Pretending to Be Erica

by Michelle Painchaud

  It hits me as he pulls away and pats my head.

  He already knows the integers. He’s working backward—making equations that equal separate numbers. There’s binary to hexadecimal conversion, and vice versa. The integers aren’t just numbers, but letters, too.

  Somewhere in these equations is an eight-digit letter/number code.

  The safe code.

  It’s a long stretch. It could just be the ramblings of a former engineer’s addled mind. But it’s too coincidental. The nurse ushers me out of the hospital as Mrs. Silverman pulls up to the curb. I have to come back. I need to write these equations down without drawing suspicion to myself . . . somehow.

  When I get to the car, I see a dress bag in the backseat. I quirk an eyebrow.

  “Is that yours?”

  She smiles. “No. Yours.”

  “What?” I watch her unzip it—blue silk glows up at me.

  “Try it on when we get home, okay? I had it tailored, but your measurements might’ve changed.”

  “Oh my God. Is that what I think it is? A prom dress?”

  She ushers me into the passenger side and laughs. “Home first.”

  I can barely contain myself. That was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen, and I’d only seen four inches of it. I dart up the stairs with the dress bag over my arm, my Converses pounding on the stairs.

  “Ah, Erica! There’s a friend of yours waiting in the living room.”

  I only faintly hear Marie’s words. I peel my shirt off and wiggle out of my jeans. The dress’s skirt is short in the front and long in the back. There are no ruffles, but it’s strapless and tight around my chest. Perfect fit. It feels heavenly against my skin. The zipper’s in the back.

  “Marie!” I call, and start down the stairs. It’s easy to move in with bare feet, but high heels will be another matter. I dash into the kitchen, and Marie sweeps over.

  “Oh, what is that gorgeous thing?”

  “Prom dress.” I smile, breathless. “Zipper’s in the back. Ah!” My hand slips holding up the right side, cold air hitting my exposed skin, and I blush and grasp for it. Marie clucks her tongue.

  “Patience, patience! I’ll zip it in a moment.”

  The front door opens, and Mrs. Silverman trails in bearing more tailored suits of hers. She sees us and laughs.

  “You look lovely, dear.” From across the kitchen, her head tilts to look into the living room. “Oh, hello there. Marie, who’s the visitor?”

  I look into the living room for the first time. Wild, longish blond hair grows tall as the person stands and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  “Uh, hi, Mrs. Silverman. I’m James.”

  I freeze and look over my shoulder at Marie, panic running claws down my throat. “You didn’t tell me he was here!”

  “I did. You weren’t listening.” She sighs.

  “Erica, greet your guest,” Mrs. Silverman leads. “It’s rude to leave someone waiting.”

  I nod and regret stripping so quickly—my hair is wild. I walk slowly into the living room, leaving Mrs. Silverman and Marie in the kitchen.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” His face is carefully kept blank. I pray to whatever God watches over liars and thieves like me that he didn’t see anything.

  “Sorry. I was really excited.” I motion to the dress. “It’s the first time I’ve ever worn something like this. It’s incredible. Like Cinderella.”

  “Belle,” he corrects. “You look more like her.”

  “Except I’m not French.”

  “To be fair, everyone in the Disney version spoke Midwestern American English. Except the candlestick.”

  He smirks. I smile. He shuffles. I shuffle, but in the dress I can disguise it easier.

  “So . . .” I start.

  “I—” he blurts.

  I wave my hand. “You first.”

  “No, you go ahead. Nothing I have to say is very important.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. About roughly ten percent of the things you say are interesting.”

  “Just ten? I’m wounded.” He clutches his chest.

  “I’ll settle for twelve if you tell me why you decided to pay a house visit.”

  “Right. House visit. You can say no if you want; it’s up to you. I won’t get offended or anything. I’ll probably crawl in a corner and question everything I’ve done in my life up until now, but it’ll be fine.”

  I laugh, and he seems to get braver at the sound.

