Page 11 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
I slap the new bandage on lopsided and wrinkled before opening the text thread. They’re all too frantic for me to figure out why she needs me to come back so badly. The barely functional overhead lights flicker as someone else enters the bathroom, my phone the only source of light for a moment. It buzzes again, the screen shifting down to the latest message.
RED ALERT THEY’RE HERE!!!
Oh sh—
“Hey,” Julian says.
I whip around to face him, letting out an undignified squeak when he takes a step toward me. The sink digs into my lower spine as I press myself as far back as I can. “Hi.” I don’t dare move a muscle.
When it came to pranks, Stella and Henry were the ringleaders. Once she was old enough, Stella became the mastermind and Henry the muscle. Julian was somewhere in between, too timid to be the brain and too weak-willed to be the brawn. He was always more of a distraction, never the main event, luring us out of our safety zone with promises of candy or a chance to get back at one of his siblings. Knowingthe Seo-Cooke playbook, Julian’s probably waiting for the perfect moment to blind me with Silly String so Henry can jump out of one of the stalls and dunk my head in the toilet as payback for hiding his stuff. Doesn’t matter that I didn’t do it myself, so long as someone pays.
Instead, the silence stretches on, and I start to scan the room for a weapon or a way out. I’m considering the merits of sacrificing my phone by throwing it at Julian’s head when he finally speaks up again.
He nods toward my rolled-up sleeve. “Is your arm okay?”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Awesome.” His eyes widen. “I mean, it’s not awesome that you got cut with glass. Awesome that you’re not really hurt.”
“Right…” I nod slowly, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing second. I don’t like closed, locked spaces, I don’t like Julian, and I especially don’t like closed, locked spaces with Julian.
What little I can see of him in the glow of the single working light bulb floors me as much as it did in the grocery store. Full lips and fuller hair. Skin so smooth he must have skipped the acne phase of puberty. There should be a law against awful people being this attractive.
“I like the nose ring,” Julian says with pinkened cheeks and a sheepish smile, like we’re old friends catching up over coffee.
“It’s infected.”
“Oh…That sucks.” His smile falters, his cheeks nearly the same shade as his maroon lacrosse polo. “It doesn’t look like it’s infected, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t.”
My reply leaves Julian flustered enough that I can attempt to escape.
“I…I actually…I…uh—” While Julian’s busy tripping over his words and avoiding my eyes, I bolt past him.
I rush through the maze of tables and chairs as quickly as I can, checking over my shoulder to make sure Julian isn’t following me. There’s no sign of him when I’m a few feet from our booth, turning back around seconds before walking right into the worst Seo-Cooke.
“The man himself!” Mr. Cooke slaps me on the back so hard I hiccup.
Maya looks ready to kill, breaking her glare long enough to give me a sympathetic shrug. At least she tried to warn me. Dad, on the other hand, is flashing the brightest megawatt smile he can, continuing their conversation as soon as I slide into our booth.
“Dev is a freshman at CalArts,” he says far louder than he has to, clearly trying to one-up Mr. Cooke. “Top of his class already!”
Not exactly, but sure.
“CalArts, very impressive.” Mr. Cooke gives me the world’s stiffest fist bump. “Julian’s headed off to Princeton next fall. Thank God for affirmative action, am I right?” he says with a hearty chuckle.
Well, that confirms it. The only thing that’s changed about Mr. Cooke is his hairline.
“Me and the boys were having some drinks at the club last weekend and my buddy who works down at the realty office mentioned you were thinking about putting your place up for sale?”
Mr. Cooke knowing this much about our financial situation is unnerving, yet not surprising. There may not be many people in Lake Andreas left, but they’re still as up in each other’s business as ever. Telling one person a secret means you’ve told half the town. One year, Mami headed home early to fix a tooth she’d chipped on a stale cookie, and everyone and their mother showed up on our front porch to wish her well.
Dad stiffens, his back ramrod straight. “We’ve floated around the idea,” he replies with a noncommittal shrug. “The kids are in college now or close to it, so doesn’t make total sense to hold on to the cabin anymore.”
Mr. Cooke nods and rubs his chin thoughtfully—or nefariously, depending on how you look at it. “Of course. Shame, though. He mentioned how close you were to paying off that mortgage too.”
That catches us off guard, our entire table biting back a gawk or a gasp. Isanythingconsidered private in this town?
