The Fine Art of Pretending (10 page)
BRANDON
LAKESIDE, 2:30 p.m
.
A
splash pulls Aly’s attention to the lake, and I sneak another peek. Over the years, I’ve seen her in a bathing suit tons of times, but she’s never worn anything like this—a tiny yellow bikini that leaves very little to the imagination. But mine is filling in the pieces anyway.
Post-makeover Aly is beginning to short-circuit my nerves.
Laughter rings out, and I gratefully turn to watch the chicken-fight. Kara on Daniel’s shoulders and Lauren on Justin’s. The match is at a standstill, each girl pushing yet neither budging.
Aly sits up beside me to scream, “Come on, Kara!” drawing my eyes to her again.
My fired-up imagination conjures a vision of the two of us taking on the winner, her tanned thighs wrapped tightly around me.
A dude in the water calls out to Drew, and, shaking the image away, I turn to see him walking toward us. Thank God. Although he’s spent the majority of his time in the cabin texting Sarah, I could hug him for showing up now. I need a distraction.
Any
distraction.
I bump his fist. “What’s up, man? Anything changed in Sarah’s world in the last hour?”
“Fu—screw you.” Drew never curses in front of a girl, a trait that makes him exactly the kind of guy Aly should go after. Unfortunately, he’s whipped. Drew plops onto the sand and squints into the sun. “She’s alone on a new campus and sorority rush just started. She’s freaking out, and I can’t be there for her. I hate it.”
“But you are there for her.” Aly leans back on an elbow and adjusts her top. I avert my eyes, noticing Drew and Carlos do the same. “Don’t listen to these guys. I think it’s sweet you call her so much. Sarah’s lucky.”
Drew shakes his head. “I’m the lucky one. But thanks.” Then he claps his hands and says, “Almost forgot, guess what I just heard? Tonight’s karaoke in the main hall, baby.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Carlos says. Picking up his guitar from the towel in front of him, he breaks out in a horrendous rendition of the country song “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.”
Aly laughs so hard she snorts. “I thought you were supposed to be a great musician.”
Carlos smiles good-naturedly. “Nah, I play a mean guitar, but I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
Smirking, I lean close to Aly’s ear. “Speaking of carrying a tune…”
“No.” She pushes me away, her eyes wide. “Don’t even think about it, bud.” Sticking out her tongue, she stands up to stretch, and my eyes involuntarily trace the length of her body. She saunters to the dock and spreads her towel near the edge, dangling her feet over the side. She leans down to splash cool water on her heated arms and legs. My mouth goes dry.
Gritting my teeth, I force my gaze back to the chicken-fight in the lake.
This mission needs to end—the sooner, the better. For her
and
for my sanity.
Aly may
think
she wants to be a
Casual
, but she’s wrong. Really, this whole thing seems to be about people seeing her differently, but she can get the same results without the sexy clothes. They are messing with my head, and they’re just not
her
. If I can get her to realize that, maybe things can go back to normal. It’s definitely worth a shot.
I walk over, and Aly scrunches her tiny face, squeezing her eyes shut. I squat down and, putting my years of girl knowledge to use, sweetly say, “Come on, do it for me?”
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes closed. “Uh-uh. Brandon, don’t do this to me. I love you to death, but there’s no way I’m getting up on a stage in front of all those people.”
“But think of it as another step in Operation Sexy Clothes Makeover Thing—”
She huffs. “Operation Sex Appeal.”
“Yeah, that. Listen, what better way to shock everyone’s preconceived notions of quiet little Aly than by having her kick major ass at karaoke night?”
And then maybe we can call an end to this whole thing
.
Aly’s eyes open. A slow smile twitches her lips, and I’m sure I got her.
Then her hands shoot out.
I have just enough time to snap my arm around and bring her with me before we fall. We hit the surface in an ungraceful splash, the tepid water welcome on my sunburned skin. I pop up first, wipe the stinging sunscreen out of my eyes, and wait for her red head to emerge. A second later, she does, sputtering, laughing, arms flailing. Instinctively, I pull her close so she can catch her breath, but I should’ve known better. As soon as she’s within arm’s reach, she smiles wickedly and dunks me again.
Oh, it’s on now
.
Full-on war breaks out as we wrestle in the water, laughing and dunking. Aly nails me right in the eye, and I hear a distant voice say, “They’re so cute together.”
Aly looks at me, and we share a conspiratorial smile.
ALY
MAIN HALL, 8:05 p.m
.
Relaxed
against Brandon’s hard chest, I feel calm. I’m confident that, despite anything he might say otherwise, I’ll be enjoying the show from a safe distance at the back table, cheering on the brave souls who don’t suffer from stage fright.
