“Is it cool if I head home and skip the rally?” She was chewing on her lip like she was afraid to ask me. “I have a calculus test on Monday and I want to start studying.”
“Becca, today’s Thursday.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Exactly. I should’ve started studying a week ago.”
I couldn’t decide if she was being sarcastic.
There were hundreds of students in the bleachers already. I doubted anyone would notice if she wasn’t there. . . .
“Okay,” I agreed. “You’re still coming to my game tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
I smiled and took a step backward. “Have fun studying, then.” Becca waved and headed down the hall, that book still in her hand.
I ran onto the field a few minutes late. The principal was talking and Jeff was waving me down, an empty spot beside him. I snuck in as incognito as possible. “Hey,” I whispered.
“You’re late,” he whispered back.
“Was with Becca.” Jeff gave me a look, then turned his attention back to the principal. He probably took that as meaning we were hiding somewhere making out, not sitting in the back of a library. I didn’t correct him. At least it added some credibility to this.
The rally ended in an hour, and I was halfway back to my car when my phone rang. It was my mom. I answered on the second ring. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Everything okay?” she asked. “You’re usually home by now.” I didn’t miss the change in her voice. It happened whenever my dad was gone. She sounded kind of lonely. Maybe a little sad.
I reminded her about the pep rally and promised I’d be home soon. I was driving through town when I spotted a bakery and impulsively pulled over. Maybe some desserts would cheer my mom up. A bell rang when I opened the door and the smell of vanilla hit me. There were tables lining the wall and a huge glass dessert display. The place was empty. I walked to the counter and rang the bell. An older woman with short blonde hair came out from the back, smiling.
“What can I get you, hon?”
I wasn’t sure what my mom liked since she never really ate dessert, so I got her an assortment. Some cupcakes, some fruit tarts. A few croissants and these white balls with jam in the middle. “Those are my daughter’s favorite,” the woman said when I pointed at them.
“Then I’ll take three,” I said. “Do you have any cannoli?” I think I may have seen my mom eat those once at a wedding.
“We’re making a fresh batch now. They should be ready.” She turned around and called, “Bells, bring me out some cannoli!”
I smiled and handed her a few bills. “Thank you.”
The woman, whose name tag read AMY, was dropping the change into my hand when someone walked out of the back. I looked up and froze. It was Becca. She had flour all over her face and was wearing a pink Hart’s Cupcakes T-shirt.
“Becca?” I said slowly.
She dropped the entire tray of cannoli on the floor.
The woman, who could only be her mother based on how similar they looked, spun around and shrieked, clamping her hand over her mouth. “Becca!” she yelled. “What happened?”
“I—” Her cheeks were bright red. My hand was still outstretched over the counter, money in my palm.
“Just clean this up. I’ll go get more.” Then her mom turned to face me and said, “I’m so sorry, hon. Give me a minute.”
As soon as she disappeared into the back, Becca ran to the counter. “What are you doing here?” she whisper-yelled, leaning across and pointing her finger at me.
I held my hands up. “I came to buy some stuff for my mom. I didn’t know you worked here . . . Bells.”
“It’s a nickname,” she hissed, “and my mom owns this bakery!” She kept glancing frantically behind her shoulder. “Hart’s Cupcakes? Becca Hart? You didn’t piece the two together?”
Oh.
“I thought you were studying for calculus,” I pointed out. She ducked behind the counter and began picking up the broken cannoli shells. “Need some help?”
“No,” she snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. I was studying, but my mom called me and asked me to come in and help her. There’s a big last-minute catering order for tomorrow morning.”
At that, her mom came back in, holding another tray of cannoli. She took three and placed them in a box. “On the house, hon. Sorry about that.” She looked between us then, like she’d just realized we’d been talking. “Do you two know each other?” she asked, her face lighting up.
I held out my hand. “Yeah, we do. I’m Brett. Her boy—”
Becca jumped up from the floor and screamed, “Friend! He’s Brett. My friend, Mom.”
Before I even had a chance to be offended, the door to the back opened and a girl with brown hair stepped out—the girl from Becca’s profile picture. She took one look at me, then Becca, then her mom. She grinned, leaning against the wall to watch.
The whole situation was weird, and I was happy when Becca’s mom handed me the box of pastries and said, “Nice to meet you, Brett. Enjoy, and sorry again.”
I walked out of the bakery in a daze. Becca never mentioned she wanted to keep us a secret from her mother. But that was clear now. Crystal clear. And her mom owned a bakery? I really knew nothing about the girl I was supposed to be dating. That had to change. No one was going to believe this otherwise. Then I remembered my game tomorrow night and how my parents were going to be there. With Becca.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that would go well.
And that Becca wouldn’t back out last minute.
Becca
FOUR HOURS HAD PASSED SINCE the whole Brett bakery fiasco and my mom still hadn’t stopped talking about it. Not because she was mad I dropped an entire tray of cannoli, made from her grandmother’s secret recipe. I would have preferred that. Instead she’d been talking about Brett, all googly-eyed and weird.
We were closing up the bakery, just the two of us. Cassie had already left after wishing me luck. She was right. I needed it. My mom’s brain had entered that obsessive love zone and there was no escaping until she got it out of her system.
“How do you know each other again?” she asked while sweeping the floor.
“English class,” I said for the third time.
“He’s your age?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“Mom!” I threw the wet rag at her. “Can you stop? Please?”
“All I’m saying,” she continued, not listening, “is that it sounded like he started to say something before you yelled about you two being friends.”
She eyed me suspiciously over the broom.
“I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader,” I mumbled.
She laughed. “Right, Bells.”
I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t considering telling her Brett and I were dating (leaving out the fake part, duh). Mom will finally lay off about me being single was one of the reasons I’d listed in the PRO section of my pro-con list. The happiness she’d feel knowing Brett was my (fake) boyfriend would be enough to last her a lifetime. She’d give me one of her squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hugs and it could potentially be a nice moment. . . .