The Fine Art of Pretending (28 page)

At first, I’m in shock.

I actually
hit
it!

Then adrenaline takes over and I shout, “Holy crap, what a rush!”

I do a victory shimmy, and Justin laughs, calling, “Check you out, girl!”

The pride in his voice is unmistakable, and as the second ball flies out of the machine, a familiar desire to bring my game to the next level, to impress my coach, surges through me. My grip tightens in preparation.

This time, though, when the ball whacks against the bat, there are no happy endorphins. A sharp sting of electricity zings up my arm to the not-soaptly named funny bone, and I howl.

“Mudderbrudderfribbadiber,” I curse, dropping the bat. I shake my arm and begin hopping around like a demented flying squirrel.
Holy crap, this hurts!

“Aly, you can’t drop the bat! Another ball’s—”

Too late. By the time I register the
thoomp
from the pitching machine, the ball is flying at my head. But I don’t duck like a normal person would do. No, my volleyball training rears its stupid head and I swat the dang thing down with my bare hand.

“AHHHH!”

Now the demented flying squirrel has had squirrel babies as I tuck my throbbing hand under my armpit, cradle my other elbow into my rib cage, and continue to leap and mutter obscenities in pain. Justin tugs me against the wall, away from any more mishaps, and pries my hand out to examine it.

When I notice him biting off a smile, I wrench my hand back.

“You’re laughing at me,” I accuse through clenched teeth.

He schools his features. “Aly, I’m sorry, but you should’ve seen yourself.” He pauses to cough, an obvious attempt to subdue further laughter at my expense, and says, “You looked like you were performing some type of tribal war dance or something.”

Sulking, I nurse my injuries as balls continue to fly past our faces. Then my vivid imagination takes over, conjuring up a possible vision of my “performance,” and a graceful snort escapes. Justin looks up in relief.

“It still hurts,” I tell him, “and you should’ve done a better job hiding your pleasure in my pain—”

“I didn’t—”

“T-t-t. Shh, I’m speaking,” I say with a begrudging grin. “
But
I can see where it may have been a little comical to witness. Although, I assure you, there was nothing funny in the actual experience.”

“I’d think not.” He straightens my arm and lightly runs his finger along the growing red welt across my palm.

“Please tell me that burnt-rubber smell is not my hand.” I sniff the air, looking for another possible source, and Justin rolls his eyes.

“That smell is the hot rubber from the wheels on the pitching machine, you goofball,” he says with a shake of his head.

At the front of the cage, the red light turns off and the yellow light clicks on, indicating the end of the turn. Justin stands, dusts the back of his jeans, and grabs his bat. I begin pulling myself up, and he leans down again.

“What are you
doing
?” I ask as he carries me across the threshold of the cage as if it’s our honeymoon.

“You’re injured,” he says, breathing easily as he walks past the trophy case. “I’m taking care of you.”

“My legs aren’t injured, you idiot.” I cast an embarrassed glance around, taking in the amused onlookers, and bury my head in the crook of his neck.

“We’ve gotta pick better pet names than ‘goofball’ and ‘idiot’ if this relationship is going to work,” he says, ignoring my struggling attempts to climb out of his arms.

Relationship?

A sinking feeling creeps into my stomach, and the silly, lighthearted feeling I’d grasped so tenuously slips away.

He nods at the portly gentleman holding the front door open. “Thank you.”

We arrive at the Jeep, but instead of putting me down as he jiggles the keys out of his pocket, he simply leans back and shifts the additional weight to his chest. He then opens the passenger door, carefully sets me down, and proceeds to buckle me in.

“I’m not completely helpless, you know,” I tell him, thrown by his surprising tender side. Where’s the legendary player I bargained for?

“I’m nothing if not thorough.” He meets my eyes and gently presses a kiss against the raw flesh of my palm. When he attempts to mimic the gesture on my lips, I keep my mouth pressed tight and make an awkward smacking sound.

Justin leans back and gazes into my eyes. I’m sure he’s never had a
Casual
do
that
on a date before. At least I’m memorable. “Sorry, I’m just not feeling well.”

“I understand.” He gives me a small, tight-lipped smile, then closes my door, and I throw my head against the doorjamb.

