Page 23 of Lessons in Faking
“And usually, dates aren’t at three o’clock in a college courtyard, to make sure a certain someone would see you.”
Touché.
“Besides,” he added, “this is perfect. It makes sense. I’m your tutor. This”—he gestured back and forth between us—“is a cute, unsuspecting study date. Taking in the last of this year’s sun in front of the library your brother happens to be in for... how much longer, again?”
I shrugged. “Like half an hour.”
“Half an hour,” he echoed, checking his phone for the time and nodding in confirmation. “See? Perfect.”
If there was one thing about Henry, it was that he always followed a schedule. He had since he was fifteen years old, and he stuck to it religiously. It’s what kept him grounded, productive, and on top of his game.In control.And as someone who’d been with him since before his first to-do list, I knew his routine better than my own. Mostly because the only routineIfollowed was Indian takeout onSaturday nights, and even that lacked consistency most weeks.
We lived very different lives, my brother and I. Every second that wasn’t planned out was a wasted one for him. Life was sacred, and having one he could be proud of in ten years’ time seemed to be the most important thing.
I... didn’t quite operate that way. What happened, happened. Life went on regardless of the mistakes you made, regardless of who lived or died. So why invest so much energy into living a perfectly planned-out life when we all end up in a casket?
He’d tried often enough to fix my attitude. Every year, I’d get some kind of planner for my birthday. Once, he’d stolen my iPad password to download one of those calendar apps. The only reason I hadn’t used it was to annoy him.
“You know,” I huffed, attention back on McCarthy and the devil’s testament in his hand. “The only reason I had any motivation to study statistics by myself was to avoid seeing you every Wednesday. Now that I’ll have to see you regardless, what motivation is there?”
I was back to not wanting to even try.What. Was. The. Point?
“Proving me wrong?”
His head tilted slightly as he waited for me to grasp the concept. My eyes narrowed. I continued evaluating the stakes.
“Prove you wrong how?” Suspicion laced my voice.
“I told Shaw you’re a hopeless case. He asked after your...conversationyesterday.”
Oh.
I knew I was a hopeless case. McCarthy knew I was a hopeless case, and Shaw probably thought I was a hopeless case too. But there was a significant difference betweenthinkingandhearing it confirmed by your TA.
“You can’t just—” I wanted to argue, my raised voice faltering at his next words.
“He agreed with me. But that provides you with an amazing opportunity.” I didn’t have to ask what he meant, and he didn’t have to say it out loud again either. A short silence lingered before he did, anyway. “Prove us wrong, Pressley.”
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, but he was onto something. I hated being underestimated as much as the next person, if not more—it’s what growing up with an overachieving brother did, I assumed. So the opportunity to prove McCarthy wrong, to prove Professor Shaw wrong... it was inviting.
So inviting that I actually tried to listen the next time my tutor explained the basics of statistics and what we could do with them. But trying wasn’t doing. That blue Frisbee being thrown into the face of the blond girl who had been exceptionally talkative on the other end of the grass, even before it had hit her in the head, was still more interesting than why we needed a null hypothesis. And the look on my brother’s face when he spotted us half an hour later was still much more satisfying than finally understanding what a null hypothesis was supposed to do.
At one point, even as I tried to listen to what McCarthy was saying, I’d caught myself analyzing the curve in his dimple, the rasp in his voice after he cleared his throat, and how voluminous his hair was. I briefly wondered if he used three-in-one shampoo, though I hoped to God he didn’t.
I’d love to say this sudden detail awareness was nothing to worry about: Everything—everyone—was more interesting than statistics. But there was something in the glances he threw me that made them exhilarating enough to still think about back in the comfort of my own home. And there, he was competing withGilmore Girlsand Wren and good snacks... not the definition of a null hypothesis.
He shouldn’t have still been on my mind, but there he was. Accompanied by the memory of his hopeful look when he asked if I understood something and the faked pout when I deadpanned “No.”
Chapter 12
“No,” Wren insisted. I could tell how hard it was for her. “Athalia Payton Pressley, I’m not going.” My full name was added for dramatic effect. So was the grim look on her face, the crossed arms, and the threatening tone in her voice.
I pointed out the window. “We’re already in the car.” My voice was calm, but stern.
“Because you didn’t tell me where we were going!”
“Because you love going to games!”
Hence why it was so hard for her to say no. She wanted to see HBU kick some ass. She wanted to be in the stands, cheering and booing and trying to explain what was happening to me, who’d been trying my hardest to avoid anything soccer-related since the ripe age of six. Apparently, I’d run out of the room screaming until I was out of earshot whenever Dad and Henry had started talking about it—which had been always.
