Page 48 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
The question catches me off guard. Like seeing Suck-o in that box, it feels like yet another backhanded strike. Did our loss mean so little to them that they don’t even remember it? That we’re the reason they have the second-floor expansion and the Jet Skis tied to their dock?
“That bet, from our first year here?” His expression remains unreadable. “The one where your dad stole my dad’s invention and turned it into a million-dollar empire? The same bet your dad challenged us to again this year so he can turn our cabin into a boat garage?” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be, but I can’t help the rage that bubbles up as I dwell on the fact that they can’t be bothered to remember screwing us over.
“That robot was yours?” Julian chokes out.
I prop myself up, eyes narrowed at him. “You didn’t know?”
He shakes his head. “Dad told us it was something he’d been messing around with.”
The weight of his reply makes my arms tremble. If they didn’t know, then why did he throw eggs at our house? Why did I trip him and make his lip split open? Why have we been at each other’s throats for a decade over something they had no part in?
“Then why did you hate us?” is all I can manage to say. It barely made sense before and even less sense now. We assumed they hated us because we had the power to threaten what they had. Because we knew the truth, even if we couldn’t prove it. But if Julian and his siblings didn’t see us as a threat, then why have we been feuding for twelve years?
Julian doesn’t meet my eyes, shaking his head at the sky. “Because he told us to.”
It’s easy to hate someone when you’re six. The neighbors had a pool and we didn’t; that was enough. Dad told us that the Seo-Cookes hurt him. That just fueled us even more. But what if the person you trust most isn’t trustworthy?
What if the person right in front of you was someone you could’ve trusted the entire time?
When Julian speaks up again, he still doesn’t look at me.
“This is my dad’s MO. He’s always talking about how people like us need to be louder than everyone in the room, or no one’ll listen. And maybe that’s true, but now all he does is talk over everyone.”
It’s not a line of thought I can disagree with. Mr. Cooke knows as well as I do what it’s like to be the only Latino in a room, how sometimes it feels like you’ll never be heard. Butthat doesn’t change what he did. That he didn’t just shout over us—he silenced us entirely.
So much for solidarity.
“That was him. On the phone earlier.” Julian’s voice is thick.
My breath catches, and I fight back the urge to cough. I can hear how badly Julian wants to cry, so I give him space.
“He set up a lunch for me and some guy who knows the coach of the Princeton lacrosse team. Even though I told him I wasn’t interested,” Julian continues. “I did what I always do. Panic and say the worst possible thing.” He stops for a moment, glancing over at me with a half-smirk. “Thankfully I didn’t say I have another fake boyfriend.”
I snort, all the breath I’ve been holding coming out at once. “Good. I can barely keep up with one fake relationship.”
He nods, looking up at the stars again. “I should’ve told him then. About Princeton.”
“What’s your plan? If you’re not going to Princeton, I mean.”
I’m prepared for him to list off dozens of top-tier universities, not shrug and say, “I don’t have one.”
“You…don’t?”
Julian Seo-Cooke, whose days are blocked out and color-coded to the minute, doesn’t have a plan. That sounds as believable as our relationship.
“Not exactly.” He sighs as he folds his arms behind his head. “I didn’t get into Princeton. Didn’t even make it onto the waitlist.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t apply anywhere else. You still have a few days left.” I should know. I didn’t submit my CalArts application until the very last day, drenched in panic sweat when my laptop crashed twenty minutes before the application portal closed. Thankfully, Maya came to the rescue and let me borrow hers. Something I’m sure she regrets now.
Julian shakes his head. “I don’t think I want to go anywhere else. It’s not like I wanted to go to Princeton, either. But…I don’t really know what I want.” He inhales sharply, exhales slowly, and I resist the urge to lean in closer.
“It was easy for Henry to become the person Dad expected him to be. Sports have always been his thing, but I never had that. Athing.So I let Dad tell me what I wanted to be, even though I knew it was never going to work. I knew I wasn’t going to get into Princeton. Or Wharton, or any of the other schools he made me apply to. Not after I flunked out of pre-calc last year.” He stalls, turning to me with a small, sad smile. “See, there is something I’m bad at.”
Something a lot like guilt burns my neck. “So, what’re you going to do?”
“Take a break,” he replies as he turns away again, his voice lighter this time. “Get a job. Figure out what I want to do—if I even want to go to college. Mom said a change of scenery might help, so we’ll see.”
“Are you going to be one of those kids who backpacks through Europe after graduation and never shuts up about it? Because that’s about half the population at CalArts, and they areinsufferable.”
