“Who’s that?” Eva crinkles her nose as everyone around her roars in excitement.
“I’m Colin Dirge, the manager of Brass Knuckles, and I wanted to thank you lovely fans for turning out today. We are so thrilled to close up our first U.S. tour here in Boston, and thank you to WXKS for organizing this raffle benefiting Changing Faces, an organization that has deeply touched Viggo’s life. I’ve popped by today . . .” He pauses dramatically and it feels like we all collectively hold our breath. What is he going to announce? Is the band really going to make a surprise appearance? “. . . to give you lucky fans a sneak peek at the first single to be released off our new album, Mistaken Identity. It’s called “Inner Beauty” and I think you’re going to love it. Also, I have a surprise for you. If you check the back of your posters, there is an access code, which will allow each of you one free download of the song!” The crowd hollers and cheers, and everyone scrambles to make sure they still have their posters.
“And now here, it is. Take a listen,” he says, beaming like a proud father, as the new song begins blasting from the loudspeakers.
You sparkle
You shine
Your cheekbones
Sublime.
But a pretty face
does not mean a pretty heart.
There’s just no inner beauty
Where is your inner beauty?
Without some inner beauty
You’re a perfect waste of time.
It’s the same song that Declan had sent me, but something is different. I listen hard for a half a minute and then I figure it out: The original version was stripped down, raw and pure, while this one is more upbeat, more catchy, more commercial. An instant hit, guaranteed. There had been rumors swirling that the band was back in the studio this week reworking one of the songs, all obviously true. Although I had to admit, I liked the original slightly better; either way, the song was genius—never mind what that numbskull Cooper Franklin would say.
“Brilliant, right?” Colin smiles as the song wraps up and the crowd goes nuts. “And now, let me introduce DJ Dr. Groove, who will pick the lucky winner to come up on stage and sing ‘Identity Crisis’ with the band. So good luck! Thank you, Boston! We’ll hope to see you all next week!” He performs some fist-pumping, palm-sliding handshake with the DJ, waves goodbye, and hops off the stage. I crane my neck like an ostrich to try and see where he is going, but he has already evaporated into the crowd.
“Thank you, Mr. Colin Dirge!” The DJ with the mustache gestures after him as the crowd roars again. “Are you pumped? Get those wristbands ready! We’ll be picking a winner any minute now.”
Where is Declan? I am getting panicked that he is going to miss the drawing. My mind races through the possibilities. Maybe he missed the train? Maybe his parents caught him trying to sneak out? Or maybe he is here, but waiting for me at some other information booth? Is that possible? Did he see me with Eva and her friends and get scared off? Or did he see me and not like what he saw in person? Did he take one look and go running in the opposite direction?
All three girls are looking at me, either in pity or, in Eva’s case, a look of smug triumph I want to smack off her face. I want to look anywhere else, so I look up. Above us, on the jumbo screen, is a slideshow of the children from Viggo’s charity, faces that are twisted and misshapen, and for a brief second, looking at those hollow eyes makes me feel petty and small for obsessing about my own stupid problems.
“Why don’t you just, like, text him?” Tori is looking at me as if I am an imbecile not to have thought of this earlier.
“He can’t text,” I say in frustration, realizing as the words tumble out of my mouth how implausible they sound. “He’s grounded. His parents confiscated his phone.”
As if to contradict me, all of a sudden, my phone zings. Could it be Declan, finding a way to text me somehow? Even though I know it’s impossible, my heart pounds and I grab it while the three of them watch me.
But no. It’s just a text from Maeve.
MaeveRose: So?????
I shake my head, trying not to let my face reveal my disappointment, and shove it back in my pocket. “Not him.”
Then the DJ’s voice hums into the speaker. “Okay kids, this is the moment. One of you is about to win two front row tickets to the Brass Knuckles concert—and get to sing with Viggo Witts himself! Check those wristbands, because I am about to call out the winning number in 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .”
The crowd chants along with him 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . while I want to shout, Wait. You. Have. To. Wait. Declan will be here. I know he will.
