“No. I already like someone else. But I do know someone who likes you.”
“Your friend Merril by any chance?”
“She’s pretty transparent,” I say, and laugh.
“But I don’t want her.” He leans in farther, nose brushing my cheek, his cologne flooding my sinuses. It doesn’t ring true. It’s not the motion of a simple high school playboy—rather of a worldly and experienced young man. “I want you.”
You want a lie, liar.
“Where are you from, Kerwin?”
“I thought it was obvious. Wales.”
“Where exactly in Wales?”
The corners of his mouth crimp. “Swansea.”
“Do they know the meaning of no in Swansea?” I smile and duck to the side, breaking free of his shadow. “Merril really likes you. You might want to try her.”
His eyes get a hard edge. I walk away, four steps, and turn. “Oh, and Kerwin?”
He glances up, the hardness sharpening into a knife of something I can’t quite pinpoint. I’m not afraid. This isn’t sweet mutable Erica talking anymore. Violet is a raging fire burning out of my eyes, snapping the flaming reins.
“I know your game. I know you’re hiding something. If you hurt her, I’ll destroy you from the inside out.”
Kerwin Howell. I bring up the Google map of Wales, and find Swansea. He was lying, I’m sure. When people lie on the fly like that, they tend to stray just a bit off the truth. Instinct. It’s not Swansea, but there’s a good chance he’s from a town around there. Swansea is the biggest city in the county, and it’s a port city. A nearly as large port city is just south. Port Talbot. I scour the online newspaper, and get three years back before my eyes start to hurt. Nothing on Kerwin. Not even an obituary for anyone with his family name.
My phone dances on the table in vibrating circles. A strange number is on it. I pick up.
“You called, mistress?”
Taylor groans. “Don’t call me that. How’d you figure it was me?”
“I’m smart. You should try it sometime.”
“Whatever.”
“How can I help you?” I shut down the PC.
“That thing you owe me—meet me in two hours, in front of the Green Foods.”
“Just letting you know now—I’m not the best shoplifter.” Another lie. It’s the one thing I’m better than Sal at.
“Just meet me there, Fake. Wear something halfway nice.”
The line goes dead.
“A friend? That’s good, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you, but what are you two going to do at Green Foods?” Mrs. Silverman raises an eyebrow.
“Taylor’s dad is picking us up. We’re going to the movies. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay, I just—” She cuts off. “I’m worried. Just you and Taylor? That angry-looking girl? She didn’t look like your friend when I saw her, sweetie.”
“I’m getting to know her better.” I nod. “I promise, I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“Before eleven. I’ll pick you up,” she asserts.
“And I’ll text you her address.” I smile.
She sweeps over and kisses the top of my head. “I’m so glad you’re making friends. Just be careful, all right? I trust you.”
“I know.”
If anything, Taylor is starting to become my frenemy. I’m still unsure about her and what she wants from me. Mrs. Silverman offers to drop me off. In front of Green Foods, standing out among the pulsing families darting in and out with their dinner groceries, is a girl in all black, dark hair almost touching the bench she sits on. Taylor smiles and waves as we approach. Smiles. Waves. She’s better at faking happy than I thought.
“Hi, Mrs. Silverman.”
“Hello, Taylor, was it?”
“Yeah. It’s good to meet you finally. Erica’s told me lots about you. Good things, mostly.”
“Has she?” Mrs. Silverman shoots a look at me, and I nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your father will be here shortly?”
It’s Taylor’s turn to glance at me. “Yeah. In ten minutes. He’s getting off work, so—”
“Of course.” Mrs. Silverman smiles. “And what movie are you going to see?”
“The new vampire one.” Taylor shrugs. “Erica said she really wanted to see it.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” Mrs. Silverman turns and hugs me. “Stay in touch.”
“I’ll text,” I assure her, and pat her back. She leaves hesitantly, walking backward a few times to wave at us. We wave back, Taylor’s mutter disgruntled.
“Nice lady. Little clingy.”
