Pretending to Be Erica

by Michelle Painchaud

  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.”

  “Care to elaborate before I take that the wrong way?” I smile broader.

  “It’s just open-minded of you. Not something you usually see at a private Christian school. Might not get you the grade you want.”

  “It’ll get the grade it deserves”—I close the magazine—“which, if I can brag, will be an A.”

  “That good, are you?” He chuckles.

  “English is easy. School is easy. People are hard.”

  He tenses up. Blue eyes get a flinty edge. I hit something in him with that last sentence. But what?

  “You can sit if you want.” I motion to the chair across from me.

  “No, thanks.” He clears his throat, the jump start of a machine that temporarily broke down. “I’ve gotta go.”

  The bag at his feet is full of guitar strings, lots of batteries, a strange synthesizer-looking thing, and an extension cord.

  “Building a terminator?” I nod at the bag.

  “I’ve got a recital coming up.”

  “That’s right. Your dad’s a famous musician or something, right?”

  His eyes go dark. “Piano. It’s his life.”

  “And yours, too, apparently.”

  I hit that thing in him again. A heavy silence smothers us. James’s hand tightens into a fist. He gives a dismissive little laugh and picks up his bag. “Good luck on your project.”

  “Your recital. It’s not tomorrow, is it?”

  “It’s next month.”

  “So you’re not doing anything tomorrow?”

  He tenses again. Picking up on people’s quirks is my career. James tenses when he wants to say something but holds himself back.

  “No,” he says carefully. “Why?”

  “Some of my friends arranged a bowling thing. None of them are interesting to talk to. You should come entertain me.”

  “Then why are you friends with them?” he interjects, almost accusatorily.

  “We were together when we were kids, or so I’ve heard.”

  “But they bore you. Why hang out with them?”

  “Look, I don’t know why I do. I’ll probably never know. This isn’t about philosophy. I just wanted to invite you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not you?” I smile and tilt my head. He shifts his weight on his feet.

  “You’ll regret asking me.”

  “No. I don’t think I will.”

  He stares at me, into me, and finally says, “Lucky Nine Lanes, right?”

  “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Simple deductive reasoning—the cheapest alley that’s also nearest.”

  “Don’t start getting smarter than me. It hurts my pride.”

  He shakes his head and walks away with a small smile. I get up and browse a rack of shirts in the department store. No Salvation Army this time, just fresh new clothes I didn’t have to shoplift. I pick out a ruffled tank top and black skirt—short, but I’ll wear tights with it. James might like it.

  My hand freezes picking up the clothes hanger. I scrub that last thought out of my head with the strongest mental bleach I have. He can’t like it. I can’t want him to like anything about me. Why did I even invite him? I only need to pretend to make friends to convince Mrs. Silverman I’m her daughter and get the code. I’m not Erica. I’m going to mysteriously disappear into the night with La Surprise and never come back. I’m not real.

  I’m the shadow of a dead girl. A shadow does not have friends.

  A dead girl does not feel guilt.

  5: Bet It

  The slowly rotating bowling pin that serves as the alley’s sign drips with rust and neon. Mrs. Silverman stops the car and I get out, smoothing my hair.

  “Have fun.”

  “I will.” I pick at my outfit. “Thank you for the clothes.”

  “I wish you would stop thanking me.” She smiles sadly.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just a habit, and—”

  “I know.” Her makeup looks perfect in the hot, dry air. Her hair is so blonde, her skin so pale. She’s a statue of porcelain, glass, and platinum, like one of the angelic dolls on Erica’s shelf. The cracks don’t show so much when she smiles.

  “I’ll get a ride home with Merril, so—” I cut off awkwardly.

  She thinks something over, eyebrows wrinkling, and then leans in. She hesitates, and my breathing goes shallow. Soft lips press to my forehead. When she pulls away, she has tears in her eyes, her fingers rubbing off the lipstick on my forehead.

  “God, I’m like a leaky sink. I must be embarrassing you. I’ll go.”

  “I’m not easily embarrassed.” I smile.

  “Got that from your father.” She laughs. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

  I wave until she pulls out of the parking lot. She nearly runs over the curb, trying to wave back. I laugh as she straightens the wheel and gives me a thumbs-up out the window.

  The alley engulfs me in loud music, the crash-bang of abused pins, and smoky air smelling of wax and sweat. It’s dark inside, lights from vending machines and arcade games flashing. I scan the crowd. James isn’t here. I deflate. Why would he be here, anyway?

