Page 3 of Lessons in Faking
If there was one thing worse than McCarthy’s presence, though, it was the wrath of a certain Professor Simon Shaw.
My brother would understand. He’d have to.
Chapter 2
I heard my best friend before I saw her.
The rattling of her crowded keychain when she opened the door to our shared loft on the edge of campus. The thudding of her rushed steps, only briefly interrupted as she kicked off her shoes by the door. And finally, “You can’t be serious.” Her tone clipped and annoyed as she rounded the corner into the open kitchen.
“Dead serious.”
Wren frowned, and the grocery-filled tote bag slipped out of her hand.
“No,” she insisted, even though the string of text messages she’d received as soon as I left McCarthy’s office were quite clear.
“Yes.”
“McCarthy?”
I nodded again.
She let go of the deep breath she must’ve been holding for a while, blowing strands of short, split-dyed hair outof her face in the process. The black and white of either side of her hair parted in the middle and barely reached her shoulders; the color was a DIY project from way before we’d known each other.
“You should’ve seen his face,” I groaned, jumping off the stool to help her put the groceries away.
“I’d rather not.”
“It was justso—” I struggled to find words that would describe the mix of arrogance, confidence, and smugness. “As if his ego isn’t big enough as it is,” I continued, opening the fridge a little too forcefully. “Now I’m stroking it every time I accidentally learn something from him, which is supposed to be the point of the whole thing, right? Thanks to him, it’s the only thing I don’t want to do now.” I closed the fridge with a thud.
Wren gave me her best attempt at a sympathetic smile, which meant her nose twitched and she grimaced more than smiled. But I got the message and slumped back onto the stool.
“I doubt he’d be able to teach you anything to begin with,” Wren muttered. There was another twitch of her nose, then a sigh—a sound filled with both pity and determination. She turned toward me again. “I’m sure I could pick up statistics in a heartbeat,” she said. “I’ll be your tutor. Fuck McCarthy.”
A low, almost defeated laugh rattled through me.
“I’m serious,” she added, sounding convinced.
For a second, I let myself imagine it. Wren in that office chair opposite me. Wren asking me questions I didn’t knowthe answers to. And asking me again and again, until I eventually did. No McCarthy in sight. It was beautiful, almost utopian.
“I know.” I dragged the last word out, sounding almost whiny. “Which is why the offer is so terribly inviting.” She crossed her arms, revealing the stick-and-poke tattoo of a knife along the side of her hand—the result of our procrastination during summer exams last year.
Okay, so?her expression asked, prompting me to go on.
“But I cannot possibly in good conscience steal that much of your time. Again.”
Wren Inkwood was the kind of friend who accompanied you to every party, despite the fact that she didn’t like to drink and she did not like people. She was the kind to beat up your boyfriend when she’d found him cheating on you—before even telling you he had. The kind to take you home for Thanksgiving, despite only knowing you for ten weeks.
And because she was clearly the “above-and-beyond” kind of friend, and I was the “average-at-best” kind, I wanted to take less and give more. I wanted to be there for her instead of the other way around. Which is why I was persistent in my stance.
“You can’t be serious, Athalia.”
“I am.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
The knock on our front door felt like my saving grace—a way to get out of an argument before it had reallyeven started. Though once I was greeted by the less-than-pleased expression on my twin’s face, I immediately missed the childish back and forth with Wren, who disappeared into her room.
