Fake Dating My Childhood Friend To Get Back With His Ex

Chapter 3

The yearbook committee meeting was in Room 204 of the journalism hallway, which had a scent that was an uneasy mix of coffee and printer ink. Yellowing newspaper clippings and yearbook spreads plastered most of the walls with a few more recent articles taped haphazardly beside them. Somewhere on the wall was a poster that read "DEADLINES ARE NOT SUGGESTIONS" in a menacing shade of red.

I settled into my usual seat near the back of the room, my laptop open on the desk as I stowed my bag beneath my chair. The chatter of students greeted me as they filtered into the room, swapping stories of their summers. I leaned back in my chair as someone in the row behind me kicked the leg of the desk in front of them, and the screeching of a chair against the tile floor echoed through the small classroom. A group of people in the front row erupted into laughter as a student nearby attempted to silence an obnoxiously loud t****k video playing from their phone.

"Okay everybody, settle down," Ms. Reeves clapped her hands together, drawing the room's attention to the front. The yearbook advisor was a petite woman with severe blonde bangs and a sharp tongue, but she did genuinely care about the yearbook. "Welcome everyone, to our first yearbook committee meeting. Welcome back to those of you who are returning, and welcome to those of you who are new. As usual, let's go around the room and introduce ourselves. State your name, your grade, and your position on the yearbook committee."

I zoned out as the students in the room took turns introducing themselves, cataloging amusing quirks in my head. Senior Marcus Chen, the yearbook's editor-in-chief, was far too dramatic about his responsibilities but somehow managed to get everything done anyway. Junior Anika Sharma was the layout editor. Several forgettable younger students filled the rest of the names, all wide-eyed and enthusiastic about their positions as underclassmen on the yearbook committee.

"Amelie Kelly, senior, photo editor and photographer."

I blinked, realizing that I had spaced out and missed my turn to introduce myself. "Uh, that's me. I take photos."

A few people snickered at my response, and Ms. Reeves shot me a disapproving look, but otherwise ignored me. After all, it's not like I hadn't been on the yearbook committee since sophomore year and taken photos since I could pick up a camera. The yearbook needed someone to take photos of the hundreds of photoshoots that we did for the yearbook, and, unfortunately, that someone was me.

"Alright, as you all know, this year's yearbook has the theme 'Moments That Made Us' , and as you may or may not know, we want to capture not only the big events," Ms. Reeves gestured to the large banner on the wall that displayed our school's mascot, "but the little things as well, the candid moments."

I felt my interest pique at that. I loved candid photography. In fact, that was my specialty. The perfect blend of capturing a moment and the subject not realizing they were being photographed

"Amelie," Ms. Reeves continued, turning to me, "seeing as you are our lead photographer this year, I want you to focus on the candid moments. I don't want a hundred photos of students giving a thumbs up, I want something more genuine. Can you do that?"

I gave a short nod. "Yes, Mrs. Reeves."

"Good. Now, moving on, let's discuss assignments for the first yearbook issue."

The rest of the meeting went by in a blur as Marcus laid out the production schedule and Priya showed us the new layout templates for the yearbook. I scribbled notes down in my journal as the meeting continued, occasionally pausing to observe a new name or a new face. The first yearbook issue was usually the "Welcome Back" issue, containing photos from the first week of school, the first football game, and other assorted events. I frowned as Marcus informed the rest of the committee that he wanted me to be at the football game on Friday.

"Kelly, I need you at the football game on Friday," Marcus said, flipping through a clipboard. "I want you to get some shots of the team warming up, some of the cheerleaders, the crowd, all that good stuff. But make it interesting. Last year's football photos were boring as hell."

I inwardly groaned. The first football game of the season. Of course, the first assignment had to be the one event that I dreaded the most. Not because I disliked the game, though to be honest I don’t understand it at all, but because I hated photographing Weston Pierce. The young athlete was the undisputed hero of the town, and his smile could light up the darkest of dungeons. Well, the first round of the playoffs, anyway.

I gave a quick reply of "I'll be there"

before the meeting could dissolve into an awkward silence. I packed up my things as the meeting came to a close, my camera bag resting heavily against my hip. It was a comfortable weight, the strap worn from years of use as I took countless photos with the digital camera inside. The Canon that I used was a modern piece of equipment with a sleek black body and a 24-70mm lens, but it was nothing fancy. It was a reliable workhorse that I had bought with the money I saved up from two summers working at my mom's bakery.