  “Friday night they have these deals at this pizza place downtown. I’m a cheap-ass, so I usually go alone and get some, but I was . . . wonderingifyou’dcomewithme?” He winces and says the last part so fast, I have to concentrate to understand it.

  “This Friday?”

  He nods.

  I smile. “I think I can do that.”

  “You will?” His mouth opens a little, but he shuts it. “You will. All right, I’ll come pick you up—”

  “I’ll meet you there. Give me the address.”

  I’m busy typing the address into my phone when I hear the faint sound of a piano. I glance up—James is standing at the grand piano by the fireplace, hesitantly playing with one of the keys. His fingers are long and graceful.

  “You can play it if you like,” I offer.

  He starts. “I was just looking—”

  “All this talk of you being Beethoven from Taylor, but I have yet to hear a single song from you.”

  “Your mom’s okay with me playing it?”

  “Are you kidding? No one touches this dusty thing. She’d love for it to get some exercise.”

  James slides into the seat, and I lean on the piano’s back, watching him over the music stand. He falls into the music so quickly and easily—hands dancing over the keys. I don’t know what he’s playing, but it’s beautiful. The notes whisper at first, then begin to sing louder. Sometimes he makes them shout; sometimes it sounds like they’re mewling in pain. The piano is talking. Telling a story. I’m no critic, but I can tell James does something special with the music. To him, it’s not just music. I see that in his face—set and serious, but at the same time, completely free of self-deprecation and doubt.

  Mrs. Silverman leans in the doorway, watching us. James finishes, the last chord reverberating mournfully. She and I clap, and he stands suddenly.

  “Mrs. Silverman, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be.” She flashes her best people-smile, a golden thing. “You play beautifully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your father is that composer fellow, right? I remember hearing the Anders name thrown around at an opera I went to this winter.”

  His nod this time is curt. Mrs. Silverman picks up on it too, because she changes the subject.

  “Regardless, your talent stands on its own. You have a pleasant style. Very emotional and crisp.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And Erica looked like a lounge singer, standing at the end of the piano in that dress.” Mrs. Silverman smiles.

  I flip my hair and make a sultry face. “Marilyn Monroe?”

  “Or that woman from Chicago.” She laughs. “I’ll leave you to it then. It was nice meeting you, James.”

  “You too.” He smiles.

  I wait until she’s upstairs to pat his shoulder. “Seriously. You’re not half bad.”

  His smile turns wry. “You’re so stingy with the compliments.”

  “You’re a pretty big deal. I read about you. On the Internet.”

  I don’t say I know he failed his debut. I don’t say I know he’s more or less a disgraced prodigy. The clock in the hall ticks through our silence. He finally blinks and puts his hand over his face.

  “That’s it, I guess. My secret’s out. All my cool points out the window.”

  �
�You’re still cool in my eyes. Even cooler than before,” I assure him. “Cool doesn’t even matter. You’re just you. And you’re a good person. Going through that sort of thing, with the media and your parents, who I’m sure are hard-asses—”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” he scoffs.

  “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one going through hell,” I finish. “I shouldn’t be so dramatic. It’s not hell, not really. But sometimes it feels like it.”

  “I know” is all he says. Two words. He doesn’t have to say anything more. It hangs there, a comforting string tying us together. He inhales. “I always thought the real Erica would be different.”

  “Oh really?” I fold my arms over my chest.

  He backpedals. “Not in a bad way. You’re fine. You’re great. Better than great—fantastic.” A beat. “Forget I said that.”

  “Already filed away under ‘endearing mistakes.’” I smirk.

  “The fake ones were always too happy. Everyone could sort of tell they were fakes, but no one wanted to believe that, you know? They wanted you to be back, the big mystery of the town solved and wrapped up in a neat package.”

  My phone buzzes with a text message at the worst time.

  I roll my eyes. “Taylor.”

  “She likes you.”

  “Taylor doesn’t like anyone,” I say with a snort.

