Pretending to Be Erica (9 page)

“Who said any of these are for you?” Taylor downs all three shots, one after another.
Chug, clink. Chug, smack lips, clink
.

When the last one’s gone, she points in my face. “If you see me go for a ninth one, stop me. In two hours ask the bouncer outside for a cab. I’ll be in the front of the dance floor. Come get me and we’ll go. Don’t drink. Don’t take any pills anyone slips you. The only time you should get worried is if I start twitching. Everything else is fine. Absolutely
everything
. You got that?”

It all starts to fall into place as I watch her walk away into the crowd, throwing her arms up as the bass rocks the walls. She wants me here to watch her. The designated driver, so to speak. I watch her twist and turn in the arms of some guy in bright green pants. Her dark hair melds into the shadows, the extensions peeking out like tiny sunsets. She moves on and dances with a girl in a tiny bikini, laughing. It’s like she’s an entirely different person. This is her element. She’s obviously been here before—I see some people smile and wave at her.

Taylor has two faces. Just like I do.

She goes for shot number four. Five. Six. Goes back to dancing. The music changes, vocal stutters churning my brain. One of the dealers pushes a bright pink pill at me. I crunch it under my foot when he turns. The dealers always give free samples to try to make repeat customers out of you. I consider getting up and dancing myself, but Erica is timid. Violet wants to join, to writhe with the masses, but tonight is Erica’s night. Erica’s chance to make Taylor believe she’s real. Good girl Erica would do exactly as she said.

With a twist.

Rebellion. Erica’s never tried it. Violet hums with the possibility, whispers in her ear like a temptress. Like a coach. A friend.

You can do it. It’s just dancing. Just move your body a bit. Ignore the people watching. Ignore everybody; listen to the music. Nobody cares what you look like. Nobody cares about you; you’re just one girl in a crowd of scantily clad ones. No one will look your way twice
.

Erica gets up, a little wooden. She flinches as a group of boys rush past her and into the crowd. The music is hard, fast, people jumping up and down. I stand on the edges and watch the DJ spin—his headphones cupping one ear and his laptop open and glowing. Erica sways, one foot to another, the dance of an unsure girl. She doesn’t move furiously—it’s not her style. She puts her arms up and lets them dip with the music. If she closes her eyes, the lights flash against the darkness of her eyelids in rhythmic imprints. If she opens them, her sight explodes in stars and colors, a galaxy being created—smoke, heat, noise, light, expanding into the dark space of the warehouse.

A hard jolt brings Erica out of her reverie and Violet to the foreground. I crash to the floor, polished stone unforgiving on my butt.

“Hey! Watch where you’re—” I choke off the shout as the person I collided with pulls me up.

“Sorry, didn’t see you—” His eyes widen. He’s not wearing any candy or glow paint, but his white shirt glows eerily, and in the flashes I see his long blond hair.

“James?”

“Erica!” he shouts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I motion toward the table. We sit. The music is still loud, but here you can use a seven-decibel voice to be heard, instead of a ten.

“I didn’t know you went to things like this.” I smirk. “I guess it makes sense. You like music.”

“I’m here for my friend.” He nods to the front, where the DJ is clicking away on his keyboard. “It’s his first gig. He asked me to come down and support him.”

“Nice of you.”

“And what’s your excuse?” His eyes narrow, but just barely.

“Taylor brought me.”

“She’s here?” His eyebrows rise.

Taylor staggers out of the crowd. I stand on instinct, and James does too, as she stumbles into the table and clutches the edges. She rolls her head slowly, smile huge, and spots James.

“Virgin! What’s a good boy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Was that a pickup line?” He sneers.

“I wouldn’t pick you up even if you were the weight of a puppy.” She laughs, messes her hair up—disheveled angles. “
Puppies?
I’m a mess.”

“Maybe we should go, Taylor,” I offer.

Her dark eyes flash, and she slams her hand on the table. “I say when we go. You still owe me, Fakey. So just shut up and roll with it.”

We watch Taylor edge her way into the crowd again.

“We’re leaving in two hours. She said so, anyway. Before she got all . . . crazy.” It’s the only word I can think of to describe her.

