The Fine Art of Pretending (22 page)

She just needs time. That’s all. I’ll give her some space, let these feelings fade, and we’ll be back to normal again. Everything’s fine
.

The down ref nods, signaling the match is about to begin. Aly stands to lead the girls in warm-up stretches, and I call over our setter to talk strategy. My gaze continues bouncing back to Aly, hoping she’ll look at me, smile at me, prove this nightmare isn’t happening. The whistle blows, the girls file onto the court, and Aly finally glances up.

Her sad eyes devastate me as she says, “Let’s do this thing.”

The buzzer echoes across the crowded gymnasium. A final look at the scoreboard confirms we smoked Oak Cove 25-2. Aly jumps up, and the parents erupt in applause. After shaking hands with the other team, our girls storm the bench, the sound of their sneakers squeaking across the court like nails on a chalkboard.

Baylee jumps on my back, kisses my cheek, and screams, “Way to go, bro!”

She hops down and whirls around to Aly. She grabs her hands, spins her in a circle, and deposits her in front of me before chanting, “Woot! Fairfield kicked some
A-S-S
! Fairfield kicked some
A-S-S
!” and leading the others in what can only be described as a variation of the Funky Chicken.

I shake my head and smile despite the hurt clawing my chest. Baylee’s enthusiasm is nothing if not contagious. I sneak a glance at Aly, and the hole in my chest closes a fraction. A radiant smile lights her face as she watches Kaitie dance around with the rest of the team.

She’s so beautiful
.

Our eyes meet. Flipping her hair, she smiles uncomfortably and says, “Congratulations, Coach.”

I cross my arms and nod. “Right back at ya, Coach.”

We are a breath away from touching, almost as close as we were when I held her on the dance floor. Determined to salvage what is left of our friendship, I lean down and pull her into a hug. It’s awkward as hell, but we have to start somewhere.

When I pull away, her eyes are red.

Baylee and Kaitie rush over. “Aly, you and Kaitie are coming to the house for lunch, right?”

Aly glances at me and shakes her head. “Sorry, we can’t. We need to get home.”

“No, we don’t.” Kaitie puts her hands on her hips. “Mom’s catering and Dad’s golfing. I wanna go to Baylee’s.”

Aly pinches her lips and then, with a tight smile, lowers her voice. “Kaitie, I need to go home. I have an English paper to write, and then I have to go to work.”

Kaitie opens her mouth to argue, and the fiercest expression I’ve ever seen Aly wear crosses her face. Her eyes flare, almost in desperation, and the cords in her throat stand out against the skin. The effect is so startling Kaitie shuts her mouth and Baylee and I exchange a look.

Aly grabs her bag off the floor and flings it on her back. “Great job today, Bayls. Brandon, I-I’ll see you later.” She grabs Kaitie’s arm and tugs her out of the building.

Baylee watches them leave. “Just a wild guess here, but I’m gonna say you two are fighting.”

Aly’s vanilla scent still clings to the air. I drag my hand across my face and close my eyes.

Are we fighting? Hell if I know. We argue on a daily basis, but always about stupid crap that doesn’t mean anything. But this feels different. And that’s what scares me.

MONDAY, AUGUST 30TH

4 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming

ALY
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 3:05 p.m
.

News
of the breakup went viral before Kara’s car even left the parking lot, and by Saturday afternoon, it was splashed all over Facebook, Twitter, and text messages across the county. When my own phone buzzed with the news, I suddenly found myself sympathizing with the jilted Hollywood starlets who read about their heartbreak in the tabloids.

The thought of going back to school without Brandon as my safety net had me edgy all weekend, and the reality is even worse. Walking the halls alone, I feel every stare, hear every whisper. Girls regard me with a mixture of pity and triumph, and guys wink and leer as I pass. I’m back on the market again, and their reaction is what I said I wanted when I devised Operation Sex Appeal. Getting attention, being noticed—I thought it would be fun.

This is decidedly
not
.

What’s worse is the ache in my chest every time I see Brandon.

By the time the final bell rings, the only thing I want to do is dive headfirst into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. But first, I have to make it through an hour with Lauren. As I wait for the senior class board meeting to start, I bury myself in my well-loved copy of
Jane Eyre
and attempt to look busy.

A shadow falls across the page.

“Hey, Aly.” Brandon’s restrained voice is void of all the humor and playfulness our usual exchanges hold.

I can’t bring myself to look past his scuffed-up Chuck Taylors. “What’s up?”

“Nothing I guess.” He shuffles his feet. “See you at practice later?”

My shoulders slump. I’d totally forgotten about our weekly practice.

Will this day never end?

“Yep,” I say, flipping a page I didn’t actually read. “I’ll be there.”

