The Fine Art of Pretending (23 page)

I rub my forehead and stare a hole into my desktop.

Fairytales. Cinderella. Stargazing. Telescopes. Prince Charming
.
Stars
.

Do I know any star names? Isn’t there one named Beetlejuice—or is that Michael Keaton? I’m much more knowledgeable about Hollywood stars.

Ian Somerhalder, Ryan Gosling, Kanye West, Taylor Swift…

Wait, that’s it!

“Ms. Evans?” The rest of the class turns toward me, and I sink lower in my chair. “W-what about a talent show? I know it’s a stretch on the word ‘starlight,’ but actors and musicians are considered stars, aren’t they?”

Expressions of shock and astonishment meet the suggestion. Then the room explodes in conversation and I can’t tell if it’s due to the brilliance of my idea or its sheer stupidity. My bouncing foot rattles the desk in front of me, and I gnaw off the rubber eraser on my pencil.

Ms. Evans’s voice rings over the noise. “What a unique and interesting idea, Alyssa. Does anyone else have an idea to contribute?” She scans the silent room and then writes “talent show” under “ballroom lessons.” “Why don’t we take a vote? All in favor of Aly’s idea to have a talent show as the Spirit Day event this year, please raise your hands.”

One by one, hands shoot up. With each one, so does my confidence. Even Lauren’s lapdog, our class secretary, hesitantly votes for my suggestion.

Lauren surveys the room with a mild grimace, then nods with the enthusiasm of a dental patient. “I agree. Aly’s idea is wonderful. It’s exactly what we should do.”

Sure it is
.

I barely hold in my snort as victory shoots through me. I did it. I actually did it.

“Splendid. And what an example of graciousness, Ms. Hays.” Ms. Evans turns her back to circle “talent show” with a bright purple marker, and Lauren nails me with a lethal glare.

And there goes my momentary surge of confidence.

While I did want to steal Lauren’s thunder in theory, the reality is not as exhilarating as I hoped. If I’m reading her stare correctly, the verbal bashing earlier was mere child’s play.

And only the beginning.

I decide to take what glory I can from that small victory and leave before I have my ass handed to me. Grabbing my backpack, I dart to the podium.

“Mrs. Evans, I completely forgot that I need to pick up my sister before volleyball practice.” I gesture toward the giant wall clock over the door. “I have to run. Is that okay?”

“I’d say you earned the right to leave a little early,” she says with a smile. “We can handle it from here. I’ll fill you in on anything we decide tomorrow in homeroom.”

“Thanks.” Feeling the heat of Lauren’s stare, I hurry through the door, pausing only to turn and close it behind me. Lauren waves and smiles sweetly.

Message received:
Game on
.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2ND

4 weeks and 2 days until Homecoming

BRANDON
TEXAS SPRINGS CARWASH, 4:30 p.m
.

I
ram my phone back in my pocket and reread the same page in
Hamlet
for the thirteenth time. I still don’t see how this is supposed to be English. I have no clue what these people are saying. Chomping on a Twix, I chug my Dr Pepper in the off-chance a sugar rush is the missing ingredient in my story comprehension, then I pick the play back up and try again.

Didn’t think so.

This is the exact situation where I’d normally call Aly. My fingers itch to do it now, to hear her perky voice and have
her
explain this crap to me, just as she’s done with countless other assignments. Hell, I just want to call Aly. But that’s not an option. She needs space, and I’m going to give it to her. For now. Everything will go back to normal in a few days.

It has to.

Every day, our falling out becomes more obvious in the things I can’t share with her, talk to her about, or get her opinion on. And with assignments like Shakespeare thrown at me, it’s hard to miss how much we fill each other’s gaps. I speak math, and she speaks whatever version of English
this
is supposed to be. Together, we pull each other along just enough to stay in the honors track. But apart? My chances don’t look so hot.

The ding overhead signals a car is waiting, and I gladly dog-ear my page. Stepping from behind the register at the front desk, I walk outside, ready to greet the latest customer. Even the blast of heat smacking me in the face can’t tempt me back to Shakespeare.

But the metallic-blue BMW idling out front sure can.

My steps slow as I watch Lauren fluff her hair and smack her lips at her rearview mirror. Just what I don’t need today.

Before I can backtrack and grab one of the guys to help her, the driver-side door opens. She steps out in her skimpy dance uniform, and I grudgingly walk over.

“Lauren.”

Smiling, she places her cold hand on my arm. “My car’s
really
dirty, Brandon. I think I’m gonna need your special treatment.”

Ignoring the innuendo, I brush her hand away and grab the clipboard off the wooden peg. A minute passes with nothing but the sound of my pencil scratching on the work-order form and cars speeding on the highway. Lauren’s come in enough times that I can fill out her information in my sleep.

When I hand her the torn-off copy, her fingers ensnare my wrist. “Sorry about Aly.” Her voice begs to differ, a fact she confirms when she says, “Actually, I’m not. She isn’t good enough for you.”

I inhale deeply and glance at the security camera. As much as Lauren deserves it, Earl will kick my ass for throttling a customer. Instead, I keep my eyes on the page and shake off her hand. “Your car will be ready shortly. Wait inside and I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

Sidestepping her huff of disappointment, I slide behind the wheel, throw back the cramped driver’s seat, and fire the ignition. Twangy country music—the kind Aly always listens to—pours out of the speakers, and I punch the button to change the channel. I drive to the red canopy around back where the vacuums are and yank the parking brake. Throwing open the door, I haul out the slick front floor mats and bang them against the wooden fence bordering the rear of the lot. As I bend down to grab the second set from the rear, Drew walks out the employee door.

“I see the viper’s here,” he calls, jerking his head toward the building where Lauren waits.

“Yep,” I snap, bashing the second set against the canopy poles. “Aren’t I lucky?”

Drew crouches beside the trunk of the car, keeping a safe distance from the flogging. With eyebrows drawn, he says, “I guess she figures she’s got a shot now that you and Aly aren’t together anymore.”

I stuff the mats through the automatic mat cleaner. “Well, she’s wrong.”

He stands and strolls over, grabbing the hose to vacuum the driver side. “You know, I get why some guys go for her over-the-top routine,” he says, raising his voice over the hum. “But personally, it completely turns me off. I’m not into that shit anymore.”

I look down and kick the machine in front of me.

Yeah, me neither
.

Drew hangs the vacuum back up and leans across the hood. “Listen, dude, I don’t know what happened with Aly, but something is obviously eating at you. You know if you want to talk, I’m here.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I wrench the mats out of the machine and hurl them to the ground. The hum of the vacuum kicks on and I pick up the hose to do the passenger side. Drew grabs it out of my hand.

“I got this.” He pushes my shoulder toward the employee door. “Go take a break.”

Adrenaline is tearing through my veins, and I don’t even know why. The last thing I need to do is sit around the break room, but seeing Lauren and being around Drew’s too-perceptive stare is just pissing me off more.

I lift my chin. “Thanks, man.”

Drew nods and begins suctioning the sunflower seeds wedged in the crevices of her car. I jog to the employee break room, arms and legs shaking, heart pounding. Inside the cool room, I sink onto the duct-taped sofa and kick my feet up on the makeshift table. With fingers itching to draw, I close my eyes and pray for numbness to take over.

Twenty minutes later, Drew finds me with my eyes squeezed tight and my head in my hands, still waiting.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3RD

4 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming

ALY
LONESTAR THEATRES, 8:15 p.m
.