Pretending to Be Erica (12 page)

“The reporters might want it too.”

“Don’t go getting any ideas about selling it.” I wag my finger at him.

He laughs and puts his hand over it to stop me. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hands are soft—silk smooth with light calluses. I guess they come from playing the guitar. Or maybe it’s hereditary. Either way, it makes touching his hands a nice experience. A new experience. His fingers widen, and in one movement—one suspended, hesitant, shaking breath—his hand encases mine.

This is Erica’s
and
Violet’s first time holding a boy’s hand. Both of our hearts beat thunderously under the same blue-silk-clad chest. He’s looking down at me. He’s so close. He smells clean and natural. No cloying cologne like Kerwin. Just soap and skin.

“Erica? Does your friend want—”

Marie rounds the corner, and at her voice our hands fly apart. We put space between us, and I laugh to cover the awkward break.

“No, thanks, Marie. I think he was just leaving.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I appreciate the thought, though.”

Marie herself looks a little flustered, and she shuffles back into the kitchen. I lead James to the door, and he grins.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he says.

I watch him drive down the gravel road, the Cadillac grunting the whole way. It gives a sputter at the end of the driveway, and I laugh. I can practically see him cursing in the car, hoping I don’t hear it.

I sit at the island in the kitchen. Marie has a bowl of fresh strawberries out, and she’s slicing pineapple into even cubes. A bowl of chocolate chips sits by the oven.

“Chocolate fondue,” she explains without looking up. I pop a berry into my mouth. Her knife flashes expertly. “Who was that boy?”

“James. From school.”

“You like him?” She’s straightforward.

My face heats. “I don’t know.”

“You like him.” This time it isn’t a question.

“But this isn’t the time to like guys! I’ve got to help Dad. I’ve got to get used to living with Mom and going to a normal school. It’s a distraction I don’t need.”

She eyes me. “Those are excuses.”

I groan and swallow the strawberry. Marie’s serious face lightens a little. She turns the stove on and puts the chocolate in a double boiler to melt it.

“You should not string a nice boy like that along.”

Her words cut deeper than the knife in her hand ever could.

That night, after the fondue and dinner and a shower but before sleep, I dial Taylor. She picks up with a sleepy voice.

“Yo.”

“You were sleeping? Sorry.”

“I just passed out in front of the TV.” I hear a shuffling as she rights herself. “Why’re you bugging me?”

“On Friday—” I swallow. “James invited me to a pizza place.”

“I’m
so
surprised.” She yawns. “I couldn’t see this coming—”

“I’ve never been on a date before,” I blurt. Violet and Erica say it at the same time, with the same urgency.

There’s a silence, and Taylor starts laughing. “Oh God, this is golden.”

“I was wondering if you could, you know, give me tips, or something. I don’t know what to wear. You’ve known him longer than I have. Does he like heavy makeup? Curled hair? Skanky clothes or not skanky?”

“Why don’t you ask your bimbo friends to help you? They’re better at this stuff.”

“Because I don’t want to go looking like I’m trying out for Miss America?”

She laughs. “Touché. All right, but you owe me again after this.”

“I can’t go clubbing again, Taylor. Kerwin saw me there, and he’s just the type to tell my mom and ruin everything—”

“Kerwin? As in crumpet boy with the girly face?”

“The same.”

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“Why?”

“He transferred here two months before you, right? Club Riddler moves from warehouse to warehouse and district to district. Sometimes it’s on the other side of town. It’s a local thing—locals usually know where it is and when. I didn’t even know about it until Jeff texted me where it was.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point, Fakey”—she sucks in a breath—“is the jocks he hangs out with aren’t the raving type. They don’t know about it. A handful of students know when Riddler happens, and they graduated last year or don’t talk to him.”

“Maybe he overheard them?”

“No. He had to do some digging. Or he had to follow you real close. Like, from-when-we-met-at-Green-Foods close.”

“He wasn’t on the bus with us.”

“No. Look, I’ll help you with the James thing, okay? But you can pay off that debt right now.”

“How?”

“Stay away from Kerwin and watch your back. A guy that determined to follow someone has something up his sleeve. It’s creepy.”

He might know about me being fake. That’d explain a lot. But if he knows, what does he want from me? Why does he care? What is stalking me going to get for him? Is he police? Undercover, maybe? No, he looks too young. But there are some undercover cops who have baby faces. Maybe he isn’t on the good guy’s side. Maybe he’s trying to get in on my con.

