Be normal. Make up something normal. “It’s fine. Your feet are cold, is all.”
“You used to sleep between your father and me all the time when you were little.”
“I had nightmares?”
“Bad ones about clowns.”
I shudder.
She feels it through the bed and laughs into her pillow. “Try to get some rest, honey.”
The blankets are so soft. The sound of Mrs. Silverman’s steady breathing becomes comforting after a while. I’m so warm.
Erica is out there, cold, alone.
Cassie has to explain Sadie Hawkins Day, and even then I don’t get it. A whole event just so girls can ask boys to dance? Why can’t they do that every day?
“It’s not like males choose females in the wild.” I poke at my cafeteria meatloaf, which, not surprisingly, looks like a burnt rat. “The females of almost every animal species have the first say in who they want their mates to be. And if you think about it, it works the same with human females. We choose who we let kiss us—”
“Erica, I love you, but I’m not in the mood for Brainiac 101 right now. That’s how Sadie Hawkins works, and how it’ll work until the end of time. No one cares about it anyway, not when prom is right around the corner.” Cass exhales and pulls out a bottle of painkillers. She swallows two and chugs chocolate milk.
“Cramps?” Merril asks.
“If by ‘cramps’ you mean ‘end-of-the-world tornados in my ovaries,’ then yeah.” Cass groans, putting her head on the table. She immediately recoils and sits up. “Gross.”
The bell rings. We get up, and Cassie holds on to my arm for support. “Come with me to my car, guys.”
“We can’t be late for Gray’s class,” Merril whines. “There’s a test today.”
“It’ll just take four seconds. God, Merril, think about someone other than yourself for once,” Cass snaps.
“It’ll be real quick,” I assure Merril. She rolls her eyes and follows us to the parking lot. People are returning from off-campus lunch. We use the crowd to our advantage, and slide into Cassie’s black Buick. Cassie fishes around in the glove box and pulls out a silver flask. She uncaps it and takes a sip, holding it out to Merril.
“Well? Go on,” she urges.
Merril sips it, making a disgusted face. “What the hell is that? Cow pee?”
“Brandy.” Cass takes another sip and then offers it to me, wiping her lips. “My dad’s got the really old stuff. He never misses it when I fill this thing up.”
I take a tiny sip. My nose burns and my throat is on fire.
“Not as good as whiskey,” I mutter. It just falls out of my mouth. Merril stares, and Cass laughs.
“And you’d know all about whiskey, huh?”
“In health class they said not to, like, mix and match,” Merril chimes in. “Pills and booze aren’t good—”
“Whatever,” Cass says with a huff, and pushes herself out of the car. We get out too, and she locks it behind her.
“Cass is just under the weather,” I assure a sulking Merril. “Cheer up.”
“She’s such a diva.”
“And you’re not?” I tease. Merril’s sour face lightens.
“She’s a one-hundred-percent diva. I am less than, like, fifty.”
“Seventy-five,” I say, and smirk.
“Sixty-one, and I am not going a single percent higher.”
We walk in silence, Cass calling to upperclassmen she knows. The bounce is back in her step, and her chest bounces with it. I smother my laugh every time a freshman boy goes wide-eyed and stops to watch her in the middle of corridor traffic. People I don’t know say hi to me, and I say hi nervously back. They all know me—I’m the reason their school is surrounded by vultures. In the distance I spot a sheet of black hair: Taylor. She came to school late today wearing an uncharacteristic amount of foundation. Merril commented on it, asking who she was trying to fool, but I’m not sure Taylor put the foundation on just for show.
“So, how was the ride home from the bowling alley?” Merril’s sharp elbow nudges me. Her doe eyes are voraciously curious.
“Fine. James is a really careful driver.”
“That’s not what I meant!” She sighs. “Sometimes I think you need to get your subtlety radar fixed.”
I pause. She was being subtle? About what? Cars, a boy, and me in a car—oh.
“We didn’t do anything if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I am not implying, I’m asking.”
“The answer’s no.”
“I think he really likes you.”
I fight hard to keep the red tinge in my cheeks from blossoming to a skin-tingling wildfire. “No way.”
“He always sleeps in class. I used to think he was trying to ignore us or something. Like, he talks if you talk to him, but he doesn’t start stuff, you know? Not my type of guy. But with you, he got all chatty the very first day you came.”
“He just didn’t like the reporters outside school.”
“Well, whatever the reason—” She interrupts herself. “His talking to someone first is totally a big deal. He must really like you. He might be a loser or whatever, but if you wanna date him, I’m totally for it.”
Her eyes flit over to Kerwin, who flashes us a smile before he goes into his classroom. “Hi, Erica!”
“Kerwin.” I nod.
Merril waves. “Hi, Ker! It’s Mer!”
He holds up a hand and ducks inside. She likes him. I can’t keep up with these people and their love triangles. It’s driving me insane trying to keep the threads straight—who likes whom, who hates whom. Conning is so much easier—it’s who pays whom. That’s it. No likes or dislikes, just who gets the money, when, and why. It’s so simple compared to this minefield of emotions I’m wading through, every step laced with the possibility I’ll blow myself up.
