Fake Read online

  Finally Chay stops and faces me. Her pale blue eyes burn with a fire I’ve never seen from her before. ‘You need revenge.’

  ‘On Joel?’

  ‘Lana.’ She spits the other girl’s name.

  I lift my head, breathe in and unavoidably inhale bathroom smells. Antiseptic, toilet waste and cigarette smoke all blend with that newly painted tang. ‘I don’t know.’ It’s automatic for me to hesitate, especially when it comes to one of Chay’s crazy ideas.

  Her lips press together. A red slash in her tanned face. ‘You’re not the first.’

  ‘First what?’

  ‘To be dumped because of her.’

  I drag myself to my feet. Chay and her boyfriend of seven weeks split over a month ago with far fewer tears than I would have expected. ‘You said you and Kevin broke up because he was leaving for university.’

  She looks down at her hands. ‘It didn’t help that I caught him at a party investigating Lana’s tonsils with his tongue.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ This new blow comes out of nowhere. I can’t believe she’s kept something so important a secret. I thought we told each other everything.

  She doesn’t look up. ‘I was embarrassed.’

  ‘I’m always here for you.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ There’s a hitch in her voice.

  The bell goes and we both head to the sinks. I splash water on my face and gasp as the icy droplets run down my neck. I need to pull myself together before my afternoon classes, but it’s hard to concentrate on whether my heartbreak shows on my face. Humiliating me is one thing, but to hurt Chay too …

  I grip the edge of the cold, white sink. I’m sick of doing nothing while crappy people stomp all over other people’s lives. I meet my oldest friend’s gaze in the mirror. ‘This revenge thing. Whatever it is, I’m in.’

  * * *

  Hours later, I stand in my tiny shower, my skin raw and red under the hot spray. No matter how much I try I can’t wash the memory of public humiliation from my body. It radiates from me like the steam filling my small bathroom.

  The afternoon at school was a nightmare. I’d shut myself in my bedroom as soon as I got home, afraid my mother would offer to take me to the mall to look for a costume for the party. She’d been so glad when Joel asked me to go with him. So happy to see my dream coming true.

  But I don’t want to share the truth with her yet.

  I’m a laughingstock.

  I’ve tried so hard to fit into this school. This town. I thought it was paying off. For two weeks I was that special kind of ordinary I’d always wanted to be, and then … He discarded me like I was nothing.

  I trace the word on the wall, smearing the condensation. DISCARD. Another D word. Back when we found out the truth about Dad, a part of me longed for D-words.

  Like Divorce. Departure.

  Even Death.

  Any of them would have been better than the reality. Maybe it would have made the sympathy we received – and there was plenty – a pure silvery lilac instead of the sickly green that tinged each word with a kind of nausea. I remember pulling the tatty old quilt I’d had since I was a baby over my head. Anything to block out the voices of the people who came by. I was only eight but it didn’t take much to figure they’d be talking about the scandal as soon as our backs were turned.

  Mum knew too.

  It was the reason we’d fled our family home in the city and taken up Mum’s inheritance from the old hairdresser who’d mentored her before she met my father. A salon in a tiny town with a two bedroom living space above. It wasn’t much, but it had nothing to do with the man who’d fathered me, and that made it good enough for us.

  Now, just like then, people are talking.

  ‘Kathleen, there’s a visitor for you.’

  My mother’s distant voice is muffled by the water. I turn off the taps and step out of the shower, hearing her call me again from the salon below. She should have closed half an hour ago but it only takes one old lady with a sob story for her to keep the doors open and do a quick trim or set.

  I dry off, pull on some underwear and wrap my dressing gown around my body. Padding to the landing at the top of the stairs in a cloud of pomegranate soap scent, I lean over the handrail.

  ‘What, Mum?’

  From here I can see into the small salon that takes up one side of the front of the building. The down lights shine off the black and white checked vinyl floor and, as I suspected, there’s an elderly lady reclined at the sink. Mum massages shampoo into the woman’s grey hair even as she talks over her shoulder. I can’t see the visitor but I’m not surprised when the door swings open. It’s Chay. ‘Thanks Ms McKenny,’ she says to Mum.

