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The Fine Art of Pretending
RACHEL HARRIS
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.
First Edition: June 24, 2014
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
ISBN 978-1-939392-28-2 (paperback)
Printed in the United States of America
For everyone
* D P G R O U P . O R G *
Exactly 8 weeks until Homecoming
ALY
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.” From her sprawled position on the dingy threadbare carpet, the third member of our glorious trio lifts her hand and gives Kara a one-finger salute. “I’m in here for emotional support,” Gabi says dryly. She grabs a red-dyed strip of her long black hair and intently studies the split ends. “Besides, I’m not sure I fully support this Project Hot to Trot thing anyway.” I release a breath and turn back to my reflection. My two best friends couldn’t be more different, as evidenced by the emotional tug-of-war they’ve put me through ever since we set foot in Forever 21. I know Gabi doesn’t have a problem with the clothes—she changes her style like people change their Facebook status. And while I’m normally lucky to pull off jeans and a T-shirt, she fluctuates between all of them with ease. Gothic black, flowing hippie, dominatrix leather, chilled-out jeans…it all works. Which means she’s stewing about something deeper, and knowing Gabi, that could be just about anything. “It’s Operation Sex Appeal,” I clarify. “Hot to Trot makes me sound like a race horse.” I tug the revealing halter top over my head and slip on a floral print dress with a tiered bubble hem, enjoying the feel of the fabric. It’s a far cry from the worn-out cotton of my favorite tee, that’s for sure. “And you don’t have to support what I’m doing—but you should support me. I believe I’ve earned that after living through all your schemes.” Back before Kara moved to Texas and Gabi and I were still a twosome, she was actually the more reserved member of our duo. The shift didn’t happen until her dad left in seventh grade and Gabi placed full blame on her mom. But when that shift happened, it happened. In the mirror, she lifts her dark-lined eyes to mine and frowns. “I just don’t get why you’re letting Kara do this. You worry too damn much about what other people think.” My hands clench around the foreign material. Her words, as truthful as they may be, cut just the same. I draw a deep breath and meet her reflected gaze as I try and find a way to explain something I’m still figuring out myself. “Gab, I’m not doing this to get Kara off my back or to get her to shut up about my clothes. I’m doing this for me.” I look at the strange vision of myself decked out in a dress, of all things. “This is something I have to do. I’ve spent the last three years feeling like I’m watching life from the sidelines, Gab. Don’t get me wrong, you guys rock, my grades are good, and my family’s amazing, but isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of our lives? I thought I’d have scrapbooks filled with pictures of boys and kissing and mementos from dates. But I don’t have that stuff. I have volleyball trophies and pictures from training camps and group pictures at dances with the girls.” The space between Gabi’s eyebrows scrunches together. I’m not surprised she doesn’t understand. Gabi never gives a flip what other people think of her. But then, she doesn’t need to because I care enough for the both of us. For a while, it was enough to be friends with the cute guys and have them smile and wave at me in the hall. But over the past year, things changed. Now I want those same guys to see me as more. To see me as someone who is actually dateable. And last night, packing my same old comfortable, cotton wardrobe for the senior camping trip, I realized that the time to make a change is now or never. But convincing a rebel like Gabi of that is going to take some finesse. I twist the end of my long auburn ponytail into a bun and decide to go the comedic route. “Besides, can you honestly think of anyone better than two hot divas like yourselves to help me attempt this mission impossible? Transforming this…” I sweep a hand over my goober self like a deranged game show host. “…into someone sexy?” I strike a smoldering pouty pose for full dramatic effect. Kara snickers as Gabi throws her head against the rickety wall and bangs it repeatedly. She’s never been one for holding back her feelings. Or for being subtle. “I so don’t want to be a killjoy,” Gabi says, lifting her head and leveling me with a pointed look. “Do you know how much it pains me to be the voice of reason? But, Aly, you’ve always run from anything that would single you out—and I gotta tell ya, being ‘sexy’? That’s kinda gonna entail some attention.” “Experimentation in adolescence is healthy,” Kara interrupts, sounding exactly like her psychiatrist mother. “Besides, I’ll be there to guide her through the testosterone-crazed havoc she’s going to create. Aw, Gab, don’t ya see?” She puts her hand over her heart, tilts her chin, and pretends to hold back tears. “Our little Aly’s growing up.” “Thanks a lot,” I say, lobbing a discarded shirt at her head with a mock-scowl. Kara sticks her tongue out and tosses the shirt back. I duck. Before I can grab another random garment, a series of tinkling bells erupts from her purse, and she squeals. Gabi and I exchange a look as Kara tugs out her phone, gives her shoulders a shimmy, and says in a decidedly lower voice, “Hey, baby.” “Daniel,” Gabi mouths. The current love interest. If the squeal wasn’t enough to clue us in, the sexy, purring quality to Kara’s voice sealed the deal. With my personal shopper otherwise occupied, I squat down next to Gabi and squeeze her hand. “Please understand. I need this.” She studies me for a moment and sighs. “Listen, you’re my best friend. No matter what, I’m here for you. If you say this is what you want, then this is what we’ll do. Even if I don’t understand it.” She plucks the shirt off the floor and starts folding it, pausing to shoot me a smile. “So I guess I’ll shut the hell up and actually make myself useful.” With a grateful grin and renewed passion for the mission, I stand and strip, ready to throw on whatever offending item Kara placed next for me on the rack. The sea of colors in the room makes me feel like I’m playing dress-up in an Easter egg and none of this stuff is me, but I guess that’s the point. To be different. Shake things up. At this point, it certainly can’t hurt. My gaze lands on the item hanging on top, a skirt barely long enough to cover my butt, and my eyes pop in shock. She cannot be serious. Where would this even land on a person of normal height? I hold the glorified belt up to myself and stare at Kara for confirmation of her insanity, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of cropped brown hair around her finger to notice. “Sounds good. I’ll be ready at six.” Pause. