The Trouble with Faking

  “The Valentine’s Dance?” he says. “The reason you’re all dressed up?”

  “Yes, I know about that. But I thought it was a fresher thing. First-year students only.”

  “That’s the idea,” Noah says, leaning against the door frame. “Doesn’t work out so well when there are more girls than guys, though.”

  “Oh, I see. So you volunteered?”

  “Well … roped in is more like it.”

  “Right. And then you were unlucky enough to pick my room number.”

  “Yip.”

  I sigh. “I guess it’s going to be a long night. We should probably try to keep our conversation civil and not have a repeat of the last time we met.”

  “Perhaps. Or we could start over and pretend the other night never happened.” Noah gives me a charming smile.

  I frown. “So … I’m supposed to forget that you called me a self-righteous, overprivileged white girl?”

  “If I can forget that you called me a liar, a gangster, and a thug, then I’m sure you can manage to forget being self-righteous and overprivileged.”

  I reach for my keys hanging behind my door. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who used the words ‘gangster’ and ‘thug.’”

  “You’re right,” Noah says with a sigh as I pull my door shut. “This is definitely going to be a long night.”

  Across the landing, Carmen’s date is introducing himself to her. I recognise him as one of the guys who offered to help us up a steep part of last weekend’s hike. One of the guys Carmen essentially told to get lost. Not a great start. She makes a face at me as Noah and I pass, and I’m not sure if it’s because of her date or mine. I roll my eyes to let her know I agree with her either way.

  As we descend the stairs, I remind myself to think of Damien and not Noah. Butterflies start doing wacky things to my insides. I’m going to see him in a suit. He’ll see me in a pretty dress. Maybe we’ll dance together. And then I’ll tell him to forget all about our ridiculous plan.

  Downstairs in the corridor, older students watch as first years and their dates make their way to the dining hall. Charlotte and her group of followers stand near the doorway, and as Noah and I pass them, Charlotte pretends to look concerned. “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Did a bird poop in your hair or something?”

  I paste a serious look onto my face. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Not unless birds poop words.”

  Noah suppresses a smile as we enter the dining hall. “Friendly girl, that Charlotte. I always liked her. Such a shame she won’t be hanging around in Damien’s room anymore.”

  “Yes. Such a shame.” We stop just inside the door to look around. I wasn’t expecting much after Damien’s description, which is probably why I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see. The normally bare rectangular tables are gone, replaced by circular tables covered with table cloths, candles, confetti, and vases of flowers. The dimmed lighting probably also has a lot to do with the improved atmosphere.

  “Not bad,” Noah says.

  “Mmm.” I’m hoping if I keep conversation to a minimum, I won’t end up saying anything too rude. I check the seating chart and discover we’re sitting according to what flat we’re in. I look around for familiar faces. “Over there.” I point to a table where Kimmy, Georgia and their dates are already sitting.

  My butt is barely in my chair when Noah says, “So, what’s your story, Andi?”

  “My story?” I pull my chair closer to the table.

  “Yes. Here’s your chance to get the truth out. Prove to me you’re not self-righteous and overprivileged.”

  “I don’t think I have to prove anything,” I say, angling my body away from him and looking around to see if Damien’s here yet.

  “In that case,” Noah says, leaning back in his chair, “I’ll have to continue judging you based on the way you look.”

  “Fine.” I turn back to him. “You want my story? Here it is. I grew up with a single mom and no siblings. I earned my spot at the private school I went to, unlike most of the other kids there. Last year I found out I was an accidental consequence of an affair my mom had with a married man. I have a half-sister who’s actually pretty cool. My dad’s a fancy lawyer dude. My mom’s an interior designer who, as it turns out, isn’t as good as I always thought she must be because the nice house we’ve always lived in was mostly funded by Dad’s monthly guilt payments. I’m a booktuber, a reluctant university student, and I run an Etsy store where I sell handmade book-related items, because despite the fact that I somehow look overprivileged, the only money I have is the money I make for myself.”

  I take a deep breath, startled at how much personal information I managed to share in one go. What the heck is wrong with me?

  “Okay.” Noah scratches his chin. “Three comments. One, I guess you’re not overprivileged. Two, there’s still a hint of self-righteousness about you. And three, I have no idea what a booktuber and an Etsy are.”

  I stare at him, my mouth hanging open slightly. “How is there a hint of self-righteousness about me? You’re probably saying that just to get me worked up.”

  He smiles. “If I am, it’s working well.”

  I snap my mouth shut and clasp my hands together in my lap. Okay. Be polite, Andi. He wants you to react, so the surest way to annoy him is by remaining calm. “Booktubers are people who do videos about books,” I say. “So, basically, I video myself reviewing books, recommending books, showing off new books I receive. That kind of thing. Then I post the videos on YouTube so other people can watch them.”

  “And … people find that kind of thing interesting?”

  Don’t react, don’t react. “Other book lovers do, yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, eight hundred plus people have been interested enough to subscribe to my channel.”

  “Eight hundred?” The sceptical look on Noah’s face vanishes, and he almost looks impressed.

