Genuine Fraud

by E. Lockhart

  “Oh, yeah. Peyton Caraway.”

  “We sang a Gershwin song.”

  “And ‘Rudolph,’ ” said Imogen. “We were way too old to sing ‘Rudolph.’ It was ridiculous.”

  “You wore a blue velvet dress with darts down the front.”

  Imogen put her hands over her eyes. “I can’t believe you remember that dress! My mother always made me wear stuff like that at the holidays, and we don’t even celebrate Christmas. Like she was dressing up an American Girl doll.”

  Forrest poked Jule’s shoulder. “You must be starting college in the fall.”

  “I finished high school early, actually. So I’ve been a year already.”

  “Where?”

  “Stanford.”

  “Do you know Ellie Thornberry?” Imogen asked. “She goes there.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Walker D’Angelo?” Forrest said. “He’s in graduate art history.”

  “Forrest is done with college,” said Imogen. “But for me it was like the halls of effing hell, so I’m not going anymore.”

  “You didn’t really try,” said Forrest.

  “You sound like my dad.”

  “Oh, pout pout.”

  Immie put on her sunglasses. “Forrest’s writing a novel.”

  “What kind of novel?” asked Jule.

  “A little Samuel Beckett meets Hunter S. Thompson,” said Forrest. “And I’m a big fan of Pynchon, so he’s an influence.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Jule.

  “Ooh, you are a scrapper,” said Forrest. “I kind of like her, you know, Imogen?”

  “He likes ornery women,” said Imogen. “It’s one of his few endearing qualities.”

  “Do we like him?” Jule asked her.

  “We tolerate him for his good looks,” said Immie.

  They declared themselves hungry and walked to the Aquinnah shops. The area had a cluster of snack stands. Forrest ordered three paper packets of french fries for them to share.

  Immie smiled big at the guy behind the counter and said, “You’re going to laugh at me, but I need like four slices of lemon for the Snapple. I’m crazy for lemon. Can you do that for me?”

  He said, “Lemon?”

  “Four slices,” said Immie. She put her arms and elbows on the takeout counter and leaned forward, turning her face up to him.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You’re laughing at my lemon,” she told him.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “You’re laughing on the inside.”

  “No.” He had sliced the lemon by now and pushed it across the counter to her in a red-and-white paper cup.

  “Thank you, then, for taking my lemon so seriously,” Imogen said. She picked up one of the pieces and stuck it in her mouth, biting to squeeze out some of the juice. She said through her lemon-rind mouth: “It is very important for lemons to get respect. It makes them feel valued.”

  They sat at a picnic table with a view of the parking lot on one side and the sea on the other. People were flying kites on the other side of the parking lot. It was very windy. The picnic table was weathered gray and bumpy. Imogen ate one or two fries, and then took a banana out of her bag and ate it with a spoon.

  “You’re here alone?” asked Immie. “On the Vineyard?”

  Forrest had opened his copy of the New Yorker. His body was turned slightly away from them.

  Jule nodded. “Yes. I left Stanford.” She told the story about the pervy coach and the loss of the scholarship. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t get along with my aunt.”

  Immie leaned forward. “Is that who you live with?”

  “No, I’m not dealing with family anymore.”

  Forrest chuckled. “Neither is Imogen.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Imogen.

  “No, she’s not,” he said.

  Jule looked Imogen in the eye. “We have that in common, then.”

  “Yes, I suppose we do.” Immie tossed her banana peel in the trash. “Listen, come with us to the house. We can swim in the pool and you can stay for dinner. Some temporary people are coming over, new friends who are just on the island for a couple weeks. We’re going to grill steaks. It’s just in Menemsha. You won’t believe the house. It’s gargantuan.”

  The answer was yes, but Jule hesitated.

  Imogen sat down close to Jule and lined their feet up together. “Come on. It’ll be fun,” she coaxed. “I haven’t had any girl talk in ages.”