But I don’t and he isn’t and then the DJ is reading out a series of random numbers: 2-4-1-0-2-9.
My heart falls. Twice. Just as I process that Declan is really not coming, that the winning number is not my number, that once again, my chance to meet Viggo Witts has slipped out of my fingertips, that once again, the guy I am waiting for has failed to show, I hear an ear-piercing, dream-crushing whoop erupt beside me.
“I won!”
Chapter 12
NOELLE
I can’t believe it.
Eva is frantically waving her arm in the air and hopping up and down for joy and screaming, “Oh my god, that’s me. That’s me!” She turns and grabs Tori and me, and we instinctively embrace in a celebratory hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Annalise standing there. Alone. Excluded. Stunned.
I can tell from the look on her face exactly what she’s thinking. Eva has won. Eva. Who probably couldn’t even name a Brass Knuckles song if it were the Final Teen Jeopardy! question and $50,000 in college scholarship money was riding on her reply. Eva, who I know has come here just to see the look on Annalise’s face when she got stood up by her phantom boyfriend. Annalise looks like she’s been sucker-punched.
“Young lady, yes you, come on up here.” The DJ points at Eva, and she scrambles through the parted crowd up onto the makeshift stage. The DJ, who has long dirty-blond hair and is wearing a button-down shirt that is only partly buttoned, asks her name and where she’s from. She giggles out her replies. He asks if she is a Knucklie and she gushes that she is. Then he asks who she is going to take with her to the concert. What is she going to say? The three of us never discussed what we’d do if one of us actually won. Will she pick me—or Tori? Is one of us about to be odd girl out? Will it be me? Eva gazes over to where we are standing, like she is trying to decide between us. Then, she locks eyes with Annalise. She says, “I’m going to take my boyfriend, Amos,” and I can hear the slight emphasis she puts on the words my and boyfriend.
“Is he here?” the DJ asks, scanning the crowd.
“No, he’s at soccer practice.” She smiles proudly, as if she had something to do with it.
“And are you ready to sing?”
She grins with the confidence of someone who, as a sophomore, just landed the plum role of Sharpay in High School Musical. “I will be.”
“Well, I hope you two have a rockin’ good time,” he says, patting her on the back and guiding her toward the back of the stage. “And to all you fans, thanks for coming out today and helping to support Changing Faces. Enjoy your poster and free download, and keep on listening to WXKS, the number one rock station.”
“Can you believe it?” Tori shrieks and grabs her phone to share the news with everyone she knows. I shake my head, looking over at Annalise. We watch as Eva dances toward us, a crisp white envelope clasped tightly in her hand.
“This is so amazing!” she says, still slightly dazed by her luck. “They said they’d even get me some backstage passes. See, Noelle, and you said we’d never win.” She pulls out the tickets and Tori begins snapping shots of Eva holding them up to tweet with the world as she twirls around and fluffs her hair and babbles about how much she’s going to practice and what she should wear and how this could be her big break like Courteney Cox.
I can see Annalise struggling with the sheer unfairness of it all, the desi
re to snatch those tickets out of Eva’s unworthy hands. Then, as if Eva would take pity on her and change her mind, she asks, sort of pitifully, “So, you’re definitely taking . . . Amos?” Amos. There is a moment of silence. Tori and I gape at Annalise, shocked she went there. Dared to say his name aloud. The word seems obscene, like she has no right to say it in Eva’s presence.
Eva stiffens and glares at Annalise. “Well, he is my boyfriend. You know, the kind that actually exists.” She looks over at Tori, who kind of snickers approvingly.
“Declan exists,” Annalise replies. A pause. A sharp intake of breath. “He does.”
“Riiight,” Eva says, as she gives me a knowing look. “If you say so.”
Annalise looks like she has been slapped across the face. I can see her fighting back tears. But I know and Eva knows she has no good comeback. No way to prove what she says is true. No physical evidence.
Without another word, Annalise turns and flees into the crowd.
I know this was the plan all along. What else did I think was going to happen? I know Eva would say I shouldn’t feel sorry for her. Not at all.
