Pretending to Be Erica (5 page)

“Hey, Merril.” He smiles. His accent is crisp and lilting, and he rolls his
r
’s. Merril practically squirms.

“Kerwin! What’s up?”

“Came to say hi. Who’s the friend?”

“Erica.” I smile at him. “But you already knew that.”

“Not really.” He keeps his smile on too.

“Huh. I’ve only been all over the news.”

“My host family doesn’t watch much telly.” He blinks and looks to the left. He’s lying.

“Telly!” Merril squeaks the word and covers her mouth. “Sorry, it’s a funny word. Good funny, not bad funny.”

She laughs and I nervously laugh with her. Her crush is about as subtle as the reporters screaming my name a few yards away. Something’s off about this guy. I’ll play nice and try to get him to let his guard down so I can see what’s behind his façade.

I extend my hand to him. “Nice to meet you, Kerwin.”

He and Merril look at my hand like it’s an alien’s. Do teenagers shake hands? My heart lurches. I’d messed up—greeted him like one of Sal’s contacts instead of a teenage boy. I put it down with a sheepish smile. Quick, come up with something. Small excuse. He’s from overseas. Make something up.

“Sorry. I figured you Welsh are more proper than us Americans.”

“Proper’s too stuffy.” He chuckles. “Just call me Ker. Everyone does.”

“Ker!” Merril jumps in. “You can call me Mer if you want. Our names sort of rhyme.”

“So I guess I’ll call Erica, Er, then?” He shoots a smirk at me. “What’s up with the reporters following you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He’s not very good at acting. He already knows why—his easy posture and the tone of his voice are
too
relaxed. He’s playing dumb for some reason.

“Back when Erica was little—” Merril looks to me. “I mean, it’s your story to tell.”

“I was kidnapped.” I tilt my chin up. “I’m back now. The news is going a little batshit over it.”

“Kidnapped?” He looks me over. “You look fine to me.”

“I
am
fine,” I insist.

“Right. Of course you are.” He chuckles. Merril laughs with him.

“Is something funny?” I quirk an eyebrow.

Kerwin’s smile fades. “No. Sorry. I’m being a right asshole, aren’t I? Look, it was nice meeting you. Just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Merril chimes. When he’s gone, she clutches at my arm. “Did I have cereal in my teeth or something? He wouldn’t look at me.”

She bares her teeth for me to check, and I shake my head. “Your teeth are fine.”

“Weird.” She runs her tongue around in her mouth.

Taylor flashes me a devilish smirk as I walk into first period. A reminder that she’s on to me. I ignore her and sit in my seat. James’s wavy-haired head is on his desk, his breathing shallow but steady. Sleeping this early? He sits up groggily for morning prayers and then goes back to sleep. Mr. Roth doesn’t seem to notice, too deep in his integer lecture to look around the room. I extend my pencil across the gap between our desks, poking James in the arm.

“Psst.”

He doesn’t move. I poke him more insistently, and his eyes crack open.

“If you’re going to poke me, use the soft eraser end, would you?”

“Is that your special talent or something? Falling asleep at inopportune times?”

He yawns, eyes tearing. “Girls who look like you shouldn’t use big words.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I hiss.

“People get jealous of beautiful and intelligent people. You can be one, but not the other. You can be a little of one, and a lot of the other. But both extremes at once is trouble. Too much hate and envy. But hey—your life. You wanna make it hard on yourself, feel free.” He puts his head back down.

Did he just call me pretty? I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.

“Mr. Anders, would you repeat back to me what I just said?” Mr. Roth’s voice cuts between us.

James raises his head and sighs. “You were saying something about reverse engineering the problem?”

“No. I’d like you to stay after class.” Mr. Roth’s words are short.

James sinks, defeated, on the desk. The class murmurs amongst themselves until Mr. Roth raps the board to get attention.

The paper under James’s head—our worksheet—is mostly blank. He’s done a few problems. I blink. They don’t have any work scribbled next to them, yet the answers are clearly there. Seventy-two. I do the problem myself, scribbling my work in the margins of my own sheet. Seventy-two exactly. The next problem, he’s put thirteen. I do that problem, my work scrawling down the page. Lots of written work, but it comes out to thirteen. My eyebrows raise. Is he really that good?

I look for him at lunch, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Cassie comes over, chest heaving. It’s a show the boys appreciate, elbowing each other and laughing as she passes. She seems oblivious, or maybe she’s gotten used to it by now.

“What are you two doing on Saturday?” She slides into our table.

Merril shrugs. “I have to go pick up Dad’s car from the shop in the morning, but after that I’m free.”

“What about you, Erica?” Cassie smiles.

“I’m free.”

“Awesome. Bowling. Lucky Nine Lanes—third exit off the interstate. Totally trashy, totally cheesy, absolutely perfect. I’ll bring Alex—boyfriend.” She winks at me. “And you guys can meet him. If you wanna bring other boys, that’s cool too.”

Merril grabs my arm. I have a bruise in the shape of her hand by now. “You have to invite Kerwin!”

“What? Why me?”

“He’s into you.” Cass flashes me a smile. “Would
not
stop asking about you in first period.”

Merril pouts, but I pat her shoulder. “If you want, I’ll invite him for you.”

Her face brightens, doe eyes unable to hide much.

Tracking Kerwin down is easy. He has a small crowd of people around him at all times. Popular? Without a doubt. He slouches against his locker, his soccer buddies shoving each other and laughing.

“Um, hi, Kerwin.”

