The Truth About Faking

toward Trent. “Really, I’m fine.”
    “I can drive her to the doctor,” Shelly said. I tried to give her my most discouraging look. Just then Stephanie joined the mob.
    “What’s up? Harley? Are you okay?”
    “We’re taking her to Coach Taylor,” Shelly said.
    “What happened?”
    “Harley might have a concussion,” David said like it was the most exciting thing to happen all summer.
    David was distracted by Stephanie, and I leaned on Trent’s arm. He caught my waist again and smiled, and everything turned perfect. The humiliation of tryouts, the humiliation of being beaned in the head with a basketball, none of it mattered as I stood there with Trent’s arm tight around me. Until Coach Taylor showed up and ruined it. She took me away and led me to the bleachers. Then she started shining her tiny flashlight in my eyes.
    “Do you feel sleepy? Like you might vomit?”
    Nice . I shook my head, and David started bouncing the dumb ball again. Coach Taylor shouted for all the boys to get back outside and told me to sit where she could keep her eye on me. I watched the guys leave, and just as Trent was going through the door, he stopped and glanced back. It was because he wanted to stay with me, I was sure, and I tried to catch his eye. David shoved him through the opening before he saw me, and I sighed, turning back to the court. Stephanie was watching, but she quickly flicked her attention back to her sheet and called the next name.
    As I rested on the 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.