  I nod and pick up the spoon in front of me, turning it over and over so my hands have something to do. “That’s nothing, though. Some of the really popular book tubers have thousands of subscribers.”

  “And this is all because people want to talk about books and watch other people talking about books?”

  “Yes.” I tap the spoon against the table. “My friends at school never quite understood my intense love for the written word, which is why I took to YouTube to find like-minded book enthusiasts.”

  Noah leans back and surveys me. “I think I understand now why you have bits of paper with words on them stuck in your hair.”

  “Yes.” I pat my hair. “I’m pleased you can tell the difference between paper and bird poop.”

  Noah laughs. It’s a pleasant sound. I’m starting to think perhaps we can get past our initial dislike of one another. “And Etsy?” he asks. “What’s that?”

  “Etsy is a site where people can sell handmade items. Every seller has a virtual store with a store name and all their different products listed. Everything I make and sell has something to do with books. Pin badges with book quotes, necklaces and bracelets with mini books hanging from them, scarves with excerpts printed on the fabric. Stuff like that.”

  Noah nods. “Okay. I have to admit, that’s rather impressive.”

  “Well, you know, not really.” I start turning the spoon over and over again. “I’m certainly not the first to do it.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to pay you a compliment here,” Noah says. “This is where you say ‘thank you.’”

  “Right, sorry.” I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. So is the Etsy thing working out well for you?”

  “Yes, pretty well. I’ve been doing it almost three years now. My mom helped me set it up, since I was under eighteen when I started it, but now I manage it myself. Which brings me to the part about being a reluctant student,” I say with a sigh. “I want to make crafts and clothes and accessories and talk about books for the rest of my life, but my mother th
inks I need a degree, and my dad, whom I’ve only met once, seems to agree with her. Apparently I’m not being ambitious enough.”

  “And you’re a good girl who always does what your mother says?” Noah teases.

  I glare at him, refusing to answer that one. “Before we start flinging insults again, how about you tell me your story?”

  “My story,” he says, then flashes a charming smile at Carmen as she and her date join the table. Carmen stares daggers at him. “My story is this: Born in Durban. Lived in America till I was three because my dad got a contract there. Moved back to Durban for seven years, during which time my sister was born. Then moved to Cape Town. After a few years, my grandmother moved in with us. Then my uncle died, so my aunt and her three kids moved in as well. So that made nine of us under one roof.”

  “Wow. So … pretty much the same as my experience,” I joke.

  “Yes, pretty much. I don’t think I need to tell you that when a bursary opportunity came up at the end of high school, I was more than ready to leave home and move into res.”

  “Sounds a bit like Carmen’s family,” I say, swivelling in my chair and raising my voice to include Carmen and her date. “She spent the past five years at boarding school, and every holiday her three younger siblings would drive her crazy. She was very happy when she discovered her bursary also covered res fees and she wouldn’t have to stay at home this year.”

  Carmen shakes her head. “Ek’s jammer, maar ek praat nie verder met daai ou totdat hy onverskoning vra dat hy my met goed in my gesig gegooi het nie.”

  Noah bows his head forwards until it’s touching the table. “I sincerely apologise.”

  After that, it seems a little easier for everyone to get along. Wine bottles are passed around the table, skipping my glass, since I’m of the opinion that wine is gross, and Noah’s, because, contrary to what I would have guessed, he doesn’t drink. Food arrives soon after the wine starts flowing. I spot Damien at a table for sub-wardens, but he’s too busy talking to the people around him to notice me when I try to catch his eye.

  When we’ve finished our dessert and couples begin moving towards the open space of floor intended for dancing, Noah leans over and says, “Do you want to dance?”

  I wait for him to start laughing, but it seems he’s being serious. Perhaps he thinks he has to offer as part of this Valentine date thing. “Oh, no, we don’t have to do that. I’d hate for you to be ‘roped in’ to anything else this evening.” And the only person I really want to dance with is Damien.

  “Hey, maybe I like dancing,” Noah says. “Besides, one day you’ll look back with great regret that you turned down this opportunity to dance with me.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll just have to—”

  “Hey, Andi. Would you like to dance?” Butterflies assault my insides as I look up and see Damien standing beside my chair. He reaches down and places a paper heart on the table in front of me. It’s the same kind of paper heart Noah gave me—I think all Smutsmen attending this dance were instructed to give one to their date—but the difference is that this one has Damien’s handwriting on it. And it says For my valentine.

  I look up again and find Damien waiting with his hand held out towards me. His smile is wide, candlelight sparkles in his eyes, and that suit looks so darn good on him. There is nothing that could get me to say no to his invitation.

  I push my chair back and stand. “I’d love to.”

  A thrill runs through me as I take Damien’s hand. We’ve never held hands before. Why would we? Friends don’t do that. He leads me to the dance floor, and I slide my arms around his neck. My hands are shaking. I hope he doesn’t notice. His arms slip around my waist, and we begin moving to the slow beat of the music. He’s so close and he smells so good and his eyes are boring into mine and I’m so giddy I might fall over. I have to remind myself to breathe. I have to remind my heart not to leap right out of my chest.

