The Fine Art of Pretending (4 page)

I
sit at my vanity, staring at the free gift-withpurchase bag stuffed with makeup, and try to remember which products Kara used yesterday. The idea of a beauty regime is as foreign to me as losing a volleyball match, but desperate times call for desperate measures. After applying the coral blush to the “apples” of my cheeks (another new term for my vocabulary), I grab the berry-stained lip gloss I’m almost certain is right. I unscrew the cap, pump the wand, and raise it to my mouth.

A sudden rap on the door makes the wand skitter across my cheek, leaving a zigzag stripe of Blackberry Bloom in its wake.

“Lovely,” I mutter, yanking a handful of tissues out of a crochet-covered box. Regardless of how often I’ve watched Gabi and Kara do this, obviously makeup application skills cannot be obtained through osmosis. I toss the balled-up Kleenex into the waste bin and bellow, “Come in, Kaitie!”

Instead of my younger sister, Brandon lets himself in, a notebook with sketched-out game plans tucked under his arm. When he spots me in the corner, he does a double-take, eyebrows shooting up over his jade-colored eyes. “I see Kara got to you. Should I even ask why?”

Well, at least he noticed
.

In reply, I walk to the huge mirror over my dresser that acts as a massive picture frame for my ultimate Wall of Shame. My feet sink into the plush yellow comforter, and I point to the latest entry.

“Exhibit A,” I tell him. “Junior Prom.”

Brandon hops up beside me, leans in to inspect the picture, and nods. “I don’t get it.”

I exhale and stare at the picture taken three months ago—two weeks
after
Adam and I had broken up. Adam was my first boyfriend. My
only
boyfriend. And up until our breakup, I assumed things were going great. We’d been going out for four months, and I’d foolishly thought he could be the
one
. Maybe not the forever one, but the one for a good while. The one to see me as desirable.

The one to break my curse.

“When I added this picture the other night,” I say, “I had an epiphany.”

Brandon scratches the back of his neck and squints. “An epiphany?”

“Yes, an epiphany. Look again. Do you not notice a demoralizing theme to the dance pictures?” I pause for him to inspect the evidence and sigh when he shrugs. “All my dates are friends, Brandon. Every Homecoming, Winter Formal, and Spring Fling picture shows me with a bunch of girlfriends, an ex-boyfriend pity date, or a just-a-friend guy date. Starting with
you
.”

Freshman year, Brandon and I went to Homecoming together. I’d had a thing for him ever since I could remember, so I admit I’d gotten my hopes up that night. In my crush-addled brain, we made the perfect couple—our moms were friends from high school, our little sisters were friends from the womb, and our families sat together in church. He was on the honors track with me at school, and we were both athletes. We’d grown closer during his dad’s illness, and I was convinced we were meant to be. But that night, despite hitting it off, laughing at all the same cornball jokes, and declaring our mutual love for
Monty Python
, we decided—well, technically
he
decided—that we were better off as friends. And from that day on, we were
best
friends. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered our moms had cornered him into taking me when no one else asked.

So I guess technically, now that I think about it, Brandon
wasn’t
my first just-a-friend date on my Wall of Shame. He was a parental-enforced chaperone.

That’s even worse.

Brandon leans against the wall and tilts his head. Dark brown bangs fall into his eyes. “Okay. And that has to do with
this
,” he says, waving his hand over my new layered cut, Kara-approved clothes, and half-Clinique applied face, “how?”

I slump onto my pile of pillows and try to sit as ladylike as possible in my belt of a skirt. “Once I saw documented proof of how embarrassing my high-school experience has been, I speed-dialed Kara. As you can imagine, she was more than eager to offer her services.”

He plops across from me on the bed and tosses me Mr. Sniffles, my beloved stuffed penguin. Brandon shakes his head and pierces me with his grass-green eyes. “Aly, it’s not been embarrassing. You’re the star of the girls’ volleyball team. You’re smart and fun to be around. And,” he adds with a waggle of his eyebrows, “you’re best friends with me.” I roll my eyes, and he smiles. “So what’s the problem? It’s not like you’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

I hug my penguin tight and inhale the vanilla mist scent I douse him with weekly. Of course Brandon doesn’t get it. He’s a guy
and
he’s Mr. Popular. But then, if anyone can be honest with me about this, it’s him.

I bite my lip and stare at the white-and-blue poofball on top of Mr. Sniffles’s hat. “But why don’t I have one now?”

My eyes dart up. Brandon leans on an elbow and scrunches his mouth.

“I mean, you’re right, I’ve had
a
boyfriend before. And things were great with Adam—up until he broke up with me to start dating Chelsea.” Chelsea who is beautiful, trendy, popular, and all the other things I’m not. I swallow the lump of lingering pain and disappointment and lick my lips. “So it’s gotta be me, right? There’s something intrinsically wrong with
me
. I’m like one, giant guy-repellant.”

The mattress sinks as Brandon shifts closer. He lifts my chin with his finger and brushes my hair back, looking intently into my eyes. I can’t read his expression, but his penetrating stare makes me squirm. More than anyone—and that includes Gabi and Kara—Brandon knows me. He’s seen me happy, he’s seen me hormonal, and he’s seen me hurt. He witnessed every awkward stage of puberty. But with the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s like he’s seeing even the parts I hide. My insecurities, my fears…how sitting this close to him still makes my tummy go nutty.