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.” Suggestive giggle. “All right. Bye, baby.” Kara hangs up the phone and falls against the door in a mock-swoon. “Daniel’s sooo hot! He’s going to do quite nicely in this year’s Homecoming picture, don’t ya think?” The wannabe skirt flutters to the ground. “Homecoming?” Noting the slight manic quality to my voice, I press my lips together and then smile, attempting to tone down the crazy. “I mean, are you serious? Aren’t you the one who said any relationship over a month is a waste of perfectly good dating time? Homecoming’s, like, two months away.” Fifty-six days to be exact, but who’s counting? Kara stoops to pick up the skirt, shrugging like it’s no big deal, and I force my fists to unclench. I have to remember that not everyone is as fixated on this dance as I am. Accepting the garment, I push past the topic of my secret obsession and focus back on my shared—and now group-accepted—plan. One thing at a time. I step into the skirt, which is every bit as horrible as I’d imagined, and then pull on the white sleeveless top Kara pairs with it. The braided straps require the strapless bra I have on, which even after hours of wear still feels like it’s going to fall around my waist at any moment. I discreetly run my hands over my butt—making sure the scrap of fabric she considers clothing is at least covering it—wiggle the cups of my bra, and exhale slowly. My reflection looks like a stranger, and I feel like an imposter. Clearly, this isn’t going to be as easy as I originally anticipated. My phone buzzes, and I motion for Gabi to check it. She roots around in my purse, muttering, “It’s like freaking Grand Central Station in this joint.” As I lean over to adjust “the girls” again, I smile, waiting for Gabi to relay the text message. The total lack of privacy is one of my favorite things about having best friends. I know everything about Gabi and Kara, and they know all my dirty secrets, too. Well, if I had anything remotely juicy to share, they’d be the first to know, at least. “Your place tomorrow, five thirty,” Gabi reads in a monotone voice. “Let’s eat after. Your choice: La Cantina or Carmela’s.” She hands the phone over and I text back, Brandon, remember what happened last time we ate @ L.C.? Definitely Carmela’s. See U then. “Sounds like a hot date.” Spinning around, I bonk foreheads with an overthe-shoulder-reading Gabi. “Ow!” Gabi ignores the collision and widens her eyes expectantly. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Totally hot date.” Kara cocks her hip, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to hold off the oncoming headache. “Guys, seriously. Brandon’s meeting me to talk strategy. Coach Connelly roped us into coaching the junior high volleyball team our sisters joined at the rec center. Seems my mad skills on the court, paired with Brandon’s past coaching experience and, well, the fact that I don’t want to do it by myself, makes us the perfect—and only—choices this year.” Kara narrows her eyes. “And how do you think he’s gonna react to your new look?” “Who, Coach Connelly?” I ask innocently. Kara smiles patiently, and I groan, pulling off the belt/ skirt. “He probably won’t even notice. Or care.” Gabi snorts. “Aly, you do realize Brandon’s a guy, right?” “A very popular, very gorgeous guy,” Kara adds in a weird tone of voice. I lift my head with one leg in a new pair of Sevens. My gaze darts between my two suddenly suspicious best friends, and I stand from my stooped position. “Why are y’all looking at me like that?” Kara folds her arms. “Not that I’m not stoked you’re finally willing to accept help, but is this makeover really about Brandon?” Should’ve known. Hiking the jeans up my short legs, I silently lament designers’ inability to realize women with butts can also have a slim waistline and say aloud, “For the bazillionth time, Brandon thinks of me like a sister.” Which, of course, only feeds Kara’s hunch, so I quickly add, “Not that it matters because I’m not into him anyway. We’re friends.” A smirk twitches the corner of Kara’s lips, and I exhale in frustrated defeat. We’ve been over this topic so much that I may as well shut up now and save my breath. A platonic male friend is a concept Kara finds inexplicable, and believe me, I’ve tried to explain. She just doesn’t get that some things are easier to talk about with a guy or that, with Brandon, no topic is ever off-limits. Except for maybe the massive crush I had on him a few years ago, but that’s ancient history. Gabi grabs a top that actually appears to have more than an inch of material and says, “Hey, if this isn’t about Brandon, and you say you’re not into him, that’s cool. I believe you.” “Thank you,” I tell her, reaching out for the shirt. At least one of them seems to get it. Then Gabi’s grip tightens on the fabric and I’m forced to lift my gaze. “But I promise you, come Monday, when the camping trip starts and guys’ eyes start bugging out? He will notice.” She grins sweetly. “And he’s definitely going to care.” Yanking the soft cotton shirt from her hands, I turn away and pull it on, fluffing my hair as I survey the result. Regardless of what they think, I doubt Brandon will ever see me differently—but other people will. The cute and funny girl who’s “just friends” with all the popular guys is gone. That girl the guys think of when they want to shoot hoops or need an ear to listen, but never when they want a date, has left the premises. The Aly staring back at me has on spanking new clothes that actually show her shape, and wears a determined smile. This is going to work. It has to. I’m not doing this for Brandon, or for Kara, or for anyone else. I’m doing it for me. The senior camping trip starts Monday, the kick-off to my last year at Fairfield Academy. And this year, everything’s gonna change. In two months, when Homecoming rolls around, a new and improved Alyssa Reed will walk into the twinkle-lit ballroom. One with a new look, a new reputation, and a new man.