  “Erica!” Cass runs over in a colorful dress and hugs me. Her monstrous chest tries to suck me into its oblivion-crevice. A redheaded older guy slinks up behind her. Cass pulls away.

  “Erica, this is Alex. Alex, Erica.”

  He nods, I nod. Not as handsome as Kerwin, who I can see talking with Merril at th
e cashier, but pretty cute. Cass grabs my hand.

  “Let’s go get the lanes and shoes. What size are you?”

  “Seven and a half.”

  “Day-umn, Bigfoot.” Alex smirks. The average American woman’s shoe size is eight. But I laugh and put my money into the pool on the counter. Kerwin flashes me a smile.

  “Erica! You made it.”

  “Who would pass up the chance to throw balls at things?” I close my purse. Everyone laughs.

  The cashier snorts. “Wow. How lame are you?” I get a good look at her. Long dark hair, thick eyeliner.

  Next to me, Merril lets out a hiss. “Oh my God, you! You work here?”

  Taylor takes our money and pats it into the register. “Yeah. So?”

  “Be a little more polite to customers. We can complain, you know,” Cass says with a sniff.

  “It’s fine, Cass.” I smile. “Everyone has their bad days.”

  “Except you, Miss Perfect,” Taylor sneers, and ducks into the rows of shelves where the shoes are kept. Kerwin and Alex don’t seem nearly as fazed by Taylor’s snarky attitude as the girls are. She was nice to me a few days ago. She’s messing with my head.

  “It’s totally suspicious she’s working here.” Merril sighs.

  “Why’s that?” Alex raises an eyebrow.

  Merril lowers her voice, and we all lean in to hear her. “Her dad’s a lawyer for the mob. He probably pulled strings, and this place is probably owned by them.”

  Cass grimaces.

  Kerwin whistles. “Like, the American mob? The machine-gun-and-bootleg-rum kind?”

  “No,” Alex says patiently. “Like the owns-every-casino-on-the-Strip-and-cuts-off-fingers kind.”

  Kerwin doesn’t lose his excited look.

  Merril punches his shoulder. “Don’t even joke around, Ker. It’s serious.”

  “I know, I know.” He laughs. My eyes narrow, but I force them wide and friendly again. Taylor comes back with our shoes, and we lace them up. The others finish before I do, but Kerwin keeps messing up purposely, waiting until I’ve finished to finish. Amateur move. Too obvious.

  “You don’t have to wait for me,” I offer.

  He looks up from his shoes and grins. “I want to.”

  Above our heads and from behind the counter comes a Taylor gag.

  “My shoes are too small.” I wince.

  Kerwin stands and looks at Taylor. “Get her a bigger size, will you?”

  “I’m fine. Go join the others,” I insist as sweetly as I can muster. Violet wants to growl at him to leave. The undue attention makes me uncomfortable. He’s obviously crushing on me. It could be innocent, but it could just as easily have an ulterior motive to it. He has poor control over his zygomatic major muscle—the crease around his mouth as he tries to hold back smiles gives away something. I’m not sure what, but it’s still there. A sign. A hint that not all’s right.

  He ignores me. “Let’s try a size eight.”

  “Go join the others.” My voice is stony. “Please.”

  “You heard her,” Taylor sneers. “She can put her glass slippers on herself.”

  Kerwin shoots her a nasty look and starts off. I hand my shoes to Taylor.

  “You know . . .” She smiles. “There’s a rumor kicking about a baldy hanging around school. Outside of it. Watching the reporters who watch you. Any idea who it might be?”

  “Is he buff?”

  “Yeah. Is he your partner? Do I get to call the police and tell ’em about you yet?”

  Taylor smirks and ducks into the shoe rows. My heart skitters across my ribs. Sal said the PI is the bald military type. Is Mrs. Silverman on to me already? What had I done to make her suspicious?

  Taylor hands me size eights. I slip them on, and she glances out the doors.

  “Holy shit!” she swears. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  In the doorway is James, looking nervous in a plaid shirt and jeans. He takes a deep breath and pushes into the alley, and Taylor shouts, “Oy! Over here!”

  I finish tying my shoes and stand. He sees me, and his eyebrows become just a little undrawn.

  “Hi.” I smile.

  “I’m really not good with places like this . . .” he starts.

  “Any music that isn’t perfect hurts his delicate little ears,” Taylor simpers, and points to the speakers blaring rock above.

  He throws her an exasperated look. “I’m just bad at bowling.”

  “So am I,” I insist. “We can be bad together.”

  Taylor’s wolf-whistle transforms my words into something dirty. James rolls his eyes, a flush sprinkled across his cheeks.

