The Fine Art of Pretending (15 page)

Damn
.

“Hey,” I say roughly.

She jumps. Hand to her heart, she looks at me and says, “Holy cannoli, Brandon, you scared the crap out of me!” She takes a deep breath and lets it out on a laugh. “If I wasn’t before, I’m definitely awake now—Hey, is that pizza?”

I grin and hold out the box. She scoots over, patting the space next to her on the hammock. When I lower myself down, my weight causes her to sink against me. We’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh. She leans over to grab a slice, and the tips of her breasts glide across my stomach. I clench my teeth, holding back a groan.

The slight breeze carries the sound of chirping crickets and distant cars. Wisps of hair blow around her face. I grab a slice and turn it around to gnaw into the stuffed crust. “Having fun?”

Aly pops a pepperoni into her mouth. “Yeah, the girls are sweet and totally think I know what I’m talking about. I feel like Yoda.”

She grins and kicks her foot out to swing us. It only makes me more aware of how close her body is. Grabbing onto the distraction, I say, “Well, we
are
getting old and wise. We’re gonna be seniors on Monday.”

“I know. Can you believe it?” Aly slaps my chest excitedly. “Before you know it, we’re gonna be at A&M.”

“That’s the plan,” I say, handing her the last slice and tossing the box on the ground. “But let’s get through this year first. Fast-forward too much and you’ll miss that road trip you’ve been planning forever.”

For as long as I’ve known her, and that’s been a while, graduation for Aly has meant a nationwide road trip. She has a huge map of the United States tacked on the back of her door with all the places she’s read about and wants to visit highlighted in a rainbow of colors. The thing’s practically covered. I have an open invitation to join her, but there’s no way I could swing that. Who’d cut the grass, take out the trash, and cook when Mom works?

I wouldn’t know what to do, leaving my responsibilities behind for an entire summer.

Aly grins and kicks her foot again. A mosquito crawls across my bicep. I brush it off, and my fingers graze her smooth arm. Without thinking, I skate my fingers down to her wrist and lift her hand, noticing how tiny it is inside my own. How soft it feels against my rough skin.

I look up into her wide eyes.

Aly exhales a shaky breath. She glances at our joined hands and slowly slips hers away. “I-It’s late,” she whispers. “I better go inside.”

That’s what she says, but she doesn’t move. She stays lying next to me, temptation snapping between us, and I’m glad. I don’t
want
her to move. I want a replay of the other night. My heart pounds so loud I know she hears it. We’re so close I feel her quickened breaths on my face, and I’m seconds away from taking her.

She places her hand on my chest…and pushes to her feet.

Big blue eyes gaze down at me. Aly worries her lip between her teeth, and everything in me clenches, wanting to mimic that very gesture. The sound of the crickets grows louder in the heavy silence until she finally says, “Good night, Brandon.”

Her voice is soft, unsure, and if I tried, I know I could convince her to stay. But that would be wrong. Our friendship is too important. “Night.”

Aly’s gaze lowers to my mouth and the skin burns, feeling her phantom lips on mine. She steps back, turns, and walks back to the house.

The back door closes with a decided
click
, and I throw myself against the hammock, the force of it rocking me back and forth.

What in the hell are we doing?

I look at the endless sky, fighting the urge to run after her. I search for constellations, one of the few things Dad taught me before he got sick, but I’m not thinking about astronomy. As my eyes trace the lines of the Big Dipper, I imagine I’m tracing the lines of Aly’s body. I replay the last few moments she was out here with me and fill in the gaps of what could have happened had she stayed.

MONDAY, AUGUST 16TH

6 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming

ALY
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY, 7:22 a.m
.

Don’t
throw up, Aly. Do NOT throw up.

That’s my new mantra as I stand like an idiot outside the main door to Fairfield Academy. I feel Brandon’s concerned gaze drill into the top of my head. When we got here this morning, I didn’t even have to tell him I needed a moment to gather myself before going inside; he just knew.

“You ready?” he asks, tightening his hand around the handle.

I’d like to say no, but that will get me nothing. I devised Operation Sex Appeal and Project Pretend Hookup, and now I need to
own
it. The camping trip was a success. This will be, too.

Lifting my head, I throw on a brave smile and say, “Let’s do this.”

Lips that I’ve spent
way
too much time thinking about lately tighten into a thin line, but Brandon nods and opens the door. I step through and embrace the chaos. Mobs of people are huddled against the lockers. The polished floor beneath my feet reflects the multicolored fliers plastering the newly painted walls, and a glorious mix of antiseptic, perfume, and aftershave stings my nose.

It
looks
like and
smells
like every other first day back to school. But it
feels
like anything but.

