My Fake Boyfriend is Better Than Yours Page 4

  I look at Sienna, and her lips are drawn tight and her eyes are narrowed. I think she may be jealous.

  I smile and sing in my head, My fake boyfriend is better than yours.

  8

  It’s been a long first week of school, and I’ve been doing the “thank God it’s Friday” chant since I woke up this morning. I can’t wait for the school day to pass so I can get to Dad’s. I really need a break. I don’t know about real boyfriends, but fake boyfriends are exhausting. I mean, there is a lot required to keep a relationship going and thriving. This week alone I had two imaginary marathon phone calls with Sebastian, I fake-baked and mailed him a batch of his favorite M&M cookies (using only handpicked blue M&M’s; it’s his favorite color and I’m thoughtful like that), and I had to make a big deal out of the oooey-gooey love note he e-mailed me. Avery had me read it aloud to the lunch table three times yesterday. Honestly, I don’t know how people with real boyfriends keep up with them and go to school at the same time. I may wait to date a real boy until I’m out of high school. Well . . . I don’t want to get carried away or anything. If I get a living breathing boyfriend someday, maybe I’ll have to lighten my class load.

  Mom had another meeting this morning, so she dropped me off at school early. I’m the first one in homeroom. I know I should have waited outside for Sea to get here, but frankly, hanging out with her this week has been a bit exhausting too. There is only so much of the Antonio-is-Mr.-Wonderful talk a girl can take. According to Sienna, if the boy burps the heavens sing. His voice can melt chocolate for fondue. He doesn’t own a comb or mirror because he wakes up beautiful. Brilliance leaks from his pores.

  Okay, maybe she didn’t exactly say those things, but close enough. And the kids in this school suck it up like a vacuum. It’s like they don’t have enough drama in their own lives so they want to hear all about Sienna’s. Maybe they need to watch more TV.

  Oh sure, people want to hear about my darling Sebastian too; I do spin a good tale. But I’m a pale light next to Sienna’s star. She’s the main attraction this school year. I’m merely the Gayle to her Oprah.

  Not that I’m complaining. Much. It’s not awful having these new friends. Daphne and Bella are a blast, and Avery and the lunch crew are nice enough. Lauren and Anica seem sweet and amusingly color-coordinated in their daily outfit choices. But things weren’t awful before either. It’s not that I didn’t want more friends; I just didn’t seem to need them. I always had Sea, and that was enough for me. But maybe it wasn’t for her.

  I might feel different if I thought these girls liked me for me and not because I’m Sienna’s phone-a-friend. The only reason they are hanging all over us is that they’re drawn to Sea like to a giant tub of buttery popcorn—they can’t help but want a little. But take away all the butter and salt, and would the popcorn still taste as good?

  Whoa. I think I’m getting a little too philosophical for 7:30 in the morning. And a little hungry. I forgot to eat breakfast.

  I reach into my backpack and pull out an oatmeal bar. As I’m ripping it open, Sienna strolls in with Avery and Natalie close behind.

  “Morning, Tori,” Sienna calls, and Avery and Natalie echo their hellos.

  I raise my eyebrows and wave, my mouth full of oatmeal bar.

  “I thought you were going to wait for me,” Sienna comments in a slightly whiny voice.

  I wipe crumbs from my mouth. “Sorry. I was up late. I’m still trying to wake up.”

  “It’s all right. I hung out with Avery and Natalie outside.”

  Uh, that’s nice. I smile halfheartedly.

  “Yeah, we were there, so you don’t need to worry,” Avery says, like she’s reassuring me.

  Okay, wait. Since when does Sienna need an entourage to get in and around school? And why would I be worried?

  Avery and Natalie are giving Sienna dumb smiles, and suddenly I feel a wave of something. Almost like I’m being threatened. Like I should growl at the girls or mark my territory (not literally of course. Eww).

  “So, Sea, did you talk to Antonio last night?” I inquire.

  Yeah, I actually went there and asked about her fake boy. Something about the way the girls are looking at Sea made me feel like I had to throw my best-friend weight around. Get her attention back on me. Remind them who’s who around here.

