Impostor

by Jill Hathaway

  But then I wonder, as I watch him slam his locker shut and head toward first period, what if he likes her as more than a friend? What would I do then?

  The five-minute bell rings, saving me from my thoughts. I rush to my locker and grab my books for English class. As I reach into my backpack to grab a pen, my fingers brush against an old bottle of caffeine pills I stashed away for emergencies. I let my hand linger for just a moment and then pull it away.

  My head throbs from lack of sleep. As Mrs. Winger works her way up and down the aisles, picking up homework, I feel my eyes droop.

  “Look alive, Sylvia,” Mrs. Winger says, stopping at my desk. “Do you have the assignment?”

  I open my folder and pretend to look through the papers, even though I know I didn’t do the work. I’d planned to do my homework while I listened to Rollins’s show, but I ended up falling asleep instead. Perhaps I could bring up the car accident for sympathy points. But, no, then everyone would just think I’m weirder than they already do. Add sleepdriving to my narcolepsy and I’m a Grade-A Freak.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Winger. I must have left it at home.”

  She shakes her head as though she doesn’t believe me and moves on to Samantha, who looks even worse than I feel. Her hair, usually perfectly straightened, is swept back in a messy ponytail. She’s not wearing any makeup, and there are huge circles beneath her eyes. Remembering how she was drunkenly singing in the back of Scotch’s car, I wonder just how hungover she is today. But Sam doesn’t just look dehydrated. She looks regretful or something. Her demeanor unsettles me, reminds me of how I felt the morning after the homecoming dance last year. I wonder if something happened to her. I wouldn’t put it past Scotch to take advantage of an inebriated girl. If Rollins hadn’t burst in on us in the locker room, who knows what would have happened?

  “How about you, Samantha? Did you finish the assignment?” Mrs. Winger hovers over Samantha, tapping her foot.

  Samantha doesn’t even pretend to look through her things. She just glares at Mrs. Winger wordlessly until the teacher gets uncomfortable and moves on. Sam must sense my eyes on her because she then levels her gaze at me. I don’t look away.

  She continues to give me her patented death stare while I scoot into the empty desk between us so I can talk to her without Mrs. Winger, who has moved to the back of the room, hearing our conversation.

  “Hey, Sam,” I say, using her nickname for the first time in ages. It feels strange on my tongue. “Everything okay?”

  Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you care?”

  I hesitate. Samantha was so out of it last night. Unless Scotch told her about our encounter, which I’m thinking is highly unlikely, she probably has no idea that I saw her in Scotch’s car. If I explain, I’ll have to tell her about the car crash, which I really don’t want people finding out about. But if I don’t tell her, I’ll just look really nosy.

  In the end, I choose nosiness over freakishness.

  “Did you have a rough night?” I ask, hoping to sound sympathetic.

  She narrows her eyes. “Why? What did you hear?”

  I try to look innocent. “Nothing. You look kind of tired this morning, that’s all. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  My neighborly concern doesn’t seem to be winning Samantha over. She pulls out a notebook, flips to a clean page, and writes the date at the top. I realize that she’s ignoring me.

  “Samantha, we don’t have to be enemies,” I say, thinking how false the words sound even as they come out of my mouth. Nothing has changed since I tried to save her life. I am still the girl who went out with the guy she had a crush on. She is still the girl who told everyone I was a slut. She is still the girl who watched Scotch drag me into the boys’ locker room and didn’t do a thing to help me. A few words aren’t going to change that. Still, I want to try. “I don’t hate you.”

  Samantha makes a disgusted noise and sets down her pen deliberately. “Vee, I don’t give a shit if you hate me or not. You are, like, the least of my concerns this morning.”

  Her outburst wasn’t exactly what I was going for, but it’s something. At least she’s admitting that there’s something going on with her.

  “What is your biggest concern this morning?”