His dark-haired head turns to me, and his smile is contagious. Would be, if I were the kind of girl to fall for it. It’s a very, very fake smile, but just honest enough that it fools most people.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Cass is having this thing, a sort of get-together at Lucky Nine Lanes. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

One of his buddies snorts, and Kerwin smacks him on the back of the head.

“Are you gonna be there?” he asks, suddenly all smiles again. I nod. “Then definitely. What time?”

“We’re meeting at noon.”

“All right.” His accent drags out the word. “Look, I know the area, but not well. I might get lost. Give me your number just in case.”

“I don’t know the area either.” I smile. “I’m new too.”

He laughs. “Right. I’m transfer-new and you’re kidnap-new.”

“Something like that. Here, this is”—I take a marker out and motion for him to give me his hand. I scribble Merril’s number on the back of it—“Merril’s number. She’ll be with me, and she knows the town like the back of her hand.”

I look up. In our new position, his eyes are riveted into the top of my blouse. I pull away and clear my throat.

“So, I’ll see you then?”

“Yeah. Brilliant.” He struggles to form words. “Thanks for this.”

His friends whistle as I leave. Violet wants to snap at them to cut it out. Erica wants to ignore them. I mumble threats under my breath—a happy middle ground.

When I tell Mrs. Silverman I’m going bowling, she beams. There are tears there, just barely hidden beneath a veneer of wine and eye-dabs with a napkin.

“I’m so happy for you, Erica. You’re making friends so fast.”

“I had friends before.” That’s a lie. Violet’s never had friends—what kind of con artist has friends? “So it’s not like I never had them.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I’m glad you’re making them here. That I get to see you make them.”

I pick at my broccoli.

Her voice is small. “Do you miss them? Your old friends?”

The friends I’ve never had, you mean? “Yeah. I miss everything. But everything back there was a lie. So I shouldn’t miss it.”

Mrs. Silverman doesn’t say anything. Marie comes in with tea and a plate of fruit for dessert. I pick at a peach slice when she starts talking again.

“There will always be two parts of you, Erica. There will be the one who had the life with your kidnappers—however good or bad a life it was. And there will be your life with me, and I intend to make it the best life I can for you. Those two sides don’t have to be at war. Both of them are important. Both of them make up the whole that is you.”

Violet sneers. Erica chews peach silently. The precipice between the two grows larger with Mrs. Silverman’s words.

A flower dangles, roots clinging to both sides as the fissure widens.

Sal covertly writes a Dear Abby–ish love advice column in a queer magazine under the pseudonym of Ms. Maple, and it’s how we communicate. The magazine is nothing graphic—mostly articles on the gay community, notices about events and art showings. Sal’s third column response is usually encoded with a message for me. Before I left, he gave me a phrase I use as a substitution cipher—SEEING RED AND BLUE—that strips away the unneeded letters and leaves his words for me. I submit seemingly innocent romantic questions to Ms. Maple via the Internet, and they contain my coded message using the same cipher. It’s a Cold War system that, while convoluted, keeps anyone off our trail.

I buy the magazine from a bookstore. Mrs. Silverman handed me two hundred dollars and dropped me off at the mall to buy something nice to wear to Cassie’s bowling party on Saturday. I barely kept my eyes from bugging out at the sight of two hundreds just for me. Not for food or rent or to pay someone off to keep them quiet. For frilly, frivolous clothes.

The mall. To Violet, it’s a place of infinite opportunity. I have to stop her from leaning over and picking the pockets of unsuspecting families or taking advantage of the security guard’s turned back to sneak items into my oversize purse. To Erica, this is a place of endless temptation—pretzels, cinnamon buns, greasy fast food that looks as good as it smells. Her thin waist growls. Her eyes roam over the clothes—she wants to feel them all on her skin. She wants to wear and eat it all, because she’s dead and hasn’t eaten or worn anything for thirteen years. I buy Sal’s magazine and settle in the food court with a soda.

I spread the pages and jot on my notepad. First, I reverse the entire advice column, spelling the words backward. Then I apply the cipher. Sal’s words grow. I can hear his hoarse cigar voice reading them.

Violet,

Hope you’re doing well. I’ve been watching you on TV. Can’t even put into words how proud I am. You walk like her, talk like her. Even your heart’s a little like hers, I reckon.

Not gonna talk specifics, in case someone cracks this. Ricebowl’s full, as always.

Count on Sal to talk in half code even after I’ve decoded his words. “Ricebowl” is the Japanese businessman art buyer who’s waiting eagerly—still “full.”

Silverman based code off important memory shared with Erica just before she got kidnapped. When you’ve got dirt, lemme know.

P.S. Mama Silverman’s hired a private investigator. Been snooping. Convincing evidence trail placed in your “hometown.” Will keep PI busy. Silverman won’t turn him on you until you mess up. Did that to other girls. He busted them. PI goes by Mr. White. Bald, ex-military, you know the type.

Lady Luck’s with you, sweets.

“Didn’t peg you for the creative writer type.”

The deep voice startles me, and I whirl in my seat. James stands, hands shoved in his pockets and blond hair flyaway as ever. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a dark button-up shirt, cuffs rolled. I want to scream at him:
Don’t you dare stand behind me again. Don’t you dare read over my shoulder.
I bite my tongue and quash Violet, bringing Erica up to coat my surface with a pretty polish.

“I’m taking notes.” I hold up the magazine. “Social studies class.”

“You’re doing a project on homosexuality?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect that sort of thing from you.”