  “You’re very good at this,” Damien says with a conspiratorial smile. “You’re almost fooling me.”

  My pounding heart slows to a painful thud. I look down, breathing in deeply, reminding myself that none of this is real. One dance. I’ll let myself pretend for one dance, and then I’ll tell him we shouldn’t do this.

  “You’re looking lovely tonight, by the way. Isn’t this the dress you wore when you finally got to meet your dad last year? Just before Christmas?”

  I nod and smile, but I can’t bring myself to speak. Why does he have to remember details like that? Why does he have to make me feel so important to him when all I am is a friend? Why can’t he see that he’s perfect for me? That we’re perfect for each other?

  “I thought so,” he says with a smile. “I remember it from the photo you sent me.”

  I rest my cheek against his shoulder, so that just once, I’ll know what it feels like. One dance, I remind myself. Just one dance.

  With a quiet chuckle into my ear, Damien says, “You’ll have to keep reminding me that you’re not the one I’m supposed to be falling for.”

  And in that instant, I change my mind.

  The Official Mission:

  Get Marie to fall for Damien and Mike to fall for Andi.

  Step One: Remain friends for a short while.

  Step Two: Start fake dating.

  Step Three: Take every opportunity to be a happy couple in front of Marie and/or Mike, thereby making them jealous.

  Step Four: Bonding as friends—Damien hangs out with Marie and Andi hangs out with Mike.

  Step Five: Damien and Andi realise they were only ever meant to be friends and end their fake relationship.

  Step Six: Damien gets Marie, Andi gets Mike, and everyone lives happily ever after.

  Andi’s Side Mission:

  Get Damien to fall for Andi instead of Marie.

  Step One: Remain friends for a short while.

  Step Two: Start fake dating.

  Step Three: Damien realises Andi is the one for him.

  Step Four: Damien and Andi live happily ever after.

  The week after the Valentine’s Dance, university starts for real, and I’m plunged into lectures and tutorials and society meetings and a coffee evening with my Fuller mentor and a res charity thing and a few minutes snatched here and there with Damien. After two weeks of trying to keep up with everything, I reach Friday evening, wave off Carmen’s suggestion to go out with Kimmy and Georgia, and fall into bed. I only manage to read two pages of my current book before the words start to run into each other, and as much as I’m dying to know what happens, sleep pulls me under.

  I surface on Saturday morning to the sound of banging on my door. “Mmm, come in,” I mumble, hoping I left the latch unlocked last night. I don’t feel like getting up to open it.

  “How are you still sleeping if you went to bed, like, twelve hours ago?” Carmen asks.

  I sit up and squint at her through one half-open eyelid. “I need lots of sleep?”

  She walks in and, after moving at least five cushions onto the floor, finds a spot to sit on the end of my bed. “So, I heard a rumour last night that may or may not be news.”

  “Oh yeah?” I rub my eyes.

  “You and Damien—the guy Charlotte broke up with because she thought he was cheating on her—are a couple.”

  “Oh. Yes. That’s news.” I give her a big smile.

  “Since when?”

  “Uh, yesterday.” I think it was yesterday that Damien was going to start telling people. I probably should have told someone too.

  Carmen purses her lips, then says, “So this is the guy you weren’t secretly dating?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one you assured me you were just friends with?”

  “Yes.”

  “But now you’re together?”

  “Yes.” I run a hand through my tangled hair. “I’ve actually always liked him. I’ve wanted to be more
than friends for a while. I guess since Charlotte accused us of being together, he started thinking of me differently.”

  “I see. And is there a reason you didn’t tell me any of this?”

  “Um …”

  Carmen crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “I don’t get you, Andi. You’re friendly and self-confident and chatty, but when it comes to anything personal, you close up. You don’t share a thing.”

  “It’s not that I—”

  “Friends are supposed to tell each other what’s going on in their lives, Andi, and I thought you and I were friends.”

  “We are friends.”

  “So then?” She gives me a questioning look. “Why don’t I know anything about the guy you’ve always liked or the sister you sometimes visit or why you never answer phone calls from your mom?”

  “Because … I mean …” I wish I were more awake for this conversation. “You and I are still getting to know each other. Our friendship is new. There are lots of things I haven’t told you yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m intentionally hiding them from you. I mean, you haven’t told me everything there is to know about you yet, right?”

  “Right,” she says slowly, but she’s still giving me an odd look. “It just seems like it would be normal to talk about the things that are happening now. Like Damien.” She stands up and heads to the door. “I hope it works out for the two of you.”

  The door closes behind her before I can say anything else. I flop back onto my pillow, wondering how long it’ll take her to forgive me. Hopefully not long, because now that Damien and I are officially together—in the eyes of the rest of the world—I’m more than ready to gush about him the way girls normally do. And I won’t have to fake a minute of it.

  I check my phone—thirty-five minutes left until the dining hall closes—and find a message from Damien.

  Damien: It’s official. You’re my girlfriend ;-)

  I close my eyes and groan, wishing, wishing, wishing it were the truth.