BRANDON
“Who’s coming out tonight?” Justin asks, shouting to us from inside the minivan. I look over from my perch, scrubbing the rear driver-side tire. “Don’t think I can, man. Mom’s off and wants to have a family dinner.” I toss the brush into a bucket and grab a clean towel. “She’ll probably crash early though, so give me a call before you head out.” Carlos and Drew are under the red canopy next to ours, vacuuming a Lexus with the radio blaring. Carlos stops singing off-key long enough to say, “You know I’m there.” Drew catches my eye as he shrugs. “Sorry, guys.” I shake my head as he ducks back down to wipe the interior. He’s spent the entire summer dragging ass because his girlfriend is heading to Austin for college. Now that she’s actually leaving, I can only imagine how much fun he’ll be during the camping trip next week. If I learned anything from Dad’s death, it’s that life’s short. Our senior year should be spent having fun and hanging out, but Drew doesn’t get that. He keeps wanting me to ask out one of Sarah’s friends—as if I need to be chained down like him. Between school, baseball, work, looking out for Mom and Baylee, and now coaching with Aly, a relationship is the last thing I need. That would just add stress and I have enough of that shit already. My phone beeps in my pocket, and I pull it out, laughing as I read Aly’s text about La Cantina. I’d forgotten about the last time we went there—and the mysterious “secret ingredient” in the restaurant’s queso. Carmela’s it is. “Yo, Brando.” I pocket my phone and glance up to see Carlos smirk. “A customer needs your assistance out front.” Great. Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, I saunter to the front of the car wash prepared for battle. Half of the Fairfield Academy baseball team works here, and as captain of the team, I’m the unofficial manager on duty. The title sounds more prestigious than it is because, really, I have one role: handle problems and irate customers. Squinting through the waves of heat radiating from the pavement, I see a metallic blue BMW idling. Shit. Over the summer, Lauren Hays started bringing in her brand-new car a few days a week, dropping unsubtle hints and flaunting her tight dancer’s body. Drew’s already taken, Carlos is an ex who refuses to go back to her, and Justin is a regular hookup who doesn’t require maintenance. That leaves me. And the girl’s yet to take a hint. Lauren’s essentially the female version of Justin. She likes to have fun, loves being caught having it, and always needs someone new on her arm. It seems I’m her latest victim, but I’m not interested in spoiled brats who throw Daddy’s money around. Mom works too hard and I bust my ass too much to have patience for princesses. Lauren’s a genuine pain in my ass. But she is smoking hot. As I get closer to her car, the driver-side door opens. Lauren steps out in a tight white T-shirt stretched over a black string bikini top, cutoffs so short they’re practically pointless, and tall shoes that make her tan legs go on for miles. She lifts her dark sunglasses on top of her light blonde hair, and when she steps in close, coconut wafts off her skin like she took a bath in sunscreen. “Hook me up, Brandon?” she says. “I was on my way to get a new bikini for the camping trip, but then I saw how dirty my car was.” Her mouth curves into a flirty smile, knowing she was here just a couple days ago. The car’s so clean you could eat off the damn hood. I take the keys from her outstretched hand, and she curls her fingers around mine. “Just give me the Taylor special. You know what I like.” Gliding past me on her way to checkout, she stops when she reaches the main door to blow me a kiss. The second the door closes, the laughter begins. “Brando, that chica wants you bad.” I look back to see Carlos, who apparently followed me to the front, shake his head. Glancing at the door Lauren disappeared through, he throws his arm around my shoulder, and says, “Trust me, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait ’til the camping trip starts. Four days of uninterrupted game play? You best be bringing your garlic, crucifix, and holy water, cuz that girl’s vicious.”
ALY
I topple into my chair in the crowded food court, arms laden with bags from Charlotte Russe, Forever 21, Rack Room Shoes, and Sephora. Fresh from Kara’s salon, my hair bounces around my shoulders like a freaking Pantene commercial. It’s a good thing I rarely spend any money, saving instead for my nationwide road trip next summer, because my pathetic checking account has definitely taken a beating. Gabi plops down across from me with our trays of food. She slides my chicken fajita nachos toward me, and the smell of jalapeños reinvigorates my tired brain. Who knew shopping could be so exhausting? “Our nail appointment is in twenty minutes,” Kara says, setting down her tray of highly nutritious and tasteless salad. “So better eat quickly, girls.” Circling a finger over her tray, I say, “I hate to tell you this, Kar, but that’s not food. That’s what food eats.” I smile to show I’m teasing, and she glances at the pink Cartier watch on her slender wrist. “Nineteen minutes,” she says, looking back up with a wicked grin. I lift my hands in surrender. “Hey, as the daughter of a caterer and a lover of all things yummy, I’m just trying to do my civic duty.” She rolls her eyes, and I pop a chunk of cheese-coated chicken into my mouth. Shopping doesn’t just make me exhausted—it makes me ravenous. And these nachos are seriously calling my name. I eagerly dive in, and after several minutes of blissful eating and watching brave power-walkers lap the food court in the face of such scrumptious temptation, I notice Gabi scowl. I thought we’d moved past the drama for the afternoon. Wiping my hands on a crumpled napkin, I ask, “What’s going on in that multicolored head of yours, Gab?” She looks over in confusion. “I see that gloomy face. Is this still about my makeover mission?” “No.” She plucks a pepperoni off her pizza and wraps it in a long string of congealed cheese. “I don’t love it, but I get it. The gloom and doom is because Lauren just walked in.” “Ah, that explains it.” Gabi nods and shoves the pepperoni in her mouth. I follow her gaze to where the captain of the dance team stands texting on her phone. Lauren Hays is the master of the fake smile when she wants something and the giver of the evil-eye when you fail to do it. She’s pretty much ignored me since freshman year, but she and Gabi have a love-hate relationship. They’re both on the dance team, so they tolerate each other. It’s just that Gabi refuses to bow to the captain’s every whim, and Lauren has zero patience for anyone with a backbone. I pinch the ends of my freshly highlighted hair between my fingers and sink a little