“You get used to it.” I sigh, and settle onto the bench. “Wanna tell me why you called me out here?”
She plunks a paper bag onto my lap. I peer into the dimness—bright rainbow hair extensions, lines of beads, and sticks of makeup.
“You called me out here to give me unicorn vomit?” I quirk an eyebrow.
She ignores my jab and stands. “You ever been to a rave?”
“No.”
Her smirk is wide. “First time for everything.”
We wait an extra twenty minutes, just in case Mrs. Silverman’s still around. Taylor leads me to the bus stop. Soon we’re mashed together in one plastic seat, watching the world sway by in rose-blush twilight. Lights sprout. Radio towers, closing shops, rows of houses. The lady in front of us snorts and sleepily adjusts her knit beanie. When Taylor gets out on the south side of the city and leads me to the line of people around the block, Violet feels a wave of nostalgia hit her. Sal didn’t fit in too well at younger clubs like this, so I used to go alone and try to score something for the night. People don’t bring much to clubs, but you can always count on a wallet or a tip that lingers too long on a bar countertop. The line of waiting people are Lite-Brite meets My Little Pony, every color wrapped around them in neon hues. Stripes on pants, necklaces, hair dye. Taylor’s extensions peek out as highlighter orange feathers in a raven’s wing.
“Candy,” she says, and grunts, passing an armful of beads to me. “Put them on.”
I try to mimic what everyone else does—wrapping them on your arms and around your neck in a choker style.
“So I’m here because you needed someone to party with?” I ask.
Taylor snorts over the music thrumming from the open doors. “You’re here because I want you to be here, and you owe me. Isn’t that enough?”
I push back Violet’s trembling excitement and bring out Erica. “I’ve never really done anything like this. I mean, raves mean drugs, right?”
“You don’t have to do them if you don’t want to. Just stick with me, Fakey. You’ll be fine.”
As we get closer to the bouncers—huge guys in black with bald heads—the stuttering synth and heavy bass crescendo. I act flustered and nervous.
“Do you have, like, IDs to get us in?”
Taylor just laughs and pushes me forward into the bouncer’s view. She puts her hands on my shoulders and smiles.
“Evening, Jeff.”
“Taylor.” He nods. “Your dad doing all right?”
“Fat and insufferable as ever. I’ll tell him you said hi.”
He motions for us to go in. The darkness inside the doors swallows us whole, the music screaming across my eardrums. Needles of rainbow light flicker over the heads of the crowd, waves of purple and red flashing with the epileptic strobes. The club is doused in black light, every white shirt and shoe glowing bright sky blue.
“My dad’s client owns the place!” Taylor shouts in my ear as she leads me to a table tucked along the side. Merril’s words come back to me; Taylor’s dad is a mob lawyer. Taylor’s father is the spokesman for some very dangerous, very wealthy people. Sal and I never messed with the mob. We took careful steps to keep out of their territory and never rip of
f businesses that were mob fronts.
I watch Taylor go to the bar and order drinks. All around her people are dancing, neon pants swirling and lurid glow-in-the-dark bikini tops flashing. Cat ears, glow-straw haloes, and rainbow Mohawks bob in the sea of heads. Ravers hold glow sticks and flash them around their bodies in pseudo martial arts waves and twists. I spot the drug dealers immediately—hanging around the bathrooms with big hoodies. Big pockets. Enough space to hold bags of drugs. I’m willing to bet it’s the pure stuff too. If this place is mob owned, they’ll have the best dealers with the best stash drumming up business.
Third rule of conning: always know where your exits are. The front door is one. There’s an exit tucked behind the bar, and another behind the DJ table. Everything was obviously just thrown together in this warehouse, but thrown together by pros—fantastic lighting and sound systems.
Taylor comes back with three shot glasses between her fingers.