  I wave, and Mum returns her attention to rinsing off her client’s hair.

  Chay jogs up the stairs, brandishing her phone. ‘Told you I’d think of something.’

  I lead the way to my bedroom and click the door closed behind us. I don’t think this is a conversation I want to share with whichever town busybody is downstairs with Mum. Chay dumps her bag on the floor by my desk and flops onto a chair.

  I settle on the floor opposite, leaning back against my bed. ‘Spill.’

  ‘Lana Elliot needs a taste of her own medicine.’

  ‘What’s that exactly?’

  ‘Heartbreak. Humiliation. To be dumped.’

  It sounds fair. She didn’t even try to hide her enjoyment during the earlier confrontation with Joel. It’s one thing to fall for a guy, but why torment me in the process? It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to her. I barely even know the girl.

  Payback. For a billionth of a second I let myself imagine walking through the main hallway at school with Joel on my arm. In the image I’m curvier, with glossier hair and clearer skin. Everyone turns to look and the whispers clear a path before us. Lana is there. Her jaw drops and cheeks flush crimson.

  As nice as it would be, I can’t hold the image in my head for long, let alone bring it to reality. Femme fatale I’m not. More along the lines of nice. Ordinary long brown hair and ordinary figure, perfect for blending in but not for winning a guy like Joel. ‘Did you see the way Joel was looking at her?’ I shake my head. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  Chay huffs. ‘Not Joel. You have to think bigger. Look at these guys.’ She hands her phone over. On it is a list of her virtual friends, most of whom I’ve never heard of before. They certainly don’t live in the Tuckersfield area.

  One stands out. ‘Who’s Liam Williams?’ He looks about twenty-five.

  ‘Just some random.’

  I wait.

  She grabs her phone back. ‘He’s a friend of Joel or maybe Eric’s from the soccer team. Whatever. When he friend requested he said I looked hot. Who was I to refuse someone with such good taste?’

  ‘I’m not getting what this has to do with Lana. You want us to get this guy to friend her?’

  ‘He already has.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  Chay is wriggling on the spot in excitement. ‘It’s simple. We invent a guy. Make her fall for him …’

  ‘And then dump her?’

  ‘Yes.’ She claps her hands together now that I finally understand her master plan. ‘Lana gets a dose of her own medicine and no one ever knows it was us. Think of it as educational. She’ll learn what it feels like to have her heart broken.’

  ‘Wiping that superior look off Lana’s face is tempting,’ I begin. ‘And there’s no doubt she deserves it.’ Chay is nodding, like she can head bob me into agreeing with her plan. I hesitate.

  My fingers drop to the bumpy surface of the antique hooked rug on which I sit. There’s something calming about the simple yellow flowers in a vase design I bought a year ago on one of Mum and my Tuesday Choose-Days.

  I love those days. At least once a month – but always on a Tuesday – Mum makes up an appointment to get me out of school early and we hit the road. While she looks for the elusive perfect antique cup and saucer, I look for p
eople’s stories. A lovingly scrawled name on the back of a picture frame. The dedication in an old book. The hand-drawn heart on the label stitched to the back of the rug beneath me. One day I’ll have enough stories to create my own and I’ll take it to the screen.

  ‘My heart’s not broken,’ I say, because if I can be distracted by my dream to write a movie then I’m already on the mend.

  She crosses her arms. ‘How’s your reputation?’

  That blurred sea of faces appears in my head. It combines with the not so subtle comments I’ve already seen on the net.

  Chay takes a deep breath. ‘I hate to be the one to say this, babe. The whole school, probably the whole town, is talking about what happened. There’s sympathy, sure, but also amusement … and it’s not at Lana.’

  My flaming cheeks are at war with the iciness slipping down my spine. The hot and cold create a kind of fever where I wish again I’d never gone looking for Joel. I accept it was a dumb move, but how could I have known what Lana would do?

