“Definitely. See you later, then?” My voice sounds more timid than I’d like.
“Later.” He bends and looks through the cab window. “Be good, Gotherella.”
“Fuck off,” she spits.
I slide in beside her, and James closes the door. Through the back window, I can see him watching the cab until it turns the corner, face twisted with something I can’t pinpoint.
Taylor’s house is a chic split-level on a hillside overlooking the lights of the Strip, the kind with windows that take up the entire wall. Glass walls. Walls that let in the city and night sky and endless desert. Japanese landscaping—miniature banyans in pots, gardens of raked sand and bamboo. By the time we pull in the driveway, Taylor’s swearing has quieted.
“Thanks for the lift.” I try to be as cheerful as I can. The driver nods and unlocks the doors. I get out and hold the door open. “C’mon. Out.”
Taylor watches something in the distance, forehead pressed against the glass. She’s a mess—hair tangled and makeup smeared in raccoon rings around her eyes. I clear my throat, and she winces.
“Fine, fine. Jesus.”
She shuffles behind me as I take the stairs eagerly. The door is black and shiny. And unlocked. I open it—wood floors and sparse but stylish furniture. Expensive sculptures line the tables.
“Anyone home?”
“Oh God,” Taylor says with a groan. “Shut up. Don’t encourage him.”
“Tay? That you?” a man’s voice calls. Female giggles start, stop, and start again. Taylor winces again and hides behind me as a man comes out—short, rotund, and in a leopard-print bathrobe and little else. His black mustache twitches.
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t know we had company. Warn me next time, Tay.”
“I’m Erica.” I smile. “Taylor’s friend.”
“Right!” He squints. Knows I’m the kidnapped girl, obviously.
I walk in, and Taylor kicks the door closed behind her, then lies on the couch with her back to everyone.
Taylor’s dad shakes my hand. “I’m Barry Mansfield. Good to meet you, Erica.” He puts the tiniest emphasis on my name. It isn’t much, but it’s a con artist’s job to be paranoid. Did that mean something? Does he know something?
“Your mom call?” Barry directs the question to Taylor.
“Wouldn’t know,” she says with a grunt.
“If she calls the home phone, tell her to stop. She’s been bullshitting me all day with legal agreement crap.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ve got some, uh, guests. I better get back to them. Nice meeting you, Erica.” He nods and scuttles down the hall. He opens a door, the sound of girlish giggles wafting out. The door closes on laughter and faint simpering stop’s.
“Disgusting.” Taylor growls, and straightens. She goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge—chock-full of beautiful fruit platters, pastries, and carefully arranged meats and cheeses. I think I see caviar. But none of it is touched—not so much as a bite. It’s perfect, beautiful, but ignored. Taylor takes out a bottle.
“You shouldn’t drink anymore, Taylor—”
“Relax, Goody Two-shoes. It’s water.” She pops open the cap and chugs it, wipes her lips. I lift a stack of magazines from the coffee table and run my fingers over the table’s surface. When I pull away, traces of white powder stick to me. I touch my tongue to my index finger. Sharp. Coke. I’m willing to bet dozens of other surfaces in the house are dusted similarly. Taylor’s dad tried to hide it with magazines.
The female voices from the other room giggle louder. Taylor strides to the patio and opens it, slamming it behind her. Sort of lost, I follow. A patch of grass with a small pool has a perfect view of the diadem of jeweled lights that is the Strip. Taylor sits on the grass, knees up to her chest. I sit by her. We’re quiet. A lighter clicks and shines in the corner of my eye.
“You shouldn’t smoke. It’ll kill you,” I say.
“Life will kill you,” she counters, and blows smoke.
I pull out my phone. “James said you’d have his number.”
She bites down on her cig to steady it as she takes out her phone. Grumbles the number. It rings twice before James picks up. The boom of music is a muffled pulse in the background.
“Hey, Erica?”
“Hi.” I sound breathless. “We got home okay.”