“Promise me, Fakey, that you’ll be careful.” Taylor’s voice is low.

“Why do you care?”

“You’re the only halfway decent asshole in this place, even if you are a fake. I’m not going to lose you.”

We hang up. Her gruffness means she’s getting more comfortable with the idea of me being a friend. She won’t admit it. It’ll take her a long time to trust me. But by then I’ll be gone. And she’ll be bleeding that trust all over the floor.

I creep downstairs to get a glass of water. The kitchen hums. There’s a light on, coming from the library. I grab my glass and head for it. Mrs. Silverman reads a book in an armchair, glasses on her nose. She’s wearing some green face mask made of clay. I clear my throat.

“So that’s the ultimate method to look young.” I pass a shelf of books. “Secretly be a Martian.”

Mrs. Silverman looks up and sips her tonic. “Ha ha. I laugh hysterically about every joke centered around my age.”

“You’re as beautiful and young as a new rose.”

“That’s more like it.” She grins, the clay cracking around her mouth, and buries her nose in the book again.

My fingers slide over the spines of the books, reading each one. Do I dare go to the shelf where the safe is? If I don’t, it might look suspicious. If I do, she might get jumpy. I decide to risk it. My fingers pass over the books. I can’t see Mrs. Silverman’s reaction, if she has one.

Robinson Crusoe
.

I see it briefly, gold letters flashing under my fingers. It takes all my willpower to keep moving, to not stop and do a double take. I pour over the other shelves and finally pick out a murder mystery.

“Agatha Christie.” Mrs. Silverman nods appreciatively. “Good taste.”

“Genetic good taste,” I chime. “I can’t read in stuffy chairs like you, though.”

“Is your bed comfortable?”

“It’s heaven compared to the twin bed I slept in at my old house.”

“Good.” She smiles.

“I love you,” I try.

She puts the book and tonic down and gets up to hug me. Her face mask smells like cucumbers.

“I love you more than you will ever know,” she murmurs. We part, and she gets a mischievous gleam in her eye. “That boy James was awfully nice to meet today.”

“I’m glad you thought so.”

“Condoms and the pill, remember?” She jumps right into it airily, but threateningly.

“Mom!” I groan.

“Ah-ah, promise me.”

My face is bright red even in the cool night air of the house. “I promise.”

She chuckles and pushes me gently toward the stairs. “Sleep. School is tomorrow.”

The calendar on my wall has to be lying. It hasn’t really been a month, has it? We’re almost into April. Prom is just around the corner. I still haven’t gotten the code.
Robinson Crusoe
. Mr. Silverman said something about it—in
Robinson Crusoe
there was a zoo. What did that mean? The
Crusoe
book is on the shelf that hides the safe. It can’t be a coincidence. I’ve been in this business long enough to know there are no such things as coincidences. And those numbers? Do they connect to the safe somehow?

Mr. Silverman is twitchy, focused in his own insane way. A rat in a maze. My pajamas are in the same style as Mrs. Silverman’s—fluffy and pretty. My nails are like hers, perfectly painted. My hair is the same blonde.

A chameleon in the trees.

Sal,

Have lead on the code. Need to confirm. Barry Mansfield, the mob lawyer, suspects. His daughter said one of two fakes mob planted. You know about that?

Transfer student following too closely. PI still on tail. Won’t talk to you for a while. You’re always real with me. I’ll be real with you: I like it here. Too much. Violet and Erica argue. Not good at being two people. Can only be me, and that person’s getting lost. Have to get out of here. Can’t rush, won’t rush.

But gotta get out of here.

Vi

The week leading up to Friday is a blur of excitement and guilt. I shouldn’t be happy I’m going on a date. James should go out with someone else. I’m going to be gone as soon as I work out the code to the painting. I’ve gotten the first couple of clues. It’s only a matter of time before I crack it.

Even if I like James, he needs to not like me. He needs to smile more at another girl. Any other girl.

Because they are real and I’m not.

I won’t complain. I won’t complain. I am Erica and I’m popular and pretty and sweet and I have perfect grades and a loving mom and a fancy house. I shouldn’t complain. I am Erica and I have everything. I am Erica and I have everything.
I am Erica. I have everything
.

I am Violet and I have nothing.