  The look Samantha gives me could freeze Satan himself. “None of your effing business.” She picks up her pen again, and I know I’ve been defeated.

  Mrs. Winger moves to the front of the classroom and starts to talk about the Puritans. Reluctantly, I return to my seat. The rest of the period crawls by. I keep sneaking peeks at Samantha, but she is either really immersed in Mrs. Winger’s lecture or completely determined to pay no attention to me whatsoever. At the end of the period, she stuffs her notebook and pen into her oversized purse and rockets out of the room, never once looking my way.

  I sit in the back of the library with the tattered copy of Sports Illustrated lying open before me. Before I try to slide, I wait for the librarian to take attendance and then sit down with her own magazine.

  I’ve gotten to the point where I’m almost always successful at triggering slides, except when I’m amped up on caffeine. Thank God I didn’t give in to the pills in my bag this morning. Otherwise I don’t think this would work.

  I’m going to slide into Scotch and see if I can figure out exactly what went down last night. He’ll be in gym class. If I’m lucky, he’ll be gossiping with his jock friend again. If something did happen with Samantha, I’m sure he’ll be bragging about it to the whole school.

  Once the librarian settles down with her copy of Crock-Pot Adventures or whatever the hell she’s reading, I run my fingers over the glossy pages of the magazine. I’ve opened it to an article about some NFL player who overcame great adversity—family problems, health problems, academic problems—to get where he is today. The page has been turned down, as if someone wanted to return to it for inspiration. I wonder if that person was Scotch.

  I rest my head on my desk as the bookshelves of the library melt away, turning into basketball hoops and banners in our school’s colors. Just like the last time I slid into Scotch, the students are doing laps.

  Scotch’s sneakered feet slap against the wooden floor. His breathing is more labored than it was the last time I was inside him. He’s probably feeling the ill effects of the alcohol from last night’s party. Serves him right.

  “So how was it?” a voice to my right asks.

  Randall Fritz.

  Here comes the part where Scotch brags about his conquest to his friend. I brace myself for a detailed description of Scotch’s sexual prowess. And then a troubling thought occurs to me. There’s no way for me to verify whether Scotch is telling the truth. If he says he had sex with Samantha, it could be true or it could be a lie. If it is true, having sex with a practically unconscious girl makes Scotch a date rapist. If it’s a lie, that just makes him scum.

  Before I can think about what I’ll do if Scotch does say he hooked up with Samantha, he throws a curveball.

  “Oh, man. Last night was so freaky. So Samantha and I were driving out in the country, looking for a quiet place to have some privacy if you know what I mean . . . and who do you think we came across, just walking along the side of the road?”

  Oh shit. Hold everything.

  “Who?” Randall asks, panting for some juicy gossip.

  “Vee Bell.”

  “Damn,” Randall says. “She is hot. Especially since she dyed her hair back and doesn’t look like such a freak anymore. Tell me, did you get some of that?”

  Scotch stops running for a second. “Do you even need to ask? Vee’s had the hots for me since freshman year. I went out with her last year, but then I had to cut her off when she went through that weird goth phase. But she was begging for it last night.”

  Scotch stops speaking and starts grinding his teeth together. Without my realizing it, the rage brewing inside me has taken over. “Asshole,” I mutter.

  Randall looks confu
sed. “Uh, did you just call me an asshole?”

  “Misogynistic douche bag.” I can’t help it. The words just fly out of Scotch’s mouth.

  “Wait. Miss-oh-ginous . . . what?” Randall scratches his head.

  “You want to know what really happened last night?” I ask. Since we’ve stopped running, more and more people are slowing down to listen to our conversation. The gym teacher has disappeared into his office.

  Randall looks seriously freaked out now. “Um. Okay?”

  I take a deep breath. “Last night, I dropped Samantha off so I could go home and watch some Golden Girls. That Betty White gets me hot, if you know what I mean.” I wink at Randall twice, and he turns bright red.

  A couple of girls start to laugh.