  “I did!” She smiles, obviously delighted for the opportunity to bring him up again. “We were talking about this one night when we were strolling along the boardwalk and saw this crazy guy jumping around on this long green park bench and yelling religious stuff at people passing by. Antonio asked if I got a picture of him and—”

  “Pictures?” Natalie squeals and claps her hands. “Do you have pictures of you and Antonio? Oh my gosh, Sienna, you have to show us a picture of him!”

  Sienna turns white. Like, literally turns white. I’ve read in books where people turn white and I always thought they were exaggerating, but nope, Sea is a marshmallow.

  “Yeah, I’d love to see a picture too,” I say, unable to hide the glee from my face.

  “Oh, well, yeah. No problem. It’s just they, you know, the vacation photos, are all, um, on my mom’s digital camera. And, well, she’s going to take them to the drugstore and get them developed. So, after that, you know, I’ll bring in some pics.” Sienna nods, like she’s approving her own story.

  Mr. Cooper, our homeroom teacher, walks into class and flips the TV on. Much to Sienna’s relief, I’m sure. Every morning we watch Channel One News while Mr. Cooper takes attendance to make sure no one is skipping homeroom and having fun. Today the student reporter is talking about a couple of teens that got to be veterinarians for the day at the Brookfield Zoo. I try to appear interested in the dorky-looking kid with the monkey hugging his neck and giving him wet, slobbery kisses.

  Sea leans across the aisle and whispers, “What about you? Got a picture of Sebastian?”

  Without taking my eyes away from the TV, I whisper back, “You know I don’t have a camera.”

  Sienna makes a hmph sound and leans back in her chair, fixing her eyes on the screen. I inwardly smile.

  A few minutes later the bell sounds, ending homeroom. We scoot toward the door to get to first hour.

  “Hey, did I show you guys the cute bracelet my mom bought me to celebrate the end of the first week of school?” Avery asks. She juts out her wrist, and we look at the thin silver bracelet with the tiny red apple charm dangling from it. It’s sweet, if you like fruit jewelry.

  “That’s so cute!” Sienna exclaims. “Antonio sent me a bouquet of carnations to mark the end of the first week of school.”

  “That’s nice,” I comment, stepping in front of Sienna and heading out the door. I call back over my shoulder, “Sebastian sent me roses.”

  9

  My train pulls into Union Station and I wait near the doors, anxious to get out. Train people always weird me out a little. Today, for example, the lady next to me was putting her baby-powder-scented deodorant on right there in front of everyone as if this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing on a train. Personally, I do that kind of thing at home and not in front of fifty strangers. I never tell Mom about the weird people on the train though. If I did she’d probably flip out and not let me take the train by myself to see Dad anymore. She figures it’s safe enough because she always puts me on at the station by our house in the burbs and Dad meets me at Union Station. And she always reminds me not to make eye contact with anyone on the way here. I don’t think eye-to-armpit contact counts.

  I jump off the last train, step onto the platform, and scan the crowd looking for Dad. There are people rushing all around me, and for a second I flash back to when I was six and got lost at the county fair. I felt small and helpless back then. But I don’t now. Even if Dad wasn’t here to meet me, I could find my way around easily. I’ve walked to his apartment plenty of times. It’s just four blocks east on Adams.

  “Tori!” Dad yells, jogging toward me.

  I swing around
and jump into his arms. “Dad! I missed you!” His hair is a little longer than the last time I saw him, and I don’t think he’s shaved in a few days. Otherwise he looks exactly the same.

  “I missed you too, sweetie!” he says. “How was the train ride?”

  “Fine. I’m glad to finally be here.” I give Dad another quick hug. It’s only been a month since my last visit with him, but a month is so long. I miss him all the time. It’s been a little over three years now since he and Mom divorced and he moved to the city.

  “Here, give me your bag and let’s get out of here,” he says.

  I hand him my backpack and we board the escalator, heading for street level. We exit on Adams, and there are people rushing around in various directions. It’s warm out, and the sun is sitting low in the sky.

