The Fine Art of Pretending

The Fine Art of Pretending

RACHEL HARRIS

Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Harris
Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

Spencer Hill Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA
Please visit our website at
www.spencerhillpress.com

First Edition: June 24, 2014
Rachel Harris
The Fine Art of Pretending: a novel / by Rachel Harris – 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A girl decides to change her image and gets her best friend to agree to be her pretend boyfriend to raise her profile, but when the time comes to end the charade both of them are surprised to find their feelings aren’t pretend anymore.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Ben & Jerry’s, Barbie, Big Mac, BMW, Cadbury Adams USA LLC (Trident), Canon, Cartier, ChapStick, Charlotte Russe, Chuck Taylor, Chunky Monkey, Clinique, Coke, Crown Royal, Diet Mountain Dew, Disney, Dr. Pepper, Dumpster, Etch A Sketch, Evian, F-150, Facebook, Forever 21, Google Hangout, Grease, Hulk, iPod, Jeep, Jenga, Juicy Couture, Kanye West, Kleenex, M&M’s, Mad Dog, McDonald’s, Nike, Oreo, Quarter Pounder, Rack Room Shoes, Raisinets, Red Bull, Reese’s Pieces, Sephora, Sprite, Seven Up, Sevens, Sugarland, Super Swamper, Taco Bell, Taylor Swift,Twitter, Twix, UFC, US Weekly, Wii, Wizard of Oz, YouTube

Cover design by: Kate Kaynak
Interior layout by: Jenny Perinovic

ISBN 978-1-939392-28-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-939392-27-5 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

For everyone
who has ever chased a dream,
dared to try something new,
or found beauty in their own skin,
this one’s for you.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 7TH

Exactly 8 weeks until Homecoming

ALY
FAIRWOOD CITY MALL, 12:20 p.m
.

The
cleavage popping out of my scandalously low-cut halter top heralds the beginning of Operation Sex Appeal. I turn sideways and adjust the neckline, alternately slouching and straightening as tall as my five-foot frame can go, but the fidgeting doesn’t make a bit of difference. After three and a half years covering my horribly disproportionate chest as much as possible, there’s just no hiding the girls now.

I take a deep breath and silently repeat my new mantra, the words of wisdom that Kara quoted when I agreed to this makeover.

If you want to recreate yourself in a new image, you must embrace your inner vixen
.

But as my teeth worry my lower lip and I scan the piles of halter tops, miniskirts, tiny shorts, pushup bras, and anxiety-inducing bikinis around me in the dressing room, I ask myself the million-dollar question:
Do I even have an inner vixen?

Shaking the urge to grab my oversized volleyball camp tee, I close my eyes and try to imagine the male population’s reaction to the girl staring back at me—Alyssa Reed 2.0. A vision of the packed assembly hall at Cypress Lake campground materializes in the darkness. Across the room, a blurry-faced guy with messy dark hair turns toward me, shock registering as he
really
notices me for the first time. The rest of the room quiets as he glides through the mass of bodies, slow-motion style, to take me in his arms, thread his fingers in my hair—

“Incoming!”

My heart jumps into my throat. I twirl to meet Kara’s overly enthused hazel eyes peeking over the slatted half door, and twin surges of heat blossom in my cheeks.

“This batch has jeans and shorts for the camping trip next week, and I got a ton of dress options for the back-to-school dance.” She stands on tiptoe, scans my outfit, and smiles in approval. “That’s hot. Who would’ve believed you were hiding such a killer body under all those hideous man-shirts and baggy pants?”

I roll my eyes and pull at my neckline again. As the self-declared fashion guru of Fairfield Academy, Kara considers my relaxed style a personal affront, and as my best friend, she’s made it her life’s ambition to
reform
me. Somehow, whether by fierce will or pure stubbornness, I managed to deflect her obsessive makeover attempts for the last three years, only to succumb last night in a moment of pure, unadulterated desperation.

To say her elation rivaled that of a five-yearold on Christmas morning would be a gross understatement.

As if my change of heart weren’t enough, Kara ensured her success by showing up at practice just over an hour ago, shoving me first into the shower and then into her death mobile, and then stopping only to drag our friend Gabi out of bed before flooring it to the trendiest mall in town. I’m stunned she didn’t drive all the way to Houston.

“You know, those baggy pants happen to be Juicy Couture.” Granted, that’s as stylish as my current wardrobe ever got, but I still think it should count for something.

According to Kara’s snort, apparently not.

“Yeah, Aly, you’re a total label-whore.” Blowing me an air-kiss, she pulls open the door and shoves about six pairs of jeans and at least a dozen dresses onto the closest overstuffed rack. She fluffs her bangs and surveys the hanging options with a concentrated gaze. “Too bad Brandon’s working today. I could really use a male opinion.” She tosses a quick glance to the corner of the room and adds, “And some help, since
somebody
’s not doing crap.”