Releasing a sigh, Brandon says, “I’m gonna let you in on a secret. Give you a glimpse into the demented male mind. But it can’t go further than this room.” His eyes go wide as he pretends to look around and leans in conspiratorially. I can’t help but laugh, and that earns me his special grin, the one that hitches on one side and makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. Grabbing my hand, he says, “Aly, there’s
nothing
wrong with you. You’re perfect. Really. The only reason you don’t get asked out more is because of a stupid game we all played years ago.”

My nose wrinkles in confusion. “Wait, what?”

Brandon exhales a breath. “A game, and yes, before I explain, let me say again that I know it was stupid.” He stares at me until I nod, a knot of nerves bundling in my stomach. He swallows and looks away. “A few years ago, a bunch of us were sitting around. We were bored and needed to waste time, and someone took out a yearbook. It really wasn’t that big a deal at the time.”

I scoot closer. “Go on.”

“We—well…” He shoves his hand through his hair and gives me a sheepish look. “Basically, we sorted the girls in our class into two groups: the
Casuals
and the
Commitments
.”

He pauses for my reaction. All I can do is squint in confusion, and he continues. “A
Casual
is someone you know is always up for a good time. A girl you can hook up with for a while with no strings attached. Pure fun, no commitment, no feelings.”

“Love ’em and leave ’em?” I ask with a frown.

He winces at my choice of words, but nods. “Pretty much. Sometimes you hook up for a few weeks, but it’s nothing serious, you know? But these girls don’t mind because that’s not what they want. They’re in it for fun, too.”

I nod, getting a decent picture of what he’s talking about…and where he’s going with this.

“A
Commitment
,” he continues, “is the opposite. They’re the ones who deserve and
want
an actual relationship. They’re the type you ask to be your girlfriend and bring home to meet your parents.”

“And where do I fit into these two groups?” I ask, although I already know.

“Well…” He clears his throat and runs his hand over the back of his head. “When we did this game, we all agreed you are a
Commitment
.”

Of course I am
.

I know, call me a traitor to my gender, but while the chauvinistic ranking system sucks, that’s not what annoys me the most. What
does
is being lumped into the
Commitment
group.

On some level—like deep, deep,
deep
down—I get that it’s probably a good thing. If a great guy came around who wanted me to be his girlfriend, I’d be all for it. And it’s sweet that the guys supposedly think I deserve a relationship, whatever that means. But really, what I hear Brandon saying is that they all think I’m boring. Unattractive. Not worth the effort.

Casuals
are obviously the confident, exciting, sexy ones. The kind of girl I wish I was.

Brandon plucks his thumb over my pursed lips. “You’re disappointed in me?”

“No, not in
you
.” At his confused look, I explain, feeling the heat of blood rush to my face. “Honestly? I’m annoyed with myself! I know you probably think being in the
Commitment
group is some sort of compliment—”

“It really is—”

“—
but
all I hear is that the
Casual
group is the fun group. The hot group. The group that guys actually like!” I take a breath and lower my voice. “The type of person I want to be seen as for once.”

“Aly, you’re totally missing the point. The group thing is stupid. It’s just a thing we did one night that took on a life of its own. But it’s not real.” Brandon’s quiet for a beat, then he shifts his weight, adding, “And Aly, hotness had nothing to do with what group you were put in.”

I roll my eyes, not believing that line of bull for a second, and mentally run down the list of senior girls. The
Casuals
are easy to spot. Girls like Lauren Hays and even Kara. The girls who not only invented the social order at Fairfield Academy but control it. The ones who will look back at high school and not see a wall of just-a-friend dates and a solitary ex-boyfriend, but a long list of flirtations and adventures. The confident girls. Cheerleaders, dance team members, maybe even a few of the jocks.

Just not competitive volleyball players like me.

“You okay?” Brandon cups my shoulder and shakes me a little. “Aly, I promise you, the group thing is fucked up, but you being a
Commitment
is a good thing. Really.”

I absently nod in response as a new dimension to Operation Sex Appeal comes into focus. Thanks to my lunchtime run-in with Lauren, I know an external makeover isn’t going to be enough. If I want to get out of the perpetual friend zone and experience how the other half lives, I’m going to need a total life overhaul. I have to get the guys to see me differently, as someone confident, exciting…
Casual
.

But I’ll need proof.

The last piece of the puzzle arrives in the form of a handsome face. The holy grail of my quest. The only guy at Fairfield Academy more popular than Brandon, and by far the biggest player. If I can get him to be interested in me
and
ask me to Homecoming, I’ll know for sure I’ve successfully crossed over into the land of the
Casuals
—and break the curse of my Wall of Shame.

A slow smile creeps up my face. I may not have figured out all the ins and outs yet, but Operation Sex Appeal definitely just got a new finish line. It started with a new wardrobe, and it will
end
with Justin Carter.

BRANDON
ALY’S HOUSE, 7:05 p.m
.

As
Aly and I walk down the narrow sidewalk to my truck, I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s still wearing that secret pouty smile of hers, the one that says she’s up to something. It always makes me nervous. For the last hour, she’s been distracted and quiet, which on a normal day is bad enough, but when the topic is volleyball, it’s downright scary.

Obviously, telling her about the groups wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. But I had to. When she looked up at me with those watery blue eyes, I had to try to fix it. If I could, I’d make it so Aly never frowned again.