  Dad’s chatting away as we walk, pointing out the store where he bought his new fall jacket, talking about an art show he went to last weekend, and waving to the friendly pretzel vendor he discovered who makes “the best soft pretzels on Earth.” I nod and smile in the right spots as he goes on and on. I like listening to him talk. I walk fast, trying to match his pace.

  “I’m sorry, hon, I’ve been talking the whole time. Tell me about you. How was your first week of school? How does it feel to be a seventh grader?”

  “Oh, it was . . . fine. Seventh grade is different,” I say.

  Dad nods. “Ah, yes. I can still remember seventh grade. Not the underlings anymore but not running the school either. It’s a good grade.”

  I smile. “Yeah, it’s all right.” I’m hoping that’s the end of the questioning. I kind of want to forget about the week right now. Forget about everything.

  “Seventh grade is one of those years,” Dad continues, looking wistful, “when anything can happen. You’re still trying to figure out who you are before you get to high school. Me? I was quite the stunner back then.” He looks down at me smugly.

  “You were?” I ask.

  “H-U-N-K,” he replies. “Ever hear the name Wanda Stolzer?”

  I shake my head. “Who’s that?”

  “Only the most popular girl at Kennedy Junior

  High the year I was in seventh grade. Maybe even in all of Kennedy Junior High history. And she was hot for my bod.”

  “Dad!” I groan, covering my ears. I drop my hands back down right away though. A Dad story is exactly what I need to forget my troubles for a while. Dad’s face lights up as he talks.

  A few minutes later, we’re in front of Dad’s building.

  “Yep,” he concludes, “those were the days. A time when a guy could woo a girl based solely on the merit of his robot dance.”

  I smile and Dad throws an arm around my shoulder and opens the front door to the building with his free hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you inside. You want takeout tonight?”

  “Sure,” I reply, realizing that I am getting pretty hungry. And the takeout by Dad’s apartment is always so good. It’s somehow better than takeout at home.

  An hour later we’re watching a movie and eating soup and sandwiches from the deli around the corner. Me: cream of broccoli and a turkey and cheddar on wheat. Dad: cream of tomato and an Italian grilled cheese. We’re both staring at the TV screen and eating in silence, except for when I start in on my soup. I’m a slurper.

  I’m trying to concentrate on the movie, but my mind keeps wandering back to Sienna and how much she’s changed in such a short amount of time. And it’s not just that she’s got a new look, a new “boyfriend,” and loads of new friends. It’s also that I’m wondering where we stand now. Does she still think I’m her best friend? Maybe now that she’s rich she thinks she’s too good for me and just hasn’t figured out a way to cut me loose yet. It’s hard to believe that this Sienna is the same girl who saved my butt in first grade when the evil Mrs. Kirk made me stand up and spell house in front of the entire class. I was stalled after the o, debating whether or not w came next, when Sea whispered “u-s-e” from behind me and I spelled the word correctly. I have to believe that that Sea is in there somewhere and only temporarily confused from inhaling too much hair bleach or something.

  Dad reaches for a napkin and wipes his mouth. He picks up the TV remote and hits Pause. “Okay,” he states, turning to face me on the couch. “What’s going on?”

  “What?” I ask. I pull a tiny piece of bread off of the top of my sandwich and put it in my mouth.

  “Something’s wrong. You’re a little off tonight. Did you get in a fight with your mom?”

  “No. Mom’s fine.”

  “Got a crush on a boy and he doesn’t even know you’re alive?”

  I giggle. “No . . .”

  “Your teachers are all mean and out to get you?”

  “Daaaaad!”

  “Okay, okay.” He put his hands up in surrender. “Want to just tell me what’s bugging you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing is really bugging me. I told you, I missed you. I’m happy to be here.” I try to sound convincing.

  “And I’m happy you’re here too.” He reaches over and ruffles my hair. “But if you decide that you want to tell me about ‘nothing,’ I’m a really good listener. It was my major in college. I got all A’s.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh. “You’re so goofy, Dad.”

