Page 22 of Lessons in Faking
“You were totally staring at me.” McCarthy bit his bottom lip to keep from breaking into a toothy grin. Apparently, he’d picked up on it too. “Don’t shake your head like that.” He went on. “Athalia Payton Pressley, you weretotallystaring at me,” he said again, dropping the singsong voice.
I mulled over his accusation for a moment. “Stop being a five-year-old, McCarthy.”
He was grinning now.You. Were. Totally. Staring, he mouthed back, then redirected his attention to the notes in front of him. Before I could retort, a knock on the door cut me off.
He did a double take at the clock on the wall—3:00p.m., on the dot—and then sighed. “I’ll email you the details for tomorrow,” he said, handing me my notes back, before raising his voice for a louder “Come in.”
And he did. Over the tip of his long nose, Professor Simon Shaw studied us somewhat curiously. His black hair hung into his features messily, and I almost couldn’t see the way his brows rose when I stood up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, head slowly turning in my direction. Standing still, I was glad he didn’t expect—or at the very least didn’t want to wait for—a response. “If you could fit five minutes with me into your, no doubt, busy schedule, Miss Pressley.” Shaw’s hand extended toward his office, inviting me inside with a snarl.
He didn’t ask me to join him; he expected me to. Even if I’d had the most important appointment of my life inthose five minutes, I still would’ve followed him in without a second thought. A single glance over my shoulder showed McCarthy mouthing a sarcasticgood luckmy way before he closed the door between us.
Professor Shaw’s office was brighter than McCarthy’s. Bigger. And tidier. Though, with the number of times I’d been in here, I wasn’t surprised by that. The chair on the opposite side of his desk looked more comfortable too, but I didn’t get the chance to sit in it.
“There’s no need,” Shaw said when I was about to. “This will be quick.”
So I stood.
“How are you finding your tutoring? Making any progress?”
The urge to throw McCarthy under the bus was huge. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to destroy the flawless reputation he’d built with staff at this school.Even the janitors love himwas what Henry had said once, clearly annoyed by the fact.
Still, despite the golden opportunity, I nodded. McCarthy was doing me a solid, so this was hardly the time to stab him in the back. “Yes, sir,” I muttered. “It’s only been two hours so far, but I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Great.” His mouth dropped into a straight line. “So why did I need to get an email from your brother expecting me to drop these sessions?” My cheeks flushed bright pink before I could stop them. “Expectingme to grant you a free pass?” he snarled with clearly faked curiosity in his voice.
“Professor—” My mouth was dry when I spoke, and I cleared my throat before I could go on—except I didn’t get the chance. Shaw stood behind his chair, squinting at me and making the most uncomfortable eye contact in the history of eye contact.
“Just because your parents have earnedtheirreputation at this school doesn’t mean either of you have, Pressley,” Shaw hissed, his voice still dangerously low. “Just because you’re their daughter and he’s their son doesn’t mean you get to waltz around this school—myclass—and tell me whatyoumight prefer I do.”
He was right, of course. Henry had overstepped massively, overestimated the influence he might have around athletes and coaches as Felix Pressley’s son. He did not have it here, and he should’ve known that before he sent the goddamn email. I could kill him.
For some reason, I still didn’t rat him out. I really wanted to, more than I wanted to throw McCarthy under the bus. But instead of telling him that Henry should be the one in trouble—that it was his idea entirely and he hadn’t even consulted me beforehand—all I said was “I know,” followed by, “It won’t happen again.”
Shaw nodded, his mouth twisting in discontent, despite my words. “It is a shame,” he drawled, studying me. “With all that your mother accomplished in the field, I was excited to hear you’d joined my class last year.” He shook his head in disappointment. Sighed. “It’s a shame you’re not living up to her reputation, Miss Pressley.”
Chapter 11
When I got home that afternoon, the details McCarthy had wanted to email me were waiting in my inbox.
03:12 PM
Pressley,
If you survived Shaw, I’ll meet you in front of the Alexandrian Library tomorrow. Three PM sharp.
Happy Fake-Date Thursday Eve! You better get your hopes up.
Disrespectfully,
D.M. W.
“This?” was the first thing I wondered when McCarthy walked up to me that Thursday. “This is what you had in mind? What I was supposed toget my hopes upfor?” Mytone was disbelieving as I watched him, a copy ofStatistical Interference Iin hand.
“Well, did you?” The corner of his lip quirked at the prospect. As he took a seat beside me, leaving the bench on the opposite side of the picnic table empty, I rolled my eyes.
“Of course not.” I might not know McCarthy well, but I knew him enough to lower my expectations when he suggested I raise them. I shook my head again. “Normally, dates involve a movie, dinner, drinks. Flowers. Not”—I pointed at the one-hundred-pound book now resting on the table between us—“that.”