“Great.” A pause. A huge crevasselike pause. “Do you need a ride home or anything?”
“Mom’s picking me up.” I texted her the address earlier.
“Right. I . . . guess I’ll see you on Monday.”
“James, I—”
Taylor shoots me a look at the desperate tone in my voice. Violet cringes at Erica’s inability to control herself. Erica wants to thank him for helping, thank him for things he doesn’t know he does, the shaky influx of heat and inflating heart. But if she says that, it’ll move something forward. Everything should stay where it is. The less I move, the less my absence will be missed.
“Thanks . . . for helping tonight.”
He sounds a little disappointed behind the assurance. “It was all you, Kidnap Girl.”
The nickname, coming from him, doesn’t make me cringe. It makes me smile. We hang up. Taylor rolls her eyes and blows smoke rings into the night air.
“Just get married already.”
“You go to that club and get wasted a lot?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Better than being in this fucking house. A new set of whores every day, going through my fridge and using my shower. Calling him Daddy.”
I’m quiet. I pick at the sparse grass under my legs.
“Thanks, Fakey. For sticking with me. It’s nice having someone haul your ass out. I’d considered hiring someone to do it, but they wouldn’t have the same dedication, you know? I won’t blame you if you don’t talk to me on Monday. Your prep friends wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t care about what they like.”
“Of course you do.” Taylor exhales, smoke cloud spiraling. “You care about what everybody likes. That’s why you’re popular. That’s why you’re Erica.”
“So you finally believe I’m the real thing?” My chest swells.
She laughs hoarsely. “I don’t believe anyone.”
That quiet settles in again. There’s no more grass to pick.
“Look, I know you aren’t Erica,” Taylor finally says, stubbing her cig out on the ground. “Dad knows. You don’t think his bosses haven’t tried to get in on that woman’s money too? One of the two fakes was their plant. Just like you’re someone else’s plant.”
I stifle the urge to suck in a sharp breath. Just as I open my mouth to argue, she sighs.
“I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve done it. I’m not gonna bust you. Dad’s not gonna bust you. He and his buddies had their chance at that painting like every other scumbag in this town. They failed. They’re gonna stand back and watch to see if you fail too. They don’t care. There’s no evidence. At this point nobody freakin’ cares, you know?”
She knows about the painting? I guess she would, if her dad was involved with the kinds of people who tried to steal it. The safest thing to do here is neither confirm nor deny. Just breathe. Breathe now, figure it out later. Listen now, worry later.
“I feel sorry for you, Fakey. You and me, we could’ve gotten along if you weren’t such a criminal. You seem like a decent person under that rich-bitch front.”
I shrug. Neutral. Shell-shocked, on-the-edge-of-freaking-out-but-somehow-managing-to-hold-it-in neutral.
“So.” She lights another cigarette. “You gonna go out with Beethoven?”
“I have no time for boys.” I sigh. “He’s a distraction I don’t need right now.”
“But this is the most important time. You know, when we’re supposed to figure our romantic shit out—what we like in a gu
y, what we don’t like. We’re supposed to have our firsts and get them over with. That’s what high school is for. Figuring stuff out and getting rid of embarrassing first times.”
I’m silent. She coughs. In the low light from the house I can see the bruises from the girl fight on her face—red patches. An older bruise, purple, sits on her cheek, blurred with rubbed-off makeup. Is that what she was hiding beneath the caked-on foundation earlier? A mark from another fight?
Taylor just coughs again. I hear Mrs. Silverman’s car pull up in the driveway.
“Later, Erica.”
It’s the first time Taylor uses my name.
On the way out, I can hear the giggles of the women as far as the stairs. There are no family pictures on the wall—just pretentious art. Empty booze bottles stuff the recycle bin. When Mrs. Silverman asks about what Taylor’s parents are like, I just squeeze her hand.