  “What did he just say?” asks a guy with a fauxhawk.

  “I think he just said he whacks it to Golden Girls,” a girl in a pink Juicy Couture sweatshirt answers helpfully.

  Considering my job done, I slide back into my own body. I lift my head from the desk and realize I’ve drooled a little bit on the copy of Sports Illustrated. I wipe the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. The librarian didn’t even notice me appear to fall asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  After school, Rollins waits for me in his car. He’s got his radio turned up and is beating his hands on the steering wheel, but the minute I open the passenger door, he shuts off the music.

  “So I heard an interesting rumor today,” he says, crossing his arms. “I thought you might know a little something about it.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask innocently, arranging my backpack on the floor.

  “Evidently Scotch Becker announced his fondness for Betty White today in gym class?”

  I’m unable to suppress a smirk. The rumor had spread like wildfire, and almost everyone was talking about it by lunchtime. I overheard Scotch in the hallway, bewildered, trying to explain to his football buddies that it was all a joke. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “Not that I’m Scotch’s biggest fan, but why would you do that to him?” Rollins asks, sounding genuinely flabbergasted. “Yeah, the guy’s an ass, but you don’t need to be messing with his head.”

  It occurs to me that, in the confusion of last night, I never did tell Rollins about running into Scotch or how Samantha was wasted in the back of his car. Quickly, I fill him in, explaining how distraught Samantha seemed in English this morning and how I slid into Scotch to find out what really happened between the two of them. When I get to the part about Scotch claiming that I came onto him last night, Rollins holds up his hand for me to stop. He looks like he’s going to puke.

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture. I guess it served him right. Do you really think he took advantage of Samantha?”

  I shrug. “There’s no way to know. Scotch is a lying sack of shit, and Sam doesn’t trust me enough to tell the truth. I hope he’s all talk. For her sake.”

  Rollins shakes his head. “If I ever hear him talking about you that way . . .”

  “Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to grab his arm. “I can take care of myself.”

  Rollins stares at me for a moment and then nods, starting the car.

  “So. Friday Night Fright?” I ask, mentally thumbing through my DVDs, wondering which horror flick we should watch.

  “Uh, yeah. I have some things to do first, though,” Rollins says vaguely.

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

  It’s not unusual for Rollins to have to run home and give his mother supper and get her ready for bed before he comes over, but he’s usually pretty up-front about it—at least, he has been since I learned about his mother’s condition. However, something about the way he’s avoiding my gaze makes me feel like he’s trying to hide something.

  We don’t say anything more until he pulls into my driveway. I grab my backpack, trying to think of something lighthearted to say to ease the awkwardness between us. “I, um, guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Later.” He barely waits for me to close the door before he’s backing out into the street—a definite contrast to the way he usually waits for me to get inside before he leaves. As I watch him disappear around the corner, I feel a bit queasy. If he’s not going home, where is he going?

  Some part of me wonders if, wherever he’s going, Anna will be there.

  Onscreen, Jason Voorhees chases some poor girl through the woods. Mattie and her friend Regina are sprawled on the floor, devouring a bowl of popcorn.

  Mattie started hanging out with Regina a lot after Sophie and Amber died. She’s a sweet girl, but she kind of reminds me of Eeyore. Her older brother, Todd, was killed in a boating accident a few years ago, and she brings him up all the time. One minute she’ll be talking about how hot the new band teacher is, and the next she’ll be in tears because she remembers how her brother used to play the clarinet in elementary school. It’s exhausting to spend time with her, but I think she gets Mattie in a way that few other people do.

  Rollins sits inches away from me on the couch. Almost everything about him is familiar—the scent of leather that lingers on him long after he takes off his jacket, the way his lip ring shines in the light from the television, the warmth that emanates off his body in our otherwise chilly living room.

  But there’s something about him that’s changed. There’s a tension in his shoulders, as if he isn’t completely comfortable sitting this close to me. I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking about Anna.