  “Cut it out, Taylor.”

  “Did you hear her?” She laughs as she fishes out his shoe size. “You can be baaaad together.”

  We walk to the lanes. Cass rolls a ball and knocks a single pin down. Merril and Alex boo.

  “So who’s who in this tragic play?” James asks me. “I’m not up on the more popular actors.”

  “Alex is the technical pedophile, Cass is the balloon-chest, Merril is the other girl, and Kerwin—”

  “I know Kerwin. Hard not to when everything with XX chromosomes in the school can’t stop talking about him.”

  I shrug. “He’s got very stylish dark hair, the right height and build, and is very charming and easy to talk to.”

  “Top it off with that accent, and I’m surprised you aren’t all over him too,” James murmurs.

  “Not my type.” I smile. “I don’t even know if I really have a type.”

  “Every girl has a type. It usually starts with ‘tall’ and ends with ‘handsome.’ Why don’t you have one?”

  I need to lead the conversation away from my lack of romantic ideals. I can’t let him see I have no type—that I’ve never had romantic interactions. I’d never thought about dating. Living with Sal wasn’t the sort of life that permitted stable relationships. I never asked, but it was an unsaid rule that I could do what I wanted as long as I was ready to move, pull cons, and jump to complete what Sal asked. Normal teenage girls usually have relationships, and . . . types. I need to seem as normal as possible. “How’d you get here?” I ask.

  “I put gasoline in the tank of my car, got in, closed the door, turned the key, and drove, like everyone else.” He smirks.

  Merril waves. I wave back. James and I browse the bowling balls. Kerwin is still watching us. James palms a green bowling ball and tests its weight.

  “Thank you.” I pick a purple ball.

  “For what?”

  “Coming.” I put my fingers in the ball’s holes and mimic a throw. “I thought you wouldn’t.”

  His shoulders square, and his arm muscles tense. He wants to say something that’s hard for him but opts for the easier words instead.

  “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Erica! You and your friend, get over here! It’s your turn,” Cass calls, all smiles.

  “James.” Merril nods. He nods back.

  Kerwin gets up and slaps James on the back. “Your turn, John.”

  No one bothers correcting him. Merril grabs my arm and whispers as we watch James walk up to the lane.

  “He’s the guy you invited? Why?”

  “Is there something wrong with him?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “No. He just never talks to anyone in class. I mean, he’s okay and all, but you can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t talk.”

  “He talks to me.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s a weirdo. Your choice, I guess.” She sighs. I want to tell her Kerwin’s weirder, but instead I cheer with Alex when James gets a spare. I run up and high-five him coming off the lane, and he smiles, his hand warm and soft.

  If I were going to stay, I would tell James to say what he means more. I would ask Kerwin what
his deal is. I would tell Taylor to stop doubting me. But I’m not going to be here for long. Erica is a pleasant face-value sort of girl. She doesn’t tell people off or get involved deeply. She can’t risk people disliking her or growing too attached, because she’s not real.

  Erica has to stop smiling at James.

  Violet has to stop burning to touch him, touch Merril, touch someone, anyone, and make sure they’re really here.

  Because she’s not.

  “I beat you,” I inform James, collapsing on the chair beside him when the last round finishes.

  “Did you?” He quirks a brow, smile barely there. I point to the score screen—148. His is 122. He sighs. “Bowling’s hard.”

  “Don’t whine.” I slap his knee and rub my hand. “Ow. You’re all bony.”

  “Self-defense mechanism. Darwin is a cruel master,” he says jokingly, and leans his head back on the chair.

  “Wow, John.” Kerwin claps him on the shoulders. “This must not be your game.”

  “It’s obviously yours.” James shrugs him off.

  Kerwin got seven strikes. He sighs. “What can I say? Sometimes people just have a gift for things. But, hey, you’d know all about that.”

  James goes quiet. Merril sees an opening and dives for Kerwin’s arm.

  “Let’s get drinks! What does everyone want?”

  “Lemonade,” Cass calls, fanning herself. The alley is stuffy.

  “I think I’m going to go.” James stands.

  I stand with him. “Home?”

  “Yeah.” He nods, staring at Kerwin. “I’m pretty tired. Thanks for having me, guys.”

  Alex gives him a thumbs-up—the only one to even acknowledge he said anything. Cass and Kerwin don’t look at him.

  “I’m going too.” I grab my purse. Cass straightens.

  “What? Erica! Why?”

  “I’ve gotta get back. Mom wants to do stuff together. It’s been like this since I got home.”