lower in my seat. This new look is barely an hour old. I don’t think I’m ready to unveil it to the queen of the senior class now. What if she hates it? What if she doesn’t even notice? Honestly, right now, I don’t know which outcome would be worse. Kara narrows her eyes, seeing what I’m doing, but I don’t care. I never claimed to be brave. Or sexy. Operation Sex Appeal is all about working from the outside in. I glance back at Lauren and relax a smidge. Luckily, she keeps her nose in the air as she walks in our direction, which means I may be in the clear. I slowly release a breath, afraid to make any sudden movements—but then her dang phone beeps. She glances down to retrieve it from her purse, and when she looks up, her gaze lands right on me. “Oh, how cute.” I grit my teeth at the despised word as Lauren sidles up to my side of the table. “Has someone been playing dress-up?” Blood drains from my face, and I see Gabi stiffen across from me. “Shut the hell up, Lauren.” “Oh, Gabriela, I’m just teasing her.” Lauren’s smirk morphs into one of the fake, plastic smiles I’ve seen her give a hundred others. Swiping a fry from Gabi’s tray, she says, “I think it’s sweet our resident tomboy wants to break out of her shell.” Her blinged-out phone beeps again, and she looks down. When she does, I attempt to regroup and rally…but the excitement, the hope, and the eager anticipation of the morning are gone. Now, all I feel is stupid. Like I am playing dress-up, in clothes and in a persona that I couldn’t pull off in a million years, so why even bother? Lauren huffs a sigh. “As much as I’d love to hear what on Earth brought this on, I have to run. As class president, there’s much to do before the camping trip and all.” She wiggles her fingers in farewell and adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. “Tootles.” Kara watches her sashay away, then spears a chunk of lettuce with her spork. “Did she just say tootles?” Gabi chuckles, but I’m too busy recalculating to respond. I’ve come too far to give up now, but Lauren just called my transformation cute and sweet. The same two words that have followed me my whole life. I don’t want to be the same old Aly in a new designer wrapper. I want real change. Clearly, a makeover is not going to be enough. If I want people to take me seriously, I need to add another layer to Operation Sex Appeal. But what?
7 weeks and 6 days until Homecoming
ALY
I sit at my vanity, staring at the free gift-withpurchase bag stuffed with makeup, and try to remember which products Kara used yesterday. The idea of a beauty regime is as foreign to me as losing a volleyball match, but desperate times call for desperate measures. After applying the coral blush to the “apples” of my cheeks (another new term for my vocabulary), I grab the berry-stained lip gloss I’m almost certain is right. I unscrew the cap, pump the wand, and raise it to my mouth. A sudden rap on the door makes the wand skitter across my cheek, leaving a zigzag stripe of Blackberry Bloom in its wake. “Lovely,” I mutter, yanking a handful of tissues out of a crochet-covered box. Regardless of how often I’ve watched Gabi and Kara do this, obviously makeup application skills cannot be obtained through osmosis. I toss the balled-up Kleenex into the waste bin and bellow, “Come in, Kaitie!” Instead of my younger sister, Brandon lets himself in, a notebook with sketched-out game plans tucked under his arm. When he spots me in the corner, he does a double-take, eyebrows shooting up over his jade-colored eyes. “I see Kara got to you. Should I even ask why?” Well, at least he noticed. In reply, I walk to the huge mirror over my dresser that acts as a massive picture frame for my ultimate Wall of Shame. My feet sink into the plush yellow comforter, and I point to the latest entry. “Exhibit A,” I tell him. “Junior Prom.” Brandon hops up beside me, leans in to inspect the picture, and nods. “I don’t get it.” I exhale and stare at the picture taken three months ago—two weeks after Adam and I had broken up. Adam was my first boyfriend. My only boyfriend. And up until our breakup, I assumed things were going great. We’d been going out for four months, and I’d foolishly thought he could be the one. Maybe not the forever one, but the one for a good while. The one to see me as desirable. The one to break my curse. “When I added this picture the other night,” I say, “I had an epiphany.” Brandon scratches the back of his neck and squints. “An epiphany?” “Yes, an epiphany. Look again. Do you not notice a demoralizing theme to the dance pictures?” I pause for him to inspect the evidence and sigh when he shrugs. “All my dates are friends, Brandon. Every Homecoming, Winter Formal, and Spring Fling picture shows me with a bunch of girlfriends, an ex-boyfriend pity date, or a just-a-friend guy date. Starting with you.” Freshman year, Brandon and I went to Homecoming together. I’d had a thing for him ever since I could remember, so I admit I’d gotten my hopes up that night. In my crush-addled brain, we made the perfect couple—our moms were friends from high school, our little sisters were friends from the womb, and our families sat together in church. He was on the honors track with me at school, and we were both athletes. We’d grown closer during his dad’s illness, and I was convinced we were meant to be. But that night, despite hitting it off, laughing at all the same cornball jokes, and declaring our mutual love for Monty Python, we decided—well, technically he decided—that we were better off as friends. And from that day on, we were best friends. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered our moms had cornered him into taking me when no one else asked. So I guess technically, now that I think about it, Brandon wasn’t my first just-a-friend date on my Wall of Shame. He was a parental-enforced chaperone. That’s even worse. Brandon leans against the wall and tilts his head. Dark brown bangs fall into his eyes. “Okay. And that has to do with this,” he says, waving his hand over my new layered cut, Kara-approved clothes, and half-Clinique applied face, “how?” I slump onto my pile of pillows and try to sit as ladylike as possible in my belt of a skirt. “Once I saw documented proof of how embarrassing my high-school experience has been, I speed-dialed Kara. As you can imagine, she was more than eager to offer her services.” He plops across from me on the bed and tosses me Mr. Sniffles, my beloved stuffed penguin. Brandon shakes his head and pierces me with his grass-green eyes. “Aly, it’s not been embarrassing. You’re the star of the girls’ volleyball team. You’re smart and fun to be around. And,” he adds with a waggle of his eyebrows, “you’re best friends with me.” I roll my eyes, and he smiles. “So what’s the problem? It’s not