Page 19 of This Time It's Real
“Um, pretty much all of it,” I say in a rush, as if this might make the situation less embarrassing. “I mean, I was the one whowroteit, but . . . there is no boyfriend. There’s not even a boy. It’s just—the personal essay assignment was due, and I didn’t know who to write about, so I kind of panicked and—”
“Made something up?” he finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “Yes.”
He nods once. Looks away. At first I’m scared I’ve upset him—maybe he’s one of those students who’s super serious about academic integrity or something, in which case I’m screwed—but then he presses one hand to his mouth, and I realize he’s trying not to laugh.
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.
“It’s not funny,” I protest, crossing my arms. “This is a—a major . . .”
He points to the slide title. “A predicament?”
“Yes. Now stop finishing my sentences,” I tell him, annoyed. “Andstop laughing at me.”
“All right, all right.” He straightens and composes his features with impressive speed, all remaining traces of humor wiped clean from his face. No wonder he’s a professional actor. “So let me get this straight: Now everyone’s rooting for you and this made-up relationship, and you want me to pretend to be the boyfriend from your essay until everything dies down. Is that it?”
I open my mouth to respond when the warning bell rings, a harsh, shrill sound that cuts through the closed door. Within seconds, loud footsteps and voices and laughter spill out into the halls, about two hundred teenagers talking at once, accompanied by the slamming of lockers, the snap and thud of books. The sound of people drawing closer.Crap.I only have ten minutes before the final bell goes off. “Look, whatever. The point is, if you agree to do this with me, you’ll be benefiting from it too. I’ll help you out with your college essays, for one—”
“Hold up.” He raises a hand, very narrowly avoiding knocking over a bottle of cleaning spray. His brows furrow, the first crack in his cavalier demeanor. His voice is careful, controlled, when he asks, “Who said I needed help with my college essays?”
“Um . . . You did. On the phone the other day. During the parent-teacher interviews . . .”
“Right,” he says dryly, though there’s an undercurrent of tension to it. Frustration. “From that private conversation you weren’t listening to.”
There’s no dignified way to reply to this, so I just give him a small, sheepish smile and pray he’ll let this particular detail drop. Of course he does not.
“I don’t recall mentioning anything about gettinghelp,though,” he says, his chin jutting forward, dark eyes flashing. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“Not, like, explicitly. But it seemed a pretty pressing issue and also—don’t take this the wrong way or anything—but I’ve read your usual essays for English when we’ve done those peer-evaluation things. And I’m not saying your work isn’t, um,good, but if you’re really hoping to impress the admissions team, some help definitely wouldn’t hurt.”
His voice is completely aloof when he says, “You know, for someone who claims to not be my fan, you sure know a lot about me.”
“Not by choice,” I retort. “You’re kind of everywhere.”
This comes out way more resentful than I meant, and I quickly backpedal, aware of the most basic business principle: Don’t insult the person you’re trying to loop into a deal. “Look, it’s not just the essays you’ll be getting. It’s also good publicity for you. I mean, if you look at the comments”—I nod toward the last slide—“ people are already in love with you, just based on my very flattering descriptions of my supposed boyfriend. And who doesn’t love the idea of a famous, swoon-worthy actor dating a non-celebrity writer from his own year level? It’s perfect fairytale-slash-magazine material. Plus, after your awards ceremony scandal—”
Something flickers over his features. “How . . . did you know about that?”
“This is a thoroughly researched proposal,” I explain, though I feel an annoying rush of heat. Now he’s probably picturing me googling him, whichcan’tbe good for his already-inflated ego. “And thanks to my research, I’m confident that this could help clear up the backlash. Everyone will know from my essays that you’reexactlyas sweet and considerate as they’d fantasized about. So?” I stop to take a breath. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at me, his chin still slightly raised as if in self-defense, the lines of his body pulled taut.
Please say yes, I pray inside my head. My heart is thudding so hard against my ribs I’m scared he can hear it.Please, please say you’ll go along with this.
“Hmm” is all he says, poker face perfectly in place. “So this fake relationship—”
I glance pointedly at the PowerPoint.
“Sorry,” Caz says with a little mock bow, and reads off the first slide, “ThisStrategic, Mutually Beneficial and Romantically Oriented Alliance to Help Further Our Respective Careers—”
“S.M.B.R.O.A.H.F.O.R.C. for short,” I offer.
“Yeah, uh, I don’t think that’s shorter,” Caz tells me. Clears his throat. “I mean, there are definitely lessletters, but. You know. Time-wise . . .”
“Fine.” I bite my tongue. “Just carry on with what you were saying.”
“Well, what would it . . . involve, exactly?”