“Merril, if you like Kerwin, I’m okay with that.”
She blushes to the roots of her hair. “What are you talking about? I do not like him—”
“I don’t like him. He’s all yours.”
Her eyes get even wider. “Oh. You don’t have to do it for me—”
“He seriously gives me the creeps.” Her face darkens. I rush to cover my mistake. “I’m just not used to so much attention from one guy, you know? It weirds me out. He’d probably be a really sweet and attentive boyfriend.”
She sighs. “Yeah. But he doesn’t even know who I am.”
“We went bowling together, remember?”
“He was looking at you, Rica, the whole time. It’s like I was a wall.”
“I’ll tell him.” I pat her shoulder. “I’ll tell him I don’t like him. Maybe that’ll help him see you better.”
She bites her lip, a squeak behind it as she hugs me around the waist. “Oh my God, you are the best friend ever.”
Is honesty what makes people best friends? Or do girls come to like you the more you help them pursue their romantic interests? Maybe that realization will come in handy later. I can use it to my advantage. I’m just glad she likes me, period. She pulls away from me and opens the door to the classroom.
“After you, madam.”
I laugh and make a fake curtsy, slipping past the door.
The bald head is easy to spot from the windows of the classroom.
The PI, Mr. White, is sitting in a café across from the school. He reads a paper and puts it down when he hears the bell ring. The large glass windows of the café let him see the campus clearly. They let me see him clearly.
The reporters are dwindling by the day. If he decides to stand on the fence, he won’t be mistaken for a reporter. He’ll be seen as suspicious. Maybe that’s why he’s in the café now. Sal was right—the guy is certainly ex-military, his walk trained and limber. There’s a slight lope to his gait, though, the ki
nd you see in people who spend a lot of time on the water. Navy, maybe special branch. Why would someone Navy turn to being a PI? An injury of some kind, most likely, that forced him to retire into civilian work.
A con artist is the world’s most desperate actor.
A PI is the world’s most desperate truth seeker.
He watches me as I wait for Mrs. Silverman to pick me up. I stand on the curb and shift my weight from one foot to another. Fiddle with my bag. Turn my head and glance at him out of the corner of my eyes without moving them, the first trick Sal ever taught me. Baldy is watching me very intently—an intent with more than money behind it. Doesn’t take his eyes off me. When people are being paid to watch you, they usually look away, take a drink of something, blink. He doesn’t. He’s doing this because he wants to, because he has some personal motivation. I doubt he was even asked by Mrs. Silverman to follow me. I can be wrong, like any human can, but I’m usually very right.
“Hey there, Fakey!” Taylor walks up. “Who are you looking at?”
“The bald man you told me about.”
“He looks real serious. Could be trouble.”
“I’ve got him under control.”
“So he’s not your partner, then,” she muses. “Must be your informant.”
“I don’t know him, okay? He’s just stalking me.”
“Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you’re a fake and he busted the other two fakes before you.”
I whirl to face her. “Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t care.” Taylor shrugs. “I just want to see how far you get before someone busts you. I’ve got money on a month.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I snarl. “But I’ll be sticking around for years. Get a refund while you can.”
The acid in my voice ricochets and hits me. Not years. Years is a lie. Saying years makes me feel worse. Heavier.
Taylor looks taken aback, her expression going soft, amused. “And here I thought you were just a spineless, whiny, rich-girl crybaby.”
“We rich-girl crybabies have our moments too.”
She laughs. No hyena cackle or half sneer tints it. It’s a normal laugh. One that isn’t condescending or cruel. Mr. White is staring at us now. His eyes flicker between Taylor and me, trying to work out our relationship.
“You’re not so bad when you aren’t being . . .” I trail off.
“Go on, say it,” Taylor challenges.
“Bitchy.”
She throws up her hands. “Bitchy, lesbo, emo—it’s always something. It’s like a girl can’t be sure of herself and not be called names.”
“Anger is a fire. Passion. It’s not a bad thing at all.” Violet is like you, Taylor. Very much like you.
Taylor quirks an eyebrow. “Erica Silverman—Queen of the Masses and prodigal returned child, telling me it’s okay to be me. Good thing you said it, otherwise I never would’ve known.”
The sun peeks out from behind a cloud. In the bright light Taylor’s hair looks even glossier. She’s proud of it. Takes good care of it. For all her sass, she still cares about what she looks like, what people see when they look at her. The heavy makeup she wore today covers her pale skin, hides it. It’s a shame. She doesn’t need surgeries like I did to be beautiful. She just is, naturally.
“Hey, do me a favor. Go ask that bald guy if he’s doing this for my mom,” I say.
“What’s in it for me?” she sneers.
“Fame. Love. Gobstoppers. Whatever you want.”
“I want the truth.”
I give a neutral shrug.
“Then no dice, Fakey.”
There’s a moment of quiet. She steps off the curb and spans the crosswalk.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Doing your shitty little favor.” She doesn’t turn around.
