The Trouble with Faking (5 page)

“Yeah, maybe.” Livi plops onto the bed. “I think
mine
was more of a guilt gift. He couldn’t very well give you a car and not me.”

I sit next to her and kick my shoes off. “Well, thanks for coming to visit. It’s nice to see you again. Skype is cool, of course, but in person is always better.”

“Definitely.” She nudges my arm. “So how’s it going here? Orientation and friend-making and all that?”

“Pretty good. I like being away from home. I would have gone crazy if I’d stayed there much longer. And friends … well, I made friends with the girl whose room is opposite mine. Carmen. I’d introduce you, but she’s out visiting one of her five hundred family members.”

“Right. Big family. Not something I’m familiar with.”

I push myself back against the cushions. “Me neither.” It was only ever my mom and me, and sometimes a distant relative or two on special occasions.

“Are you aware that you have two different socks on?” Livi asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Yes.”

“Okay. And are you still madly in love with The Boy Next Door?”

My skin heats up, and butterflies come to life inside me. Livi’s the only one who knows how I feel about Damien. I kept that secret from everyone for so long, but I was starting to feel like I might burst, and as both an outsider and a sister, I figured it was safe to tell Livi. “I am.” I drop my head back onto the cushions and sigh. “And now that he lives only a parking lot away, I’m dreaming of him even more.”

“You know it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow, right?” Livi says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Yes.” I’m very aware of the fact that tomorrow is the night Damien and I are supposed to kick off our fake relationship plan. I haven’t seen him since the night I came up with this terrible idea, which means I haven’t had a chance to tell him we shouldn’t do it. For some reason, I feel like I can’t say it in a text message.

“Well,” Livi says, forming a heart shape with her thumbs and forefingers and peering through it at me, “perhaps tomorrow’s the day your dreams will come true.”

Laughing, I push her hands away and sit up. “Okay. Help me decide what to wear for the Valentine’s Dance tomorrow night. Maybe if I wear something
amazing
, Damien will finally see me as potential girlfriend material.”

Here’s how the Valentine’s Dance works: The Smuts freshmen randomly draw room numbers of Fuller freshmen, and that’s the door they show up at just before the dance begins. No one knows beforehand who their ‘date’ will be. The other girls on my floor have spent all day discussing the possibility of fate sending them their soul mate. I don’t blame them. If I wasn’t already certain that Damien’s the one for me, I’d probably be just as excited as they are.

Since Livi was useless at helping me plan an outfit—all her ideas were far too boring—I spend the afternoon putting my Valentine’s Look together. I pick a dress pretty enough to be considered worthy of a not-particularly-formal dance event. It’s green with a white paisley pattern, tight at the waist, loose and floaty around my legs, and ends just above my knees. I print out Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, use my flower-shaped punch on it, and stick the resulting flowers to several hair pins. I leave my hair loose, but stick a few pins in here and there. Then, since I have a few flowers left over, I stick one over the front of each of my peep-toe heels. I doubt anyone will notice, but I like knowing my accessories match. Lastly, I dig around in the drawers containing jewellery items I’ve already made and pull out a long chain with a circular pendant hanging from it. Domed glass covers the pendant, and beneath the glass is a hand drawn heart. Within the heart are the words
i
carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
.

I slip the chain around my neck just as someone knocks on my door. I check myself in the mirror one last time, then cross the room mumbling, “Not a weird guy please, not a weird guy.” I pause with my hand on the doorknob, instructing myself to smile no matter who’s standing on the other side. I pull the door open, already saying, “Hi!” My face falls at the sight of Noah the Salt Flicker in jeans and a button-up shirt. “Oh. Why are you here?”

“Ah. It’s you.” He looks about as happy as I feel. “Okay, let’s try this again.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then says with a big smile, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Andi!” He hands me a paper heart with the words
Be my valentine
written on it.

Hesitantly, I take the heart from him. “Um … I still don’t get why you’re here.”

“The Valentine’s Dance?” he says. “The reason you’re all dressed up?”

“Yes, I know about that. But I thought it was a fresher thing. First-year students only.”

“That’s the idea,” Noah says, leaning against the door frame. “Doesn’t work out so well when there are more girls than guys, though.”

“Oh, I see. So you volunteered?”

“Well … roped in is more like it.”

“Right. And then you were unlucky enough to pick my room number.”

“Yip.”

I sigh. “I guess it’s going to be a long night. We should probably try to keep our conversation civil and not have a repeat of the last time we met.”

“Perhaps. Or we could start over and pretend the other night never happened.” Noah gives me a charming smile.

I frown. “So … I’m supposed to forget that you called me a self-righteous, overprivileged white girl?”

“If I can forget that you called me a liar, a gangster, and a thug, then I’m sure you can manage to forget being self-righteous and overprivileged.”

I reach for my keys hanging behind my door. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who used the words ‘gangster’ and ‘thug.’”

“You’re right,” Noah says with a sigh as I pull my door shut. “This is definitely going to be a long night.”

Across the landing, Carmen’s date is introducing himself to her. I recognise him as one of the guys who offered to help us up a steep part of last weekend’s hike. One of the guys Carmen essentially told to get lost. Not a great start. She makes a face at me as Noah and I pass, and I’m not sure if it’s because of her date or mine. I roll my eyes to let her know I agree with her either way.

As we descend the stairs, I remind myself to think of Damien and not Noah. Butterflies start doing wacky things to my insides. I’m going to see him in a suit. He’ll see me in a pretty dress. Maybe we’ll dance together. And then I’ll tell him to forget all about our ridiculous plan.