I exited the building through the side door, a blast of warm air greeting me as I stepped out into the parking lot. It was nearly empty save for the occasional car belonging to the athletes still practicing on the field or the theater kids rehearsing in the auditorium. I leaned against the cool metal of the school's exterior door as I allowed myself a moment to breathe. This was my favorite part of the day, the quiet after the chaos, the respite that I could enjoy before the next day's events began. If only this feeling could last forever

My phone buzzed against my side, a text message from my mom appearing on the screen. “Don't forget to pick up milk on your way home. Also, I made those lemon bars you like. They're on the counter. Don't eat them all at once. Love you."

I chuckled to myself as I responded with a simple "Will do. Love you too" and began to make my way home.

Senior year had begun, and with it came new responsibilities and new challenges. The first committee meeting had come and gone, and with it came the first assignment. The first football game of the season, and the first time I would ever have to photograph Weston Pierce in his element. But I would survive. I always did. And if surviving meant enduring another year of life in this town and this school, then I would do it again and again until it was over.

If only photographing Weston Pierce's annoyingly handsome face wasn't part of that.

The side door had been a mistake.

I figured that out about three seconds in, when I realized that the way to the student parking lot snaked right by the football field.

Which happened to be a football practice happening.

Sounds of a game echoed out towards me from the field, punctuated by the occasional shout from a coach. The team was finishing up practice, their jerseys dark with sweat.

I kept my head down, fiddling with my camera bag as I walked, and was glad that I hadn't worn my boots that day.

The chain-link fence that separated the field from the path was cool to the touch, rusted in a couple of places, as I absentmindedly trailed my fingers along it. I couldn't help but watch the players, even if I did have to crane my neck to see them. It reminded me of nature shows on TV, talking about some strange animal from another continent. Except these animals were in high school, and several of them were built like rugby players. In fact-

"Yo, hold up."

I stopped, turning slowly to regard the voice that had just called me. A boy jogged up to the fence, helmet in hand, damp dark hair tousled. Weston Pierce, as it turned out.

He leaned against the fence and hooked his fingers in the links, looking me over. His face was flushed from running and his breathing was a little heavy, but it only seemed to make him more handsome. Biology really was unfair. "Hey, West,"

I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"Ellie." He gave me a lopsided smile. "What are you doing here so late? Taking pictures of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself,"

I bit back a sarcastic remark and adjusted the strap of my camera bag. "Yearbook meeting ran long. I'm just heading home."Oh, right," he said airily. "Yearbook. You're still doing the photography thing, then?"

"Still doing the football thing?" He grinned suddenly, and if I had any strength left in my body, I would have knocked that smirk right off of his face. "It's what I'm good at."

"Lucky you." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Being good at running into people and knocking them down a few feet is so very fulfilling."

"Better than hiding behind a camera all day," he shot back.

It stung, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it with such careless arrogance. He’s like that now, always speaking before thinking. Nothing like the old kid I spent building a pillow fort with. He’d traded that for someone who needed to sound cool at any given moment, it’s kind of exhausting, actually.

"Maybe some of us prefer to just observe," I said. "You might want to try it sometime."

"I'll pass,"

he said, shifting his weight and looking back over his shoulder at the field. "So, you coming to the game on Friday? I need as much publicity as I can get for the yearbook, right?"

I nearly groaned out loud. "It is my job to be there, West. But I'm sure you're going to give me enough material to last a lifetime."

"Just make sure to get my good side," he said, turning his head and smirking at me.

"West, I've been your friend since before you had a good side," I countered, "I've seen you eat dirt on purpose in your mother's backyard."

He shook it off, shrugging carelessly. "That was a long time ago, Ellie. People change."

I looked at him through the fence, the boy who had once been my best friend in the world. He was right. People do change, eventually, and not even the whole world being on fire could prevent it. It just didn't change who they were, underneath, and that was something far more frustrating to accept, for both of us.

"Yeah,"I said finally, "they do."

The whistle blew shrilly somewhere behind him, and one of the coaches, probably Coach Miller, was gesturing wildly in my direction. "Pierce! Get over here! You can flirt on your own time!"

West's grin returned, and he turned away from me, jogging backwards towards the field. "That's my cue. See you around, Ellie. Try not to miss me too much!"

"I'll try to contain myself," I called after him, but he was already at the field, helmet sliding back over his head and blending into the chaos. I turned away, watching his back as he joined the fray, and wished, suddenly, that I had taken the main road to the parking lot instead of this detour. The sun was setting behind the trees, the last sliver of light painting the field gold, and for a moment it was beautiful. Until someone missed a pass and Coach Miller started yelling again.

I turned away from the field and walked slowly back towards the parking lot, my shoes making dull noises on the pavement. My camera bag felt heavy, but it was a comforting weight. Friday was going to be a long night.