9: Follow It
My ears ring all weekend from the club. When I calm down, I realize Taylor was right. She doesn’t have any evidence, or a truly personal motive to see me busted. If she accuses me, she’ll be just another doubter among thousands. It doesn’t make me feel secure, but it eases the gnawing a little. Nothing of my life as Erica makes me feel secure anyway. It’s all pins and needles hidden in silk cushions.
Sunday dinner is pizza on the couch—Mrs. Silverman chooses a DVD and pops it in. She looks out of place, delicately munching on string cheese while dressed in a kimono-style robe.
“Your hair’s a little too perfect to be eating pizza.” I toy with one of her flawless curls.
She pushes my hand away. “Au contraire. I may be overdressed for pizza, but I am certainly underdressed for a night on the Titanic.”
The title of the ship movie blares. I laugh and settle next to her.
“I’m also far overdressed for Leonardo DiCaprio,” she croons. I gag on my pizza, and she pats my back. “No choking! Choking is not an option.”
“Can I vomit?”
“Your mother likes celebrities as much as the next woman. Is that so weird to imagine?”
“Would you cheat on Dad with Leonardo?” I tease.
“Oh, it would take more than Leo. Your father and I used to joke that I’d only leave him for Clooney. A time-travel Clooney from the eighties. He wouldn’t be jailbait then, right?”
I snort Pepsi up my nose.
She laughs and hands me a napkin. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. Here.”
“I’b fibe.” My accent is thick. “Eberything sbells like soba.”
Her laugh is loud. I’ve seen Titanic. But the DVD was scratched, so I never quite saw the ending.
“Now see, if this was a romance novel”—Mrs. Silverman leans over after the love scene—“she would be pregnant, and when he dies, she would have his baby.”
“Isn’t that what happens?”
“Goodness no. She goes on to have a family with another man.”
“That doesn’t seem very romantic,” I say, and sniff. “If they wanted to make it really romantic, she’d be a spinster until the day she died.”
“It’s hard to be alone” is all Mrs. Silverman manages.
As far as I know, she’s been alone since Mr. Silverman went into the mental hospital. I’m sure she’s had tons of suitors—she’s beautiful and still fairly young, and rich on top of it all. Hundreds of guys would love to date her. But she’s stayed married to Mr. Silverman. She hasn’t divorced him. It’s a testament to their love for each other.
She cries and cries when the ship goes down, and I tear up. She wipes my tears, then sighs.
“The ending always gets me.” She turns the TV off and a lamp on. “Wait here while I get something.” Comes back with a thick book—a photo album. Photo albums were part of the daily ritual when we’d spent that month together alone, but this is a new album. One I haven’t seen yet. It’s so big, it takes up both of our laps when open.
“Here’s you when we got that Slip’N Slide thing. Nearly gashed your shin on one of the stakes. Your father spent the whole afternoon redesigning safer ones. You can’t take the engineer out of a concerned father.” She smiles.
Hundreds of pictures of Erica. Mrs. Silverman looks so young. Mr. Silverman looks like an entirely different man—healthy and clean. Erica in a bib, Erica opening Christmas presents, Erica riding a horse with little cowgirl boots. Erica playing in the sprinkler, Erica’s face smeared with rainbow cupcake frosting. I can see her—the real her. Not the semi-stiff picture in the MISSING poster. In these pictures she’s always alive. She’s a real girl.
I stop Mrs. Silverman’s hand from changing the page—there’s a picture of Erica and two other girls. They’re like the Three Musketeers, all dressed in varying shades of pink as they look up for the picture. They were playing dolls, the parts and clothes scattered in the space between them.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Cassandra Sandford and Merril Breton.” She traces the picture. “They used to come over after preschool, and you three would watch cartoons. There’s another of you guys in our pool. And there’s you three at Merril’s family barbeque. She had a bouncy castle and you were quite jealous, so for your fourth birthday we got you a bigger one.”
