The Fine Art of Pretending (16 page)

ALY
BRANDON’S TRUCK, 5:30 p.m
.

Today’s
agenda: Getting back to normal.

I glance over at Brandon drumming on the steering wheel and pretend to sit in comfortable silence. In truth, I’m completely weirded out. Awkwardness has surrounded us all week, transforming every glance and thrilling touch into an exhausting game of “is it real or is it pretend?” At our first rec team practice, I couldn’t tell what the girls found more interesting: our skill drills or watching sparks fly between their coaches. But today, I’m a girl on a mission.

We
will
get back to normal again. I
will
get my priorities straight, my focus back on Justin and Homecoming, and the fantasies about my best friend out of my head. Or at least two out of three.

“Thanks again for waiting,” I tell him, shifting in my seat. Only a week into school, and calculus is already kicking my ass. Brandon waited around until my practice ended so he could tutor me. Just another reason why this boy rocks so hard—and why I need my head fixed. “Calculus is the bane of my existence.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he says, pulling into my driveway. “All you need is the right tutor.” He gives an exaggerated wag of his eyebrows, but my eyes sink to his lips. I bet there’s a lot of things he could tutor me in.

The
creak
of his door and him hopping down clue me in to how well I’m doing so far with my mission. Does he know what I was thinking? My stomach flips as I answer my own question. Of course he knows. I have the sophistication of an infant. Brandon’s face, however, is completely expressionless as he helps me down, giving nothing away. He follows me silently up the walk and into my spacious kitchen.

Mom grins from her station at the stove. Wiping her hands on a towel, she sets a large tray of brownies on the granite counter. “Thought y’all could use a snack.”

I inhale the scent of cocoa and break off a piece. As the sugar hits my bloodstream, I take in my surroundings.

The low rumble of the dishwasher. Mom chopping vegetables at the island. The metallic sound of her spoon hitting the simmering pot on the stove. This is
exactly
what we need. A safe, parent-filled environment with the perfect amount of chaos to ensure there is zero chance of a charged moment. My shoulders relax, and I lean against the back of my barstool.

Kaitie flies into the room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Mom! We’re gonna be late!”

Mom looks up from stirring and squints at the digital clock on the microwave. “Oh, you’re right.”

She puts the cover on the pot and turns the temperature to low, and my gaze darts to the calendar hanging on the fridge, filled with reminders of appointments, events, and holidays. Written in red on Wednesday:
Kaitie’s Youth Group: 6:00
.

There goes our parental supervision.

Mom grabs her keys off the Texas Star hook hanging near the back door. Lifting several covered trays of food, she cranes her neck to tell us, “We’ll be back in a couple hours. Dinner’s ready, and I made more than enough, so, Brandon, dig on in.”

The door closes, the garage door rumbles open, and with that, we are alone.

Enter weirdness.

The sound of the dishwasher magnifies. Somewhere the house settles, and I swear I hear the second hand of a clock ticking—but all our clocks are digital. We silently take out our books, flipping to tonight’s assignment. The formulas and graphs look even more confusing than normal. My right hand itches to creep over and claim his, so I shake it.

“Cramp,” I explain.

He nods. My foot bounces against the wooden leg of the stool, and as I scratch my head, I glance at the clock.

We’ve been alone for three minutes.

In my peripheral vision, I see Brandon shift in his seat and crack his knuckles. He turns his head, and our eyes meet.

“Is this weird?” I ask after a tension-filled pause.

He hesitates, then nods. “Why is that, you think?”

“I don’t know,” I admit—or, actually, lie. I can’t answer for him, but I know part of the weirdness is because of my crazy reactions to his presence lately. “I’m getting scared, though. What if we’re not able to go back to being friends like before once this ‘experiment’ ends?” I let my hand close around his. “Besides Gabi and Kara, you’re my best friend.”

Brandon slides a section of my hair behind my ear. “Aly, we’ll always be friends. Don’t ever worry about that.” His voice is so confident, so sure, that I can’t help but want to believe it. “It’s that damn kiss that messed everything up.”

My spine straightens in shock. Ever since the sleepover, Brandon’s avoided or changed the subject every time I’ve brought up our kiss—further proof that he regrets it.

