Fake Read online

  A splash of a girl’s red skirt as she leans against a gray locker door catches my eye. Then I focus in on the pale face of another girl, chewing her bottom lip anxiously as she rushes off down the hall. And far down by the lockers, coming my direction with the afternoon sun haloing his bright red hair, Owen walks toward me. He lifts one hand in greeting and I nod in his direction.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and we head to the parking lot.

  Owen takes forever to put on his seat belt—clicking the buckle in and out several times, adjusting the strap over his shoulder, and moving the seat up and back. I try to be patient, but I know the next phase of adjustments will begin after I pull out of the parking space. Air vents. Radio. Removing any specks of dust from the dashboard.

  I sigh heavily, my shoulders slumping.

  Surprisingly, Owen must have finally felt my mood, because he says, “You’re unhappy.”

  “Duh.”

  “Because … ?” His voice trails off. He truly doesn’t know.

  I start the car. “Never mind.”

  “I’d tell you a chemistry joke, but I know I wouldn’t get a reaction.”

  “Just stop.” I shut him down, backing out of the parking space. “I can’t even with the jokes right now.”

  I feel bad as soon as I say it. An uneasy silence descends on the car—a sure sign of Owen’s hurt feelings. I should say I’m sorry. It might seem like he’s impervious to my snippiness, but I’ve learned over the years that he’s not. Instead, I concentrate on making it out of the student parking lot alive and without causing harm to another human being. A daily game.

  As usual, there’s a line of eager cars waiting to escape. A constant stream of kids squeeze between the bumpers and hoods, ignoring honks and yells. I pull in sideways behind a yellow Volkswagen, barely avoiding a curvy, auburn-haired girl carrying a huge poster that reads VOTE FOR SKYE FOR STUDENT COUNCIL.

  “Hey.” The girl holds her hand out in alarm over the top of my hood, almost dropping the poster. “Look out!”

  “Watch where you’re going,” I mutter under my breath, but I let her go before inching up in the line. I glance over at the passenger seat. Owen isn’t the cause of my bad mood. Besides, on most days, Owen is the only person I actually talk to in school, except when I have to answer questions in class. I can’t lose that.

  This joke thing will pass. Last month it was all things pi. At the end of the month, Owen was bummed that he could only recite pi to the 153rd decimal place. The record apparently belongs to the guy who could recite pi to the 67,890th decimal place. I should probably be happy Owen’s telling jokes now instead of chanting out numbers.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly.

  “It’s okay.” Owen has the tiniest of smiles on his face, his hair falling down over one eye, and he looks adorable. “You don’t have to get it. Humor varies from person to person.”

  I wish I could say Owen and I became friends because I was nice to even the weirdest people in middle school, but that wouldn’t necessarily be the case. There were two main reasons, and both were selfish on my part. My best friend since kindergarten, Louise Yang, had just transferred to a middle school across town, and the middle school elite had just discovered my second-best friend, Dezirea Davis.

  Yes, that Dezirea.

  I was left alone to fend for myself in the most cruel social setting in the known world—the school cafeteria. To make matters worse, I was on a diet where I ate all these assortments of weirdly portioned prepackaged foods that I faithfully took in my backpack every day for six months. This diet fell between the Protein Smoothie Diet and the Cabbage Soup Diet. There were always diets.

  With this particular diet, I added boiling water to fake macaroni and it made a sort of pasty orange concoction. There was a tiny package of “potato chips” that contained four round circles of crunchy air and a miniscule spoonful of protein “chocolate pudding” that tasted like shredded cardboard. It seemed like a good idea to sit by someone who was eating something weirder than me. Owen never asked me about the faux chocolate pudding and I never asked him about the Froot Loops. It worked for us. It still does.

