The Truth About Faking, Chapter 1

“I know,” he says through an exhale. “I glanced away, and when I looked back, there you were. Not moving.”

“It was Bender—” I’m not about to confess I was looking at a text, but I’m cut off.

“What tha HELL!” That voice is not okay. 

Mom’s Denali had just given Bender’s Towncar a butt lift, and I can tell he’s pissed—as usual. A veteran of two wars, Mr. Bender isn’t exactly mean, but teenagers top his list of most annoying things on the planet. And don’t even think about pulling your phone out in front of him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy starts again, this time a little nervous. “I was looking off, and—”

“You’re right you’re sorry!” Bender growls. “How old are you? Do you even have a license?”

“I’m seventeen, sir. Yes, sir, I have a license.” The guy stutters, holding his hands up like Bender’s got a gun on him.

“Then you should know. Ten and two. Eyes on the road!”

“Yes, sir. I just noticed that used car lot, and I need a new car…”

“More like you need driver’s ed,” Bender barks. “Gimmie your license.”

The boy drops his hands and starts digging in his back pocket. I see the flashing lights pull up behind his duck-billed destroyer, and sure enough, Pete climbs out and starts slowly heading our way, silver-metal clipboard in hand. He spots Bender and immediately looks tired.

“We need to move these vehicles from the lanes of traffic,” he says, beginning to write. “You okay, Harley?”

I nod. Pete’s been friends with my parents since they were all at State College together in Glennville, the college town right across the river from us.

 “Got your license, son?” Pete asks the guy. 

Bender hands it over. He’s just finished writing down all the information for himself, and I figure he’ll be calling the poor guy’s parents in a few hours.

“It’s all my fault…” the guy starts again, but Pete puts a hand up. “Harley, you got yours?” 

I slowly climb onto the running board and reach into my bag, still feeling a little off-balance.

“Tom, I’m going to need yours as well,” Pete says.

“I’m not at fault here…” Mr. Bender starts. “I was sitting at the light, obeying the rules of the road, when Harley was shoved into my backside by this… menace.”

The menace looks down, and I feel sorry for him. He seems embarrassed.

“I still need to fill out the report, so I’ll need your license,” Pete’s voice sounds weary. It’s the sound most people’s voices get when dealing with Mr. Bender. 

Bender huffs some more and digs into his back pocket, producing a sleek leather trifold from which he pulls his license. Then he stalks back to his Towncar and gets on one knee to examine his bumper. That leaves me standing in the median with the menace. 

He shoves a hand at me. “I’m Jason.”

Skinny. Shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes. Not really my type, but a friendly enough smile. I reach out and briefly touch his hand before crossing my arms again.

“So, Harley?” He smiles and fumbles his hand into his pocket. He’s a little shaky, too, I notice. “Your parents bikers?”

“No.” I pull my hair back in a band, ignoring a slight twinge as I do so.