Pretending to Be Erica (14 page)

I go grocery shopping with Marie. The store is the upscale, natural foods kind. Violet emerges; I’m not composed Erica as I steer the cart around, standing on the rung and using it like a scooter. Total casualties: one cartoon cutout display for oranges, the entire canned bean shelf, and a five-year-old’s dropped Transformer action figure. My wheels chopped its head cleanly off.

I wince at the price tags—people can really afford to eat like this? The closest Sal and I got to organic was celery sticks, or frozen broccoli. But here everything is fresh, dark, leafy, vivid. I peek around the aisles. I get the feeling I’ll see someone from school at any second. I slip in different snacks, ones neither Erica nor Violet have tried. When I drop a box of Popsicles in, Marie snaps.

“Don’t slip any more in here. One dessert is enough!”

“Aw, Marie—”

“Ah.” She zips her mouth. “One snack,
chiquita
.”

I sigh and choose the cookies. In the checkout line, Marie glances at me over the checkbook.

“I know your mother doesn’t want me bringing them up, but did your old parents feed you well? You look awfully skinny, even now.”

I won’t say I dieted for two years in preparation for being Erica. Lost fifteen pounds, every one of them painful. Sal fed me well enough when I was young—whatever was easy to chew or carry while running, in the car, on the train, the subway.

“We ate like normal people. Not much of this fancy organic free-range stuff.”

Marie seems satisfied with that answer. The cashiers and baggers look harried. I spot a bagger at another checkout down the line, her dark hair in a ponytail. With the store apron on, she looks different. Taylor. She doesn’t see me. She works here, too? I want to say hi, but she looks busy. I finger a few next-to-the-gum tabloids instead. My fingers hover over Brad Pitt’s face before dropping down to a local magazine. My new face in all its blonde glory blares on the front page. My skin’s too pale. I can see the stress zits starting on my hairline. They slapped on a picture of me and didn’t even bother to airbrush it? In a Vegas magazine? For shame.

And then I realize it’s the one of me in front of Club Riddler.

“Ohhh no,” I groan-chant. “Oh no, no, no,
no
.”

“What’s wrong?” Marie asks. I briefly wonder if vomiting on the conveyor belt is an option (wouldn’t it squish under the seam as it moves?) and then decide to spare the cashier from the cleanup. I quickly grab one magazine and add it to the pile of groceries. I take the other magazines and use them to cover the ones with my face. Thanks, Brad. You too, Angelina.

“This is you!” Marie exclaims, eyeing the magazine. “Why are you on the front page?”

Split second: pretend it’s a hoax or admit to being there? Honesty gets points.

“Marie, you can’t tell Mom. Please.”

She quirks a brow. “Erica, you’ve been out clubbing? Why? Those places are dangerous—drugs, gangsters.”

“I didn’t do drugs, or drink. It was one night. Please, Marie. I just needed to breathe. I felt so trapped in that house.”

“I will let you tell your mother on your own,” she says coolly, hinting at a threat: she’ll tell her if I don’t. I roll the cart to the car. The air is warm again, little patches of blue peeking out from behind solid gray clouds. With the groceries in the trunk, I lean on the dashboard and read the magazine article.

MINOR VEGAS CELEBRITY Erica S
ilverman, seventeen, prodigal daughter of the Silverman fortune, returned to her family after living with a false one for thirteen years. A little pretty, a little privileged, and a lot of partying, Erica seems to be turning to the club scene to blow off traumatized steam.

At the age of four, Silverman was kidnapped by George and Kathleen Hastings of Dallas, Texas, but no ransom demand was put through. Psychologists think the couple was just cuckoo for a kid, and it raises the question: after a childhood spent with them, how will she cope with a life in the upper echelons? On top of it all, there have been two previous “Ericas,” who’ve kept her name and case in the limelight. Police haven’t commented on whether they believe this Erica to be the real one, but her mother certainly thinks so. Representatives of Mrs. Silverman say she and her daughter are rehabilitating together, trying to make “tragedy into normal everyday life.”

“Are you kidding me?” I throw the magazine under my feet.

Marie sighs. “The sooner you tell your mother, the better. Let us hope she has not seen it first.”

I puff. “The damage is already done.”

“She’ll forgive you. If you tell the truth, I’m sure she will forgive you.”

Marie’s answers are confident, assured. Violet couldn’t give a rat’s ass either way—she’s so close to
La Surprise
that a little hiccup in the mother-daughter trust can be smoothed over. If Mr. White had shown them earlier, it would’ve been worse, but the foundation is strong. Erica flounders, fumbles, laments the stain on her social life. She doesn’t want to be seen as a party girl, a bad girl. She wants to right all the wrongs. Violet laughs at her, at how much she cares. You’re dead. Why should you care?

Erica snaps. She reaches down for the magazine and in a frenzy starts ripping pages, cracking the car window and throwing them out. Marie does a double take.

“Erica! What are you—”

“Stupid!” Erica’s swears are comical, kid-like. “It’s all so stupid!”

She rips up the page with her face on it into a dozen tiny pieces and throws them out the window like confetti. Marie gently works the magazine from her hand, a laugh in her words.

“Do you feel better?”

“Much.”

I look at my shaking hands. That’d been Erica all on her own. Leaping out of my eyes like an untamable dog, my control a useless leash of dental floss. If it isn’t Erica coming out, it’s Violet. Where was my happy medium? My middle ground that was me, the ground I could stand on and not feel like an insane freak living a double life? The ground is eroding under my feet. It’s falling away like sand, like earthquake-cracked cement.

Just a little more.

I just need to hold on a little more.

