Fake
Authors: Beck Nicholas
FAKE
Beck Nicholas
Beck Nicholas always wanted to write. Since studying science at university, she's worked as a lab assistant, a pizza delivery driver and a high school teacher, but she always pursued her first dream of creating stories. Now, she lives with her family near Adelaide, halfway between the city and the sea, and she's lucky to spend her days (and nights) writing young adult fiction.
When she's not writing, Beck will most likely be found reading or watching sport (since participating is beyond her coordination levels). In the early morning, before the day of writing, kid wrangling and reading begins, she runs. When it's just her and the road (and her protesting muscles) she lets the characters in her head share their problems and a story begins.
Find Beck at
www.becknicholas.com
On Facebook at Beck Nicholas Author
And Twitter @BeckNicholas
For Davey â who is as bad as I am with decisions, but always, always chooses me.
CONTENTS
â⦠new guy ⦠moved here ⦠summer â¦'
The whispers roll across the Tuckersfield High courtyard like the rustle of rats on a wheel. I can't help but lift my sunglasses and look around the trunk of the ancient gum tree I'm leaning against to see the subject of the murmurs.
Not that there's a huge range of possibilities.
It has to be Sebastian.
He walks like he doesn't hear them. He looks straight ahead, wearing a neutral expression bordering on blank. Electric blue sneakers, with the laces trailing, scrape across the gravel. His jeans are black and faded to almost the same shade as his grey hoodie. His dark brown hair is all mussed like he just ran his hand through it. And I know, even across this distance, that his eyes are the exact green of the pine tree whose needles brush my bedroom window.
Eyes that are looking straight at me.
My breath kind of sticks in my chest and I duck back behind the tree, dragging my glasses down to shield my face. Something about him makes me feel awkward. Uncomfortable. I lift my hands to neaten my long ponytail before I catch myself. I will not fix my hair for someone I hardly know.
âKath! What are you hiding here for?'
I look up, into the frowning face of Chayanne Davy. She's been my best friend since year four when she cut my finger in a fight over a piece of purple ribbon. She didn't do blood and promptly fainted, meaning we both spent the rest of the lesson in the nurse's office. Now, she looks even more pissed than she did then. Her eyebrows, a dozen shades darker than her bleached hair, are lowered in a scowl.
I shrug. âThis is where we always sit.'
She drops a folder on the damp grass and settles beside me with an exaggerated sigh. âBut now you're dating Joel you need to hang out near the canteen in case he wants to talk to you.'
âHe bought me an ice-cream almost two weeks ago. It's hardly a commitment.'
âYou've finally got Mr Hottie's attention and now you're going to blow him off?'
I'm not sure a meet-up at Sweety's Icecreamery, not far from my house, even counts as a date. I shrug again.
Chay flashes me one of her infectious grins. Her bright red lipstick matches her sandals which, combined with tiny cut-off shorts, are completely inappropriate for the chill in the air. âSo did I imagine the fact that he asked you to the end-of-term party?'
My lips twitch but I refrain from repeating the jig I'd performed in the privacy of my bedroom. âNope.'
Truth be told, for a while I'd worried that I'd dreamed the casual invite to the annual dress-up celebration. I'd been polishing off the remnants of my strawberry shake and the final slurp nearly drowned his words. I didn't even mention it to Chay until he messaged me publicly last week to confirm he'd be picking me up at seven.
âMore than one date ⦠therefore dating.' Point proven, she flicks the switch on her phone and her thumbs fly over the buttons. âNow, what's happened while I was stuck in maths purgatory?'
I settle back against the white, ghostly trunk of the tree and hug my knees to my chest, thankful for the jeans and boots shielding me from the cold. My soft brown leather boots are like those Chay bought in the sales, but I picked these ones up from a little second-hand place I discovered on a trip with Mum to Melbourne. I like to imagine they belonged to a 1970s soap star. Mum says they're probably a bored housewife's cast-offs.
I'm happy for Chay to be focused on her phone so I can think about the best costume for me to wear. Maybe I should check what Joel's wearing. Is it too soon for us to match?
Chay and I aren't the only ones out today. Despite the chill in the air, the âno phones in the halls' rule sends most of the student population from the buildings at break times to check their social network of choice. Chay is addicted and insists we spend every moment possible in phone range. I don't mind. I love the routine of our tree, our spot in the lunchtime crowd.
Suddenly, Chay's hand flies to her mouth. âOMG.'
I wait.
She turns to me, her blue eyes wide. âI'm so sorry.'
The genuine sympathy pooling in her eyes presses at a wound deep inside. One I thought was completely healed over. Memories pop up in my brain of people saying they were sorry. To me. To Mum. It was one of the reasons we'd left our impressive family home on Sydney harbour all those years ago and moved to this tiny town two hours away by car. To get away from âSorry'.
I try for a light laugh despite the faint unease in my belly. Chay is nothing if not dramatic. âWhat?'
