Fake It Till We Make It, page 7
I’m fortunate to have a natural photographic memory. Sometimes, I don’t even need this notepad, but I have to maintain the façade of a helpless waitress. And I need to excel because this is the last time I’ll ever have to do it.
Once I hand over the order to the kitchen, I tidy up the tables nearby, taking the opportunity to eavesdrop. Backstage, I used to love listening to gossip before every runway show or movie set—who’s sleeping with whom and who’s the next target for Cancel Culture.
Spoiler alert: my name was in red ink.
“Dude, she’s seriously gorgeous. Look at her abs! They’re freakin’ sparkling like Edward Cullen.” Pigtail Girl seems to be the TMZ of the group, displaying pictures of one of Baba’s models, Amari De Grandi. She was, or should I say, used to be, my competition for the longest time, considering we both belonged to the same agency.
Our parents constantly pitted us against each other regarding our looks, weight, and height. Who’s walked in more shows, who’s on the cover of Vogue’s September issue, whose net worth is higher—an endless stream of comparisons.
And yet, Amari always remained second and simmering with jealousy. She despised that I was the frontrunner in our little rivalry, and I thrived from her frustrations, feeding my ego with her failures.
But now she’s the highest-paid model and a full-time actress, sipping rosé with the Hadid sisters on their yacht in Bora-Bora. Meanwhile, I’m wiping tables in a Korean BBQ restaurant, secretly hoping each swipe of the cloth doubles as a calorie burn.
It’s okay.
It’s fine.
No one will see me again anyway—no one wants to. I’ve got zero to no support system left, and even if I crawl back to Baba, begging for redemption and a full-blown clean slate and the toughest fitness trainer in the universe, it won’t be satisfying.
My happiness derived from the satisfaction of succeeding. I was an incredibly motivated young girl, always on her toes about a commercial deal, an early riser to complete her tasks, and sleeping on time to avoid under-eye circles. My fuel was—is—praise. I thrived knowing I pleased my parents. My fans. The universe.
“Alyn-ah!” Jia calls with a swish of her hand, pointing at the girls’ food tray. I am by her side within seconds, loaning her my ear to whisper. “Tae-Hyung really likes Hye-jin. They go to school together. She’s what you kids call the popular girl. And he’s. . . well, shy. Very shy. It’s sad, considering I’m his halmeoni.” She discreetly gestures toward Hye-jin, who’s laughing with her head thrown back, revealing those adorable dimples beneath her lips. “Put in a good word for my grandson, will you?”
“I—” It’s your last day here. It’s the least you can do before you disappear. “I’ll try.”
Taking the tray, I return to the girls and begin placing their bowls before them. I gasp and point at Freckles’ lanyard. “You go to Lincoln High?”
She raises a brow. “Uh, yeah? We all do.”
Pigtail Girl smiles awkwardly.
“Oh my god. So you three probably know Tae— or Eric?”
Freckles steals a glance at Hye-jin, who deftly cracks her chopsticks and rubs them together. “Yeah, we know Eric. He’s, like, totally obsessed with Hye—ouch!” The table rattles.
Hye-jin’s nostrils flare as she hurriedly devours a slice of sweet and sour pork.
“Eric is seriously the coolest guy I’ve ever met! The other day, some jerk snatched my friend’s purse, but Eric didn’t hesitate for a second. He chased that thief down and caught him in just thirty seconds flat. I swear, he’s like the Spider-Man of Koreatown.” I notice the pair’s eyes widen, exchanging impressed glances. Hye-jin remains cold-blooded. “And yesterday, a whole line of girls asked if he was on shift. When I said ‘no,’ one of them literally had a panic attack.”
“For Eric?” Freckles scoffs. “We’re still talking about Eric Park, right?”
“I couldn’t even begin to count the girls, honestly,” I murmur, holding the tray close to my chest. “He says his heart belongs to someone else.”
The pair sneaks another look at Hye-jin. She chews vigorously, on the verge of snapping her chopstick.
I head to the fridge, retrieve their drinks, and place them in front of them with an extra special surprise.
