Faking Reality Page 5

  “Get your parents to sign the appearance release, and I will gladly take my BFF to the hardware store with us.”

  Leo sighs. “Not going to happen. I mean, I get it. Mom said she felt so powerless after the-event-that-shall-not-be-named. She cried. You know she claims you as the baby of our family. She doesn’t want anything like that to happen to my sisters or me.”

  “Yes, there have been some huge—and I mean HUGE—negatives to this life, but there have also been some big positives.”

  “Like a fully funded college account, a trust fund, and being able to easily afford the Japan trip?”

  I wince. Leo’s assessment isn’t exactly wrong.

  “I was referring to our annual Giving Back episodes. Hands down, helping rebuild the burned-out home of the recently widowed woman with four kids was my favorite build of all time.”

  “I liked that episode. Especially when the girl got to help you redo her bedroom.”

  I don’t usually ask for favors from The Network, but I wanted this girl’s room to be epic. Why? I couldn’t do anything about her family’s new life without their dad, who had died in a helicopter accident overseas. But I could create a comfort zone for Leticia filled with all the things she loves, like bees and art supplies. Her family still sends us a Christmas card each year along with a giant box filled with jars of honey and honey-based items from their family’s apiary.

  “Sometimes, I think about taking a gap year after high school and going abroad to help build houses. I know my welding skills are still meh, but I install shiplap like a boss.”

  “Your painting skills are lit. But you talk too much, and I have to leave in five minutes to go wait tables. So…” Leo rolls his hands. “Can we do another layer yet?”

  “Not yet. I can show you how to clean the sprayer though.”

  I go to the temporary utility sink to wash out the nozzle. The paint cup refuses to cooperate with me. I grit my teeth and grunt, but it won’t budge.

  Leo appears behind me. “Here.”

  “Wait! You have to—” The paint cup turns easily for him, but not without splattering us both with red paint first. “Release the pressure first before you take it off.”

  “Oops.” Leo looks down to see that his favorite Kitsune Mask T-shirt has a spray of red paint across it like he knifed someone. “Kuso!”

  “Quick, wash it out before it sets.” I don’t care about the red paint on the shoulder of my long-sleeved T-shirt with the If These Walls Could Talk logo on it. I have a whole rainbow-colored stack of them in my closet.

  Leo pulls off his shirt and scrubs at the splatter like he’s removing incriminating evidence.

  “How bad is it?” Leo holds out the shirt to me.

  I try to keep my eyes on the shirt only. I fail spectacularly. The weight set Leo bought last winter was definitely a good investment. My eyes trail down …

  “Koty.”

  “Hmm.” My eyes snap back up to squint at the wet fabric. “I think it’s okay, but it’s kinda hard to tell in here.”

  “I gotta go anyway.”

  Leo leaves his shirt off as we go outside. And I am not sad about this. He retrieves his skateboard, and I follow him to the sidewalk. I hold the edge of the T-shirt out in the bright afternoon sunshine.

  “I’m sorry.” I run my finger across the now light pink splotches. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know, but I feel bad.”

  “The paint gun got you too.”

  When I tip my head to look at the damage on my shoulder, Leo steps toward me. I instinctively put my hand out to keep my personal bubble intact. Which means my bare hand is on Leo’s bare chest. A bolt of energy crackles to the pit of my stomach. And not like the time when I was four and crammed a metal washer into an electrical socket—even worse. Leo must not feel the same jolt because he doesn’t move at all. Instead, his left hand gently cups my face and tips my head back to the other side. My eyes are instinctively closing when he suddenly spits on the fingers of his right hand and rubs at what is most likely paint next to my ear.

  “Mom says Mom Spit is more powerful than 409. I can’t promise mine is, but it did manage to get the paint off your cheek. You’ve got a blob in your hair too if you want me to try to get it out.”

  Stuck somewhere between disgust and a swoon, the muscles in my mouth have forgotten how to work. Leo takes that as a yes. He rubs at a spot of hair above my ear.

  “Sorry. I think I made it worse.” Leo presses on the side of my head.

  “It’s okay. I’ll fix it later.”