  God, these thoughts are torturous. And I feel ridiculous, getting so worked up over practically nothing. So he has a new, hot friend. So he might have gone to see her tonight before he came over here. Why is it any of my business? Why did it take Rollins possibly being interested in someone else before I came to my senses and realized what a freaking amazing guy he is?

  A loud noise causes Mattie and Regina to shriek. In the movie, Jason has jumped out at the girl, his knife blade flashing. I take the opportunity to pretend to be startled and move a bit closer to Rollins, setting my hand next to his until our pinkies meet. Almost imperceptibly, he moves an inch away from me, so we’re not touching. Did he mean to do that? Can’t he stand to be close to me anymore?

  I look around the room, searching for some way to get Mattie and Regina to leave us alone. My eyes fall on the popcorn bowl on the floor, nearly empty. I grab the remote control and hit the Pause button.

  “Hey, Mattie. Way to eat all the popcorn. Rollins and I didn’t get any.”

  Mattie glances at the bowl and then looks up guiltily. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Maybe you and Regina could go make some more?” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head slightly toward the kitchen, hoping to convey that this is an order, not a request.

  Mattie looks at me and then Rollins, and she smiles. “Oh, sure. Come on, Regina.” Mattie scoops up the popcorn bowl.

  “Hey, do you have any of that flavored powder to sprinkle on top?” Regina asks, following Mattie. “Todd used to love that stuff. He could go through a whole bottle in two days.”

  With the two gone, I turn toward Rollins. “I was hoping we’d get a moment alone to talk,” I say, my heart banging so hard I’m afraid he might hear it.

  I know what I have to do now. Somehow, I have to find the words to tell Rollins how I feel, before this thing with Anna gets going. Otherwise, I might lose him forever.

  Rollins looks down at his hands. “About what?”

  “About us,” I say, my voice small.

  Finally, he looks up. “What do you mean?”

  Jesus, this is hard. So hard that I’m tempted to just let it go, leave things the way they are. I mean, we’re best friends. Do I really want to mess that up? What if I confess my feelings for him, and Rollins denies them? What if we never speak again?

  After a long moment of racking my brain for the perfect turn of phrase, I decide maybe words are overrated. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and lean forward, my lips in a loose pout.

  Nothing happens.

  I open o
ne eye. Rollins is staring at me like I’ve grown another head.

  “What are you doing, Vee?”

  Heat rushes into my cheeks. I pull back and try to act nonchalant. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  His eyebrows knit together in concern. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I just—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  A buzzing noise interrupts the moment.

  Rollins pulls his cell out of his pocket. It’s clear that someone has called him, but he turns away slightly so I can’t see who’s on the other line. After a moment, he stuffs the phone back into his pocket.

  “You know,” he says, rising. “It’s late. I should go.”

  “Sure,” I say, standing to walk him to the door. “No problem.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to get up. Sit down. Enjoy the movie.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Rollins grabs his jacket from the back of the couch and pulls it on. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay,” I say, mumbling. I hope it’s dark enough that he can’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I’d like to think, if he did see them, he would stop. But he doesn’t.

  A few seconds later, I hear the door open and close.

  I’ve locked myself in the downstairs bathroom while Mattie and Regina finish watching the movie. Pathetic. Here I am, weeping on the toilet like some stupid girl who’s just had her heart broken. And the worst part is I should know better by now. Things like relationships just don’t go well for me. I should just accept it and move on. And become a nun or something.

  The thought of me in a habit, dancing around a mountaintop and singing or some crap, makes me smile. I hold on to the image as I blow my nose.

  The doorbell rings.

  He’s back.

  He’s changed his mind and has come back.

  I peek in the bathroom mirror and make sure my face isn’t too blotchy. Then I hurry out into the foyer. The light is on outside, but through the sheer curtain, I can barely make out the figure standing there.