I roll my eyes. She laughs and hugs me closer. I turn the pages on my own, and Erica’s life unfolds. She was spoiled rotten. Erica probably peed her bed and threw fits. Not everything was sunshine and rainbows, but her family loved her anyway. Despite her flaws. Despite her tantrums.
They didn’t hit her for messing up. For speaking out.
There, on the left side of the page, is a picture of a young Erica and a dark-haired little girl. Erica laughs and pulls the girl along by the hand. The dark-haired girl looks unsure and scared.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Oh, I remember you helped that girl more than once.” She ties her robe tighter. “Tiffany? Talia? Something like that. She was such a timid thing. The teachers said you made every effort to stop the others from picking on her.”
Taylor. Does she remember? No, they were young. But it’s ironic that Taylor and the real Erica were friends, as friendly as you could get at age four, anyway. It’s a string I never knew about, a thread that makes so much sense in a way.
The little Taylor looks so different from the wounded raccoon-eyed girl I know now.
I murmur, “I left you both alone. To suffer.”
Mrs. Silverman draws me into her chest. “Don’t say things like that, Erica.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t leave you again.”
I will leave you again.
“I won’t leave you, either, sweetie. It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
“Everything’s my fault.”
Everything will be my fault. You’ll see.
“No, honey. No.” She chants it over and over into my hair. I clutch at her robe and put my head on her lap. This time the tears are real. But they aren’t mine. They are clearly Erica’s. Violet knows this. In the back of my head, Violet rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest. Waits for the deluge to stop. Sleep comes before it stops, my pillow soft, painted with cranes, and murmuring comforting nothings into my ear.
This is the light part, the white sugar and sparkles part, the part where I—grand pooh-bah of serious business—have to pretend to be not-serious. Not-dedicated. Not-driven.
I shouldn’t complain. Hanging out with Cass and Merril is simple compared to hanging with Taylor, Mrs. Silverman, or the shrink. Being with Cass and Merril is easy, being with everyone else is hard, and being with James is natural—somewhere between the two. I am Goldilocks in a suburban forest, eating the most complicated porridge ever.
Merril and Cass drag me to the mall.
“This one’s nice.” Merril holds up a purple thong. My face heats.
“There’s more cloth on a Kleenex, Me
rril.”
“Pink would look a lot better on you.” She hands me another thong, this one with frills. I watch her sift through piles of underwear. Her smile is bright, unconscious. She’s been like this since she announced she and Kerwin started going out. Part of me is happy for her; the other is watchful and alert, waiting for Kerwin to do something underhanded. I still haven’t figured him out, and he annoys me. Scares me.
“Are you guys ready?” Cass chimes.
“I don’t think I’m getting anything.” I smile.
Merril rolls her eyes. “You have to get some nice underwear for prom, Rica. It’s like buying a prom dress—a must.”
“Regular old underwear is fine?” I don’t sound so sure.
Cass nods. “Oh, it’s perfectly fine. If you plan on going to prom alone.” She snickers. “Aren’t you bringing James? He’s never gone to a dance before, but I bet he’d go if you asked.”
My face lights red. Both faces. Erica and Violet are burning at the same time, in the same way. We walk out of the store, the mall humming with the late-afternoon weekend crowd.
“You have to go with someone to the prom, Rica. If not James, someone else,” Cass insists, hefting her bag higher on her arm. “Let me introduce you to some guys, okay? Alex has a ton of friends.”
“I’ll be okay alone.”
“No, you won’t!” She stomps her foot. “You’re coming with us in our limo and we’re going to the Hilton for the night and you’ll be with someone like the rest of us. We’ll crash the pool and order a ton of room service. You don’t have to make out with him or anything; just go with him to prom. Come with us to the prom.”
“Cass—”
“You were gone for everything else. You have to be here for this one. You have to experience it like the rest of us, okay?”
I don’t say anything. Cass and Merril lead me to the food court. They get salads. I glance longingly at a burger before settling for a salad too.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“What’s up?” Cass glances up from a crouton.
Pretending to Be Erica Page 10