  Leo looks down at my hand, still on his chest. “Koty. You’re making things weird.”

  I pull my hand away and press the damp shirt into Leo’s chest instead. “You’re making it weird. Especially with the 409-spit thing. Gross. I want to go wash my face with Lysol now.”

  Leo flicks me in the arm. Hard. “Boys stop having cooties around fifth grade, just so you know.”

  I flick him back. Hard. “And yet you’ve never had a girlfriend. Hmmm?”

  A wrinkle creases Leo’s forehead. I kick myself.

  “I’m working on it.” Leo slides his wet, stained shirt back on. “There are over two thousand people at our school. Surely, there is somebody out there for me.”

  “There is. I know it.” Though I would rather have my eyebrows ripped off with duct tape than see Leo Matsuda making out in the hallway with somebody else.

  Leo’s phone pings six times in a row. “I gotta go. Ja mata ne.”

  “Yep, later.” I watch Leo skateboard away.

  When I turn back around, I see the new camera op—the one who snort-laughed at my yellow snow joke—standing next to Phil’s trailer with his phone pointed in our direction. He immediately turns his back and puts the phone to his ear. Icy fingers grip my heart.

  It’s fine, Dakota. He’s not the paparazzi. Breathe.

  Chapter

  5

  It’s finally the Monday of Homecoming week. I turn in my Japan trip deposit and prepare to take the build for a test drive.

  “The meat is already defrosting at home. You can use our oil. What else do we need besides yellow onions, mushrooms, cabbage, and carrots?” I say as Leo and I wheel our shopping cart around Fry’s after school.

  “He shoots.” A plastic baggie of green onions flies through the air. And completely misses the basket. In one smooth move, Leo scoops the bag off the linoleum and plops it back into the basket. “He scores. Sorta. That’s it. I have the noodles and sauce in my backpack.”

  “Can we get gummy bears?”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, in that case, let’s get two bags. One for us. One for Aurora. Maybe that will help with her extra salty mood today.”

  As if she can somehow hear us from the parking lot, Aurora group texts us from the car: HURRY UP!!!!! I’M DYING OUT HERE!!!!

  Leo and I pull up to the cashier and dump our goods on the conveyor belt. When I lean back to grab a pack of gum, Leo has a weird expression on his face.

  “Can you move?” I say. “I want a pack of gum.”

  “What kind?” Leo stands like a wall.

  “Do they have the cinnamon kind?”

  Leo rotates his upper body instead of moving to the side.

  “Dude, what are you doing?” When I push him to the side, I see it—the tabloid.

  DIY Sweetheart’s Second Chance at Love

  “Don’t look.” Leo steps closer to me.

  “What the—” Aurora says from behind Leo with an open bottle of Pepsi in one hand and the tabloid open in the other. “I know this is you, Leo, despite the bar across your eyes.”

  Leo yelps and turns around. Aurora holds up the tabloid. The air whooshes out of my lungs as I focus in on the full page dedicated to me and my nonexistent love life. Like even if the tabloid isn’t straight-up mocking me, it can still invade my privacy and get a pass.

  Aurora c
loses the tabloid and throws it on the conveyor belt.

  “We’re not buying this.” Leo snatches it back off and crams it backward on the display.

  “Mom’s going to see it at some point.” Aurora puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side. “Trust me. The best defense is a good offense.”

  “No. Let’s go.” Leo grabs my shoulders and turns me around. He gently pushes me through the checkout lane and pulls out his wallet. He even doubles back for a pack of cinnamon gum for me.

  Meanwhile, I stand there shivering with rage. I will not explode in the middle of Fry’s. That’s exactly what they expect me to do. Want me to do.

  “Thank you,” Leo says quietly to the cashier before grabbing our bag. He puts a hand on my lower back and herds me out the door.

  “You two need to chill.” Aurora follows us out of Fry’s a moment later with a copy of the tabloid tucked under her arm. After we’re all in the car, Aurora opens up the tabloid. “I get it. You had your privacy invaded. That sucks. But look at you guys.” Aurora points at the picture, but Leo and I still don’t look. “Look. Y’all are cute. Which is gross on multiple levels, but objectively speaking, it could have been much worse. Laugh at yourselves and then let it go.”