  The Menemsha house had ceilings so high and windows so wide that everyday activities seemed to have extra room and light. Drinks seemed fizzier and colder than any drinks ever had before.

  Jule, Forrest, and Immie swam in the pool and then used the outdoor shower. The temporary people came for dinner, but Jule could already tell she wasn’t one of them, from the way Imogen called her over to the grill to look at the steaks, and from the way she sat on the deck, curled up at Jule’s feet. Imogen told her she should stay overnight in one of the guest rooms, just as the other friends were piling into their car. They offered to drive Jule back to her hotel, down the now-dark island roads.

  She declined.

  Immie showed Jule to a room on the second floor. It had a huge bed and flowing white curtains—and, oddly, a small antique rocking horse and a collection of old weather vanes arranged on a large wooden desk. Jule slept the deep sleep that comes of long days in the sun.

  —

  The next morning, Forrest sulkily drove her to the hotel to collect her things. When Jule walked in again with her suitcase, she saw that Immie had put four vases of flowers in the room. Four. She also left books on the bedside table: Vanity Fair by Thackeray and Great Expectations by Dickens, plus The Insider’s Guide to Martha’s Vineyard.

  Thus began a series of days that blurred one into the other. Immie’s people, temporary and literary friends of the week, acquired on the beach or at the flea market, cycled through the house. They swam in the pool and helped with cookouts and laughed hysterically, clutching their chests. They were uniformly young: good-looking, effete boys and equally good-looking, loud girls. Most of them were funny and nonathletic, chatty and rather alcoholic, college kids or art students. Beyond that, they were of many backgrounds and sexual orientations. Imogen was a New York City child: open-minded in a way Jule had seen only on television, apparently utterly confident in her own desirability as a friend and hostess.

  Jule took a day or two to adjust but soon found herself comfortable. She charmed the temporary people with stories of Greenbriar, Stanford, and, to a lesser extent, Chicago. She argued with them cheerfully when they wanted to argue. She flirted with them and forgot their names and let them know that she’d forgotten their names, because the forgetting made them admire her and want her to remember. At first, she texted Patti Sokoloff pictures and wrote chatty, hopeful emails, but it wasn’t long before Jule ignored Patti just as Imogen did.

  Immie made her feel wanted. The novel joy of it filled Jule’s days.

  One day, when she’d been living there two weeks, Jule found herself alone for the first time. Forrest and Immie had gone on a lunch date. There was a new restaurant Immie wanted to try.

  Jule ate leftovers in front of the television and then went upstairs. She stood at the door of Immie’s bedroom for a moment, looking in.

  The bed was made. The table held books, a jar of hand cream, Forrest’s eyeglass case, and an empty charger. Jule stepped in and opened a perfume bottle, put some on, and rubbed her wrists together.

  In the closet hung a dress Imogen wore often. It was a dark green maxi, thin cotton, with a deep V in the front that made it impossible to wear a bra. Immie was flat-chested, so it didn’t matter.

  Without thinking, Jule pulled off her running shorts and then her bleached, frayed Stanford T-shirt. Then her bra.

  She pulled Immie’s dress over her head. She found a pair of sandals. Immie’s collection of rings, eight of them in animal shapes, were on top of the d
resser.

  A full-length mirror in a wide silver frame leaned against one wall. Jule turned and squinted at herself. Her hair was in a ponytail, but other than that, in the low light of the room, she looked like Imogen. Mostly.

  So this was what it felt like. To sit on Imogen’s bed. To wear Imogen’s fragrance and Imogen’s rings.

  Immie lay in this bed at night, next to Forrest, but he was replaceable. Immie put this cream on her hands, marked her reading with that bookmark. In the mornings, she opened her eyes and saw these blue-green sheets and that painting of the sea. This was what it felt like to know that this enormous house was hers, to never worry about money or survival, to feel loved by Gil and Patti.

  To be so effortlessly, beautifully dressed.

  —

  “Excuse me?”