like you’ve never had a boyfriend before.” I hug my penguin tight and inhale the vanilla mist scent I douse him with weekly. Of course Brandon doesn’t get it. He’s a guy and he’s Mr. Popular. But then, if anyone can be honest with me about this, it’s him. I bite my lip and stare at the white-and-blue poofball on top of Mr. Sniffles’s hat. “But why don’t I have one now?” My eyes dart up. Brandon leans on an elbow and scrunches his mouth. “I mean, you’re right, I’ve had a boyfriend before. And things were great with Adam—up until he broke up with me to start dating Chelsea.” Chelsea who is beautiful, trendy, popular, and all the other things I’m not. I swallow the lump of lingering pain and disappointment and lick my lips. “So it’s gotta be me, right? There’s something intrinsically wrong with me. I’m like one, giant guy-repellant.” The mattress sinks as Brandon shifts closer. He lifts my chin with his finger and brushes my hair back, looking intently into my eyes. I can’t read his expression, but his penetrating stare makes me squirm. More than anyone—and that includes Gabi and Kara—Brandon knows me. He’s seen me happy, he’s seen me hormonal, and he’s seen me hurt. He witnessed every awkward stage of puberty. But with the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s like he’s seeing even the parts I hide. My insecurities, my fears…how sitting this close to him still makes my tummy go nutty. Releasing a sigh, Brandon says, “I’m gonna let you in on a secret. Give you a glimpse into the demented male mind. But it can’t go further than this room.” His eyes go wide as he pretends to look around and leans in conspiratorially. I can’t help but laugh, and that earns me his special grin, the one that hitches on one side and makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. Grabbing my hand, he says, “Aly, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect. Really. The only reason you don’t get asked out more is because of a stupid game we all played years ago.” My nose wrinkles in confusion. “Wait, what?” Brandon exhales a breath. “A game, and yes, before I explain, let me say again that I know it was stupid.” He stares at me until I nod, a knot of nerves bundling in my stomach. He swallows and looks away. “A few years ago, a bunch of us were sitting around. We were bored and needed to waste time, and someone took out a yearbook. It really wasn’t that big a deal at the time.” I scoot closer. “Go on.” “We—well…” He shoves his hand through his hair and gives me a sheepish look. “Basically, we sorted the girls in our class into two groups: the Casuals and the Commitments.” He pauses for my reaction. All I can do is squint in confusion, and he continues. “A Casual is someone you know is always up for a good time. A girl you can hook up with for a while with no strings attached. Pure fun, no commitment, no feelings.” “Love ’em and leave ’em?” I ask with a frown. He winces at my choice of words, but nods. “Pretty much. Sometimes you hook up for a few weeks, but it’s nothing serious, you know? But these girls don’t mind because that’s not what they want. They’re in it for fun, too.” I nod, getting a decent picture of what he’s talking about…and where he’s going with this. “A Commitment,” he continues, “is the opposite. They’re the ones who deserve and want an actual relationship. They’re the type you ask to be your girlfriend and bring home to meet your parents.” “And where do I fit into these two groups?” I ask, although I already know. “Well…” He clears his throat and runs his hand over the back of his head. “When we did this game, we all agreed you are a Commitment.” Of course I am. I know, call me a traitor to my gender, but while the chauvinistic ranking system sucks, that’s not what annoys me the most. What does is being lumped into the Commitment group. On some level—like deep, deep, deep down—I get that it’s probably a good thing. If a great guy came around who wanted me to be his girlfriend, I’d be all for it. And it’s sweet that the guys supposedly think I deserve a relationship, whatever that means. But really, what I hear Brandon saying is that they all think I’m boring. Unattractive. Not worth the effort. Casuals are obviously the confident, exciting, sexy ones. The kind of girl I wish I was. Brandon plucks his thumb over my pursed lips. “You’re disappointed in me?” “No, not in you.” At his confused look, I explain, feeling the heat of blood rush to my face. “Honestly? I’m annoyed with myself! I know you probably think being in the Commitment group is some sort of compliment—” “It really is—” “—but all I hear is that the Casual group is the fun group. The hot group. The group that guys actually like!” I take a breath and lower my voice. “The type of person I want to be seen as for once.” “Aly, you’re totally missing the point. The group thing is stupid. It’s just a thing we did one night that took on a life of its own. But it’s not real.” Brandon’s quiet for a beat, then he shifts his weight, adding, “And Aly, hotness had nothing to do with what group you were put in.” I roll my eyes, not believing that line of bull for a second, and mentally run down the list of senior girls. The Casuals are easy to spot. Girls like Lauren Hays and even Kara. The girls who not only invented the social order at Fairfield Academy but control it. The ones who will look back at high school and not see a wall of just-a-friend dates and a solitary ex-boyfriend, but a long list of flirtations and adventures. The confident girls. Cheerleaders, dance team members, maybe even a few of the jocks. Just not competitive volleyball players like me. “You okay?” Brandon cups my shoulder and shakes me a little. “Aly, I promise you, the group thing is fucked up, but you being a Commitment is a good thing. Really.” I absently nod in response as a new dimension to Operation Sex Appeal comes into focus. Thanks to my lunchtime run-in with Lauren, I know an external makeover isn’t going to be enough. If I want to get out of the perpetual friend zone and experience how the other half lives, I’m going to need a total life overhaul. I have to get the guys to see me differently, as someone confident, exciting…Casual. But I’ll need proof. The last piece of the puzzle arrives in the form of a handsome face. The holy grail of my quest. The only guy at Fairfield Academy more popular than Brandon, and by far the biggest player. If I can get him to be interested in me and ask me to Homecoming, I’ll know for sure I’ve successfully crossed over into the land of the Casuals—and break the curse of my Wall of Shame. A slow smile creeps up my face. I may not have figured out all the ins and outs yet, but Operation Sex Appeal definitely just got a new finish line. It started with a new wardrobe, and it will end with Justin Carter.