And just like that, the brief moment of confidence vanishes. I yank on my hem. Our school has uniforms, but yesterday I mistakenly let Kara
adjust
it. I pull the waistband as low as it can go and rub my eyes with both hands, trying to psych myself back up. They return covered with makeup. I close my eyes, with no other option but to laugh in self-loathing. Any second now, my classmates are going to turn around, take one look at me, and know that I’m a fake. That I’m just pretending. They’ll see through my trendy, Kara-approved disguise and clown-like makeup and laugh me right out of the building.

Brandon slides his thumbs under my eyes, then takes my left hand and laces our fingers together. A sense of calm envelops me. I look into his eyes, grinning as he sends me a wink. That one flirty gesture eases the mounting tension in my shoulders more than any words he could have said. With a subtle nod, I roll my shoulders back and turn to face the hallway.

Here we go
.

Brandon gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, then gently tugs me through the crowd, ignoring the people staring like we’re a walking celebrity sighting.

“I hear Evans’s English course load is crazy,” he says, acting as if today is any other day. He maneuvers us around a group of gawking girls, adding, “I’m depending on you to have my back for essays.”

The girl in the center openly sneers at me, a look of pure venom on her face. I swallow. “Deal,” I reply, striving to match his relaxed tone. And failing miserably. “But only if you have
my
back in calculus.”

A couple lockers down, two guys lean against the wall. One focuses on my chest while the other makes some kind of creepy, puckered kissy face. My breathing spikes. I glance at the girls’ bathroom across the hall, and the urge to bolt for a stall is fierce.

Shouldn’t getting what I want feel better than this?

“Aly?”

Brandon’s voice snaps me back to our conversation. “Calculus. Right. Tell me again why I have to take it?”

He watches me as a crowd of girls heads into the bathroom, and I can see in his eyes that he knows what a head case I’m being. But he plays along anyway. “Because you’re brilliant and tested out of algebra freshman year?”

Freshman year. Apparently, it was a year of life-altering events.

Aside from when I stupidly confessed my feelings for Brandon, the day I let Mom convince me to take the placement test would be my do-over. I ended up passing it by the skin of my teeth, but it locked me into the honors track for math. For English, history, and even science, I deserve that placement, but math and I have never gotten along. Thankfully, Brandon’s a mathematical genius. He’s saved my butt more times than I can count, and my only shot of surviving this year is through total dependency on him again.

He stops in front of my locker, two over from his own. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes tight, advising in my ear, “Don’t let them see ya sweat.”

Nodding, I turn away, pretending I don’t hear the whispers. I swirl the dial of my cold metal locker and it springs open, and I try to stay busy reattaching pictures and unloading and reloading notebooks until the homeroom bell rings. When it does, I nearly sink to the floor in relief.

“Ready?”

“Ready to get out of this hallway, that’s for freaking sure,” I tell him, taking a breath as people scurry left and right. And to think, I only have eight more hours of this.

Brandon takes my shaky hand and steers me down the winding hallway leading to our class. On the stairwell, his hand slides to the small of my back.

He’s not really touching you
, I chide myself.
Remember it’s all for show
.

But the heat from his fingers seeps through my uniform polo and my nervous system sends zings of electricity pulsing down my legs.

Concern over incredulous classmates fades as my entire body zeroes in on his touch.

Still doesn’t mean anything
.

I miss a step, and his arm wraps around my waist to steady me. Warm breath tickles my ear.

Doesn’t mean anything either
. Brandon is just being chivalrous. And he’s leaning in close so I can hear him.

Wait, he’s talking
.

“Sorry, but I totally missed what you were saying,” I confess as we enter the classroom.

Brandon’s eyebrows draw together. He motions toward two empty seats in the back, and I follow him down the crowded aisle, laser stares pinging the back of my head. Tossing his bag on the floor, he sits on the edge of a desk and crosses his arms. “You okay?”

The muscles of his arms bulge against the cotton of his shirt.

Just peachy. My body’s betraying me, and my head’s complete mush, but otherwise I’m fantastic
.

I force my gaze away and slide into my seat. “I’m fine. Caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet, I guess.”

He frowns like he doesn’t believe me. Lacing his hands behind his neck, he studies the ground and asks, “But you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” He lifts his eyes, and his face twists in concern. I
hate
that my crazy hormones make him look like that.

“Of course,” I promise. “I tell you everything.”

Well, practically
.

The bell rings and the rest of the class files in. Brandon taps his fingers on my desk as Lauren Hays’s voice rings out over the P.A. system. “Morning, my fellow Hokies! Your favorite class president here, welcoming you to another new year filled with change, excitement, and discovery…”

So far, I’d say she has it about right.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18TH

6 weeks and 3 days until Homecoming