Free Pretending to Be Erica by Michelle Painchaud Page A

want?”
    “Lemonade,” Cass calls, fanning herself. The alley is stuffy.
    “I think I’m going to go.” James stands.
    I stand with him. “Home?”
    “Yeah.” He nods, staring at Kerwin. “I’m pretty tired. Thanks for having me, guys.”
    Alex gives him a thumbs-up—the only one to even acknowledge he said anything. Cass and Kerwin don’t look at him.
    “I’m going too.” I grab my purse. Cass straightens.
    “What? Erica! Why?”
    “I’ve gotta get back. Mom wants to do stuff together. It’s been like this since I got home.”
    Merril sighs. “Okay, but call us tonight, yeah?”
    “For sure.” I glance back—James is already at the entrance. I jog to catch up with him. Taylor leans over the counter and grabs at James’s sleeve.
    “What did the populars say? You look fucking angry.”
    “Nothing. I’m fine,” he murmurs to her, and pushes out the doors.
    Taylor sees me and sneers. “You shoulda known better. Bringing him to your popular people get-together? That’s like sticking a fish on the ground and expecting it to run.”
    “I just—”
    “Yeah, you
just
. Didn’t for a second think about his feelings, did you? Selfish bitch.”
    I flinch and rush outside to gulp cold air. “James! Wait up!”
    He slows. “What?”
    “I’m sorry. Whatever Kerwin said to make you want to leave, I’m sorry for it.”
    I follow him to a beat-up Cadillac. It has to be a decade old, at least. The brown paint is worn dull, the inside scattered with music things—a guitar, empty packages of picks, and music books. He unlocks the car and reaches in for a half-finished bottle of soda. He takes a gulp and makes a face.
    “Warm. Disgusting.”
    “I’m sorry,” I try again.
    He shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s me. You’re the only one who doesn’t know. Even transfer boy found out. I guess I should’ve expected it.”
    “Found out what?’
    “If I tell you”—he pours the soda on the cement, the splash loud—“I’ll look pathetic. That’s the last thing I want right now. I’m sort of cool in your eyes, right? At least one percent?” His voice is pleading. I nod. “One percent is good. Let’s keep it at that.”
    “No matter what you tell me—”
    He cuts me off. “You have secrets, right?”
    I freeze, my heart contracting painfully. Yes. A really, really big secret. I have secrets on top of my secrets in order to make my secret look less like a secret. I’m made of secrets.
    “I have a secret too.” He opens the car door. “Everybody in this town knows it, so it’s not much of a secret, but for four days, five days, a week, maybe, I want you to still see me as a pretty cool guy. You’ll find out eventually, and I’ll look like a moron. But for now just stay oblivious, okay?”
    You’ll find out my secret eventually too, James. But by then it’ll be too late.
    “Do you need a ride?” His offer breaks my silence.
    “If it’s okay with you. My house is in Jefferson’s Creek.”
    “Not too far, then. Enter the chariot of fire and grandeur.” He smirks and motions to the passenger seat. I slide in. The car rumbles to life, a massive beast waking from winter hibernation.
    “Sorry about the smell.” He reverses out of the parking spot. “Brought takeout Chinese home last night.”
    I sniff. “I don’t smell anything.”
    “I swear, I’m practically re-eating the beef broccoli every time I breathe in.”
    I laugh. He waits until we hit the freeway to turn music on. It doesn’t so much cover our silence as enhances it. It’s electronic—alternative and sparse with lyrics.
    “I thought you played piano?” I ask. “What’s with the guitar in the back?”
    He tenses.
    I let out a breath. “It’s so obvious when you want to say something that’s hard for you.” He says nothing. “Your shoulders get high, your arms get straighter, and your mouth curls down. Like this.” I make an ugly face. He glances at me and chuckles. There’s a silence the music helps