  “Really? I always felt more like Donald than Goofy,” he replies, and I groan.

  “Come on, hit Play,” I tell him, and dip my sandwich into my soup.

  The next morning Dad peeks into his bedroom, where I’m staying. “You almost ready to go?” he asks.

  I walk around the room checking out his latest artwork. I’m super impressed. Sometimes it’s hard to see your parents as these real people who can have talents like Dad so obviously does.

  “Dad, these are really really good! Are they going to be in your next show?”

  “You like them?” He pulls a hand through his wavy brown hair. He always gets a little shy when I see his paintings.

  “Uh-huh, a lot,” I reply. The walls of his bedroom are lined with painting after painting of people who work around the city. There is one of a CTA bus driver looking down and out of the window at the traffic, another of a baker putting up a box of macaroons on a counter, and another of a commuter sitting on the train, listening to her iPod. I stop in front of one of the paintings, recognizing the smile. “Hey, is this that pretzel guy you pointed out yesterday?”

  Dad laughs. “Yeah, that’s Max. Do you like it?”

  I nod. “The salt on the pretzels looks so real I almost want to lick it.”

  “Well, don’t do that. I got bagels so we can eat before we head out to the museum.”

  “Mmmm, yum,” I comment.

  An hour later we’re walking up the steps of the Museum of Science and Industry. It was just a quick bus ride to Lake Shore Drive from Dad’s. He’s so lucky, getting to live near so many cool places. The closest museum to our house is the teacup museum, and really, who wants to spend an afternoon looking at teacups? Not me.

  Once inside, we pass right by the guy handing out museum maps. We’ve been here dozens of times, so you could say we’re pros.

  “Where to first, my dear?” Dad asks.

  I glance at the elevator.

  “Straight to the top then?” he says.

  “Yes!”

  A few minutes later we are walking around the You! The Experience exhibit, looking for the new giant heart. There used to be a sixteen-foot walk-through heart that I loved to run in and out of when I was little. Dad has dozens of pictures of me standing in front of it from over the years. The new heart is much cooler though; you can make it beat with your own.

  We reach the heart and I look at Dad and smile.

  “Okay, okay. Hold still a sec,” he directs.

  I put my hands on my hips and grin. Dad snaps a picture with his camera phone.

  Next we go to the prenatal development section of the exhibit. It’s this long wall of babies, real babies, from the different stages of gestati
on. From a teeny-tiny little embryo all the way up to a fully formed baby. The babies here passed away from one thing or another back in the 1930s, and I guess their parents must have donated their bodies to the museum. I’ve seen it more times than I can count, but it always freaks me out a bit each time. I’m not sure if I’m more freaked out by the fact that they were once living or by the fact that this is what a baby growing inside a woman looks like. Seriously, the school system could skip the sex education lecture in fifth grade and bring kids here and show them what happens if they’re not careful.

  I step up to the display case and look at the first few babies. I don’t stay freaked out for long. Mostly because Dad always makes me laugh.

  “Ah, yes. I remember when you were just a speck. I swore if you never grew another centimeter I’d carry you around just like that. If that big storybook elephant, Horton, could do it, well then so could I.” Dad nods for emphasis.

  “Dad!” I scold, but then I giggle.

  We move to another case and peer in.

  “The good ol’ tail days,” Dad says. “Yours was quite a cute one as I recall, and I’m not only saying that because I’m your father. Your mother worried that it might be there forever, and I said, So what? If our child has a tail, then we’ll teach her to be proud of it!”

  I shake my head, laughing. “You’re so crazy, Dad!” I say, though really I like it when he tells stories about him and Mom, things they said or did when they were still together. When Dad lived with Mom and me in the suburbs, we would drive down to this museum every New Year’s Day. It was sort of our family tradition. But then one year we didn’t go on New Year’s, and the next year Dad moved out. I don’t think Mom has even been back to the museum since. But Dad and I go a lot, so I guess Mom sees no reason to. We continue walking along the wall, and any fears I had of the babies have disappeared and my fascination has completely taken over, as it always does.