Three weeks. Homecoming is in three weeks. Ever since Brandon told me about the
Casuals
and
Commitments
, my goal has been to get Justin interested and then ask me to the dance. It’s finally within my grasp, and I’m screwing it all up.

Brandon was only supposed to be an assist—not the target. If I give everything up now just because I realized I’m in love with a boy who will
never
love me back, not only will I be an idiot, but I’ll be an idiot who threw our friendship away for nothing. There’s no way we can come back from the damage I’ve done. The only thing I can do is stick to the game plan and somehow find a way to get over Brandon.

Tonight, Justin proved he can be more than just a goal in a crazy scheme. Buried deep down inside his player exterior is actually a surprisingly great guy who can maybe even make a good boyfriend. Maybe it’s been him all along that I’m meant to be with, the guy to break my curse and prove that I’m a
Casual
.

My brain has everything figured out. Now I just need my heart to get with the program.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12TH

2 weeks and 6 days until Homecoming

BRANDON
BRANDON’S HOUSE, 11:30 a.m
.

Eminem
blares out of the speakers, urging me on as I pound the heavy bag, sending it swinging on its chains. I draw a ragged breath and deliver a right cross, slamming the bag into the wall of the garage. The metal shelf shakes, and I reach out to save a box of Christmas decorations from smashing onto the concrete floor. I put them on the ground, then turn back to land a roundhouse.

My workouts have certainly improved the past two weeks
.

I ran out here as soon as church ended, desperate for an outlet. We sat with Aly’s family again, but she wouldn’t even look at me. When the service ended, I heard our moms whispering about some
date
and looking at me in concern. Fuck that.

My cell phone vibrates on the toolbox, shaking the nuts and bolts together with a metallic clink. I lean over to read the display, hope burning out the exhaustion in my chest. But it’s Lauren.

I press ignore, sending her to voicemail. Then I turn back and plow into the bag again. I go until my chest burns with the need for oxygen, and then I go a little more.

Justin fell for the game, just like Aly expected. And he wasted no time in making his play, my history with her and our friendship be damned.

If he hurts her…

My vibrating phone sets off another round of metallic clinking. Sweat pours off me and I peel off my shirt, using it to sop up the mixture of sweat, dirt, and dust clinging to my body. I throw off my gloves, chugging my water bottle with a shaking hand as I silence the buzz. This time, I know it’s not Aly. What I don’t know is if it ever will be her again.

Holding the phone, I consider texting Aly myself, getting it out in the open and fighting for our friendship. But I can’t. My head’s too messed up, jealous about her date with Justin and terrified that I’m not just falling for her, but that I’ve already fallen. Aly can’t know those things. They don’t change anything.

The house alarm’s
beep beep
breaks into my inner-tirade, and Mom leans against the laundry room door. Frowning, she turns off the music. “My walls were shaking so hard I thought they discovered another fault line in Texas.” She reaches back inside for a towel and throws it at me. “Want to talk about anything?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m okay,” I tell her, breathing heavy. “Thanks, though.”

Her pinched eyes say she’s still worried, and she walks over and kisses the top of my head. “Well, if you’re not gonna talk, then go take a shower. You stink.”

Swatting her thigh with the towel, I laugh. “Glad to see you putting the Parenting with Self-Esteem training to use.”

“Boy, if I thought you had a self-esteem problem, we’d be having a whole other conversation.” She steps back inside the laundry room and says, “Now, hurry up, we’re going out for lunch. I’m in the mood for something spicy.”

The door closes and my phone goes off again. I read Lauren’s X-rated text, and, realizing what I have to do, I reply.

ALY
ALY’S HOUSE, 1:45 p.m
.

“And
then what happened?” Gabi asks, digging a spoon into the pint of Chunky Monkey between us. We’re in the middle of my queen-size bed rehashing my date. Between practice, our rec game, and then a slammed day at work, I was too wiped to give any details yesterday, so my friends took matters into their own hands, showing up with calorie-laden goodness.

“Justin took me to his house, made an icepack for my hand, and cooked us omelets for dinner.” I lick my spoon as I replay the night in my mind. “He’s completely different than I expected.”