Free The Fine Art of Pretending by Rachel Harris

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,