So why do I feel so hollow inside?
Chapter 13
ANNALISE
I push my way through the mall, with only one thought going through my mind. Escape.
It was bad enough, standing there and watching Eva win the tickets that should have been mine, taking the spot on stage that could have been mine. And then, breaking down and groveling, actually asking her if she’d take someone else (me me me?) instead.
Pitiful.
Even if I offered to do her math homework from here to eternity, there was no way she’d give up this chance for me. And then worse, her accusing Declan of not even existing, implying that I’d made him up. I could tell by tomorrow, her version of the story would be all over the school and, once again, it would all start up again. Everyone would be staring, whispering, evading. Talking about me but not to me.
Declan exists! I want to shout. But where is he? Why didn’t he come? I have no defense. All I have is a photo on my phone and some pretty words on a screen. And a connection that I know is real.
But all I can hear are Eva’s words, echoing in my mind. My boyfriend, Amos. My boyfriend.
And against my will, my mind flashes back to that day, the way it felt to stand there, waiting, for someone who also promised to come.
Amos.
Whom I stumbled upon curled up in the hallway outside the Freshman Fling, on my way to the bathroom, all alone, because Maeve had started debating the stupidity of intelligent design with some fundie guy from her biology class. Amos, who had spiky dirty-blond hair and a trim waist and a ready smile. Amos, who had been dating Eva since practically the first week of freshman year. Amos, whose body was heaving almost like he was . . . crying.
Then he turned, and our eyes locked, and even though we really only knew each other from third period American History, I couldn’t ignore that. His blue eyes were all watery and red, which you never see on a guy, especially not a guy like that. So I stopped and asked if he was okay. He muttered, “I’m fine,” but it was obvious he wasn’t and so I slid down against the wall beside him, not really knowing why. Up close, his breath reeked of alcohol, and he’d offered me a sip from a silver flash he pulled out of his jacket, but I shook my head. Eventually, he told me how he and Eva and gotten into a huge fight and how she had broken up with him. Then we heard the click of a teacher’s heels coming toward us and, not wanting to be busted, we made our way down the hall.
Somehow, we ended up sitting alone on the west wing stairwell while he rehashed their entire relationship for me: how she was always getting on him for stupid stuff, and how he was sick of it, and how he was glad it was over. I felt exhilarated, honored that he was confiding something so personal with me. It made perfect sense after we talked for what seemed like hours, and his tears had dried up, that he turned to me, his breath warm, and slowly stroked a lock of my hair, and murmured, still sadly, “maybe, if I were with a girl like you instead,” and leaned way in, as if he were about to kiss me. In the background, I could hear the thump of Brass Knuckles wafting in from the cafeteria, an unmistakable sign, telling me this was meant to be, and so I leaned way in too.
That’s when Amanda Gerard and Tess McDonohue stumbled loudly into our stairwell, clearly looking for a place to sneak a smoke. “Whoops!” Amanda had giggled when she saw us there, causing us to jump apart like magnets that repel. Then, she gave us a serious double take, her eyes boggling and nudging Tess as if she might have missed us. “Sorry!” they cackled, although you could tell they weren’t one iota, as they hastily retreated back inside.
Amos jumped up, knowing right away this would be bad, but I, stupidly naïve, didn’t realize that. Not right away, anyway. All I knew was that somehow, the spell had been broken. The bubble burst. We stumbled to our feet and walked down the hall together, but instead of going inside to the dance, he told me he needed to head on home because he was hammered. He paused and looked at me and my face must have begged the question because he tugged on a curl and said, “Meet me tomorrow, ’kay? At the flagpole?” I smiled and agreed, and floated back inside to the dance. Even though it was only minutes, no, seconds later, I was greeted by these looks that made my stomach queasy. Of course Amanda and Tess had come back and told people that Amos and I were hooking up in the stairwell; of course someone had texted Eva the news; of course Eva called Amos and chewed him out for humiliating her.