  ‘They’re laughing at me,’ I finish softly.

  She leans forward, resting her elbows on the bare skin of her knees. ‘You have a choice. Your plan: suffer in silence, be the exact victim they all expect and let her win.’

  It does sound a lot like me. ‘Or?’

  ‘Smile secretly and make them wonder. All while we’re teaching her a thing or two about being nice to others.’

  In the end there’s no decision to make. It’s time to fight back. ‘Okay.’

  The curve of Chay’s smile is triumphant. ‘Let’s do this thing.’

  I grab us soft drinks and apples from the kitchen and pull on some old trackies. It doesn’t take long to set up the account. Then all we need to do is flesh out the details of Aaron Winter – dream guy.

  ‘We’ll need a picture,’ I say with my fingers resting lightly on my laptop keys.

  Chay leans over and taps in a web address. She waves at the screen like a magician with a rabbit as it fills up with dozens of photos. ‘Choose your hottie.’

  It’s a modelling website and each guy has loaded a portfolio of their best work. ‘Ooh, you know I’m no good at decisions.’

  ‘It’s the Libran in you. Which reminds me, Aaron should be an Aries.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They make the most fiery boyfriends.’

  My mouthful of soft drink sucks into my lungs and fountains from my nose. I double over, away from the keyboard, coughing and laughing. Finally, when I can breathe again, I nod sagely. ‘Yes. It’s important for all fake guys to be good prospective boyfriends.’

  In the end we choose a guy who looks a little like Joel but more worldly. Spiky blonde hair, professionally highlighted I can tell, bedroom blue eyes, muscles you can’t get anywhere but a gym, and with a range of pictures in different kinds of clothes. We use a casual shot for the profile but add one in a suit for fun.

  A quick look at Lana’s profile helps us decide on his music tastes. For extra detail we make him a member of an underground rock band, aptly named Fake. Finally he’s all finished.

  ‘Do we request now?’ I ask, letting my doubt show in my tone. This isn’t going to work. I’m starting to think the whole thing has been a big waste of time. Time I could have better spent wallowing and rereading the few messages Joel sent me about the party.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Lana’s not that stupid. First, he needs some friends.’ She fires off a quick fifty requests to people on her friend list and then settles back, draining the last few drops of her drink.

  I refresh the screen but there’s no activity in Aaron’s account. It’s like Frankenstein has built his monster but something is needed to bring him to life. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now, we wait.’

  CHAPTER

  3

  Chay stays for an easy dinner of mac and cheese, and after that I plead homework, so it’s breakfast before I have to face the questions I knew would come from Mum.

  ‘What happened with Joel?’ she asks, sipping the coffee – white with eight grains of sugar – I’d made her when I made my own tea.

  I duck my head, slurping at my cereal to give me time to compose an answer.

  Has she heard the full story from a client already? Is she just waiting for me to tell her the details or does she actually not know? It’s hard to tell in this town. Mum’s salon is one of the first places to hear the latest gossip, and while high school stuff usually stays on campus, the scene by the soccer pitch might just make it old-lady worthy.

  I try to guess how much she already knows from her expression, but with her work-mum make-up on she’s harder to read. The listening face she uses for her clients softens her mouth and eyes, expressing an interest that hovers just this side of straight out sympathy. It’s almost impossible to resist that look. I’ve watched people reveal their souls to my mum over a shampoo and set.

  She’s leaning against the other side of the counter, wrapped in the deep burgundy, velvety dressing gown she’s worn for as long as I can remember. It’s one of the few things she brought with her from the ‘Beige Life’ – as she calls it.

  Our old house was decorated in all neutral colours. I can’t imagine how Mum survived without the splashes of red and blue and green that liven up our walls here. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up there. With no colour, but with a father.

  ‘Not worth it.’

  Her hand clasps mine from across the bench. Warm and soft with the permanent black stains around the nails from the bleach and the dye she mixes every day. ‘Joel?’