“Tae-hyung’s personal favorite,” I say, setting an orange Crush next to Hye-jin’s bowl before returning to the cash register.
Jia gives me a thumbs up, a question in her eyes, and I respond with a solid, delighted answer.
8
Sun Tower Hotel
Shahzad
Hearing Nyx rev to life with her brand new engines sends a shrill down to my marrow.
My Multistrada used to be a weary, worn-out bike from all those frequent late-night rides without proper maintenance.
But now, with her new high-end parts and that sleek, black finish covering up the old scars and rust from casual races, she’s a beauty once again.
“I gotta hand it to you, kid. She was a fighter.” Paul, my go-to mechanic, remarks as he approaches while I inspect Nyx’s exhaust pipes, giving her another rev. The vibrations resonate in my chest, a feeling only rivaled by the joy Sky and my little sisters bring me. “Feels good?”
“Fantastic,” I reply, running my hand over the leather seat. One for me and an extra for a passenger. Usually, I’d take Dua for rides when high school got the best of her or when she needed a break from home and keeping her relationship with Zayan a secret. Somehow, she powered through to senior year, and Nyx deserves a bit of credit for that.
“Hey, so, listen.” Paul rubs his nape, a conflicted expression on his weathered face. “I’m gonna have to shut down our installment system. Our new boss has strict policies, and it’s cash upfront from now on.” He grazes his fingers over Nyx’s handle. “I meant to send you a quote beforehand, but with the whole switcheroo, I forgot. Sorry, Shahz.”
Well, shit.
“You quoted me six hundred earlier. I hope you haven’t decided to jack up the price, or else I might consider switching to Terry’s instead.” I lock eyes with him, drawing on the intimidation I honed during my days as a bodyguard. It’s all about the stare-down. The first one to blink reveals their defenselessness. And my role is to control that liability and slip through. “Losing a loyal customer, especially one who tips generously, wouldn’t be in your best interest, would it? I’m sure your new boss wouldn’t appreciate that either.”
Paul licks his lips, casting a quick glance over my shoulder to where the office’s main entrance awaits. He surveys his surroundings, taking in the hustle and bustle of the mechanics laboring away in the noisy garage. “Guess not.”
“Good.” I give his shoulder a firm pat. “I’ll get you your six hundred and throw in an extra fifty for good measure.”
He nods, offering me a small smile in return.
I secure my helmet firmly on my head and lift the visor. “If the kingpin gives you any trouble, I’ve got a couple of upper-class connections that could use your expertise. Bring your guys along, but only if things get rough.” I extend my fist for a side bump.
His smile widens as he reciprocates the gesture. “Get outta here, kid.”
I ignite Nyx’s engine, feeling her pulsate with energy, welcoming me back after months of confinement. “Good to see you, too, sweetheart.” I lean into the throttle, and we shoot forward like a bolt of lightning.
Fuck ATMs.
They always feel like a slap in the face.
My savings aren’t looking too pretty either. Five thousand dollars is peanuts in Manhattan—I’m practically scraping the barrel. And with my expenses and the situation back home, money is more crucial now than ever.
Savings mock me with a paltry $3,900, which will barely cover me for the next three months, especially now that I’ve got Nyla living under my roof. Maira’s contributing to the rent, but I’ve kept it as low as possible because she’s like a sister to me. I’d never charge my sisters. And with the utility bills stacking up along with Sky’s vet bills, I’m on the brink of losing my mind to the cruel calculus of it all.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. Speaking of sisters.
“Hey, Dua.” I stride over and lean against my bike.
“I’ve failed you.”
One sniffle sets off a chain reaction within me.
“Dua, what happened? Are you all right? Is Zineerah okay?”
“Everyone’s fine except for me,” she manages to say between soft, subdued sobs. Out of the three of us, Dua is the rock. She hasn’t shed a tear since she came into this world, always the endless, optimist egg in the basket. Her dreams of becoming a sports journalist keep her on a steady course, along with her tight-knit circle of friends and her boyfriend, Zayan, the youngest of the Jafri siblings. My sister has never once displayed a hint of unappreciation or let storm clouds gather above her head.