“This is
not
her crazy mode,” James interjects.

“And you would know?”

“She’s overdosed twice in school. Pills. First time she collapsed in English. Second time in a bathroom stall. Hit her head on the back of the toilet pretty bad. Ambulance. Stitches. She picks fights with anybody who looks at her the wrong way. The only reason she hasn’t been thrown out is because of her father’s . . .
influence
. She knows he’ll bail her out of anything, so she does everything.”

Is that why everyone treats her like she’s got the plague? I’d wondered why she was such a loner when she was so pretty and obviously well-off.

James glances at me. “I’m glad she’s got someone with her this time at least.”

We’re quiet. Taylor stumbles in and out for another shot. That makes seven. She waves sardonically and pushes back into the crowd. James stands.

“I should get back.”

“No!” My hand shoots out and pushes his onto the table. Too fast. What am I doing? Play it cool. Let his hand go. He looks at our hands, his gaze traveling up my arm and to my neck, rippling like liquid fire. My chin, my eyes. The gaze lingers there.

And before I can catch fire in the best way, the crowd parts. Shrill screams come from two figures entwined. Punching, kicking, hair pulling. One of the girls is Taylor, her opponent a brunette in a rainbow-striped skirt. The crowd swallows them again, the fight moving inward as people cheer or try to get between them. James looks at me as I look at him, a wordless agreement.

We need to break up some bitches.

James’s tall, bony figure cuts a path through the crowd. I press my face into his back and fist his shirt to make sure I don’t lose him. He smells like pepper and aftershave and sweat—a heady combination. A sudden jerk of his body jolts me out of my mildly creepy sniffing moment. He reaches over and pulls Taylor off Rainbow Skirt Girl. James isn’t the buffest guy, so wrestling a thrashing Taylor takes all his concentration.

“Come on! Let me go! I swear to God, I’ll fucking pull her tongue out—”

Skirt Girl goes in to jab Taylor’s nose while she’s restrained. Before I can stop her, Violet socks Skirt Girl’s cheek. The hit is hard enough to make her stagger.

James holds Taylor tight the whole way through the crowd and to the exit. At points I grab Taylor’s hair to keep her from biting James’s face, neck—anywhere she can get at.

“Put me down, asshole! Did I ask you”—she kicks at him—“to do any of this hero shit?”

When we get free of the crowd, I dash outside and look for Jeff the bouncer. Tap his meaty shoulder.

“Uh, hi, we need a—”

“Jeff! Tell these cunts to put me down!”

Jeff’s eyes roll. He takes over for a relieved-looking James, having a much easier time pinning Taylor’s arms behind her back.

“Mark, get a cab, will you?” He jerks his head to another bouncer. Taylor alternates between screaming obscenities and muttering under her breath. I must look worried, because Jeff sighs.

“Just drunk tonight. I’ve seen her on everything else—this isn’t her doped-up look. Don’t worry. Just get her home, give her a glass of water.”

“She comes here a lot, then?” James asks.

Jeff sniggers.

The cab pulls up, and Jeff pushes the squirming Taylor inside and tells the cabbie to child-lock the doors so she can’t get out. He sticks his bald head in the dark taxi and mutters something to Taylor. She stops trying to claw at the door handle and huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jeff nods. “She’s all yours. Cab’s already paid for.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “Good customer service around here.”

“Just for her.” He motions for us to get in.

I turn to James. “You coming with?”

“I think I did my part.” James shoves his hands into his pockets. “It would be a little weird, a guy going home with two girls. I don’t want to freak her dad out. Call me later, okay? She has my number. Lemme know you’re all right.”

“Definitely. See you later, then?” My voice sounds more timid than I’d like.

“Later.” He bends and looks through the cab window. “Be good, Gotherella.”

“Fuck off,” she spits.

I slide in beside her, and James closes the door. Through the back window, I can see him watching the cab until it turns the corner, face twisted with something I can’t pinpoint.