“I don’t drink . . .” I start. Besides occasional sips of things, I’ve never gotten hammered. A con artist needs her senses. A con artist can pretend to drink, but unless she’s alone, in the safety of her apartment with no one looking to take advantage of her, she doesn’t drink. I’m in a strange rave club and I don’t know what Taylor has planned for me. Drinking now would be begging for trouble.
“Who said any of these are for you?” Taylor downs all three shots, one after another. Chug, clink. Chug, smack lips, clink.
When the last one’s gone, she points in my face. “If you see me go for a ninth one, stop me. In two hours ask the bouncer outside for a cab. I’ll be in the front of the dance floor. Come get me and we’ll go. Don’t drink. Don’t take any pills anyone slips you. The only time you should get worried is if I start twitching. Everything else is fine. Absolutely everything. You got that?”
It all starts to fall into place as I watch her walk away into the crowd, throwing her arms up as the bass rocks the walls. She wants me here to watch her. The designated driver, so to speak. I watch her twist and turn in the arms of some guy in bright green pants. Her dark hair melds into the shadows, the extensions peeking out like tiny sunsets. She moves on and dances with a girl in a tiny bikini, laughing. It’s like she’s an entirely different person. This is her element. She’s obviously been here before—I see some people smile and wave at her.
Taylor has two faces. Just like I do.
She goes for shot number four. Five. Six. Goes back to dancing. The music changes, vocal stutters churning my brain. One of the dealers pushes a bright pink pill at me. I crunch it under my foot when he turns. The dealers always give free samples to try to make repeat customers out of you. I consider getting up and dancing myself, but Erica is timid. Violet wants to join, to writhe with the masses, but tonight is Erica’s night. Erica’s chance to make Taylor believe she’s real. Good girl Erica would do exactly as she said.
With a twist.
Rebellion. Erica’s never tried it. Violet hums with the possibility, whispers in her ear like a temptress. Like a coach. A friend.
You can do it. It’s just dancing. Just move your body a bit. Ignore the people watching. Ignore everybody; listen to the music. Nobody cares what you look like. Nobody cares about you; you’re just one girl in a crowd of scantily clad ones. No one will look your way twice.
Erica gets up, a little wooden. She flinches as a group of boys rush past her and into the crowd. The music is hard, fast, people jumping up and down. I stand on the edges and watch the DJ spin—his headphones cupping one ear and his laptop open and glowing. Erica sways, one foot to another, the dance of an unsure girl. She doesn’t move furiously—it’s not her style. She puts her arms up and lets them dip with the music. If she closes her eyes, the lights flash against the darkness of her eyelids in rhythmic imprints. If she opens them, her sight explodes in stars and colors, a galaxy being created—smoke, heat, noise, light, expanding into the dark space of the warehouse.
A hard jolt brings Erica out of her reverie and Violet to the foreground. I crash to the floor, polished stone unforgiving on my butt.
“Hey! Watch where you’re—” I choke off the shout as the person I collided with pulls me up.
“Sorry, didn’t see you—” His eyes widen. He’s not wearing any candy or glow paint, but his white shirt glows eerily, and in the flashes I see his long blond hair.
“James?”
“Erica!” he shouts. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I motion toward the table. We sit. The music is still loud, but here you can use a seven-decibel voice to be heard, instead of a ten.
“I didn’t know you went to things like this.” I smirk. “I guess it makes sense. You like music.”
“I’m here for my friend.” He nods to the front, where the DJ is clicking away on his keyboard. “It’s his first gig. He asked me to come down and support him.”
“Nice of you.”
“And what’s your excuse?” His eyes narrow, but just barely.
“Taylor brought me.”
“She’s here?” His eyebrows rise.
Taylor staggers out of the crowd. I stand on instinct, and James does too, as she stumbles into the table and clutches the edges. She rolls her head slowly, smile huge, and spots James.
“Virgin! What’s a good boy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Was that a pickup line?” He sneers.
“I wouldn’t pick you up even if you were the weight of a puppy.” She laughs, messes her hair up—disheveled angles. “Puppies? I’m a mess.”
“Maybe we should go, Taylor,” I offer.