Never, until now.
“Dua, talk to me.”
“I-I don’t know how to explain it without you being disappointed in me.”
“Sweetheart, why on earth would I, of all people, be disappointed in you? Whatever’s eating at you, let me know. Please?” I clench my jaw as sniffles and shudders echo through the line. More than a few times, I’ve felt the urge to book a one-way ticket to Toronto and live with my sisters again for the rest of my days, offering them support that goes beyond just financial.
“Okay, so,” Dua starts, sucking in a sharp breath. “Okay. Basically. Do you remember when I applied for the David Rhodes journalism scholarship for SLU?”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me about it. What happened? You didn’t get it?”
“No!” she exclaims. “They rejected me. My application didn’t meet the requirements. They were selecting five applicants, and my essay must’ve been the shittiest thing ever written or something, and I didn’t—” She stutters on her breaths, the sounds of her crying echoing as if she’s sitting in a bathroom. “I didn’t get it, Shahz. And Mama is paying for my spring term tuition right now because I told her I’d get the scholarship, which was so fucking stupid because I thought I would— I thought I would make her happy, and she’d pay for my second-year tuition, too, but I only made everything worse, and now she’s m-mad at me.”
“But she did pay for your first year and your current spring term, yes?”
“Yeah, she did. And I’m grateful for that, really, but what about the next three years? I can apply for government aid, but then I’ll be shackled to student debts for the rest of my life. And who knows when I’ll land a proper job while I’m stuck babysitting Zayan around the clock?” She breathes in a gallon of oxygen, repeating a slow, anxiety-relieving pattern. “He said he’d pay for my education.”
“And?”
“Obviously, I turned it down. The last thing I want is to owe a Jafri man.”
“Good. Don’t. He’s a good kid, but don’t take money from him. Maya’s already covered your first year and spring term. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“No, Shahzad. Absolutely not. You’re not paying for my education when you haven’t even gotten yourself a new pair of sneakers since tenth grade!”
That’s not entirely true, by the way. I wore my tenth-grade sneakers all the way through culinary school before some asshole in my residency swiped them during the graduation party. But the pair I bought the next day? I still use them for my runs.
“Have you been putting away some savings?” I ask, gripping the stress ball in the pocket of my jacket.
“Barely. It’s mostly for rent and groceries. I don’t want to push Zineerah into finding a job right now, especially since she’s . . . you know, about to tie the knot soon.”
“She hasn’t said yes yet.”
“She will. I’m sure of it. Professor Shaan is the one for her.”
The imminent engagement of Zineerah is a subject that threatens to shred this stress ball to pieces. Not the time to delve into it, not when my little sister lacks the funds for her higher education.
“Go take a shower and get some rest. Put on some music or watch a movie,” I direct, swinging my leg over my bike. “And if you can, apply for bursaries, anything that can at least cover your textbooks and supplies. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
“I’m too depressed to watch a movie,” she mutters. The strain in her voice tells me she’s pushed herself up, brushing off her shoulders. “I’ll do my best, Shahz. I swear I’ll pay you back every dime.”
“Fuck no. Your education comes first. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you there, you hear me? I’ll live on the damn streets if I have to. You know I will.”
Dua starts crying again, repeating, “I love you,” like a busted record.
“All right, sweetheart. Send me the details of your tuition. I’ll call you later once I’ve got everything sorted.”
“Okay, Shahz. I love you. Take care.”
“I love you, too, Dua. Get some rest.”
“Okay. Love you again.”
I crack a smile. “Love you too.”
As I end the call, I lean forward on my bike, my head in my hands, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Parking Nyx in the alley between Jia’s shop and a computer repair store, I remove my helmet and run my fingers through my hair.
“Good girl,” I murmur, giving Nyx a pat before swinging my leg over the seat. “Let me feed Sky, and then I’ll find you a safer spot.”
Sighing, I make my way towards the back door, punching in the passcode and pulling it open just as someone pushes from the other side.