I watch her slip into the café. She stands over Baldy’s table and sneers my question. I watch his face. The corners of his mouth twitch. He looks outside, at me, and we stare through each other. I finally break into a smile and wave. It intimidates him more than the staring, because he severs eye contact. Taylor trots back across the street to me.
“What did he say?” I ask. I don’t need to know—that look told me enough. He’s definitely doing this for Mrs. Silverman.
“Told me to get lost. But, hey. Now you owe me, Fake Girl.”
“I’m thrilled,” I deadpan.
“You know, you’re not the happy little popular star when no one’s around. It’s like you’re another person entirely.”
My heart skips a beat painfully.
She laughs. “But that’s no different from anyone else in this school. In this world.” She holds her hands over her face and opens one like a door. “One face.” Opens the other hand. “Two faces.”
I take out a pen and grab her arm.
She recoils. “Oy! What are you doing?”
“Hold still.” I write my number on the back of her hand. “My number. I hate being in debt to someone. Call me when you think of how I can pay you back.”
Mrs. Silverman’s car pulls up then, and I jump in.
“Who’s that girl?” she asks.
“Taylor. I just gave her my number.”
“She looks awfully mad. Did you say something?”
“No, that’s her default expression.” I chuckle and strap myself in. “And, not to freak you out or make you worry, but do you know that guy?”
I point to the café. She glances at Baldy. They lock eyes. Or I think they do. Baldy gets up abruptly and leaves the window. Her face instantly pales, and she grips the wheel hard. Checkmate.
“He’s been following me. He’s just a little creepy. Probably a reporter.” I keep my voice light. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She smiles but doesn’t say anything more until we get onto the highway. “I don’t want any secrets between us, Erica. I want us to be honest with each other. That man back there was a private investigator.”
I look up from playing with my phone. She turns her blinker on.
“I hired him to look into the previous Erica. And the one before that.”
“Mom—”
“I didn’t hire him this time, honey. At least I did, but I hired him to look into your old parents, not you. I wanted him to find them. You have to believe me. I don’t know why he’s doing this; maybe he feels obligated? He’s the type of person who’d feel it was his duty.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Oh, I will,” she assures me. “I most certainly will be talking to him.”
We pull into the parking lot of the mental hospital. Mrs. Silverman tightens her coat around herself.
“He’s a little touchy today, but when I told him you were coming, he looked very happy.”
“He’ll want to play checkers again probably.”
“Probably.” She smiles, and her milky fingers search for my hand. I clasp it around hers.
The nurse sets up the board, and I settle in the seat opposite Mr. Silverman. He’s shaved recently—a step up. Today he’s the red side, and I’m the black. He bites his nails and drums his fingers on the table, but otherwise he makes no noise. Mrs. Silverman stays at a distance. It’s like she thinks I’m some miracle cure—a cure that can only be worked when Mr. Silverman and I are alone.
“I think I like someone, Dad,” I try. He moves his piece wordlessly. “A boy.”
Dads are supposed to hate the idea of their little girls going out with a boy. But Mr. Silverman’s protective instinct seems about as present as his mind. He sighs and motions for me to hurry up and make my move. I jump over a piece and capture it.
“He’s not very social. But then again, neither am I. I just pretend to be. Erica is social. Violet isn’t.”
My voice is too low for anyone but Mr. Silverman to hear.
“The boy doesn’t know who I am. He thinks he does. He’s good to talk to—challenges my brain. Seems like he’s always trying to look inside of me. It’s nice. To have someone try to figure you out. He never will, but the effort is nice.”
We play until I capture his last piece.
“You win,” he murmurs, disappointed.
“Not yet.” I pat his hand.
8: Bury It
Sal,
No reports on the surprise yet. Going to ask about those special times and see if I can’t get her to remember the right one. It’s in the library—behind the right bookshelf. Can see the indent marks where it opens up. You’d think they’d put a rug.
They feed me too much—getting fat. Not body fat. Happy fat. Forgetting what it’s like to go hungry. Dull. Not sharp. Need sharp.
Don’t work good alone. I’ll do my best. This is the final exam. Won’t let you down. So many rules here. Don’t smile, smile, pretend you like this kid, help this girl go out with this guy. A sting is easier than one day in high school.
Will get code.
Violet
I track down Kerwin between chem and study hall. He’s leaning against a locker, chatting up some girl.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I smile. Kerwin straightens; the girl throws me a glower.
“Erica? What’s up?” he asks. “Sorry, Ruby, let’s talk later, yeah?”
The girl turns on her heel and sniffs. I smile wider.
“A friend of yours?”
“Something like that.” He grins nervously. “What’s up?”
“You like me.”
For ten seconds I think he’s gone comatose, but he blinks, his eyes growing dark. His depressor anguli oris goes slack and tightens again—a dead giveaway that what I said startled him. He wasn’t expecting it. It looks true, but some part of his face is holding back. There is something false here. He puts his hand over my shoulder and leans into me.
“So what if I do? Is that a problem?”
“I don’t like you.” I look up at him.
“And I can’t do anything to change your mind?”
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