BRANDON
As Aly and I walk down the narrow sidewalk to my truck, I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s still wearing that secret pouty smile of hers, the one that says she’s up to something. It always makes me nervous. For the last hour, she’s been distracted and quiet, which on a normal day is bad enough, but when the topic is volleyball, it’s downright scary. Obviously, telling her about the groups wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. But I had to. When she looked up at me with those watery blue eyes, I had to try to fix it. If I could, I’d make it so Aly never frowned again. She stops at the passenger door, and I step in front to give her a boost. The six-inch lift kit and Super Swamper tires on my F-150 may be necessary for mud riding, but they make it impossible for her to get in by herself. The girl is short. Even with the ridiculous new shoes she’s sporting. Wrapping my hands around her tiny waist, I lift her up and catch a whiff of the familiar sugar-cookie scent clinging to her skin. She scoots across the leather seat, and I watch her black skirt ride up her toned thigh. I don’t know where to look. Or how not to look. Walking into her room earlier, I literally did one of those stupid double takes you see on TV. I’m used to Aly lounging around in baggy clothes and messy ponytails with her only makeup being ChapStick. That Aly I know how to act around. But this one in a short skirt and tight top showing off an impressive rack? This Aly is seriously messing with my head. I clear my throat and look away from her bare legs. “If you’re aiming for attention, that skirt’s a good first step to getting what you want.” Her white teeth sink into her bottom lip, and she glances down. “Is it overkill? Too sexy?” The way she says it, and even just hearing the word come out of her mouth, is just too weird. Smiling at her familiar bout of discomfort, I chuckle and say, “Nah, you’re fine.” I shoot her a wink and close the door, unable to stop myself from laughing as I round the hood. The new clothes threw me, but the overthinking, constantly worrying girl in my truck is definitely the Aly I know. My amusement dies when I yank open the door and Aly nails me with a glare. “People could find me sexy, y’know. Obviously no one we know, but it’s not that outrageous a concept.” Crossing her arms, she sinks lower in her seat, and I cough into my fist to keep from laughing again. She’s so damn cute. The scowl on her face is so out of place that it’s like being annoyed with a grumpy kitten. I like hanging out with Aly for a lot of reasons, but her laid-back attitude is definitely at the top of the list. She’s fun and drama-free. When I’m not accidently offending her, that is. Revving the engine, I glance over and say, “Aly, of course you can be sexy.” Exhibit A: those legs. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t think of you like that.” Or at least I didn’t until you wore that skirt. She makes a sound that’s a cross between a groan and a sigh and shakes her head. “Exactly, and that’s why I’m doing this.” I stop with my hand on the shifter. Seeing the look on my face, Aly throws her head back against the seat. “That came out wrong. It’s not because you don’t think of me that way. It’s that none of the guys at school do.” I reverse out of the driveway, hoping she’ll elaborate, and she twists toward me, tucking her legs under herself. “See, once I had my epiphany about the Wall of Shame, I got this idea. You’re probably going to say it’s stupid, but whatever. I’m just tired of being invisible, Brandon. Of guys always seeing me as a friend. This is senior year. My last shot. If I want the male species to finally find me dateable, I have to do something drastic.” “Drastic?” I ask, waving my hand in her direction. “As in letting Kara turn you into her own life-size Barbie doll?” Aly playfully bats my arm but nods. “Yeah. I’m calling it Operation Sex Appeal.” I cough and look over. Oh, she’s serious. Okay. “And you telling me about that chauvinistic ranking system sealed the deal,” she continues. “Guys see me as a Commitment. I’m too much work, too serious. For once, I want to see what it’s like to be a Casual.” Aly bites her lip in excitement, and I groan. Yep, she totally missed the point. She was supposed to see that her lack of exes isn’t a bad thing. It boils down to respect. Some guys know she deserves more effort than they are willing to give. But clearly, my confession in her room only made things worse. Time for damage control. “So does this mission of yours have an end goal?” I have a feeling that it involves more than just a wardrobe change, and I tighten my grip on the wheel. I can’t help feeling protective of Aly. We practically grew up together. And with a name like Operation Sex Appeal, I can imagine the kind of guys she’ll attract. But Aly’s smart. I’m sure she’s not planning anything too crazy to become this other person. “Well,” she says, scrunching her nose. “Before, it was getting a new look and a new guy by Homecoming. But now, I’m thinking the only way to show I’ve really changed is for that guy to be Justin.” My foot hits the brake, and I swerve to avoid hitting the curb. Waving a hand at the pissed-off driver behind me, I shake my head and clutch the wheel with both fists. “Aly, you can do a hell of a lot better than Justin.” Her voice pitches in confusion. “But I thought Justin was your friend.” “He is.” I take a breath and change lanes. “Which is how I know you can do a lot better.” For some reason, Aly seems surprised, but I have no idea why. She’s seen the girls Justin usually dates. There’s not a chance in hell she can get involved with him and not get her heart broken. And then I’ll have to break something on him. No way. I have to get her focused on someone else. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says, trying to pull down her skirt. With all her fidgeting, it’s ridden up even higher on her tanned thighs. If she keeps dressing like this, she’ll get more than Justin’s attention. “I realized the clothes aren’t going to be enough. Unless I can get everyone to take my transformation seriously, I’m destined to stay invisible and single for the rest of my life. I have to get people to start seeing me differently…” Aly’s voice trails off, and her body stills. She tilts her head to stare at me, and from the prickle on my neck, that can’t be a good sign. I catch her eye before looking back out at the road. “What?” She opens her mouth and closes it. Several times. Then she shakes her head and says, “Nothing. It’s stupid.” After only a few seconds, she continues. “It’s what I said about getting people to see me differently. It reminded me of all those dumb Hollywood movies—you know, where the makeover actually works? But in those movies, it normally takes that one popular guy asking the girl out for the rest of the school to realize how awesome she truly is.” My eyes cut to her, but she’s staring straight ahead. She leans forward and adjusts the air-conditioning vent, refusing to look back in my direction. “I was just thinking, hypothetically, that if you pretended to hook up with me—just pretended—and helped sell the whole Casual thing, that the guys would be more likely to buy it. And then maybe they’ll find me dateable, too.