The inside hem of my plaid uniform skirt is shredded—threads torn by my nails. Sitting in class with an already perfected homework sheet leaves me little else to do except mangle my clothes. I already know the formulas Mr. Roth introduces. It’s not hard to pretend to pay attention, but it is mind-numbing. I sneak glances at James’s face when he isn’t looking—he still sleeps through classes, but not as much anymore. I catch him looking at me one time, and I rivet my eyes to the floor. Everything in my body goes on point, every pore tingling. He’s still staring. I can feel it. The hairs on my arms only flatten when he looks away.

I can’t have this reaction.

Your face, Violet. Where the
hell
is your game face? Thrown out the window, along with your common sense. You went to the club and that messed things up. Going on this date is going to mess things up even more. You can’t go. Make up an excuse. Your dad’s gotten worse. Your mom needs you at home. You have chicken pox, something, anything! You’re stringing him along for your own selfish ends. You want a date—something Violet and Erica have never had. Just because you want to experience it, because you like him, you’re wrapping barbed wire around his feelings, which will tighten when you’re gone.

Because of you, there will be blood.

“Close your eyes,” Taylor orders. She dabs something on my eyelids.

“I know how to do makeup, you know.”

“You’re the one who asked for my help, Fakey.”

I sigh. When she’s done, I glance at my long mirror—jeans, a comfortable blue sweater, and matching eye shadow.

“Not too shabby.” I turn and eye my back. “I thought I was going to end up looking like a Hot Topic mannequin.”

“Whatever.” She chuckles and puts the makeup back in my drawer. A soft knock resounds.

“Come in,” I say. Marie pops her head through the crack in the door.

“Is your guest allergic to strawberries at all?”

I look at Taylor. She shakes her head. Marie smiles timidly. I’ve never seen Marie so hesitant, but tall, dark, scowling Taylor has that sort of effect on people.

“Good. Well, come down when you’re done. I’ve been baking.”

When she leaves, Taylor snorts. “I hate strawberries.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I’m an asshole, not an idiot. Being rude at someone else’s house is for morons.”

“You have a heart after all.” I smirk.

“Shut your mouth and put your shoes on.”

I slip into the ballet flats. “For someone who wears all black, you have good fashion sense.”

“I’ve just seen lots of bimbos out on dates.”

Date.
The word rings in my head, makes itself real and known. Taylor thumps me on the back.

“Your face is all white. Relax. You’ll be fine.”

We walk down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Silverman and Marie are conversing over a plate of strawberry tarts. Mrs. Silverman smiles at us.

“Don’t you look all dressed up?”

“Taylor helped,” I murmur.

“Thank you, Taylor. She looks wonderful.”

Taylor’s glance skitters around, everywhere but on Mrs. Silverman’s face. “No prob.”

When I asked Mrs. Silverman if Taylor could come over, she looked hesitant.
Taylor, the girl in all black? Taylor, the girl with just a father?
She doesn’t seem to know anything about me and Taylor going to the club. Did Mr. White keep the pictures to himself? Or is he planning to show them to Mrs. Silverman later? Whatever the case, she treats Taylor as nicely as she can, but there are lines of wariness beneath her eyes. Taylor seems just as wary of her, but she tries to be nice. And Taylor trying at all means heaps.

Marie breaks the tension between Mrs. Silverman and Taylor by sliding the plate of tarts into their view. “Eat up before they get cold.”

Taylor grabs one and nibbles. Mrs. Silverman doesn’t touch them.

“So you’re taking the bus there? Is James going to meet you?”

“At the pizza place, yeah.” I nod and bite—the pastry is warm and sweet. Taylor’s face is frozen. I’m worried she’ll say they’re gross, when she reaches for another.

“Holy shi—” Taylor glances up and corrects her swear. “I mean, wow. These are amazing. I don’t even like strawberries, but these are great.”

Marie smiles. “Thank you.”

“Are you going with her, Taylor?” Mrs. Silverman asks coolly.

“No, going home. Gonna let the lovebirds work it out on their own,” Taylor says back, the same coolness in her voice. Mrs. Silverman looks to me.

“I want you home before eight.”

“Right.”

“If you start to feel uncomfortable, call me and I’ll pick you up.”

“He’s not that kind of guy,” Taylor murmurs.

Mrs. Silverman stiffens. “I know. I met him. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. Promise me you’ll call, Erica.”

“I will.” I shoot Taylor a look.