“Cool.” Pause. “All right, then. See ya.”

My eyes follow his stride down the aisle and through the door. I sigh. “See ya.”

I lay my head down on the smooth desktop.
It takes a special kind of stupid to mess things up this badly
.

“Now, now, Aly, don’t be sad.” I turn on my ear and find Lauren smiling wickedly from her perch on top of a desk two aisles over, surrounded by minions. “Many girls better than you have been dumped by Brandon Taylor.”

Clearly, the hint of the human being I glimpsed after the dance has disappeared. Pasting the best impression of a smile I can manage on my face, I say, “Thanks for your concern, Lauren, but I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, sweetheart,” Lauren continues. The rest of the board members lean forward, blatantly eavesdropping for their latest Facebook-blast, and she snickers. “But are you sure you don’t wanna take a personal day? It’s not like you’re really needed here or anything. Everyone knows Vice President is just a placeholder position.”

You can handle this. Just stay calm
.

In a tight, overly sweet voice, I say, “I don’t need a personal day, Lauren, because the breakup was mutual.”

She smirks and rolls her eyes at the gathered crowd. “Sure it was.” Spinning on the desk to face our class secretary, she says in an exaggerated whisper, says, “I don’t know what Brandon saw in her to begin with.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. Obviously, Lauren is not going to get bored with this game any time soon. This is the second time in four days she’s attacked me publicly. And keeping quiet at the dance has haunted me all weekend.

Say something. Anything. What would a
Casual
do?

Clearing my throat, I sit up tall, saying, “More than he saw in you apparently.”

Every tap, every creak, every whisper silences.

Holy crap, did that really just come out of my mouth?

Lauren’s horrified face tells me it did. Suddenly, I can no longer feel the seat beneath me. All sensation below my waist is gone. There’s a roaring in my ears, and I clamp my teeth shut.

I attempt not to cower as Lauren huffs. She rolls her tongue in the pocket of her cheek, eyeing me up, then swivels to her hungry followers—eager to lap up every morsel of her hate to spew in future gossip—and starts whispering. The evil look she casts in my direction tells me she’s getting the last word. As if I didn’t already know.

I bounce in my seat, eager to keep the ball rolling. To prove I’m a
Casual
who can stand toe-to-toe with the best and hand it right back. But I’ve got nothing. Every comeback I think of sounds juvenile.

What are you whispering about, huh?

If you have something interesting to say, why don’t you share with the rest of us?

Lauren, you’re nothing but a mean, mean, not-nice girl
.

Yeah, that would do it. I shake my head in disgust.

Ms. Evans, the senior advisor, emerges from her office and effectively shuts Lauren up. At least for the moment. I straighten my shoulders and grab my pencil, ready to bury myself in whatever project Ms. Evans has for us, no matter how idiotic.

“The dance Friday night was a huge success,” she says, riffling through a large stack of papers on her desk. The heady smell of newly photocopied pages permeates the air. “Lauren, you did a fabulous job managing the committees. You clearly inherited your father’s business sense. He must be so proud.”

At the praise of her corporate big-shot father, Lauren’s plastic smile falters briefly before returning to its former radiance. “Thank you, Ms. Evans. I learned everything I know about delegation from him.”

“Excellent. Now, our next event is Spirit Day. It’s our job to plan the main event. The junior class, as you may remember, is in charge of the Homecoming Dance the following week. Let’s see, I have the theme they chose somewhere…” She shuffles her papers, spreading them around her desk before locating what she is looking for. “Here it is: ‘Starlight Fairytale.’”

I keep myself from gagging, but the rest of the class erupts in groans. Could they be any more cliché? It’s not that the one we picked last year, “Under the Sea,” was that poetic, but choosing a non-lame, school-wide event to tie into that cheesefest of a theme is gonna be a challenge.

Spirit Day is normally a joke, consisting of class team-building exercises and skits before whatever random event the senior class comes up with. In the past three years, I have suffered through jitterbug lessons to coincide with the “At the Hop” theme, luau lessons for the “Polynesian Sunset” theme, and swimming lessons to go with the “Under the Sea” theme. The previous senior classes were very big on lessons.

Lauren speaks up, her voice oozing superiority. “Ballroom lessons. It’s perfect.”

How original
.

Ms. Evans nods. “That’s a good option. It certainly goes with the fairytale ball aspect of the theme. I’ll write that on the board. Anyone else? Any other suggestions?”

The classroom becomes eerily silent. None of Lauren’s friends would dare come up with their own idea, but as everyone just witnessed, Lauren and I are not friends. This is my chance to stick it to her and, for once in the school’s history, get a stinking fresh idea.