The Truth About Faking Read Free Page B

bleachers, everything felt sort of soft and glowy. It seemed like music was playing somewhere—and not because of my head injury. It was because I knew Trent was The One, my hero. I tried to remember if I’d thanked him, but it didn’t matter. I was sure he’d ask me out.
    A week later we all started junior year, and the next time I saw Trent, he was walking down the hall holding hands with Stephanie.
    I press my lips together and come back to the present. Stephanie dumped Trent right after the Valentine’s dance last month (so cold!), and ever since I’ve been waiting, carefully planning my approach.
    Operation Luau begins with me giving him time to get over her. It also involves observation and strategic moves. Trent and I have the same algebra teacher this year, only at different times, so every day I’ve been running straight to class after second period and “accidentally” bumping into him as he leaves. He always holds the door for me, and then I smile, and then he smiles. Sometimes he asks about my head and we laugh, although I wish we could forget that part.
    I’ve also been observing his taste when it comes to girls, and I’ve noted he has a picture of this blonde actress in his locker with her hair all braided in some Greek-goddess way. She’s also wearing this long, white gown that would never work at school, although prom is a definite possibility. Response: I’ve been sporting fancy braid-designs in my hair every day for a month, and I just bought the perfect dress—it’s flowy, but short and blue to match my eyes (bonus!). And here we are.
    Shelly just confirmed he’s interested, or was. Tomorrow I’ll get Mom to braid my hair, I’ve got the dress, and I’ll be wearing my best “ask me to the luau” face when I see him after second period.
    Once I get past the wrecked Denali.

Two
     
     
    I plan out my speech as I walk to the kitchen. It wasn’t my fault, after all. There’s no reason why I should be grounded or anything. I wasn’t texting while driving or doing something dangerous like that.
    My mom’s massage-therapy student Ricky greets me when I get there, and I frown. Problem number two.
    Since Mom graduated from the college in Glennville, every semester they send her a senior to help get hands-on training before graduation. Only this time she got the same student twice in a row.
    “What’s up, kiddo?” Ricky asks.
    “Not much,” I say, grabbing an orange from the bowl. “What’s Mom doing?”
    “Dispensing herbal wisdom,” he says like he’s reading a textbook.
    Mom’s in her office-slash-yoga room with Mrs. Bender of all people, and I can hear her saying L-Glutamine and colonic massage.
    My nose wrinkles. “Gross. What’re they talking about?”
    “I don’t want to know,” he grins.
    I drop into a chair and lean my head on my hand as I watch him dump white powder into the blender followed by a banana, thick orange syrup and ice. Ricky’s super-hot in a Men’s Health cover-boy kind of way. He’s 23, and he likes wearing clothes that show off his well-toned body. He’s also got a majorly obvious crush on my mom. He follows her around, hanging on her every word, and it’s so inappropriate. Especially since he didn’t graduate in December.
    “What are you making?” I ask.
    “Whey protein shake,” he says. Then he walks over to me and slides the band out of my hair, raking his fingers through it. “Gorgeous. And you’ve never put anything in it?”
    “You’ve met my dad, right?” I like reminding him of my dad, who happens to have the same platinum-blonde hair as me and clear blue eyes.
    “Yes, but with your mom’s coloring… It’ll probably turn after you have babies.”
    “Don’t be gross,” I frown, pulling my hair back in the band again. Massage therapists are so earthy.
    Just then Mom walks into the room escorting Mrs. Bender to the door. She’s using what I refer to as her honey voice—soothing and sweet, it makes you feel all relaxed and