Taylor’s house is a chic split-level on a hillside overlooking the lights of the Strip, the kind with windows that take up the entire wall. Glass walls. Walls that let in the city and night sky and endless desert. Japanese landscaping—miniature banyans in pots, gardens of raked sand and bamboo. By the time we pull in the driveway, Taylor’s swearing has quieted.

“Thanks for the lift.” I try to be as cheerful as I can. The driver nods and unlocks the doors. I get out and hold the door open. “C’mon. Out.”

Taylor watches something in the distance, forehead pressed against the glass. She’s a mess—hair tangled and makeup smeared in raccoon rings around her eyes. I clear my throat, and she winces.

“Fine, fine. Jesus.”

She shuffles behind me as I take the stairs eagerly. The door is black and shiny. And unlocked. I open it—wood floors and sparse but stylish furniture. Expensive sculptures line the tables.

“Anyone home?”

“Oh God,” Taylor says with a groan. “Shut up. Don’t encourage him.”

“Tay? That you?” a man’s voice calls. Female giggles start, stop, and start again. Taylor winces again and hides behind me as a man comes out—short, rotund, and in a leopard-print bathrobe and little else. His black mustache twitches.

“Oh, sorry! Didn’t know we had company. Warn me next time, Tay.”

“I’m Erica.” I smile. “Taylor’s friend.”

“Right!” He squints. Knows I’m the kidnapped girl, obviously.

I walk in, and Taylor kicks the door closed behind her, then lies on the couch with her back to everyone.

Taylor’s dad shakes my hand. “I’m Barry Mansfield. Good to meet you,
Erica
.” He puts the tiniest emphasis on my name. It isn’t much, but it’s a con artist’s job to be paranoid. Did that mean something? Does he know something?

“Your mom call?” Barry directs the question to Taylor.

“Wouldn’t know,” she says with a grunt.

“If she calls the home phone, tell her to stop. She’s been bullshitting me all day with legal agreement crap.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ve got some, uh, guests. I better get back to them. Nice meeting you, Erica.” He nods and scuttles down the hall. He opens a door, the sound of girlish giggles wafting out. The door closes on laughter and faint simpering
stop
’s.

“Disgusting.” Taylor growls, and straightens. She goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge—chock-f of beautiful fruit platters, pastries, and carefully arranged meats and cheeses. I think I see caviar. But none of it is touched—not so much as a bite. It’s perfect, beautiful, but ignored. Taylor takes out a bottle.

“You shouldn’t drink anymore, Taylor—”

“Relax, Goody Two-shoes. It’s water.” She pops open the cap and chugs it, wipes her lips. I lift a stack of magazines from the coffee table and run my fingers over the table’s surface. When I pull away, traces of white powder stick to me. I touch my tongue to my index finger. Sharp. Coke. I’m willing to bet dozens of other surfaces in the house are dusted similarly. Taylor’s dad tried to hide it with magazines.

The female voices from the other room giggle louder. Taylor strides to the patio and opens it, slamming it behind her. Sort of lost, I follow. A patch of grass with a small pool has a perfect view of the diadem of jeweled lights that is the Strip. Taylor sits on the grass, knees up to her chest. I sit by her. We’re quiet. A lighter clicks and shines in the corner of my eye.

“You shouldn’t smoke. It’ll kill you,” I say.

“Life will kill you,” she counters, and blows smoke.

I pull out my phone. “James said you’d have his number.”

She bites down on her cig to steady it as she takes out her phone. Grumbles the number. It rings twice before James picks up. The boom of music is a muffled pulse in the background.

“Hey, Erica?”

“Hi.” I sound breathless. “We got home okay.”

“Great.” A pause. A huge crevasselike pause. “Do you need a ride home or anything?”

“Mom’s picking me up.” I texted her the address earlier.

“Right. I . . . guess I’ll see you on Monday.”

“James, I—”

Taylor shoots me a look at the desperate tone in my voice. Violet cringes at Erica’s inability to control herself. Erica wants to thank him for helping, thank him for things he doesn’t know he does, the shaky influx of heat and inflating heart. But if she says that, it’ll move something forward. Everything should stay where it is. The less I move, the less my absence will be missed.