Pretending to Be Erica (15 page)

I still get grounded. My cell’s taken away for a week, and I can’t go anywhere with Cass or Merril. Taylor coming over is out of the question. Any plans I had of going to James’s once-a-week band meetings to say sorry are kaput.

It takes one phone call to the lawyers to get the magazine’s circulation to stop. I can only pray no one at school saw it or bought a copy. But my prayers haven’t been known to do much. If the school sees it, they’ll associate me with Taylor. While Violet doesn’t care, it’s not good for my Erica good-girl image.

Of course the school has seen it. The halls buzz with glances and whispers about Taylor and me. Cass shrugs and waves it off. Merril is angrier.

“How could you hang out with her like that? When Kerwin said you went, I didn’t think you actually did it. Why Taylor? She’s Commander Bitch.”

“She’s not so bad, Mer.” I sigh.

“Really? Because this morning she drew a penis on my locker with red Sharpie and tried to trip Kerwin down the stairs. Do you know how dangerous stairs are? You can break your neck if you fall down too many. She could’ve killed him.”

“She’s a Goth, not a murderer.” Cass laughs. “You overreact, Merril, seriously. Chill for once. I thought getting a boyfriend would
mellow
you out.”

The rumors have even reached the faculty. Mr. Roth stops me as I pass his desk after class.

“Erica. A moment, please.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll get right to it.” He rubs his eyebrows. “I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with the office about your level of mathematical education. I feel as though you’re holding yourself back. Many times, even on problems you get wrong, you take highly advanced shortcuts.”

“Mr. Roth—”

“Please, Erica. This is not an argument. It pains me to see a brilliant student hold back her true potential just to fit in with her peers. I’ve seen the magazine like everyone else, and I won’t grill you on it, but Taylor’s is not the best example to follow.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I guess I don’t realize when I’m doing it.”

“If you keep dumbing yourself down, you won’t be able to reach for the bigger scholarships. Your talent will go unnoticed.”

He cares. He cares about me. My “talent.” He said I have a talent. A talent for something other than conning? The thought sends a spark through my heart and warms my blood. I’m good at something. Something other than being a liar.

“Thanks, Mr. Roth. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

After school, on the way to the hospital, Mrs. Silverman drives calmly, merging into the next lane. The high of Mr. Roth’s compliment is long gone. I’m back to reality now—conning. My life, my air, my blood. I need to take the next step in the con. I need more information on the code, and the zoo it pertains to.

“We went to the zoo,” I say.

“When you were younger, yes. The zoo was your favorite place.”

“Pandas,” I murmur. “I remember them.”

She breaks into a smile. “You were very scared of them.”

“Scared? Of a two-tone teddy bear?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask me why. Some children hate spiders; some don’t like deep water. You didn’t like pandas.”

“They do smell bad.”

She laughs. “We can go again if you’d like. Saturday’s the day your grounding lets up. We’ll go in the afternoon and avoid the lunch crowd.”

I’ve brought a Polaroid camera I found in Erica’s room. It’s still loaded with a cartridge. Mr. Silverman must’ve gotten it for Erica—I found it tucked away in the closet with a
From Santa
still taped on the box. She was too small to use it, no doubt, but that didn’t stop him from buying a bright pink skin with unicorns on it.

Mrs. Silverman shoots me a look.

“I thought it would jog his memory.” I shrug. “It’s worth a try, right?”

She sighs. “Anything is worth a try.”

A stroke of luck—Nurse Rodriguez is nowhere to be seen. This is my opening. I have to act now. I steer Mrs. Silverman to ask the most harried-looking nurse around for access to Dad. Mrs. Silverman waits, like usual, by the vending machines. Instead of waiting for the nurse to bring Dad to me in the lobby, I meet them at his door.

“I can bring him to the table”—I glance at the woman’s name tag—“Audrey.”

“Would you do that?” Nurse Audrey sighs. “I’ve got a new admittance I need to see to.”

I assure her it’ll be fine. I wait until her heels disappear around the corner before I turn to Dad, lacing my arm through his.

“Can you show me your room?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Nobody sees it but me.”

“But look!” I hold up the pink camera. “Do you remember this? You got me this. I never got to take pictures with it. I want to show my friends where my dad lives.”

“I live in a bad place,” he mutters.

My eyes glance around for Nurse Rodriguez. She could pop up at any moment.

“C’mon, Dad, please? You worked so hard on those beautiful walls. It would be a shame to never have a picture of them. What if the nurses paint over them? Erase them? You don’t want them to disappear forever, do you?”

He nervously shifts from foot to foot. He finally makes a decision, and pushes the door open. Clears his throat.

“Only a few pictures.”

“Thank you!” I dart in and snap away. Start with the top right corner, work my way down and up as I move in a circle. I air each picture out and line my coat pockets with them. Dad’s head bobs in a few frames as he paces the room.

“Smile!” I call to him. He turns and makes a pained grin. Guilt. His listless smile sends dead bolt arrows of guilt to lodge in my stomach. I ignore them, smile back, and keep snapping.