In the front of the room, our advisor directs a few football players to move the makeshift stage while the AV guys set up the sound system. Someone turns on a microphone, and the feedback screeches through monster-sized speakers. Wincing, I turn away and discover Lauren glaring at me.
She and Justin are standing next to the only two empty seats at our table, the ones that happen to be right next to where Brandon and I are sitting.
The seating arrangement is pure luck. My planned afternoon catnap turned into an extended siesta, thanks to forgetting to set the alarm on my phone. Brandon woke me up when he came to get me for dinner, and I ran around like a hamster on speed to get ready.
Judging by the way Justin’s eyes skim over my black sleeveless top and dark jean skirt, I did all right.
“You look incredible, Aly,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. Brandon clears his throat, and Justin lifts his chin. “Being with this chump obviously agrees with you.”
He reaches over to fist-bump Brandon and lets the tips of his fingers graze my shoulder. The temperature in the already-warm building skyrockets. Lauren snatches his hand, wraps it around her waist, and practically sits in his lap.
The girl is messing with my plan. Operation Sex Appeal keeps adding layers. The newest dimension: annihilating Lauren Hays.
Our advisor calls a name over the audio system, and our nut-job of a wide receiver walks up to kick off the show. A familiar drumbeat rolls out the speakers as he begins a quasi-decent version of “Ice, Ice Baby.”
I snuggle further into Brandon’s chest, getting quite comfortable with the dynamics of our fake hookup, and feel his arms tighten around me. He leans close and whispers, “Please go up there with me.”
Leaning my head back, I whisper-reply, “No.”
Warm breath tickles my neck as he tries again. “Aly, I’m willing to make an absolute jackass out of myself because, unlike you, I really
can’t
sing. But I want to do this for you. Please? Just one song? I’ll be up there the whole time, I promise.” He gently lifts my chin to meet my gaze. “You trust me, right?”
It may be the sincerity in his warm eyes. It could be the gentle pleading of his voice. Or maybe it’s the inexplicable tingly sensation that spread over me when he whispered in my ear. But suddenly—and without checking with my brain first—a breathless, shaky voice comes out of my mouth and says, “Okay.”
Brandon beams. He lowers his head to kiss my cheek, then—before I can call him back—runs at a full sprint to where the song lists and sign-up sheets are. Kara looks over inquisitively, but I can only shake my head. My eyes dart back to Brandon. My face is on fire, my heart is going a mile a minute, and with what sounds like the ocean in my ears, I realize I’m having a mini-panic attack.
What did I just agree to?
Brandon returns with a broad smile, and I concentrate on remembering how to breathe. He crouches in front of me, taking both my hands in his.
“I pulled some strings, and we’re up next.” His smile stretches up a bit on the left side, highlighting the dimple in his cheek. “I didn’t want you to have a chance to change your mind and run off on me.”
I can only assume my face displays what I feel inside: complete and utter terror. I’m about to inform him he’ll have to go up there by himself, that I had an out-of-body experience when I agreed and there’s no way in
hell
he’s getting me up there, when the advisor calls our names. Gabi and Kara’s expressions change from confusion to shock.
Tell me about it
, I want to scream.
Brandon pulls me up, and our table cheers. He shakes his head at my freaked, bugged-out eyes. “Trust me. You’re gonna be great.”
Then he leans down and kisses me.
Okay, it’s not a huge kiss. Barely more than a peck and probably completely done for show. But it’s enough to send all thoughts of stage fright (or anything else for that matter) right out of my head. Numbly, I allow him to lead me to the stage.
In the space of a heartbeat, I’m there, on the platform. With no chance of backing out. At least not without looking like a bigger dork than I will for singing. Swallowing hard, I turn to face my classmates. The crowd seems to have doubled during my short walk from the back table.
In the spotlight, my shirt feels too tight, like a second skin. My skirt too short, too revealing. I tug on the hem, confident I’m about to lose the lasagna I just wolfed down all over the makeshift stage, and draw a shaky breath, waiting to see what song Brandon could’ve possibly chosen for this embarrassing spectacle. When the opening notes of “Summer Nights” from
Grease
begin, my mouth tumbles open.
Brandon grins, then silently mouths, “Trust me.”
He goes first, and his unnecessary falsetto is so
off
that I can’t help but laugh. Then, it’s my turn. I sing the lyrics on impulse. He turns so he’s facing me, not the audience, and sings the next line in a register so deep and opposite the first that I fight back another laugh so I can sing mine. And so it goes, me keeping my eyes on him, following his lead, and something—or someone—takes over.