But at the time, I knew nothing. I’d gone to sleep that night still the princess of my own fairytale, believing him, what he said, that he meant it, that he wanted to be with me, all of it. Until the next day at school, when I showed up where he had told me to meet him. At the flagpole. And I waited. And waited. And waited.
Until finally, I saw him, strolling slowly, casually, up the cement steps, aggressively not looking my way, his arm slung possessively around Eva, who was shooting death daggers at me. My heart dropped into my shoes and I wanted to fold up and die. All the truisms I’d overheard my mother saying to her friends on the phone ever since the divorce came rushing through my head: men are dogs, men are cheats, men are liars.
By noon, everyone knew what had happened the night before—or at least, Eva’s version of the story. Which only got worse and worse, as the day progressed. How I had found him alone at the dance and tried to seduce him. How he’d gone along, happy to cop a feel. That we’d had sex, right there in the stairwell. That he was too drunk to remember any of it. How he came to his senses and confessed everything to Eva later that night, and she magnanimously took him back, because he truly loved only her, of course. And I realized it was all a lie, his supposed breakup, his tears, his murmurs, that he was playing me, right from the start.
Even though I tried to protest the truth, that nothing had happened, that he’d told me he and Eva weren’t even together anymore, no one cared. Eva’s friends whispered “home wrecker” and “man stealer” whenever I walked by, like I could ever do that, be that person, after I saw what my dad’s affair put our family through. Even girls that I’d always been friendly with shied away, like I was toxic, contagious, while the popular guys leered at me knowingly like I was human trash, something to be used and tossed away.
At least school ended three days later, and I didn’t have bump into Eva and her crowd for the rest of the summer, hanging out at the town pool or the Dairy Queen. With Maeve gone anyway, I begged Mom to let me escape, spending half the break at my grandma’s house up in Vermont and the other half with my dad and his new family (the toddling terrors!) down in North Carolina. My mother, who was so good at scanning for damage inside other people’s bodies, never once detected my own inner turmoil, and how could I tell her that I had become the thing she hated the most: the other woman.
After that, there was no way I was letting myself get burned again. Even by so-called nice guys, like Cooper. It was safer to just push them all away, the guys whose intentions w
ere unclear, whose eyes lingered in the wrong places, who thought they knew who I was from a story they’d once heard. And Declan? I thought things would be different with Declan, who knew me from the inside out, rather than the other way around. But have I been all wrong about him, too?
I push through shoppers strolling with their bulging shopping bags, tears now streaming down my face, blurring my vision. Storefronts flash before my eyes: Sephora. Starbucks. Barnes & Noble. Cheesecake Factory. A shopapalooza blur. I flee down the escalator and through the doors. All of a sudden, I see someone pivot into my path and before I can stop myself, we collide. I feel something cold and wet all over my shirt and neck and someone yelling, “bloody hell!” I rub the salty tears from my eyes and taste . . . chocolate.
I read the glowing red sign above us and realize I have run smack dab into some grown man, and creamy brown ice cream has splattered all over his black T-shirt and jeans, and my favorite Brass Knuckles T-shirt. And he sounds quite pissed. “Why don’t you bloody watch where you’re going!” he hollers in an accent that would be charming, if it weren’t so angry.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I freeze, not knowing what to do. Then I look up at his twisted lip and realize who I have just crashed into.
Colin Dirge.
Chapter 14
NOELLE
Eva obviously doesn’t feel the same way. Long after Annalise has fled, she is still doubled over in shrill laughter. “Can you believe it?” she says, gasping for air. “She’s defending that her imaginary boyfriend exists—the one we made up.” Tori is infected with the absurdity of the situation and the two of them snort laugh for awhile, leaning on one another for support, wiping tears and snot from their damp faces.
Meanwhile, I feel empty. Deflated. Talking online to Annalise never felt hurtful, even talking about Amos. But now, seeing her in person, seeing her reaction to Declan’s absence, the reality of what we are doing hits home. Hard. A crowd of dejected fans presses around us, streaming out of the area. More than one gives Eva a resentful look, but she is oblivious. “Let’s get out of here,” Eva finally says, composing herself.
Identity Crisis Page 7