The Fake Out by Sharon M. Peterson
NINETEEN
I grew up in a ranching town. One night at closing in our town’s only bar, two cowboys asked my sister and me, “Y’all want to go pig hunting?”
—KERRY C.
“I’ve been thinking about your library situation,” Ali said about four seconds after sitting across from me at the café on Monday. Fried chicken today.
“Let’s hear it.” The library budget had been put on the back burner while I was getting fake-engaged. My stomach had been in knots since I’d said yes to this whole scheme.
That morning I had checked one thing off the list though. I’d called Shane at Chicky’s and explained I needed a few months off for personal reasons. Surprisingly, he’d been willing to take me off the schedule without too much groveling on my part. He was probably relieved he wouldn’t have to comp any more meals due to my “attitude.” At least for a while.
“We need a fundraiser. Something that attracts people and gets them to donate. Or maybe a bake sale? Or a fun run? I haven’t worked out all the details yet, obviously.”
“Obviously.” I grinned.
“Wanna come over tonight, and we can brainstorm? I’ll buy the pizza if you bring the beer.”
My eyes dropped to the tabletop, and I traced a water stain left by a glass long ago. “I can’t tonight.”
“Why? You gotta date?” She scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and stuffed it in her mouth.
“Well, yes.”
There. I’d lied. It was official. The first lie of many lies. I was doing this.
“No way. You haven’t been on a date in, like, a long time.”
“Pot meet kettle,” I muttered, giving her pointed glare.
“We aren’t talking about me right now. Spill it. Who is it? Do I know him?” She gestured wildly with her fork. “Oh, my gosh, is it the new guy at the feed store? He’s cute if you don’t mind the missing teeth.”
“It’s, ah, Chris Sterns.”
Ali’s eyes grew so big, I was worried they might pop out of her head. She gave a tiny little anemic squeal. Then nothing. Not a sound. Just my best friend staring at me like I had grown a second head and it was playing the flute.
“Say something.”
“D-did”—she paused to clear her throat—“did you say you have a date with Chris Sterns?”
I nodded, my face growing hot. “Yeah.”
“The Chris Sterns?”
“Yes, that one.”
With the back of her hand pressed to her forehead, Ali collapsed against her seat. “But… but how? When?”
I shrugged and stuffed a bit of chicken in my mouth to avoid talking.
She blinked slowly before a wide grin overtook her face. Ali had a big smile normally, but this was her special smile, the Danger Smile, I called it. She was thinking things when she smiled that smile. Usually, it leads to questionable situations that often lead to, well, danger.
“I knew he was into you. He’s been asking me all kind of questions about you and…” Suddenly, she gasped. “YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE OUT WITH CHRIS STERNS.”
And now the entire café had gone silent.
“Ali!” I whisper-screamed and cradled my forehead on my hand.
She winced and had the decency to look apologetic. Half-standing, she waved at the restaurant, which mostly consisted of the regular bunch of old men and chess boards. “Nothing to see here, people. Just ignore us.”
I groaned. “I can’t believe you.”
Ali soldiered on, disregarding my embarrassment. “How did you… I mean… oh, I don’t even care. But you had better call me, text me, send a smoke signal, whatever, as soon as you get home tonight. The very second. Do you understand?”
“Okay. Okay.”
“What are you wearing? Something that shows off your legs. Don’t wear any of those librarian t-shirts. Or that ugly jacket with the weird stripes on the sleeves.”
I liked that jacket. “What if I get cold?”
“Duh.” The look she gave me could only be described as incredulous. “You’ll have a big strong man to warm you up.”
“Oh, right.” I was positive my face was on fire.
Ali winked. “Now we’re talking.”