  Now Owen busies himself with adjusting the vents and I concentrate on the traffic. When it’s finally my turn to leave the lot, I pull out onto the road in front of the school and face the next wave of obstacles. We pass two benches overflowing with kids, book bags, various musical instruments, and sports equipment. It is like each of them have assigned seats, and the closer the bench is to the front doors of the school, the higher the rank. Nobody changes places. I can name every person sitting on, or huddled around, every bench and tomorrow they will all be there again. Once the weather gets colder, they’ll move inside or congregate in a nearby coffee shop.

  Before we make the right turn and leave the school grounds behind us, there is one final bench. It faces the mountains in the distance and away from the school, so it is an unappealing choice for all those wanting to see and be seen. Owen calls it the Thinking Bench. It has a bent leg on one side that makes it tilt so badly anyone could slide right off on those days the wind comes whipping down out of the mountains. If you look closely, there is a small drawing of tiny colored circles on the seat. Printed above the sketch, in black block letters, are the words Froot Loops. It’s ours.

  Evidently, no one told Grace Spencer the bench is reserved for Froot Loops or, more likely, she just doesn’t care. Sitting there alone, backpack by her side, her feet swing restlessly above the ground like she’s a child in a too-big chair. The air has a touch of the Colorado winter that is surely coming, but it isn’t yet cold enough for even a thick sweater. Even so, I think her bare toes are probably a little chilly in those sandals. I wonder what Grace would do if we just passed her by and kept going. Would she eventually walk the two miles to our neighborhood?

  “Are you going to pick her up?” Owen asks.

  “Don’t I always?” I mutter grouchily. I pull the car over to the curb and stop in front of the bench. Owen rolls down the window. Grace appears almost instantly, her smile warm and sweet as always.

  “Would you like a ride?” Owen asks formally, just like he has done every day since Grace appeared on the bench.

  Isn’t it obvious? Back in September, I thought it was going to be a one-time thing because her mom’s car was in the shop, but I was wrong.

  Grace opens the door behind Owen and climbs in the back seat. “Thank you.”

  Grace always says thank you. She believes in gratitude and a whole bunch of other stuff that we don’t talk about all that much. Okay, maybe I don’t talk to her about it very much, but Grace talks about it a lot.

  She talks about everything a lot.

  Grace started at Fort Collins High School at the end of last year. Before that she went to a private Christian school, so I didn’t know her. Most people are nervous on their first day in a new school, but Grace didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Not by me or Owen or Dezirea or anyone. She just walked right over to the Froot Loop table and sat down with me and Owen. With her messy blonde curls and perky smile, it was hard to ignore her. Then she pulled out a brown paper sack and offered us each an English cucumber and dill sandwich. They were cut in tiny diamond shapes without any crusts.

  “I got the recipe from the internet based on high tea they served at the Queen of England’s summer home,” she said.

  “Are you British?” I asked doubtfully. If she was, she certainly didn’t have the right accent.

  “No. I just like to cook and stuff.”

  I looked at the tiny sandwiches and Owen immediately took one.

  Grace glanced over at Dezirea, sitting at the table by the windows. “Do you think she’d like one, too?”

  I was so shocked at her nerve, I couldn’t even get my answer out in time. Grace walked over to Dezirea and I watched, terrified. But Dezirea took the sandwich, bit into it eagerly, and then nodded along to Grace’s animated explanation. I couldn’t hear a word they said to each other, but pretty soo
n Grace came back and quietly slipped onto the bench beside Owen.

  “What did she say?” I asked breathlessly.

  “She liked it.” Grace took a big bite of one tiny sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I think I’ll try making scones next week.”

  And she did. They were blueberry. And she brought a little container full of clotted cream to go on top. After that, Grace sat with us every day, usually bringing a sample from some new recipe. She didn’t seem to care that her social inclinations and sheer audacity could potentially score her a better table with a higher popularity ranking.

  Now the car door barely shuts before she starts talking. Unlike Owen, Grace knows exactly why I’m upset.

  “Being Jesse Santos’s lab partner doesn’t have to be a negative thing,” she says. “It might be an opportunity to cleanse the bad feelings between you two.”