When we’re on the bus, riding into downtown and laughing at the businessman snoring across from us, Taylor’s chuckle fades. She leans her head on the back of the seat and looks at the tin roof.

“She’s going to smother you.”

I look at her. In the fluorescent bus lights, her jet black hair shines with jagged white lightning.

“She’s going to suffocate you. You can’t hide your true self forever just to please her.”

“People do it all the time,” I grumble.

“You really like her.” She laughs softly. “She’s the best mom you’ve ever had. Maybe the only mom you’ve ever had.”

I stare out the window. Taylor rubs her eyes with her fists.

“They leave. They all leave eventually. They pretend to like you, love you. They tuck you in and braid your hair and kiss your father, but they all leave, and the new one is different from the last. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse.”

Her words echo from the dark precipice of experience.

“Mom will never leave me,” I assert.

“No,” Taylor agrees. “You’ll leave her.”

A sword, punching a slit clean through my torso and out my spine. Just pull the blade up a little more, and my insides will spill out. Taylor stands to let me by as the bus halts at my stop. She keeps reminding me of who I really am. Of what I’m really here to do.

This date is just a distraction. A fake. I shouldn’t get so wound up about it. It’s just a con—like everything I’ve done so far.

He likes a fake girl.

I walk into the pizza place, a warm little shop, quiet in the golden afternoon glow. An old woman behind the register is doing a crossword. James sits at one of the tables, texting. When I come in, he looks up, his smile nervous.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” I slide into the seat opposite him. “Cute little place. Did you find it all by yourself?”

My words are rushed and saccharine, the tone too sweet. Too Erica. James shrugs.

“I came here one day after band practice. The rest is history.”

“How boring was Roth’s class today?” I laugh. “I couldn’t wait for him to shut up. Taylor looked even more bored than you, and that’s saying something. I couldn’t decide if I should try to sleep like you or doodle.”

“Erica—”

“I mean, who even listens to him? Arnold, but he’s in the front and a nerd. I guess it’s good there are people like that in the world, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to sleep behind him and I’d actually have to take notes—”

“Erica!” He puts his hand on mine. “Slow down.”

“There’s no time to go slowly.” I smile and pull my hand away. “It has to be today. Let’s order. I’m starving. Should we get half and half or can we agree on toppings for the whole thing? I don’t like peppers or anchovies, but that’s about it.”

His blues eyes go soft. “You don’t have to be so nervous.”

“Nervous? Me?” I laugh. “No way. I’ve never been nervous in my life. I’m stone-cold.”

He sighs. That little motion tugs my heart around, but I quash the feeling. That’s good. More. I need more of that. He won’t like me after this date is done. Frustrate him. We manage to agree on olives and pepperoni. He gets up to order, the old woman muttering something in Italian and toddling to the kitchen. I talk about nothing and everything until my throat is sore. Interrupt him when he tries to say something. The pizza arrives and we eat in dead silence. While he finishes, I look out the window to the dimming streets and brightening lampposts. Vegas comes alive at night, breaks out of its daily cocoon. The splendor of its lights is hidden by the sun, and when darkness falls, Vegas can show its true beauty. Grime. Indifference. Dazzle.

Even in the middle of my first date, Violet is somewhere else in my head—turning over the idea of a zoo,
Robinson Crusoe
, and numbers on walls. She holds those three clues up to Erica, like she’s trying to say they’re more important than James. I force both of them to focus—what we need now is to focus on this moment. One goal. One face. Just get through this stupid date, and we can get back to what we really came for. The painting.

“You don’t have to be like this,” James murmurs.

I know exactly what he means, but I tilt my head and smile at him instead. “Be like what?”

“You can be yourself with me. You know that.”

The smile on my face falters. I steel it. “I don’t know what that is anymore.”

He flinches. I rip a napkin to shreds.

“I know you’re going through a tough time—”

“Not really,” I singsong.

“But I’m here for you. I’m your friend. If you need to talk about it, or hit something, I’ll be here with open ears and a punch-ready cheek.”

I want to laugh. I want to laugh so badly. I want to take his offer, but I can’t. It would blow my cover. He’s looking at me with those soft blue eyes, his unguarded face. He cares about me. If I opened my mouth, I would spill everything.

I stand and grab my purse. “I— I have to go. Thanks for the food.”

“Not yet. I’ve got one last thing planned.” He grabs my hand. It pulls me back. “Please.”