane my neck to look at the people in the rafters and then scan the crowded floor. Justin catches my eye across the bleachers, and I glance away. I know Aly can do it, but this is way different than singing karaoke on a school-sponsored camping trip. The audience alone is enough to have me sweating, and I’m not the one out there.

  Julie bows before disappearing behind the black curtain, and Drew sits back down. Everyone else around me follows suit. I can’t. With hands slick with sweat, I remain standing, waiting for the first glimpse of Aly.

  A jean-clad figure emerges through the dark curtain, and I swallow the lump in my throat. She drifts to the center of the stage, and Carlos follows, setting up behind her. Aly scans the audience and I whistle, but her eyes roam past me.

  “It’s too dark for her to see us,” Drew whispers.

  I nod, not taking my eyes off her for a second. “That’s a good thing. If she can’t see us, she can’t see the rest of the crowd either. Seriously, I’m freaking out enough for the both of us.”

  The opening chords begin, and Aly closes her eyes. I hold my breath, eyes trained on her mouth, waiting for it to open. A moment later, her throaty voice breaks across the room.

  I pump my fist and fight the urge to scream. Quickly, I look at all the smiling faces and nodding heads around me, then turn
back to watch Aly.

  In the spotlight of the stage, she glows. Her hair is loose, but instead of a skimpy tank top or halter like she’s been wearing the past month, she has on a bright blue top, the same color as her eyes. It skims over her hips, which I now realize are encased in loose-fitting denim. I glance at her feet and smile at the familiar beat-up Nikes.

  Then I narrow my eyes and study her.

  Is Operation Sex Appeal over?

  Relief pours over me as Aly opens her eyes. She sang the entire first verse and chorus with them squeezed shut, but now, even though I know it’s not possible, it feels like she’s staring right at me. Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

  I forget how to breathe.

  Watching her perform is like watching her discover what she was born to do. She chose a song about releasing inhibitions, and as Aly finishes serenading the gymnasium, she loses hers. Her voice rings out strong and clear, and when the last note fades away, the crowd roars to its feet.

  Aly’s eyes widen and her jaw drops, and I can’t help but smile.

  She did it.

  Amidst screams for an encore, Aly grabs Carlos’s hand and lifts it high in the air. They bow together, and then Carlos steps back, giving her one last moment in the spotlight. Aly gnaws on her lip and bounces on her toes in giddy excitement.

  There’s my Aly.

  With one final, bubbly curtsy—her face lit up in triumph—she walks off the stage, and I sit, eagerly awaiting the results.

  After the winners are announced and performers spill out the stage door, I sneak up behind Aly. Her mom looks up from hugging her, and I put my finger over my mouth, wanting to surprise her. Mrs. Reed nods and smiles at her daughter.

  “Honey, I’m so proud of you. You were a rock star up there!” Grasping the strap of her purse, she looks like she was the one who just killed it on stage, not Aly. Seeing her mom so proud of her makes my chest feel tight, like I had anything to do with it. This was all Aly. “I’m sure you want to be with your friends,” her mom continues, “so restriction is suspended for the night. And tomorrow before you go to work, we’re celebrating!”

  Aly raises her nose in the air. “I’ll have my people fax my full contract rider in the morning. Now that I’m a famous musician, I demand nothing but green M&Ms and Double Stuf Oreos in the pantry and a fridge stocked with Cokes in my room.”

  Her dad laughs. “Is that all? Seems perfectly reasonable.”

  Aly ruffles Kaitie’s hair and nods. “I thought so, too.”

  Her mom subtly squeezes Mr. Reed’s arm and shoots me a weighted glance. “We should be going, but I’ll need to see two copies of that contract in the morning.”

  Aly laughs and hugs all of them one more time. Then they turn and walk away, leaving her alone. She tilts her head to search the room, and suddenly, I’m nervous.

  Is she looking for me?

  I tighten my grip around the stems of the bouquet I hold, unsure of what to say or do next. Are the flowers too much? Not enough? Will she think they’re stupid?

  Do they say too much about how I feel?

  Aly takes a step in the wrong direction—away from me—and I snap out of it. I snake an arm around her tiny waist and thrust the bouquet of daisies in her face. She squeals and, spinning on her heels, jumps into my arms and buries her face in my neck.

  It’s so naturally Aly, yet so unnatural for how we’ve been toward each other lately, that I’m shocked. I pull her closer and lose myself in holding her. Feeling the warmth of her breath on my neck, the soft curves of her breasts pressed against me, the rhythm of her heartbeat against mine. I close my eyes and inhale her delicious cookie scent.

  “You killed it up there,” I tell her, my voice choked and raspy. I cough and kiss the top of her head. “The judges were idiots. It was totally rigged.”

  Aly laughs and hops down, looking slightly embarrassed. “I don’t care about that. What matters is that I did it. I actually did it!”

  She beams at me, and the urge to lean down and kiss her soundly on the mouth is almost overwhelming. Instead, I say, “Yes, you did. But you still should’ve won.”