  I swallow. I didn’t mean to speak aloud. Because Joel Moss is worth it. He’s so sweet and kind and funny. Well, if you don’t count the small detail of not letting me know I was uninvited to be his date. My eyes sting and for the first time I think of the boy I’ve lost as well as the dignity.

  We were never really together but I dreamed of him for so long that every look we shared and stray touch is engraved on my brain. An image of his perfect smile fills my mind and then … it morphs … becomes the genuine concern in Sebastian’s eyes when I bumped into him. Goosebumps skitter across my skin where he held me upright.

  I shake the thoughts away. Joel’s the only boy I’ve ever wanted.

  Mum’s waiting. She’s patient because she knows I’ll spill eventually. We don’t keep secrets in our house. Since my father’s spectacular betrayal we’ve had an unspoken agreement to be truthful.

  When it matters.

  But I don’t want to worry her. Or let slip something about the fake guy.

  I lift the china teacup to my mouth and speak into the milky sweet liquid. ‘We’re not going to the disco.’

  I focus on the tea, noticing the small waves set off by the tremble in my hands, not wanting to see any pity in her eyes.

  ‘At all?’

  ‘Together.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her simple but heartfelt words are like a hug. I’m tempted to rush around and bury my head in her warmth like I did so many times when we first moved here. Usually after I’d asked when Daddy was coming home and she’d looked me in the eye, sad but not broken, and answered ‘Never.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ The stretch of the truth falls from my mouth and mixes with the steam still rising from the cup. I rationalise my attempt to keep some of my pride intact with the fact that someday when I look back on this it will be okay.

  I hope.

  There’s a long silence and I dare to steal a glance at Mum. My gaze snags hers and I can’t look away. We’ve been a team of two for too long. I couldn’t hide my pain if I wanted to. And I really do. After what happened in the city, Mum kept it together for the both of us.

  I want to be that strong.

  ‘Are you sure?’ There’s doubt in her voice.

  I lift my chin and curve my lips into what I hope comes out as a smile. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  She nods. She gets it. Understands everything I’m not saying.

  Don’t get me wrong, we fight all the tim
e – about my room and not being allowed out after nine on a school night, and whether my attitude grades in gym class really have to be that bad – but most days I count her as my friend.

  Unlike my father.

  The toast pops up. She moves to pull it out and then spreads the low fat margarine she’s always whining tastes nothing like butter. Not today though. Her attention is fixed on her laptop, open on the other side of the kitchen.

  My belly tightens.

  I kind of expected a little more in-depth quizzing. Just to make sure I wasn’t about to spiral into a deep depression because the boy I adore has dumped me and left me in agony.

  I’m tempted to wave. Hello, broken-hearted daughter here. But I don’t.

  She’s let it go. I’m relieved. It’s what I wanted. Any more questions and I might reveal that I’m okay because I’m going to make sure the girl who engineered my humiliation gets what’s coming to her.

  I try to make out the title of the webpage that has her so fascinated, but I don’t need to read it to guess. The pale, sad blue and pure white colours, the angel in the top corner and the many lines WRITTEN IN ALL CAPITALS give it away.

  My mum reads death blogs. Grief sites. Pain portals. Over the last few years I’ve developed a number of nicknames for them. She reads updates of people’s lives as they work their way through incredible pain, loss and sorrow. A cancer battler, someone whose partner took their own life, a mother who lost a child. She reads about people who have had death or illness crush their life like it’s some kind of real life soap opera.

  ‘Don’t you get enough of other people’s problems in the salon?’ I ask.

  I flush a little as the cattiness in my tone seems to echo off the blood-red painting on the far wall. It isn’t because I’m jealous or want her pity for myself. I meant what I said about being fine. I’ve always teased her about her fascination but today it seems more annoying than anything. I mean, why be so publicly broken? Why would anyone want to feel these people’s pain?

  But she does – it’s impossible not to. I challenge anyone to read some of these stories without a tear. I’ve caught Mum sobbing her guts out before.