Instead of answering, she turns her phone so I can see the latest updates from Chay's nine hundred closest friends. Impatient, I scan the entries.
And then I see it.
Lana Elliot
is going to the party with Joel.
Lana Elliot. She's Sebastian's little sister, and theoretically the other new kid, but she's slotted into her year eleven class like she was born in nearby Lady of Grace Memorial Hospital.
Crap.
Unease becomes I-think-I'm-going-to-be-sick all over my nice brown boots. I swallow it back, annoyed with my body's melodramatic reaction. Maybe her status doesn't mean what I think it means. Maybe Joel hasn't dumped me for giggly, pretty, well-developed Lana.
I stare at the text on the small screen until my eyes begin to sting and water. If I look away I'll have to process the words. I'll have to meet my best friend's pitying gaze. I'll have to admit the last few days have been nothing more than a stupid fantasy where ordinary Kathleen McKenny was someone for a change.
âI'm sorry,' Chay repeats. âI've never liked her.'
I blink and relax my grip on the phone, trying desperately to act like I'm not bothered. Ha. Who do I think I'm fooling?
I don't quite meet Chay's gaze. âI'll wait for sympathy until I hear it from Joel. I know he wouldn't dump me like this. He's not that kind of guy.' I think. I hope.
Chay sits up a little straighter and the gloom lifts with the corners of her mouth. âYou're right. He's pretty decent â as well as hot.'
More decent than I'd expected when his mum asked me to extend the English mentoring I've been doing with his little brother to tutoring Joel in history. His family could be on the poster for normal and they'd welcomed me into their home without hesitation. His mum even baked me an apple pie to take home once.
Not that I needed any convincing to spend time with the guy who had first caught my eye when he brought a mouse he'd rescued to school for show and tell just after I moved here. Cute was one thing but nice and funny had blown me away and turned my crush into serious
like
. A like he finally seemed to return just a few days ago.
Chay prods my shoulder, jarring me from my thoughts. âGo on.'
âWhat?'
âYou have to talk to him.'
Only an effort to press my lips together stops the automatic âno' from bursting free. I don't do confrontations ⦠usually. Creating a scene doesn't mesh with my years of attempting to blend in to the background of the small school and close community of Tuckersfield after the newspaper headlines blazed our trail into town.
But neither does being dumped.
Heat surges up my neck as I pull myself to standing. I pause for a moment and my heart hammers faster than Chay can text. He'll be on the north side of the football stands where the soccer players congregate. I start walking before I can second-guess myself. Striding across spongy grass, I feel the wind whip dark strands of hair across my cheeks and I pull my knitted jacket tighter around my body.
Stop, Kath. Stop
.
I ignore the panicked voice squeaking in my head and the churning in my belly. I have to know.
I'm aware of Chay a step behind me. Her moral support is laced, I'm sure, with a huge helping of curiosity. She's wondering what on earth I'm going to say.
So am I.
He's right where I thought he'd be, on the top of the eight-row high construction. My steps slow. Even though he's facing away from me, looking out across the field, I'd know the back of that blond-tipped head anywhere. Sitting behind him for two semesters of year nine English allowed me to memorise every strand of hair, the way his shoulders hunch up a little when he's talking, the tanned skin of the back of his neck.
What the hell am I doing?
Each step gets heavier and I'm soon wading through nearly-set superglue until finally I'm stuck. Sense slaps me across the head. I can't walk up to Joel Moss, starting striker for the first eleven of the school soccer team, the Titans, and demand an explanation about his date in front of half the year twelves.
The heat in my cheeks escalates as the fire in my belly wanes. Escape is still an option. I can still turn quietly, slink back to my tree and pretend this never happened.
âLook everyone, is that Katherine Mc-whatever?'
Lana's sugar sweet voice pierces my what-am-I-doing fog. Somewhere nearby Chay gasps.
Please let this not be happening
. As a steel band of mortification crushes my ribs, I exhale in a rush and turn to face that voice. Towards Joel. Lana's smirking face is just beyond his shoulder. They're so close, almost one figure against the cloud-swallowed sky. Is she sitting on his lap?
Joel drapes one arm across the back of the seat and twists. His usual grin falters as he looks down to where I stand in the shadow of the stands. âOh, hi Kath.'
âHi.' Smooth and casual it isn't, but I'm just grateful my voice doesn't fail me. âHow are you?'
âI'm good. You?'
âAh â¦' My brain falters for a few infinite seconds but finally comes through with an appropr
iate, if completely untrue, response. âGood.'
He nods. âThat's good.'
More heads appear above the tops of the seats. More faces point in my direction. It's like our conversation is a magnet for the entire student body. I'm aware of murmurs behind me and suspect I've drawn a crowd. By now, everyone will have seen the status update and they know why I'm here. They know I've been dumped. I scramble for something else to say. There has to be a way I can exit this without looking any more stupid than I already feel.