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, she hides her face in her hands. “God, that sounds stupid. It was like I could hear how it sounded out loud and, just…Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’m a dork, and it’s stricken from the record, okay?” Aly squirms in the seat beside me, fidgeting with her fingers, her hair, her skirt, and the neckline of her top. I keep glancing back, hoping she’ll turn toward me so I can see her face, but she’s looking anywhere but in my direction. I’ve seen the dumb movies she’s talking about, mostly with her when it was her turn to pick. They’re dumb because the plots are completely bogus, just like her idea. But I know Aly. She honestly thinks her crazy idea could work. And, though she’ll never admit it now, she was completely serious. Aly is on a mission, and I know from experience she won’t stop until she gets what she wants. Her fierce determination is what I admire most about her. She’s convinced she wants to be a Casual, and nothing I say will change her mind. Hell, I’m the one who put the idea there to begin with. But maybe if I step in and join her in the crazy, it’ll keep wolves like Justin away. “What, exactly, would the pretending involve?” I ask. Her head snaps up, and her jaw drops. “Um, I—I guess it wouldn’t be much different than what we do now. We’d just call it something else. Maybe add holding hands in public or something?” I park in front of Carmela’s and turn off the engine. She’s probably right. Even when I’m going out with someone, I normally see Aly more than the other girl anyway. People always get the wrong idea about us or assume we’re hooking up on the side, so it won’t take much to get them to believe we’re together for real. And with the camping trip starting tomorrow, it’ll be easy to spread it around quickly. Shit, the camping trip. I scrub a hand over my face, picturing a Lauren-sized shadow for four days. “See, it’s stupid, right?” Aly says, her cheeks pink with a blush. “Forget I said anything.” She yanks off her seatbelt and throws open the door. I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “Actually I was thinking it might be nice not to worry about girls for a while.” Her blue eyes flare with hope, and I jump out from my side of the truck. I’m not ready to say yes to her crazy-ass scheme yet, but I’m close. I round the hood, and as I help Aly down, I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. The door to the restaurant opens, and the familiar sound of the mariachi band wafts outside. One of the guys leaving stops to check Aly out, hungry eyes devouring her legs, and she steps back, stumbles in the new shoes, and latches onto my arm. There’s no way I can let her do this alone. Why can’t she see what I do? She’s a Commitment girl, and that’s not a bad thing. I just need to help her realize it. I throw the guy a look to back off and pull her back to my truck. “Look, if you’re serious and you really think this’ll help you get what you want, I’ll do it. We can start telling people tomorrow that we’re hooking up.” Her mouth opens in shock. I reach out and gently close it. Aly blinks and shakes her head as if to clear it. “On your word?” On your word is an expression Aly started using years ago. She normally uses it whenever she knows something is bothering me and I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve never used it because Aly always tells me exactly what’s on her mind. Even when I’d rather she didn’t. “On my word,” I promise, stooping down to look her in the eyes. “If this is important to you, then count me in.” I squeeze her hand and tease, “But when this plan of yours works and you have guys crawling all over you, you better not forget about me, all right?” Aly laughs and jumps up, throwing her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheek, and the scent of sugar cookies fills my head. “Holy cannoli! Brandon, you’re amazing!” She hops down, wobbles, and beams up at me. “And it won’t be for long, I promise. After people buy it and stop seeing me as a Commitment, we’ll just say we’re better off as friends and go back to regularly scheduled programming. Except I’ll be the new confident, Casual Aly.” Her smile widens as she waggles her eyebrows. “And I’ll have Justin Carter to prove it.” My playful smile drops. Yeah, that’s not happening.
7 weeks and 5 days until Homecoming
BRANDON
I open the passenger door and look out at Cypress Lake. The slope of the parking lot gives a clear shot of the water behind the campground, mocking me as I stand on the steaming gravel road. Inhaling a humid breath, I glance at the four large cabins overlooking the lake. They better as hell be air-conditioned. Drew meets me at the back of the truck and pulls down the tailgate. He tosses me a Dr. Pepper from the cooler and then takes one for himself. “Saying goodbye to Sarah was rough.” He takes a long pull off his drink and nods as Adam parks next to us. “Her apartment’s nice, though. And it only took me two hours to get to your house, so there’s that.” He laughs sarcastically and turns back to people-watch. This is why I don’t do relationships. Then I remind myself of what I agreed to last night. A quick survey of the lot doesn’t show Kara’s car. Putting off telling him about the pseudo-hookup a little longer, I say, “It’s only a year, man. You’ll be with her at UT in no time.” “I know. It just sucks. But it’s not like I didn’t know this was coming or anything.” Drew drags a hand across his face and groans. “Get my mind off it,” he says. “Any chance I missed something crazy in the last forty-eight hours?” And there’s my opening. Dammit. I glance at Adam leaned back in his parked car. “Actually, yeah. You could say that.” Drew’s body shifts forward as I take a stalling sip of soda. “Aly and I…” I snap the pop-top from my can and pitch it. “We’re sorta dating now.” “Wait.” His eyes bug out, and he shakes his head as if it’s defective. “Did you just say Aly?” I nod, and the audible gasp from his direction is pretty much the reaction I expected. Guilt hits me like a punch to the gut. Honesty is important to me. Girls always know the score, and friends know where they stand. I don’t have time for lies or liars. But loyalty matters more. If anyone finds out this hookup with Aly isn’t real, she’ll be embarrassed. And I refuse to let Aly get hurt. “We went out last night,” I explain. I start drumming a beat on my legs to give my hands something to do. “We got to talking…and decided to try going out.” I realize the drumming is making me look nervous so I stop. “Just see where it goes and have fun, y’know? No commitment or anything.” My skills in lying suck ass. It’s a good thing I never do it. There’s not a chance in hell Drew, one of my best friends who knows me better than anyone except for Aly, bought any of that. I glance over and wince at the look of pure stupefaction on his face. “You’re serious?” he asks. “Yep,” I say, popping my lips around the word. An eternity seems to pass. It’s probably more like thirty seconds. Dust from the gravel road flies in the air from arriving cars, and I count the sounds of slamming doors. I watch Aly’s ex sitting in his car and wonder if he’s been listening. I steal another look at Drew and brace myself for the call-out. What he says is, “It’s about damn time.” My body goes still, then I jerk my head around, sure I heard him wrong. “Huh?” Drew pushes to his feet, suddenly all smiles. “Dude, Aly’s perfect for you. Call it casual all you want, but the two of you have been in denial for like three years now. Sarah and I had a bet on how long it would take you to wake up, and it looks like I just won.” He shoves my shoulder. “I still feel like shit, but I’m happy for you, man. It’s about time you got your head out of your ass.”