The house is dim and quiet.

It’s not unusual, but that’s only when no one is home. And Mrs. Silverman is home.

Marie shoots me a look, and while she’s unloading groceries, I check upstairs.

“Mom?”

Her door is ajar, a low lamplight flooding through. I knock, two timid raps.

“Come in.”

Her voice is sub-zero. The cold makes me suck in a breath. Something’s wrong. I open the door. Mrs. Silverman’s sitting at her vanity, dabbing on foundation. A few outfits are spread out on her bed for later tonight—a charity ball. On her bedside table is a magazine.
The
magazine. She sees me staring at it.

“Just ran its first publication today. A friend sent it to me in the mail.”

“Mr. White,” I say breathlessly.

“Ever-thoughtful man.” Her words splinter with too-formal ice.

“Mom, let me explain—”

“There will be no explaining. At least not until he gets here. You will wait in the living room with me for him to arrive. Situate yourself there. I will be down shortly.”

What most would see as anger, I see as pain. She’s feeling betrayed but trying hard to keep her composure. She wants to cry. Her lips quiver as I back out and shut the door. Marie doesn’t look at me. I settle on the couch and press my hands between my knees.

Why would she invite Mr. White over? To confirm he saw me there? To clear the air once and for all? All of my training narrows down to this one moment. This confrontation. I have to get through it. I’m too close to the painting to be booted out like this.

All of my suffering,
all of everyone’s suffering
, has to be for something.

I go through the modes in my head—martyr, victim, accuser. I can be all of them, but which one will work? A con artist’s work is not preplanned—it’s reactive, not proactive. I need to relax. Breathe. Deep breaths, just like Mrs. Silverman and I practiced. Just like we practiced together, calming down together, laughing together—

Erica’s eyes water.

The tears drip on Violet’s knees.

Focus. Focus harder on the edge of the coffee table.
Wipe your eyes on your sleeve and learn some composure, sweets
.

Mrs. Silverman comes in, moves stiffly. She sits beside me, too far away. The knock on the door shortly after mashes my heart into my throat. Marie answers it and ushers in Mr. White to the sitting room. He takes off his hat and settles across from us in an armchair.

“Mrs. Silverman. Thanks for having me.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She smiles. “Would you like tea? Or perhaps coffee? With your long hours of work, caffeine must be your friend.”

He chuckles.
Chuckles
. He doesn’t even care that at the moment he’s stress-aging me by a decade. He refuses any drinks, gaze flickering between us with almost-regret. Now he’s having second thoughts? Or maybe he knows he’s ruining me. Us.

“I’ll get straight to business, Mr. White, to save us all valuable time.” Mrs. Silverman folds her hands on her lap. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Fire away.” He nods.

“Why have you been following my daughter without my permission?”

Mr. White’s eyes darken. Hesitates. “With all due respect, ma’am—”

“By following my daughter without my express order, you are showing a profound lack of respect for my family and me, Mr. White.”

“I understand—”

“Do you? Do you really understand thirteen years of unending visceral nightmares? Of doubts? Of being questioned by the police who think you or your husband killed your own daughter?”

Mr. White keeps his mouth mercifully shut. Mrs. Silverman’s face tinges red.

“I will not have you harassing my daughter like the police have harassed me. We have been through enough—”

“With all due respect, ma’am”—White raises his voice—“your daughter was seen at a club with the daughter of a notorious criminal defender with mob ties—”

“And that proves what, Mr. White?” Mrs. Silverman interjects, her voice rising too. “That she’s a teenager who sometimes makes poor choices? We all have. We all still do. You most of all.”

“I can prove that she’s been using a magazine to clandestinely communicate with—”

“You are speaking from your heart, Mr. White. Not your head.” Her voice is a near-scream. It echoes in the huge house—the call of a dying hawk. I swallow hard and glance at Mr. White, his frown tightrope-tense. She knows about his attraction. I hadn’t told her. Maybe she knew from the beginning.

“Erica,” she says finally, “is there anything you’d like to say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I think we all deserve more than two words,” she insists.

“I went to the club. It was fun. I didn’t drink or do anything crazy. I promise. But Taylor, she got a little drunk, and I had to help her home. She lives on the edge, she has a weird dad, but she’s not a bad person. She’s just trying to live in her own way. Work things out in her own way.”

“Why did you lie to me?” Mrs. Silverman asks softly.

“I felt so caged in. I love you, I love this house and everything you’ve given me, but after a while it just felt like . . .
stuff
. It felt like I was carrying it all around, like it was sitting on my chest. I had to get out. Try something different. Live. Try to be a normal”—I choke on the word, and it’s not faked—“a normal teenager.”

There’s a beat before Mrs. Silverman stands. “You will not lie to me again. If you need that escape, that release, just tell me. Remember? We promised to be open with each other?”

“Sometimes”—I stand—“sometimes I just want to close down.”

“And you can. If I’m too pushy, if I pressure you again, speak up. I’ll give you space. You just have to communicate your needs with me.”

Her understanding words are soothing harp chords on my tense brain. Unwind me note by note. Forgiveness. I expect a closet, no dinner. Some punishment. Mr. White stands as Mrs. Silverman draws me into her for a hug, and he makes for the door.

“Mr. White,” she calls over my head. He turns. “Thank you. For your good intentions.”

Mr. White and I lock eyes over Mrs. Silverman’s shoulder for a split second. An acknowledgment. He nearly bested me. I nearly bested him.

A draw.

A courteous nod, and he’s gone through the door, a mountain of a man who’d come the closest to busting the greatest teenage con artist this side of the Mississippi.