  Leo gives her a withering look.

  * * *

  Mom is waiting when Aurora drops Leo and me off at my house a few minutes later. She has a copy of the tabloid too.

  “I’m guessing from your expressions that you’ve heard about the tabloid problem.” Mom follows us through the shortcut between the build and our house to the backyard.

  “Yeah.” I drop all my stuff on the weather-beaten picnic table I built in the fourth grade.

  Mom places the folded tabloid beside my backpack and pulls me into a hug. “The camera operator who took these photos was fired so fast his head is probably still spinning. And Dad and I insisted that Phil enforce the non-disclosure clause in the guy’s contract to the letter.” Mom releases me and squeezes Leo’s arm. “I’m sorry, Leo. Even though it doesn’t name you specifically, I’m going to call your parents and apologize. I know how your parents, especially your dad, feel about your privacy.”

  “Thanks. You guys deal with this stuff all the time, but it feels weird to me. Violating.” Leo shakes his head. “But I’m not going to let it ruin my day. It’s time to focus. The Homecoming Carnival is Thursday. Time to take this baby for a spin. I’ve been making yakisoba in the restaurant for the last week—thanks to Ojiichan making it a special—but I’m excited about doing it for real. ’Cause if I’m going to screw it up, let’s do it now.”

  I pull the tarp off the yakisoba stand with a magician’s flourish. “Ta-dah!”

  This pulls a small smile from Leo.

  “You’re not going to screw it up. We got this.” I wish I could say that I was confident in my welding abilities, but I’m not. I turn the propane on and hold my breath. I push the ignition button and hear the telltale whoosh as the gas meets the spark. Whoosh. Not boom. Whew.

  “Now, we’re cooking with gas … well, propane.” Leo puts his hand a couple of inches above the griddle and nods that it’s heating up. “I’m going to go wash my hands and prep the vegetables. Back in a sec.”

  Mom drops her head. “And I’m going to go call Jen.”

  I fiddle with the build while they’re gone. Finally, I can’t stop myself. I grab the tabloid.

  After last year’s Homecoming disaster, which broke our hearts, it looks like America’s DIY Princess has found romance again. Sources say that this boy is a student at Dakota’s school and that the pair is inseparable. Mystery Boy even comes over to help Dakota with her builds sometimes, though we have to wonder what kind of DIY project requires one to be shirtless? Could Mystery Boy be the one to mend our favorite fifteen-year-old’s broken heart? We sure hope so.

  It’s a little grainy, but the camera op got Leo’s good side. From this angle, my Cinnamon Roll Prince looks long, lean, and chiseled.

  “You couldn’t resist, could you?” Leo’s voice travels across my backyard.

  I stuff the tabloid under my backpack and go back to fiddling with the build. Leo sets the tray of supplies down and ties a piece of white fabric around his forehead. The sign of someone hard at work, according to Ojiichan. It also helps absorb sweat when you are cooking outside in Phoenix, where summer doesn’t end until late-October sometimes.

  “You want me to help?” I say, and Leo scoffs. “I know how to cook. Sorta.”

  “You could go see if the meat is defrosted yet. Our moms are talking about the—you know—so Ms. Tamlyn may have forgotten about it.”

  “Back in a sec.”

  Leo was right. I can hear Mom in the kitchen talking on the phone to Mrs. Matsuda as I come up the backstairs to the house. I crack the back door open. Mom stands at the microwave with her back to me.

  “I know, Jen. Unfortunately, they are growing up, and when they hit a certain age, the narrative changes. Welllll. Maybe, but keep that to yourself because she would kill me. And if Kenichi asks, they are definitely just friends. At least for now. Who knows? It could simply be hormones or puppy love or a phase.” Mom pops open the microwave and pokes at the pork inside. “I’ve got to run. It could be nothing, but I wanted you to hear it from me first. Let’s not make a big deal of it and hope it goes away. Okay. I agree. Bye.”