Her dark eyes flash, and she slams her hand on the table. “I say when we go. You still owe me, Fakey. So just shut up and roll with it.”
We watch Taylor edge her way into the crowd again.
“We’re leaving in two hours. She said so, anyway. Before she got all . . . crazy.” It’s the only word I can think of to describe her.
“This is not her crazy mode,” James interjects.
“And you would know?”
“She’s overdosed twice in school. Pills. First time she collapsed in English. Second time in a bathroom stall. Hit her head on the back of the toilet pretty bad. Ambulance. Stitches. She picks fights with anybody who looks at her the wrong way. The only reason she hasn’t been thrown out is because of her father’s . . . influence. She knows he’ll bail her out of anything, so she does everything.”
Is that why everyone treats her like she’s got the plague? I’d wondered why she was such a loner when she was so pretty and obviously well-off.
James glances at me. “I’m glad she’s got someone with her this time at least.”
We’re quiet. Taylor stumbles in and out for another shot. That makes seven. She waves sardonically and pushes back into the crowd. James stands.
“I should get back.”
“No!” My hand shoots out and pushes his onto the table. Too fast. What am I doing? Play it cool. Let his hand go. He looks at our hands, his gaze traveling up my arm and to my neck, rippling like liquid fire. My chin, my eyes. The gaze lingers there.
And before I can catch fire in the best way, the crowd parts. Shrill screams come from two figures entwined. Punching, kicking, hair pulling. One of the girls is Taylor, her opponent a brunette in a rainbow-striped skirt. The crowd swallows them again, the fight moving inward as people cheer or try to get between them. James looks at me as I look at him, a wordless agreement.
We need to break up some bitches.
James’s tall, bony figure cuts a path through the crowd. I press my face into his back and fist his shirt to make sure I don’t lose him. He smells like pepper and aftershave and sweat—a heady combination. A sudden jerk of his body jolts me out of my mildly creepy sniffing moment. He reaches over and pulls Taylor off Rainbow Skirt Girl. James isn’t the buffest guy, so wrestling a thrashing Taylor
takes all his concentration.
“Come on! Let me go! I swear to God, I’ll fucking pull her tongue out—”
Skirt Girl goes in to jab Taylor’s nose while she’s restrained. Before I can stop her, Violet socks Skirt Girl’s cheek. The hit is hard enough to make her stagger.
James holds Taylor tight the whole way through the crowd and to the exit. At points I grab Taylor’s hair to keep her from biting James’s face, neck—anywhere she can get at.
“Put me down, asshole! Did I ask you”—she kicks at him—“to do any of this hero shit?”
When we get free of the crowd, I dash outside and look for Jeff the bouncer. Tap his meaty shoulder.
“Uh, hi, we need a—”
“Jeff! Tell these cunts to put me down!”
Jeff’s eyes roll. He takes over for a relieved-looking James, having a much easier time pinning Taylor’s arms behind her back.
“Mark, get a cab, will you?” He jerks his head to another bouncer. Taylor alternates between screaming obscenities and muttering under her breath. I must look worried, because Jeff sighs.
“Just drunk tonight. I’ve seen her on everything else—this isn’t her doped-up look. Don’t worry. Just get her home, give her a glass of water.”
“She comes here a lot, then?” James asks.
Jeff sniggers.
The cab pulls up, and Jeff pushes the squirming Taylor inside and tells the cabbie to child-lock the doors so she can’t get out. He sticks his bald head in the dark taxi and mutters something to Taylor. She stops trying to claw at the door handle and huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.
Jeff nods. “She’s all yours. Cab’s already paid for.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “Good customer service around here.”
“Just for her.” He motions for us to get in.
I turn to James. “You coming with?”
“I think I did my part.” James shoves his hands into his pockets. “It would be a little weird, a guy going home with two girls. I don’t want to freak her dad out. Call me later, okay? She has my number. Lemme know you’re all right.”
Pretending to Be Erica Page 9