I hear a yelp, and as the woman falls to all fours, her oversized hat tumbles off, revealing a shock of pink hair.
“Nyla?” I raise an eyebrow, taking in the sight of her three hefty suitcases by the exit. “Going somewhere, Troublemaker?”
She pushes herself up, blowing on her bruised palms, the skin raw and bleeding.
When I extend a hand, she retreats, grabbing her hat and backpack before dashing away.
What the fuck?
My gaze lands on a crumpled piece of paper that had slipped from her hoodie pocket. I retrieve it, smoothing out the creases, and read her neat writing.
I stand dumbfounded for a moment, processing the words and scanning the note over and over again.
What the hell was she attempting to do if I had been half an hour late?
My grip tightens around Nyx’s keys, my mind racing with images and scenarios where Nyla’s in some kind of danger, held hostage or worse. There’s no one else right now who genuinely cares about her. It’s just me, Maira, and Sky. And even though I may not have deep feelings for her, I’m still her protector. It’s my job. She’s my responsibility. Nothing more, nothing less.
Fucking run, then.
I relax the tension in my neck, swiftly turning around and securing my helmet in place before revving my bike.
Catching Nyla’s ridiculous baby-pink hat bobbing through the crowd in Koreatown takes all of five seconds. But navigating through the traffic on the road is worse than on the sidewalk.
She barrels ahead, then makes a sharp right turn at the intersection, making it tricky for me to merge in at the last minute. Her stunt brings a reluctant smile to the corners of my mouth.
“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh, baby?” I mutter, giving her a bit of a head start as I keep pace with the flow of traffic. But as we reach the next stoplight, I smoothly merge and make a right turn onto a narrower street lined with rows of parked cars. It’s a quiet residential neighborhood, mostly families and retirees.
I signed up as an extra chef at the soup kitchen—just passed it—aiming to gain some experience and build connections with the locals. They had stories to share, and I had the ears to listen.
Coming to a stop at the red light, I pull out my phone and quickly check Nyla’s location. I’ve got her sharing it live with me, just in case things get rough. Who would’ve thought she’d be the one behind this chaos?
And she’s playing it smart, making her way towards Sun Tower in the heart of the Financial District, moving at the speed of a four-wheeler heading straight there. Any major slip-up and she’ll be spotted, especially with that unmistakable pink hair of hers.
Fuck, I hope her palms are okay.
Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I rev my engine and zoom directly for the hotel.
Half an hour later, I’m parking in the private lot that Azeer’s given me access to. I check my phone, which shows her static activity. She’s settled in a room, probably patting herself on the back for making a swift escape.
Seriously, I could laugh.
Taking the elevator up to the royal suites, I march down the luxurious golden-white corridor. Voice tuned to a higher pitch, I knock on her door, announcing, “Room service!” Why? Because I know she’s a connoisseur of food and most likely ordered something to eat before her spirited adventure back to Rhode Island.
Just days ago, I caught her sneaking into the kitchen in the early morning and eating through a bag of potato chips. Then, last night, she was muttering, “It’s fine,” on a loop while finishing her box of Oreos. In fact, the groceries she buys from the corner stores are only junk food. I suppose she’s developed a severe liking for guilty pleasure food, but locking herself inside the pantry at three in the morning while I’m trying to sleep on the couch has started to get on my nerves.
Then maybe you should leave her here.
Quickly, I seek my little polyester stress ball in my pocket and give it hard squeezes.
Nyla pushes the door wide open, a grin stretching across his face. “Hell—” But then it fades.
The door starts to close, but I wedge my body in, slipping inside and locking it behind me.
She takes a stumbling step back. “Shahzad.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” I declare, taking a confident stride forward. “We had a deal, Nyla. You play the part of my fake girlfriend, and I keep you out of the limelight. That’s what we agreed on, didn’t we?”
She swallows audibly. Her body moves mechanically as she retreats into the opulent stretch of her bedroom. My eyes dart to the bed, every detail of our night together zipping through my mind. She notices and steps into my line of sight. “I’m sorry, Shahzad. I didn’t mean to.”