  Immie stood in the doorway. She was wearing jean shorts and Forrest’s hoodie. Her lips shone with a red gloss she didn’t usually wear. She didn’t look much like the Imogen in Jule’s mind.

  Shame washed through Jule’s body, but she smiled. “I figured it would be okay,” she said. “I needed a dress. This guy called, last minute.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy from Oak Bluffs, the one I talked to when I rode the carousel.”

  “When was that?”

  “He texted just now and said did I want to meet him at the sculpture garden in half an hour.”

  “Whatever,” said Immie. “Will you please get out of my clothes?”

  Jule’s face felt hot. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Are you going to change?”

  Jule pulled the top of Immie’s green dress down and picked her bra up off the floor.

  “Are those my rings, too?” said Immie.

  “Yes.” There was no pretending otherwise.

  “Why would you wear my clothes?”

  Jule stepped out of the dress and hung it back on the hanger. She put on the rest of her own clothes and replaced the rings on the dresser.

  “I don’t think you do have a guy waiting at the sculpture garden,” said Immie.

  “Think what you want to.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry I wore your clothes, and I won’t do it again. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Imogen watched as Jule put the sandals in the closet and laced up her running shoes. “I have a question,” she said as Jule made to walk past her into the hall.

  Jule’s face still burned. She didn’t want to talk.

  “Don’t walk away,” said Immie. “Answer me one thing, all right?”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you broke?” Imogen asked.

  Yes. No. Yes. Jule hated how vulnerable the question made her feel.

  “Dead,” she finally said. “Yeah, I’m dead broke.”

  Immie put a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t know.”

  And just like that, Jule had the upper hand. “It’s all right,” she said. “I can get a job. I mean, I haven’t faced up to it like I need to.”

  “I should have realized.” Immie sat down on the bed. “I knew about not going back to Stanford, and you said you fell out with your aunt, but I didn’t put together how bad it was. Seeing you wear the same things over and over. Never buying groceries. Letting me pay.”

  Oh. So she needed to buy groceries. It was a code of behavior Jule hadn’t understood until now. But all she said to Imogen was, “That’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not, Jule. I’m really sorry.” Immie was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I think I’ve been assuming things about your life that I shouldn’t assume. And I didn’t ask you to tell me. I don’t have very broad experience, I guess.”

  Jule shrugged. “You’re lucky.”

  “Isaac was always telling me I had a narrow perspective. Anyway. Borrow anything you want.”

  “I’d feel strange now.”

  “Don’t feel strange.” Immie pulled open the closet. It was jammed with clothes. “I have more than I need.”

  She walked back to Jule. “Let me fix your hair. You’ve got bobby pins loose.”

  Jule’s hair was long. Mostly she wore it pulled back tight. Now she bent her head forward, and Immie pinned up a couple of pieces on the neck that had come loose.

  “You should cut it short,” said Immie. “It’d look good on you. Not quite like mine. A little longer in the bangs, I think, and softer around the ears.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll take you to my guy tomorrow, if you want,” Immie pushed. “My treat.”

  Jule shook her head.

  “Let me do something for you,” said Immie. “You deserve it.”

  —

  In Oak Bluffs the next day, Jule felt light, without the weight of her hair. It was nice having Imogen take care of her. Lending her a lip gloss after the cut. Taking her out to lunch at a restaurant with views of the harbor. After the meal they stepped into a vintage jewelry shop. “I want to see the most unusual ring you have for sale,” Immie said.

  The salesman bustled around and lined up six rings on a velvet tray. Imogen fingered them reverently. She selected a jade one in the shape of a viper, paid for it, and handed the blue velvet box to Jule. “This one is for you.”

  Jule opened the box immediately and slid the snake onto the ring finger of her right hand. “I’m too young to get married,” she said. “Don’t go getting ideas.”

  Immie laughed. “I love you,” she said casually.

  It was the first time Immie had used the word love.