  She lifts the daisies to her nose and sniffs them, then glances at me over the blooms. “We’re going to Carmela’s tonight for a celebratory dinner. Kara and Daniel, Gabi and Carlos, and me. The lone wolf.” She bounces on her toes and scratches the back of her neck. “Um, would you maybe want to come with us?”

  Hell yeah.

  I’d kill to go with her and our friends, to sit next to her and act as though that’s all we are, too. Friends. But my mouth can’t form the words. Seeing her on that stage, stealing the show and looking so unbelievably beautiful—it did something to me. And if I go with her tonight, I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to keep myself from pulling her into my lap, kissing her senseless, and telling her that I’m in love with her.

  And that overwhelming desire scares the crap out of me.

  “No, I should go,” I say, quickly adding when her smile diminishes, “Bayls is home tonight and Mom has a late shift—who knows what kind of drama that girl will get into on her own. But go have an amazing time. You deserve it. You looked beautiful up there, Aly. Seriously, I’m so proud of you.”

  Her head tilts, her eyes crinkle, and the dimple in her right cheek pops as she smiles her Aly smile, then reaches her hand out to hold mine. “Thanks for being here tonight, Brandon. It really means a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

  We stare at each other, so many words in my mouth, options I could take, things left unsaid. I glance up and see Gabi walking toward us, her attention focused on our joined hands. The expression on her face says she is reading way too much into the gesture. She looks at me, and I see it in her eyes. She knows the truth.

  Hesitantly, reluctantly, I let go.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25TH

  6 days until Homecoming

  BRANDON

  BRANDON’S HOUSE, 6:40 p.m.

  A light knock raps on my door, followed by a more determined one. After getting the shading just right on Aly’s eyes and without looking up from my sketchbook, I call out, “Come in!”

  The door clicks shut and muffled steps approach. I quickly cover the sketch with my notebook and glance over to see Mom standing by the bed. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I say, pricks of apprehension steeling my spine. A paper crinkles, and I look down to see a sketch in her hands. I jerk my head to the empty space over my desk. It’s the before-and-after of Aly I drew weeks ago.

  How in the hell did I not notice it was gone?

  She holds the paper out. “Why have I never seen this before?” she asks, her voice a mix of bewilderment and awe. “I mean, I didn’t even know you had an interest, much less a talent like this.” Mom looks at the sketch again wistfully and smiles. “Baby, this is really good.”

  I shrug, drumming a beat on my notebook. “It’s nothing. Just something Dr. Foster recommended after Dad died. It helps me figure things out.”

  Mom nods, sinking down onto my blue comforter. Clearly in no hurry to end this awkward conversation. “That’s good. I’m glad you found this outlet. But, Brandon, you know you can always talk to me, too, right?” She places the sketch on the bed and shakes her head. “Baylee said you and Aly acted almost normal again at the match today. I never even knew y’all were fighting. I feel so out of the loop.”

  Shit.

  Mom already battles regret over her hectic work schedule. I refuse to let my issues make her feel worse. Walking across the room, I sit beside her and say, “Really, it’s not that big of a deal,” I lie, and I hate myself for it. But I’m doing it to protect her. That makes it better, right? “We just decided we’re better off as friends.”

  “Friends, huh?” Mom picks up the sketch again and studies it. “Judging from this, I’d say you’re more than that.”

  I stare at the picture, remembering the night I sketched it, how I blamed the clothes for making every
thing so confusing. The transformation from track pants and a ratty tee to a bikini top and cutoffs. But as I compare the two again, it seems so obvious. She’s the same girl in both pictures. Same signature smile. Same flirty eyes. Same crazy humor and contagious laugh.

  It was never about the clothes. The only thing Aly’s makeover did was force me to get my head out of my ass and finally see the girl she’s been all along.

  “I don’t know what we are,” I admit. “We didn’t want to screw up our friendship, but I don’t think we can ever go back. Too much has changed.”

  Looking at the sketches in my hands, I know it’s true. Our friendship might get back on track, but it won’t be the same. I’ve gotten a taste of more. I don’t know if what we had is enough anymore.

  “Do you love her?” Mom asks, as if reading my thoughts.

  The question is simple and honest, and I have no option but to give her the same. With another sigh, I nod. “Yeah.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to hurt her, but sketching isn’t doing the trick anymore. I need to figure this out, and the one person I normally turn to is the one person I can’t. So I make a choice and say, “Because relationships end.”

  “What?”

  Mom looks confused, and I regret saying anything. But it’s too late now. “If I don’t tell Aly how I feel, we’ll stay friends. I can handle that. Friendship is real. It lasts, and it’s safe.”

  What I don’t say is that when you add love, things fall apart. Couples break up every day. I see it in the halls.

  And I saw it in my father’s hospital room.

  My eyes close as the memories of my mom’s scream ring in my head. When I open them again, she’s staring off at my wall. “Loving someone, being loved… It’s worth the pain of losing them.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “How can you say that? I see how hard it is for you, being a single parent and missing Dad. You’d honestly put yourself through all that again?”