Downstairs in the corridor, older students watch as first years and their dates make their way to the dining hall. Charlotte and her group of followers stand near the doorway, and as Noah and I pass them, Charlotte pretends to look concerned. “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Did a bird poop in your hair or something?”

I paste a serious look onto my face. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Not unless birds poop words.”

Noah suppresses a smile as we enter the dining hall. “Friendly girl, that Charlotte. I always liked her. Such a shame she won’t be hanging around in Damien’s room anymore.”

“Yes. Such a shame.” We stop just inside the door to look around. I wasn’t expecting much after Damien’s description, which is probably why I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see. The normally bare rectangular tables are gone, replaced by circular tables covered with table cloths, candles, confetti, and vases of flowers. The dimmed lighting probably also has a lot to do with the improved atmosphere.

“Not bad,” Noah says.

“Mmm.” I’m hoping if I keep conversation to a minimum, I won’t end up saying anything too rude. I check the seating chart and discover we’re sitting according to what flat we’re in. I look around for familiar faces. “Over there.” I point to a table where Kimmy, Georgia and their dates are already sitting.

My butt is barely in my chair when Noah says, “So, what’s your story, Andi?”

“My story?” I pull my chair closer to the table.

“Yes. Here’s your chance to get the truth out. Prove to me you’re not self-righteous and overprivileged.”

“I don’t think I have to prove anything,” I say, angling my body away from him and looking around to see if Damien’s here yet.

“In that case,” Noah says, leaning back in his chair, “I’ll have to continue judging you based on the way you look.”

“Fine.” I turn back to him. “You want my story? Here it is. I grew up with a single mom and no siblings. I
earned
my spot at the private school I went to, unlike most of the other kids there. Last year I found out I was an accidental consequence of an affair my mom had with a married man. I have a half-sister who’s actually pretty cool. My dad’s a fancy lawyer dude. My mom’s an interior designer who, as it turns out, isn’t as good as I always thought she must be because the nice house we’ve always lived in was mostly funded by Dad’s monthly guilt payments. I’m a booktuber, a reluctant university student, and I run an Etsy store where I sell handmade book-related items, because despite the fact that I somehow
look
overprivileged, the only money I have is the money I make for myself.”

I take a deep breath, startled at how much personal information I managed to share in one go. What the heck is wrong with me?

“Okay.” Noah scratches his chin. “Three comments. One, I guess you’re not overprivileged. Two, there’s still a hint of self-righteousness about you. And three, I have no idea what a booktuber and an Etsy are.”

I stare at him, my mouth hanging open slightly. “How is there a hint of
self-righteousness
about me? You’re probably saying that just to get me worked up.”

He smiles. “If I am, it’s working well.”

I snap my mouth shut and clasp my hands together in my lap.
Okay. Be polite, Andi. He wants you to react, so the surest way to annoy him is by remaining calm.
“Booktubers are people who do videos about books,” I say. “So, basically, I video myself reviewing books, recommending books, showing off new books I receive. That kind of thing. Then I post the videos on YouTube so other people can watch them.”

“And … people find that kind of thing interesting?”

Don’t react, don’t react.
“Other book lovers do, yes.”

“Really?”

“Well, eight hundred plus people have been interested enough to subscribe to my channel.”

“Eight
hundred
?” The sceptical look on Noah’s face vanishes, and he almost looks impressed.

I nod and pick up the spoon in front of me, turning it over and over so my hands have something to do. “That’s nothing, though. Some of the really popular book tubers have
thousands
of subscribers.”

“And this is all because people want to talk about books and watch other people talking about books?”

“Yes.” I tap the spoon against the table. “My friends at school never quite understood my intense love for the written word, which is why I took to YouTube to find like-minded book enthusiasts.”

Noah leans back and surveys me. “I think I understand now why you have bits of paper with words on them stuck in your hair.”

“Yes.” I pat my hair. “I’m pleased you can tell the difference between paper and bird poop.”

Noah laughs. It’s a pleasant sound. I’m starting to think perhaps we can get past our initial dislike of one another. “And Etsy?” he asks. “What’s that?”

“Etsy is a site where people can sell handmade items. Every seller has a virtual store with a store name and all their different products listed. Everything I make and sell has something to do with books. Pin badges with book quotes, necklaces and bracelets with mini books hanging from them, scarves with excerpts printed on the fabric. Stuff like that.”

Noah nods. “Okay. I have to admit, that’s rather impressive.”

“Well, you know, not really.” I start turning the spoon over and over again. “I’m certainly not the first to do it.”

“Hey, I’m trying to pay you a compliment here,” Noah says. “This is where you say ‘thank you.’”

“Right, sorry.” I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So is the Etsy thing working out well for you?”

“Yes, pretty well. I’ve been doing it almost three years now. My mom helped me set it up, since I was under eighteen when I started it, but now I manage it myself. Which brings me to the part about being a reluctant student,” I say with a sigh. “I want to make crafts and clothes and accessories and talk about books for the rest of my life, but my mother thinks I need a degree, and my dad, whom I’ve only met once, seems to agree with her. Apparently I’m not being
ambitious
enough.”

“And you’re a good girl who always does what your mother says?” Noah teases.

I glare at him, refusing to answer that one. “Before we start flinging insults again, how about you tell me your story?”

“My story,” he says, then flashes a charming smile at Carmen as she and her date join the table. Carmen stares daggers at him. “My story is this: Born in Durban. Lived in America till I was three because my dad got a contract there. Moved back to Durban for seven years, during which time my sister was born. Then moved to Cape Town. After a few years, my grandmother moved in with us. Then my uncle died, so my aunt and her three kids moved in as well. So that made nine of us under one roof.”