  “She’s mean, but she’s not a bad person.” He traces the piano’s keys. “She’s the most purehearted person I know. Burns with only one thing—her desires. No lies, no scheming. She tells it like it is, even if you hate her for it.”

  “That’s the perfect way to describe her.” I laugh. “You’re a lot better at this ‘people’ thing than I am.”

  “Don’t be modest. Every girl in the school wants to be your friend, and every boy wants your number.”

  “That number I gave you is worth a lot on eBay, I bet.”

  “The reporters might want it too.”

  “Don’t go getting any ideas about selling it.” I wag my finger at him.

  He laughs and puts his hand over it to stop me. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  His hands are soft—silk smooth with light calluses. I guess they come from playing the guitar. Or maybe it’s hereditary. Either way, it makes touching his hands a nice experience. A new experience. His fingers widen, and in one movement—one suspended, hesitant, shaking breath—his hand encases mine.

  This is Erica’s and Violet’s first time holding a boy’s hand. Both of our hearts beat thunderously under the same blue-silk-clad chest. He’s looking down at me. He’s so close. He smells clean and natural. No cloying cologne like Kerwin. Just soap and skin.

  “Erica? Does your friend want—”

  Marie rounds the corner, and at her voice our hands fly apart. We put space between us, and I laugh to cover the awkward break.

  “No, thanks, Marie. I think he was just leaving.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I appreciate the thought, though.”

  Marie herself looks a little flustered, and she shuffles back into the kitchen. I lead James to the door, and he grins.

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” he says.

  I watch him drive down the gravel road, the Cadillac grunting the whole way. It gives a sputter at the end of the driveway, and I laugh. I can practically see him cursing in the car, hoping I don’t hear it.

  I sit at the island in the kitchen. Marie has a bowl of fresh strawberries out, and she’s slicing pineapple into even cubes. A bowl of chocolate chips sits by the oven.

  “Chocolate fondue,” she explains without looking up. I pop a berry into my mouth. Her knife flashes expertly. “Who was that boy?”

  “James. From school.”

  “You like him?” She’s straightforward.

  My face heats. “I don’t know.”

  “You like him.” This time it isn’t a question.

  “But this isn’t the time to like guys! I’ve got to help Dad. I’ve got to get used to living with Mom and going to a normal school. It’s a distraction I don’t need.”

  She eyes me. “Those are excuses.”

  I groan and swallow the strawberry. Marie’s serious face lightens a little. She turns the stove on and puts the chocolate in a double boiler to melt it.

  “You should not string a nice boy like that along.”

  Her words cut deeper than the knife in her hand ever could.

  That night, after the fondue and dinner and a shower but before sleep, I dial Taylor. She picks up with a sleepy voice.

  “Yo.”

  “You were sleeping? Sorry.”

  “I just passed out in front of the TV.” I hear a shuffling as she rights herself. “Why’re you bugging me?”

  “On Friday—” I swallow. “James invited me to a pizza place.”

  “I’m so surprised.” She yawns. “I couldn’t see this coming—”

  “I’ve never been on a date before,” I blurt. Violet and Erica say it at the same time, with the same urgency.

  There’s a silence, and Taylor starts laughing. “Oh God, this is golden.”

  “I was wondering if you could, you know, give me tips, or something. I don’t know what to wear. You’ve known him longer than I have. Does he like heavy makeup? Curled hair? Skanky clothes or not skanky?”

  “Why don’t you ask your bimbo friends to help you? They’re better at this stuff.”

  “Because I don’t want to go looking like I’m trying out for Miss America?”

  She laughs. “Touché. All right, but you owe me again after this.”

  “I can’t go clubbing again, Taylor. Kerwin saw me there, and he’s just the type to tell my mom and ruin everything—”

  “Kerwin? As in crumpet boy with the girly face?”

  “The same.”

  “Huh. That’s weird.”

  “Why?”