  Hormones? Puppy love? A phase? As much as it burns me, there is a truth to Mom’s assessment. Is it specifically Leo causing all the weird things going on inside me, or would it happen with whoever was in my inner circle? Is this hormones or feelings by default or something even bigger and scarier?

  Mom turns around with the plate of pork in her hands.

  “I was coming to get that.” I come fully into the kitchen, pretending like I didn’t hear her on the phone. “Leo is ready to cook.”

  “Give me another minute.” Mom dumps the pork on a chopping board and cuts it into bite-sized pieces. “Is your dad back yet?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mom puts the pork pieces into a clean bowl. “Okay, let me get my laptop. I can finish up my designs outside.”

  “Mom, Leo and I don’t need a babysitter.” I grab the bowl as Mom washes her hands. “We’re making yakisoba, not welding.”

  “I know, but the tabloid thing got me thinking. Maybe we should—”

  “Mom! I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re fine. It’s no different from some of the other creative editing Phil does with the show sometimes. Other people want to corrupt the story or make it more dramatic or whatever their personal agenda is. I can’t control it, so I’m choosing to let it go.”

  Okay, do I totally believe this? No. But, I’m trying to use the tools my therapist gave me and take control of this situation as best I can.

  “That’s a good plan, Koty. You guys cook and text me if you need a hand. But…” Mom leans over and grabs the small fire extinguisher from the corner—the one we had to replace after my fried chicken experiment went sideways last month. I give Mom a look. “I know. Humor me.”

  I drop the fire extinguisher on the picnic table next to my backpack. The tabloid is still there but turned the other side up now.

  “I was about to send out a search party for you.” Leo pours a little bit of water on the griddle. It immediately bubbles and steams. After the water disappears, he drizzles vegetable oil all over the stove and uses a metal spatula to coat the griddle’s surface.

  I put the container of pork next to the other chopped up ingredients. “Is that enough space? It kinda has to be because I don’t have time to do a rebuild.”

  “It’ll work. I’m going to bring a camp table to put behind me. Otherwise, I think the cooler is going to be too close to the heat of the griddle.” Leo wipes beads of sweat from his upper lip onto the shoulder of his T-shirt. “Do I get tuneage while I work?”

  I pull up “The Leo Mix,” which he put on my phone specifically for occasions like this. I crank it up. Leo bobs his head as he cre
ates his noodle masterpiece. He dumps the pork pieces on the griddle first and moves them about with the spatula. Soon after, he adds the perfectly uniform slices of yellow onions and carrots. The onions sizzle and begin to brown—caramelize, Leo corrects me—almost as soon as they hit the hot griddle. He adds a layer of cabbage and then the green onions and mushrooms. Leo does a goofy shoulder dance as our current favorite slow jam echoes around my backyard.

  “One last … kissssss,” Leo sings the chorus into his spatula.

  The hormones in my blood steam up as much as the water on the griddle. But is it hormones? As a test, I plug Aurora into the equation. Yes, Aurora could probably hit the high note without straining into falsetto. But she wouldn’t cough and laugh at herself if she cracked the pitch as bad as Leo just did. So, I try Nevaeh in the equation instead. They would have hit the high note and maybe even a good chunk of the vocal run into the stratosphere Rayne Lee does, before pretending to pass out. I would have still laughed, but the thought doesn’t make bubbles appear in my stomach. That is until I look at Leo again. Is this just biology? Or friendship turned up to eleven? Or love?

  “I don’t know,” Leo says, and I snap to attention, afraid that he’s read my mind. “The heat might be up too high. Can you turn it down a notch?”

  I do as Leo begins to flip and blend the yakisoba noodles into the mixture on the griddle.

  “What?” Leo catches my eye.

  “What what?” I say.

  “You keep looking at me weird.”

  I scoff. “I’m trying to learn how to make this dish so I can recreate it for my parents later on our pancake griddle.”

  “Oh, okay.” Leo squirts most of the bottle of the rich, brown yakisoba sauce on top of the pile and mixes it around. “So it has nothing to do with the tabloid article? You gotta admit, that weight set I bought last winter seems to have paid off. Either that or somebody photoshopped the picture before it printed.”

  I don’t even know how to answer that. I’m pretty sure it is a trick question.