His lips press into a frown. “We just need to pretend it never happened.”

Inside, I wince. I can’t let him see that it hurts—after all, he’s only confirming what I already knew—but the truth hits like a spiked ball to the face. Forcing a smile, I ask, “Can it be that easy?”

“Sure.” Brandon nods once, as if making up his mind about something. “Stand up.”

Confused, I let him pull me up. He takes a deep, cleansing breath and widens his eyes, suggesting I do the same. I feel like I’m in yoga. Then he says, “Now we’re gonna shake the memory out, like an Etch A Sketch. Remember those?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Brandon starts shaking his head violently back and forth, just like you would an Etch A Sketch, and I can’t help but laugh. He stops and grins. “Don’t just stand there. Try it.”

With reluctance, I shake my head and even add a few jumps in for good measure. Surprisingly, it’s kind of fun. He does it some more, too, and after a minute, we share a smile.

A nice, silly, comfortable, platonic smile. A
normal
smile.

“Friends?” Brandon asks.

I nod. “You know it.”

“See? Everything’s fine,” he says, tweaking my nose. “We’re still us, and nothing will ever change that.”

He exhales in relief and stretches his arms above his head. The hunter-green polo lifts, a strip of his stomach creeps into view, and I swallow my tongue.

Yeah, I’m not sure that worked as well as he hoped.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 20TH

6 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming

BRANDON
LONESTAR THEATRES, 7:20 p.m
.

It’s
dinnertime, which means Aly is grumpy. The movies are slammed on weekend nights, and she rarely has time to grab anything to eat after practice. As I walk up, Gabi lifts her head behind the ticket counter, and I wave the McDonald’s bag in the air. She motions me through the door with a smirk, one that becomes an actual smile when I hand over a chicken sandwich. Say all you want about guys, but I’ve learned the way to a
girl’s
heart is through her stomach. Especially when French fries or chocolate are involved.

The lobby is crowded. Following the salty smell of popcorn, I pass no fewer than three wailing babies and a half-dozen kids screaming for candy. By the time I hop over the swinging door to the refreshment counter, my ears feel like they’re bleeding. Out of the seven lines of customers, Aly’s is the longest, so I reach into the bag for a greasy bribe and hand it over to her coworker Barbara.

“For me?” she asks, batting her fake eyelashes as she takes the cheeseburger. “Boy, if you were fifty years older—or I was fifty years younger—I’d rock your world.” She gives me a quick once-over as she chuckles at her own joke. “I’m guessing your motives aren’t completely selfless, but lucky for you, I’m easily bought.”

She waits for Aly to hand a couple their change and hip-checks her. “I’ll take it from here.” Aly’s nose crinkles in confusion, and Barbara nods her head in my direction. Aly grins. “Go enjoy your break with Stud Puppy, sweet girl. Believe it or not, I was young once myself.”

Aly pecks her wrinkled cheek before eagerly keying her code into the machine. “Thanks, Barb. I’ll be back in thirty!” Her shoes squeak on the sticky floor as she rushes over and envelops me in a quick hug. “My hero.”

The sweet scent of her hair fills my head, and I quickly lean back, masking my discomfort with a smile. “Outside?”

“God, yes.” She holds her palms over her ears and makes a pained face. “Quiet,
please
.”

We walk across the lobby, under the overhead screen playing an endless loop of previews, and through the door, plopping down on the metal bench farthest from the ticket counter.

Aly looks at the bag between us and shimmies her shoulders. “What’d ya bring me?”

“Quarter Pounder with Cheese, hold the pickle, French fries, and a Coke, no ice. What else?” I’ve had her order down for years.

She squeals with delight and dives in. Around a mouthful of fries, she asks, “So what brought you to our humble establishment tonight? Severe boredom or just desperate for my company?” She smiles as she asks so I know she’s joking, but honestly, she’s not that far off.

I take a bite of my Big Mac and hold up a finger, chewing as I contemplate how to answer. I have a proposition, but I’ve been debating all day whether or not to suggest it. On one hand, it’ll be an excuse to hang out with my best friend again. On the other, it could complicate things even more. I swallow and ask, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”