Fake It Till You Fall

Juni Pov

I have forty two thousand dollars of a secret in my notebook, but my mouth won't open to let it out. Sienna shuts her binder with a snap that sounds like a gunshot. It’s the fourth time this month I’ve let her win without even putting up a fight.

"Time to wrap up," Sienna says. Her head down, not even a glance my way.

"Wait... Sienna, I had a..." I say, my fingers pressed against page twelve. I have the numbers circled in red. That money set aside for books and music? It's slipping sideways, ending up in sports instead.

"Not now, Juni," Sienna says, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I have cheer practice in ten minutes and the gym is a trek. Can it wait?"

"It's about the budget,” I say. My voice feels small. And I wish they wouldn’t sound so thin. "The amounts just don’t line up right."

She stops for a moment, her fingers curled around the door knob. Her eyes meet mine... not harsh, just tired. “You take minutes better than anyone,” she says, her voice softening. "Let me handle the math, that’s how it works, okay? I appreciate the thought though, really.”

"But I checked it twice," I say.

"And I’ll check it a third time later," she says, already halfway out the door. "Bye, babe! See you tomorrow!"

The room is empty before I can say anything else. My gaze goes down, landing on the notebook. I grab my pen and write Next time in the margin. I’ve written it so many times it doesn't even look like words anymore. It looks like a pattern. I’m sixteen years old and I’m already an expert at waiting for a 'next time' that never comes.

The hallway is a mess of bodies and noise. I’m trying to shove my notebook into my bag when Bree Santos appears out of nowhere. She tears into a bag of chip without pause. Her eyes are sharp, twitchy, buzzing with too much caffeine.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Bree says, leaning against the lockers. "What did Sienna do now?"

"Nothing," I say. I give her the smile. The version that was learned standing in front of a bathroom mirror, weeks after dad's left and never came back. The one that says I’m fine, don't look closer. "Just student council stuff."

"Liar," Bree says. She pops a chip into her mouth. "Anyway, forget the budget. Let’s talk about the important stuff. You doing prom with Tyler?"

"That’s the plan," I say.

Bree stops walking. "You said that like it’s a dentist appointment."

"I said it like it’s a plan, Bree. We’ve been together for two years. Of course we’re going together."

"Two years of 'the plan,'" Bree mutters. "Do you even like him anymore? Or are you just staying with him because it’s easier than breaking up?"

"I like him," I say, though the words feel hollow. I remember those days... always picking fights over silly things... films, stories, anything really or why the ending of that one book was trash. Tyler would chuckle, and say I was 'exhausting.' He said it like a compliment, but after a while, he stopped laughing. He started looking tired. So, I stopped arguing. I called it growing up. I didn't realize I was just shrinking.

"He’s safe," Bree says, watching me. "That’s what you mean. He’s predictable."

"Predictable is good," I say. "My life has enough surprises."

"Your life is a snooze fest because you make it that way," Bree says, but she bumps her shoulder against mine so I know she’s not being mean. "Just don't disappear, okay? I like the girl who argues."

"She's busy," I say.

We turn the corner and the hallway suddenly gets quieter. It’s like a wave of silence is moving toward us. I see why a second later. Declan is walking toward the principal's office.

People move out of his way, as if heat rises off him. He doesn't look at anyone. He wears a black hoodie, with it sleeves rolled high. His gaze stays fixed forward. As he passes us, I notice a dark, purplish bruise right along his jawline. It looks painful. It looks real.

"There he goes," a girl next to me whispers to her friend. "Vance’s office again. Did you hear about the parking lot thing?"

"He’s going to get expelled eventually," the other girl says, shaking her head. "He’s just trouble."

"He hasn’t yet," I say.

Both girls turn to look at me. They look surprised that I even spoke. Usually, I’m just the girl who takes the notes and smiles.

"What?" the first girl asks.

"I just said he hasn't been expelled yet," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Maybe there’s a reason for that."

The girl rolls her eyes. "Whatever, Juni. You’re too nice. You think everyone has a secret heart of gold."

I don't. I just think everyone has a secret. I watch Declan’s back as he disappears into the office. He doesn't look like he has a heart of gold. He looks like he’s carrying a backpack full of stones and he’s forgotten how to put it down.

The kitchen is quiet when I get home. My mom, Penny, is at the table with her laptop and three different folders. She doesn't look up when I walk in.

"Hi there, Mom," I say.

"Hey, sweetie. Your dinner's waiting inside the fridge. I have to finish this proposal by eight," She says. That her voice... familiar. Same one since I turned eleven. Dad walked out of our lives back then. Chose some other women over us. Not a single tear fell from her. At least, not where I could see. Yet she just organized the spice rack and started working overtime. She became a machine.

"How was your day?" I ask.

"Productive," she says. She finally looks up. Her eyes scan me, checking for any signs of messiness. "Is your hair coming out of that bun, Juniper? You should fix it. You look tired."

"I'll fix it," I say.

I head upstairs, then shut the door behind me. I settle on the bed, reaching beneath for my journal... no, not that one they see at class. This one is the one I keep under my mattress.

I used to fill one of these every month. I'd write about literally everything and anything... the cafeteria's awful odor, how I felt like I was screaming underwater. TThen Tyler read one. He didn't mean to, but he saw a page where I said I felt lonely even when I was with him. He told me it was 'a lot.' He told me I was overthinking

The following morning, I started a fresh journal. I wrote less. Over the last two years, the entries have gotten shorter and shorter.

A vibration breaks the quiet beside my bed. It’s a text from Tyler.

Tyler: About prom... can we talk?

A shiver runs through me, low and sharp. Right then, I dial his number... only silence answers, the line dumping into voice mail without a ring.

"Hey, Tyler, it's me," I say to the beep. "I got your text. Call me back when you can. I’m just... I’m here. Love you."

I hang up and stare at the blank page in my journal. I want to write that I’m scared. I want to write that I think the budget is being stolen and my boyfriend is about to dump me and my mom is a stranger who lives in my house.

I pick up my pen. My hand shakes just a little.

Something is wrong, I write.