Page 1 of Lessons in Faking
Chapter 1
I was sure of exactly three things:
1.Revengeis just another word forjustice.
2. Money does buy happiness.
3. Stay away from Dylan McCarthy Williams or my brother will have me murdered in my sleep.
And how badly did I need this, really?
Technically, I was failing Statistics II, yes. And sure, Professor Shaw said this weekly tutoring thing would be the only way to get through his class, after the midterm I had “completely violated” (his words, not mine).
But let’s face it. Perhaps college just wasn’t my thing. Despite my mother’s reputation, statistics certainly wasn’t. And McCarthy certainly wasn’t either.
His tall frame hovered over a stack of papers, dark brows drawn together as he assessed one of them. Sitting in the small office chair, coffee-colored hair falling intohis features, he hadn’t acknowledged my presence in the doorway. Not after I’d knocked. Not after I’d opened the door. Not after I’d—
“Athalia Payton Pressley,” he drawled, not looking up. My body deflated in sync with the sound of his voice, and he dropped the red pen used to scribble his notes. Somehow, the gesture felt intentionally passive-aggressive. Like he was saying,How dare you interrupt my work?without ever opening his mouth.
“Would you just sit?” he continued. “Or were you planning on staring at me for the entire hour?” His eyes found mine, with a prompting look on his face that made me want to run the other way but instead forced me into the chair opposite his. I crossed one leg over the other, holding the hem of my skirt in place, smoothing a hand down the wool fabric of my long sleeve.
Innocently, I blinked at him. “I was promised Shaw’s best and brightest,” I said, pulling a stack of notes out of my bag. “Have you seen them, by any chance?” With a loud thud, I maneuvered my papers onto the desk and ignored that I had barely half as many as he did.
An unamused huff escaped him, and he reached for the passive-aggressive pen again. The smile on his face clearly said,I’m not here to bullshit back and forth with you; I’m here to ass-kiss for extra credit and a good reputation.It also said,I’d much rather kill you now and live with the consequences than do this.But any threat was hidden behind deep dimples and the words “You can’t really be surprised, can you?”
He gestured to his own frame, down the plain black T-shirt, silver chain disappearing under its neckline. His outfit didn’t necessarily screamstraight A student, but McCarthy’s reputation preceded him, and no, Iwasn’tsurprised. He just didn’t need to know that.
McCarthy was, if nothing else, what my brother hated most in this world. More than strawberry ice cream. (“It’s a sorry excuse of a flavor, Athalia! No, I’m not debating you on this.”) More than Eric (my first boyfriend). More than our dead parents (for... dying?).
There were a few noteworthy reasons, and a couple of hundred less so:
1. McCarthy stole his jersey number.
2. McCarthy stole his spot as team captain.
3. McCarthy stole his girlfriend, Paula, three days after their breakup.
Of course, it was pure coincidence that McCarthy ended up with the number 7 on his jersey, and in the end, their bickering had cost both of them their chance at captaining the Hall Beck soccer team. But Henry Parker Pressley was of the firm belief that McCarthy had been out to get him from the moment they met three years ago.
I didn’t know why, and I didn’t particularly care either. To Henry, all that mattered was that I stood in solidarity with him. So McCarthy was high up on my own metaphorical hit list simply because he was number one on Henry’s.
There wasn’t much history between McCarthy and me. Although my brother didn’t care about much regarding my life, he’d obviously made sure of that. Given what I knew of McCarthy, though—the arrogance, the sarcasm, the general attitude—it seemed Henry had done me a solid. One that didn’t change anything about the fact I was still sitting across from his apparent archnemesis now.
While I usually didn’t mind facing conflict head-on, the thought of asking Professor Shaw for a different tutor was appealing. His office was just next door. I could knock, apologize (for... failing his class?), and promise to get to a passing grade by the end of the semester.
And with anyone else, that might’ve worked, but that man hated me. Shaw wouldn’t be an escape, so my eyes scanned for another out.
Honestly, whoever had chosen the room couldn’t have found a smaller one if they’d triedreally,really hard.
Compared to the vast dining halls of Hall Beck University (in which I’d eaten a total of four times), the massive library on the main campus (that I’d been forced into more often than I would’ve liked), and lecture halls with hundreds of seats (that still ended up completely packed whenever I’d get there, two minutes before a lecture began), this was a broom closet. Crammed into it were a wooden desk full of loose papers, a bookshelf filled with folders of various colors, and a man too large for the chair he sat in.
Behind McCarthy, a window looked out onto one of the courtyards of the university, showing the mild fall weatherof the East Coast. Dust collected in the corners of the glass. The space was too small, too packed for this to end well.
“What makes you think this is a good idea?” I asked.
“It’s not.” McCarthy shrugged, technically agreeing with me.
The thought of the both of us agreeing onanything—even if it was the mere fact that we wouldn’t get along—struck me as odd.