  Grace isn’t even in our chemistry class, but somehow she knows this latest news. Grace knows everything about everyone. Lots and lots of random things. It’s been that way ever since she started at our school. People tell her things about themselves. I don’t know why. I think it’s something about the way she tilts her head, furrows her brow, and just waits for people to talk. And they do. Like Camila once told her she’s inexplicably anxious every time she’s in a car that makes a left turn. And Leah told her she has a crush on Hunter Inwood even though Hunter is very clear that he’s not into girls. And now here I am, talking to Grace about Jesse.

  “Yeah,” I say sarcastically, easing back out onto the road. “I’ll just take a shower and wash off his superiority complex.” Like it’s that easy.

  “I hear you.” Grace plays with her messy ponytail. “But don’t even pay any attention to that stupid meme that’s going around.”

  I frown, stopping at a red light. “What meme?”

  “Oh,” she says awkwardly. “Forget it.”

  “No,” I insist, reaching back for her phone, which she clutches in her hands. “Is it on ChitChat?”

  Grace silently holds her phone out for me to see. The meme is on Jesse’s ChitChat page; he’s tagged in it, but I don’t know who shared it. It doesn’t matter. It’s a Boomerang of me climbing onto the lab stool beside Jesse. Over and over again, I clumsily perch on the too-small seat of the stool, my body spilling out over the sides. If that wasn’t bad enough, there’s Jesse’s reaction shot: looking directly into the camera. So horrified. So repulsed. The caption reads “Jesse’s new LIFE partner.” My throat constricts. Just by existing, by sitting, by walking—I am a target. I am reminded once again of how people view me. My body is a huge sign that reads KICK ME every day of my life.

  Shame burns through me, but this time I’m not going down without a fight. My resolve to pay Jesse Santos back for everything he’s ever done to me hardens in my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says. “Just so you know, I have faith in you. You’re stronger than all of this.”

  Owen doesn’t look at the video, but the smile is gone from his face.

  I shrug, handing back Grace’s phone. “I’m not going to be a helpful lab partner,” I explain, driving ahead. “I can sabatoge him. If Jesse fails chemistry, then he’s out of football. You know that, right? As his partner, I can take away the one thing that matters most to him.”

  “If you are his partner, you will fail chemistry, too.” Owen doesn’t even look up from the book he just pulled out of his backpack. As usual, he is all about logic.

  “It’d be worth it,” I mumble under my breath, but he’s right. My lame attempt at retribution would only hurt myself.

  “Keeping anger inside just hurts your heart.” Grace moves her backpack to the other side of the car and slides up between the seats until her freckled, makeup-free face fills the rearview mirror. Her cheerful smile looks even more ridiculous close up. “Honestly, Maisie. Let it go.”

  How about I let you go at the next stop sign?

  I don’t want to hear Grace’s thoughts on love and forgiveness. Especially when it comes to Jesse Santos. If she didn’t practice what she preached so much, I’d pull the car over and kick her to the curb. But God knows, she’s let a lot go with me. More times than I can count.

  “You can’t force someone to let go of something, as much as you think they should,” I tell Grace. “You don’t understand.” The scowl on my face grows, but I keep my eyes on the road. “The meme isn’t even the worst of it.”

  “So tell me,” she says calmly.

  To my surprise, I do. “On my first day of high school, the seniors in student council taped signs to all the freshman lockers welcoming new students to the school. It was supposed to be a positive Collins Culture thing. Natalie Vincent, the senior class president and super overachiever, even went so far as to personalize the messages with each freshman’s name.”

  “That sounds nice,” Grace says.

  The memories rush back. “I can’t lie,” I say. “Those silly little notes gave me hope things would be different from middle school. More grown-up. More mature.”

  Owen nods, remembering with me. “My message said ‘Welcome, Owen! Fort Collins High School is glad you’re here.’ And there was a tiny-sized candy bar stashed inside my locker.”

  A special treat for a new day. I still remember the look on his face when he saw me from three lockers down, wearing that proud little grin.