“Gentlemen, I have an announcement.” The second Carlos and Justin enter the room, Drew hops off the top bunk. At this rate, the whole campground will know by dinner. He already told people in the parking lot, including Adam, which was awkward, to be honest, and Lauren, which made it all worth it. And now, without giving the guys a chance to ask what the news is, he announces, “Brandon and Aly are going out.” “Hooking up,” I clarify from my mildew-infested bed. Based on their reactions, it falls on deaf ears. Carlos stops in the center of the cabin. “Say what?” he asks, setting his guitar on the floor. Justin tosses his bag on an empty bunk and sits next to me. “You’re joking, right?” I look him in the eye, then look to Carlos, and feel the blood begin to boil. I’m not really with her, but two of my closest friends acting as if the idea is impossible pisses me off. “And what the hell’s wrong with Aly?” “Nothing, man,” Justin says, throwing his palms in the air. “Aly’s incredible. Hot, too.” He smirks like the cocky son of a bitch he is, and it takes everything in me not to remove it from his face. “But what happened to her being a Commitment? You say you don’t want a relationship, but then go and ask out their damn spokesperson?” Justin glances over at Carlos, who nods in agreement. “What gives?” Behind him, Drew subtly shakes his head. We’ve been friends long enough for him to know me. To sense the anger I keep bottled up raging just beneath the surface. I draw in a slow, controlled breath and let it out. I get what my friends are saying. After my dad died and I saw what that did to my mom, I vowed I’d never fall in love or lose myself in a girl. And other than Justin’s one failed relationship freshman year, he’s always lived by the same creed. Together, we pretty much wrote the book on dating fast and furious, and Carlos is far from a serial monogamist. It’s not that they have anything against Aly, just what me being with her represents. I get it. Their reaction makes sense. And it’s the truth because Aly and I aren’t really together. But I still don’t like it. “You’re right,” I say. “We did decide Aly is a Commitment, but this summer she changed.” Getting through that with a straight face takes a fucking miracle. “She says she just wants to enjoy her senior year and keep things casual. We have fun hanging out, so we decided to go with it and see what happens.” Drew beams like he’s a proud father at a championship game. He’s still not buying the “casual” part. Carlos nods rhythmically, an impressed smile crossing his face, and Justin tugs on his ear, his expression a weird mix of confusion and anger. But it’s clear they all buy the story. I lean my back against the wall and exhale. Carlos leans over and punches my shoulder. “Never would’ve guessed Aly was a closet Casual, but hey, what do I know?” “Yeah, if you know what you’re getting yourself into, that’s great.” Justin gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Aly’s awesome.” “I know.” It’s the first truthful thing I’ve said all day. Justin stands and heads for the door. “I’m gonna go check this place out. I’ll catch y’all later, all right?” He pushes open the door without looking back, and Drew raises his eyebrows. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Justin was jealous. Fine, let him be. But he’s not going anywhere near Aly when this experiment is over. I check my watch, wondering if she’s here yet. If my friends are any indication, this week is going to be interesting.
ALY
Riding in Kara’s car is a little like playing Russian roulette. You know it’s a matter of when—not if—an accident will occur, but you’re betting on it not being today. Or on your side of the vehicle. My head rattles against the passenger-side window as Kara screeches across three lanes of traffic. From the backseat, Gabi screams over the music, “Spill it, girl!” By the time Kara picked me up, after taking forever to pack her five color-coordinated pieces of luggage, we were already running late. But my friends didn’t care. They demanded details. The only way to get Kara driving was by promising to tell all once we got on the road. “Don’t even tell us he didn’t notice the makeover,” Kara says, accelerating through a yellow light. “He’s a guy with two functioning eyeballs. He noticed.” “No, you’re right,” I say, gnawing on my lip. “He did.” Brandon noticed the second he walked through my bedroom door, but not in the way Kara thinks. The big-brother vibe radiated off him all night, and I’m sure his protective Superman persona was the only reason he agreed to our fake hookup. But hey, at least he went for it. Gabi presses her face between our headrests and grins. “So did his tongue hang out? Did he go all googley-eyed? Spill it, girl, because if you don’t, you know I’ll just call Brandon.” The scary thing is I don’t doubt that for a second. I twist in my seat, unable to look at either of them as I tell the lie. I went back and forth all night on if I should tell them the truth. Brandon said it was my call. But I just can’t. Gabi and Kara were cool about my makeover, but pretending a hookup to get guys to notice me sounds like a teen movie gone bad. “Actually Date: 2015-01-11; view: 917
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