The Fine Art of Pretending (20 page)

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 three 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.”

Great, that’s what I was going for
.

The last bit of hope takes every ounce of air in my lungs with it. If I don’t give in to the emotions roiling inside soon, my chest is going to explode. But I will myself to contain it just a little longer. After everything that’s happened, I can’t break down in front of Brandon. I
can’t
.

He stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Want me to bring you home?”

“Nah.” I force a smile, knowing damn well he can see through it, too. “I’ll get a ride in the Death Mobile.”

He nods and kicks the bench in front of him. “See you at the game tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I rock on the bench, every muscle clenching to hold it together.
Please go. Please, please just go
. “I’ll be there.”