Page 7 of The Fine Art of Faking It
Ferguson’s face was the color of the Harvard beets he was so fond of.
“I just got off of the phone with Enid Macklemore. You know what she told me?”
Davis rocked back on his heels. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the HeHa Dance,” he hedged.
“She said that that mousy little Moody girlasked you to the dance.”
“Ferguson, your blood pressure,” Tilly reminded him.
“Dad, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Not a big deal?She’s planning to humiliate you. It’s all a joke. Even her parents are in on it,” Ferguson shouted.
“Which is why, I’ve arranged for Davis to escort Taneisha next-door,” Tilly said, smoothly inserting herself into the conversation.
Davis whirled around. “Wait. What? And you did what?”
Tilly glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re picking her up in fifteen minutes.”
“No. I’m not.” It was the first time he’d defied his parents. They both looked at him with open mouths.
“What did you say?” His dad was working himself up to a full on hollering fit.
“Taneisha doesn’t have a date and your date was an abomination,” Davis’s mother said primly. “She was just doing it to hurt you!”
Eden wouldn’t do that. He knew she wouldn’t. He’d spent the last year and a half getting to know her between classes. She might be gothy, but she was nice. Sincere. Cool. And he’d never once seen her go out of her way to hurt anyone… except for Pond Birkbeck.
“Davis, have your mother or I ever lied to you?”
He rocked back on his heels. “What about Santa Claus?”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Ferguson exploded. “We said we were sorry about that.”
“I wasninewhen Beckett Pierce finally told me the truth.”
“Eden was going to humiliate you tonight,” Tilly insisted. “We’re doing this because we love you. I’m not letting that family play with your feelings like that!”
“She’s not like that. I really like her, Mom.” It was the wrong thing to say. His parents launched into a litany of complaints that spanned a good forty years. All the wrongs the Moodys had committed against their family.
While they one upped each other with allegations, Davis ducked into the kitchen and dialed Eden’s number. He’d memorized it from a Business Club phone tree his junior year but had never had an excuse to call her before.
“Moody residence,” a man chirped on the other end. “Ned speaking.”
Davis plugged a finger into his ear to block out his parents. “May I speak to Eden, please… sir?”
“She’s unavailable right now. She’s getting ready for her date with... Buttercup, who did Eden say she’s going to the dance with?”
“Jordan Catalano.”
“Right. That Catalano boy.”
Davis didn’t know anyone in school by that name. All he knew was that was not his name. Had she given her parents a decoy date? Or was his mother right? Was Eden planning some kind of spectacular humiliation for him? His stomach dropped. He needed to find out.
“If you could just tell her Davis is on the phone—”
“Davis? As in Davis Gates the demon spawn of Ferguson and Tilly Nuswing-Gates?” Ned Moody shrieked.
“What does he want?” Buttercup—presumably Eden’s mother, Lily Ann—shrilled in the background.
