The Summer I Learned to Fake It

Chloe's new foster cat, a twitchy calico named Pickles, was currently scaling the expensive drapes in their rental cabin. Great start to summer camp.

"Your roommate seems... nice," said Ryan, leaning against the doorframe with that effortless confidence that made Chloe's stomach do weird little flips. He held up his phone. "Want to see something sick?"

Chloe grabbed her **iphone**, suddenly hyperaware of her cracked screen protector and the fact that her notification center was probably a disaster of fandom Twitter posts and reminders from her mom to take her **vitamin** gummies. Because apparently at seventeen, she still needed parental supervision for basic nutrition.

Ryan showed her a video of himself doing kickflips at the skate park back home. Chloe nodded, trying to look impressed instead of terrified. She'd been lying about being able to skateboard for three weeks now, ever since that one party where she'd panicked and told everyone she was totally into shredding or whatever.

The next day, Chloe found herself staring down a half-pipe that looked less like a skateboard ramp and more like something designed by a villain in a dystopian YA novel. Her new friend Brianna, who had dyed-blue hair and a **fox** tattoo on her ankle, stood at the top looking doubtful.

"You sure about this, chica?"

"Totally," Chloe lied, adjusting her helmet so it wouldn't slide over her eyes. "I got this."

What happened next could best be described as an uncoordinated flailing motion followed immediately by gravity doing its job. Chloe's board shot out from under her like it had somewhere better to be. She skidded several feet, her jeans ripping at the knee, her dignity absolutely gone.

And then Ryan was there, helping her up, and Chloe had never wished harder for the earth to open up and swallow her whole like a **bear** preparing for winter hibernation. But instead of laughing, Ryan just grinned.

"Everyone bails their first time," he said. "Again?"

Later that night, Chloe sat on the cabin porch with Pickles purring in her lap, Brianna passing her a stolen soda from the mess hall. Her knee was wrapped in an ace bandage, her ego was bruised, and she'd never felt more real.

"You know," Brianna said, "being bad at stuff is kinda your brand now. It's weirdly endearing."

Chloe laughed until her sides hurt. Maybe faking it wasn't the answer. Maybe being a disaster was okay too.