  The next day, Jule borrowed the car to pick up propane for the grill at the hardware store on the other side of the island. She bought some groceries, too. When she came back, Imogen and Forrest were naked, wrapped around each other in the swimming pool.

  Jule stood on the inside of the screen door, staring.

  The two of them looked so awkward, humping around. Forrest’s long hair was wet and down around his shoulders. His glasses were at the edge of the pool, and his face looked dim and empty without them.

  It seemed impossible. Jule was sure Imogen couldn’t really love or want Forrest. He was only an idea of a boyfriend: a placeholder. Though he didn’t know it, he was a temporary person, like the college kids and art students who came over for dinner and were never seen again. Forrest didn’t hear Immie’s secrets. He wasn’t beloved. Jule had never believed Imogen could grab his face and kiss him and seem hungry for him and crazy about him, the way she was doing right now. She hadn’t really believed Imogen would even be naked in front of him, so vulnerable.

  Forrest saw her.

  Jule started back, expecting him to yell, or to be embarrassed, but Forrest just said to Immie, “Your little friend is here,” as if he were talking about a child.

  Imogen turned her head and said, “Bye-bye, Jule. We’ll see you later.”

  Jule turned and ran upstairs.

  —

  Hours later, Jule came downstairs. She heard a podcast playing in the kitchen, which was Imogen’s usual habit when cooking, and she found Immie slicing zucchini for the grill.

  “Do you need help?” Jule asked. She felt massively awkward. The fact of having witnessed that scene was excruciating. It might ruin everything.

  “Sorry for the porno show,” said Imogen lightly. “Do you mind cutting a red onion?”

  Jule took an onion from the bowl.

  “When I first got my flat in London,” continued Imogen, “I had these two girlfriends from my program who were a couple. They had just come out, you know, being away from their families, and they were staying with me for August. I walked in on them absolutely going at it on the floor of the kitchen one day, like fully nude and yelling. I must have walked in at just a major effing moment, if you know what I mean. I thought, good Lord, are we ever going to be able to look each other in the face again? Like how could we all go out to the pub later, after this, and eat fish and chips? It just didn’t seem possible, and I had this feeling like maybe I’d lost these two amazing friends
just by coming home at the wrong time. But one of them was like, ‘Oh, sorry for the porno show,’ and we all burst out laughing and it was actually fine. So I figured I’d say that, too, if ever I got into the same kind of situation.”

  “You have an apartment in London?” Jule looked at the onion while she was peeling it.

  “It was an investment,” Immie said. “And kind of a whim. I was in England on a summer program. My money person had advised me to put something in real estate, and I loved the city. This flat was the first place I looked at, an impulse buy in totally the wrong country, but I’m not sorry. It’s in a very cute area: St. John’s Wood.” Immie pronounced it like Sin Jahn’s Wood. “I had the most fun ever, decorating it with my friends. And we went around town and did tourist things. The Tower of London, the changing of the guard, the wax museum. We lived on digestive biscuits. It was before I learned to cook. You can borrow the place anytime. I never use it now.”

  “We should go together,” said Jule.

  “Oh, you’d be into it. The keys are right here. We could go tomorrow,” Immie said, and patted the bag that sat on the kitchen counter. “And maybe we should. Can you imagine? Just you and me in London?”

  Immie loved people who were passionate. She wanted them to love the music she loved, the flowers she gave them, the books she admired. She wanted them to care about the smell of a spice or the taste of a new kind of salt. She didn’t mind disagreement, but she hated people who were apathetic and indecisive.

  Jule read the two orphan books Immie had put on her bedside table, and everything else Immie brought home for her. She memorized wine labels, cheese labels, passages from novels, recipes. She was sweet with Forrest. She was scrappy yet willing to please, feminist yet feminine, full of rage yet friendly, articulate yet not dogmatic.

  She realized that the manufacture of herself to please Imogen—it was like running, really. You simply powered through, mile after mile. Eventually you developed endurance. One day, you realized you loved it.