The code.

That’s all I need.

That’s all I’m here for.

None of it makes any sense.

I’d managed to write the equations from the pictures into a notebook. Eight equations show up more than the others. I start dissecting them. I’m vivisecting the math beast Dad created. I solve them in a basic, sane manner, and come up with impossible decimals. I punch them into search engines, and piece together sections. They read like madman scrawl, but the amazing part is, they somehow
work
. Nothing is out of place. Everything is there for a reason, and the equations should come to a solid answer. Not a decimal like I’m getting. Not a four-letter hexadecimal after binary conversion. I need one number or one letter for each equation. I’m doing something wrong, but I don’t know what.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe these eight repeating equations in his room mean nothing at all.

Sal pushed me especially hard in math. Now I think I know why. Mr. Silverman was an engineer. A professional mathematician. Habit is not easily broken, but it is easily traced. It’s a scent the bloodhound in me is eager to follow, and the skills Sal honed can help me follow it further than anyone else. I’m the best person for this job. I’ve been
created
to be the best person for this job: Frankenstein in dirty blonde, elaborate lies, and cheerful smiles.

I’m looking at this the wrong way. I consider taking the problems to Mr. Roth. No, too risky. He’d know right away the equations weren’t my work. He’d ask questions. Everything I do is under suspicion, and with Mr. White and Kerwin hanging around, I can’t trust anybody.

Except one.

But I’m too chickenshit to call him. He’s just as good as I am at math. He might have a fresh perspective, might see something I don’t. But beyond morning pleasantries, I haven’t talked to James since our date. Even Violet’s hesitating, bravado sapped. This is for the code, Violet.

Learn some composure, sweets
.

I use the house phone to dial Taylor.

“What’s up? It’s Taylor. Leave a message or go away.”

“Hi, Taylor. It’s Erica. I just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven’t been talking to you much.” I laugh nervously and go quiet. “You probably saw the magazine. I’m sorry. You know that I can’t hang around with you when there’s something like that out there. I’m supposed to be an angel, not a fantastic devil like you.”

What else is there to say? You would get along better with my real self? Thank you for even trying to be my friend when I can’t be honest or genuine with you? When I can’t even say I like you out loud to the public.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m so fucked up.”

I hang up. My words are slurring informally. I’m swearing. Go away, Violet. I’m so close. I’m almost there.

Taylor never calls me back. Friday passes. I pull a cardigan on and smooth my skirt. Mrs. Silverman wears a floral dress and a windbreaker. It’s the warmest day in weeks. She holds my hand as we buy tickets. Families yell and cry and whine all around us. Mrs. Silverman stares at a baby in a stroller.

“You always wanted a brother or sister.”

“Sister,” I tease. “Who would want a brother? Sticky and smelly and annoying.”

“But a sister would’ve stolen your toys to play with.”

“Never mind. Brother, please.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. We watch the bright pink flamingos and wander through the African exhibit. The lions look cold and out of place lying across fake rocks. The hippos wade in murky water and drop poop. For a second I think Mrs. Silverman will wrinkle her nose or tactfully ignore them like a socialite might. But she laughs instead.

“Give him some privacy.”

The giraffes look like mistakes—who could ever stand so tall on legs so thin? Tropical birds in all colors flit through artificial greenhouses. The elephants delicately slide hay into their gaping mouths.

“Their trunks have two points of dexterous contact. Imagine only having two fingers,” I say. Mrs. Silverman holds up two in a peace sign. “No, more like only your index finger and thumb. You could still write like that. I wonder if elephants can write?”

“Probably,” she muses. “Maybe those two points are like two thumbs.”

“Elephants do paint.” The zookeeper overhears us and walks up to the fence. She holds a hooked rod in her hand, probably for herding the elephants. “Though they generally need training. Just techniques and those sorts of things. The pictures they paint all come from their imagination.”

“Do the pictures make sense?” Mrs. Silverman asks. The keeper shrugs.

“Sometimes. Not usually, unless they’re guided by their handlers. They just scribble. But they’re beautiful scribbles.”

Paintings.
I focus on the word. That’s what I’m here for. I’m not supposed to be enjoying this outing as much as I am. I have to try to get the code from Mrs. Silverman too. Anything she says about the memory that the code is linked to will help. Delicacy is top priority.

The pandas sleep under a spray of golden bamboo that looks unnatural against the Nevada sky. This isn’t foggy China. The pandas don’t seem to care. Or maybe they’ve just given up wanting to go home. Maybe this
is
their home. Mrs. Silverman closes her eyes and smiles.

“When you were little, we came here. We watched the panda pair. You were afraid, so I bought us ice cream. Someone bumped into me, and I spilled my cone, so I bought another one. The sun was just setting, and you said—”

I hold my breath. She’s deep in the memory. It must’ve been the one she clung to most when Erica was kidnapped. It may have even happened shortly before the kidnapping. That would explain why it’s so vivid to her, why she uses it as a code. She looks to me.