  “My locker was on the top row,” I say. “Taped on the front was my special message: ‘Welcome, Maisie! Fort Collins High School is glad you’re here.’ ”

  I don’t look at Grace in the mirror. Instead, I just keep talking. “I spun the lock, glanced around, and opened the door. And cereal poured onto my face like an avalanche.”

  I remember it so clearly. That avalanche of sugar-coated tiny Hula-Hoops.

  Grace’s gasp is audible from the back seat.

  “It was everywhere, suffocating me,” I go on, my throat tight. “In my hair. Down my shirt. Onto the floor. And under the feet of everyone running around trying to find their classes on the first day of school. It just kept coming and coming, until finally there was just a little pile of Froot Loops left inside my locker.”

  Just the facts. Don’t tell her how you felt. Keep that part to yourself.

  That day—my very first day of high school—it felt like the world was crashing down on my head in candy-coated slivers of hate and there was nothing I could ever do to dig out of the mess. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Instead, I stood there in shock, trying to take it in. All conversation in the crowded hallway stopped and everyone stared at the girl covered in cereal. Gasps of surprise were quickly followed by laughter. I thought I was going to be sick.

  My feet crunched the Froot Loops into a bigger mess with every step. My foot slipped and I stumbled.

  Just get out.

  My eyes darted around desperately for some escape and then focused on one laughing face in the crowd. Just one.

  “Jesse Santos did it,” I tell Grace now, remembering how his eyes met mine and how he stopped laughing, but the smile never left his face. He enjoyed it. “It was just a stupid prank to him. Some sort of act of revenge.”

  “For what happened in middle school,” Owen fills in. “In the cafeteria.” I nod. Grace knows that story.

  “I realize being submerged by a locker full of Froot Loops isn’t the worst thing that could happen to someone,” I say. “Not by a long shot. But it … stayed with me.”

  It took forever to get the Froot Loops out of my locker, and out of my hair and clothes and books. And each little fragment of cereal was a reminder of why I hated Jesse Santos. And to this day, whenever I open my locker, I cringe a little, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says quietly.

  I stomp on the brakes to avoid a soccer ball and then again for a guy and girl who step out into the road holding hands. So enamored with each other, they don’t even look in my direction. A gust of wind scatters leaves into a swirl of color across the gray concrete and I wait impatiently while
the couple wanders slowly to the other side of the street. The trees at the edge of the road are just turning brilliant reds and yellows, stark against the foothills. Fall used to be my favorite time of the year—full of new beginnings and potential. Now it just means the cold is coming.

  There is a brief silence in the car. Unable to stand it, Grace breaks it after only a few seconds.

  “Okay, change of subject. Let’s forget about all this negative stuff. I have just the remedy. You won’t believe what I heard today in homeroom.” She stops and waits with a tiny smile for me to take the bait.

  After a short pause and a right turn onto Timberline Drive, I do. “What?”

  “Guess who might be coming to Fort Collins High School for homecoming?” Grace is obviously pleased with herself.

  This year will be Fort Collins High School’s fiftieth anniversary and there is a huge celebration planned for homecoming. Rumors have been flying about the identity of a surprise special guest—an alumnus of our school. I don’t give Grace the satisfaction of a response, but my mind starts to buzz. Could it be the girl who became an astronaut? Or the gorgeous homecoming king from a few years ago who is now some kind of hotshot sports agent?

  “Only your favorite person of all time!” Grace announces triumphantly. She definitely has my attention now.

  “Lexi Singh?” I can barely whisper the name.

  Grace nods enthusiastically. “Yep.”

  This even catches Owen’s attention. “Seriously?”

  Lexi Singh is not just my favorite person. She is my hero. She’s the creator and illustrator of the popular Nosy Parker graphic novel series, which is like a mash-up of Gossip Girl meets Wonder Woman meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The series was adapted into a TV show, and it’s what everyone is watching and posting about right now. All of Lexi’s characters—especially the girls—are independent and powerful.