  “He transferred here two months before you, right? Club Riddler moves from warehouse to warehouse and district to district. Sometimes it’s on the other side of town. It’s a local thing—locals usually know where it is and when. I didn’t even know about it until Jeff texted me where it was.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point, Fakey”—she sucks in a breath—“is the jocks he hangs out with aren’t the raving type. They don’t know about it. A handful of students know when Riddler happens, and they graduated last year or don’t talk to him.”

  “Maybe he overheard them?”

  “No. He had to do some digging. Or he had to follow you real close. Like, from-when-we-met-at-Green-Foods close.”

  “He wasn’t on the bus with us.”

  “No. Look, I’ll help you with the James thing, okay? But you can pay off that debt right now.”

  “How?”

  “Stay away from Kerwin and watch your back. A guy that determined to follow someone has something up his sleeve. It’s creepy.”

  He might know about me being fake. That’d explain a lot. But if he knows, what does he want from me? Why does he care? What is stalking me going to get for him? Is he police? Undercover, maybe? No, he looks too young. But there are some undercover cops who have baby faces. Maybe he isn’t on the good guy’s side. Maybe he’s trying to get in on my con.

  “Promise me, Fakey, that you’ll be careful.” Taylor’s voice is low.

  “Why do you care?”

  “You’re the only halfway decent asshole in this place, even if you are a fake. I’m not going to lose you.”

  We hang up. Her gruffness means she’s getting more comfortable with the idea of me being a friend. She won’t admit it. It’ll take her a long time to trust me. But by then I’ll be gone. And she’ll be bleeding that trust all over the floor.

  I creep downstairs to get a glass of water. The kitchen hums. There’s a light on, comi
ng from the library. I grab my glass and head for it. Mrs. Silverman reads a book in an armchair, glasses on her nose. She’s wearing some green face mask made of clay. I clear my throat.

  “So that’s the ultimate method to look young.” I pass a shelf of books. “Secretly be a Martian.”

  Mrs. Silverman looks up and sips her tonic. “Ha ha. I laugh hysterically about every joke centered around my age.”

  “You’re as beautiful and young as a new rose.”

  “That’s more like it.” She grins, the clay cracking around her mouth, and buries her nose in the book again.

  My fingers slide over the spines of the books, reading each one. Do I dare go to the shelf where the safe is? If I don’t, it might look suspicious. If I do, she might get jumpy. I decide to risk it. My fingers pass over the books. I can’t see Mrs. Silverman’s reaction, if she has one.

  Robinson Crusoe.

  I see it briefly, gold letters flashing under my fingers. It takes all my willpower to keep moving, to not stop and do a double take. I pour over the other shelves and finally pick out a murder mystery.

  “Agatha Christie.” Mrs. Silverman nods appreciatively. “Good taste.”

  “Genetic good taste,” I chime. “I can’t read in stuffy chairs like you, though.”

  “Is your bed comfortable?”

  “It’s heaven compared to the twin bed I slept in at my old house.”

  “Good.” She smiles.

  “I love you,” I try.

  She puts the book and tonic down and gets up to hug me. Her face mask smells like cucumbers.

  “I love you more than you will ever know,” she murmurs. We part, and she gets a mischievous gleam in her eye. “That boy James was awfully nice to meet today.”

  “I’m glad you thought so.”

  “Condoms and the pill, remember?” She jumps right into it airily, but threateningly.

  “Mom!” I groan.

  “Ah-ah, promise me.”

  My face is bright red even in the cool night air of the house. “I promise.”

  She chuckles and pushes me gently toward the stairs. “Sleep. School is tomorrow.”

  The calendar on my wall has to be lying. It hasn’t really been a month, has it? We’re almost into April. Prom is just around the corner. I still haven’t gotten the code. Robinson Crusoe. Mr. Silverman said something about it—in Robinson Crusoe there was a zoo. What did that mean? The Crusoe book is on the shelf that hides the safe. It can’t be a coincidence. I’ve been in this business long enough to know there are no such things as coincidences. And those numbers? Do they connect to the safe somehow?