Mr. Silverman is twitchy, focused in his own insane way. A rat in a maze. My pajamas are in the same style as Mrs. Silverman’s—fluffy and pretty. My nails are like hers, perfectly painted. My hair is the same blonde.
A chameleon in the trees.
12: Kill It
Sal,
Have lead on the code. Need to confirm. Barry Mansfield, the mob lawyer, suspects. His daughter said one of two fakes mob planted. You know about that?
Transfer student following too closely. PI still on tail. Won’t talk to you for a while. You’re always real with me. I’ll be real with you: I like it here. Too much. Violet and Erica argue. Not good at being two people. Can only be me, and that person’s getting lost. Have to get out of here. Can’t rush, won’t rush.
But gotta get out of here.
Vi
The week leading up to Friday is a blur of excitement and guilt. I shouldn’t be happy I’m going on a date. James should go out with someone else. I’m going to be gone as soon as I work out the code to the painting. I’ve gotten the first couple of clues. It’s only a matter of time before I crack it.
Even if I like James, he needs to not like me. He needs to smile more at another girl. Any other girl.
Because they are real and I’m not.
I won’t complain. I won’t complain. I am Erica and I’m popular and pretty and sweet and I have perfect grades and a loving mom and a fancy house. I shouldn’t complain. I am Erica and I have everything. I am Erica and I have everything. I am Erica. I have everything.
I am Violet and I have nothing.
The inside hem of my plaid uniform skirt is shredded—threads torn by my nails. Sitting in class with an already perfected homework sheet leaves me little else to do except mangle my clothes. I already know the formulas Mr. Roth introduces. It’s not hard to pretend to pay attention, but it is mind-numbing. I sneak glances at James’s face when he isn’t looking—he still sleeps through classes, but not as much anymore. I catch him looking at me one time, and I rivet my eyes to the floor. Everything in my body goes on point, every pore tingling. He’s still staring. I can feel it. The hairs on my arms only flatten when he looks away.
I can’t have this reaction.
Your face, Violet. Where the hell is your game face? Thrown out the window, along with your common sense. You went to the club and that messed things up. Going on this date is going to mess things up even more. You can’t go. Make up an excuse. Your dad’s gotten worse. Your mom needs you at home. You have chicken pox, something, anything! You’re stringing him along for your own selfish ends. You want a date—something Violet and Erica have never had. Just because you want to experience it, because you like him, you’re wrapping barbed wire around his feelings, which will tighten when you’re gone.
Because of you, there will be blood.
“Close your eyes,” Taylor orders. She dabs something on my eyelids.
“I know how to do makeup, you know.”
“You’re the one who asked for my help, Fakey.”
I sigh. When she’s done, I glance at my long mirror—jeans, a comfortable blue sweater, and matching eye shadow.
“Not too shabby.” I turn and eye my back. “I thought I was going to end up looking like a Hot Topic mannequin.”
“Whatever.” She chuckles and puts the makeup back in my drawer. A soft knock resounds.
“Come in,” I say. Marie pops her head through the crack in the door.
“Is your guest allergic to strawberries at all?”
I look at Taylor. She shakes her head. Marie smiles timidly. I’ve never seen Marie so hesitant, but tall, dark, scowling Taylor has that sort of effect on people.
“Good. Well, come down when you’re done. I’ve been baking.”
When she leaves, Taylor snorts. “I hate strawberries.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“I’m an asshole, not an idiot. Being rude at someone else’s house is for morons.”
“You have a heart after all.” I smirk.
“Shut your mouth and put your shoes on.”
I slip into the ballet flats. “For someone who wears all black, you have good fashion sense.”
“I’ve just seen lots of bimbos out on dates.”
Date. The word rings in my head, makes itself real and known. Taylor thumps me on the back.
“Your face is all white. Relax. You’ll be fine.”
We walk down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Silverman and Marie are conversing over a plate of strawberry tarts. Mrs. Silverman smiles at us.
“Don’t you look all dressed up?”
“Taylor helped,” I murmur.
“Thank you, Taylor. She looks wonderful.”
Taylor’s glance skitters around, everywhere but on Mrs. Silverman’s face. “No prob.”
When I asked Mrs. Silverman if Taylor could come over, she looked hesitant. Taylor, the girl in all black? Taylor, the girl with just a father? She doesn’t seem to know anything about me and Taylor going to the club. Did Mr. White keep the pictures to himself? Or is he planning to show them to Mrs. Silverman later? Whatever the case, she treats Taylor as nicely as she can, but there are lines of wariness beneath her eyes. Taylor seems just as wary of her, but she tries to be nice. And Taylor trying at all means heaps.
Marie breaks the tension between Mrs. Silverman and Taylor by sliding the plate of tarts into their view. “Eat up before they get cold.”
Taylor grabs one and nibbles. Mrs. Silverman doesn’t touch them.
“So you’re taking the bus there? Is James going to meet you?”
“At the pizza place, yeah.” I nod and bite—the pastry is warm and sweet. Taylor’s face is frozen. I’m worried she’ll say they’re gross, when she reaches for another.
“Holy shi—” Taylor glances up and corrects her swear. “I mean, wow. These are amazing. I don’t even like strawberries, but these are great.”
Marie smiles. “Thank you.”
“Are you going with her, Taylor?” Mrs. Silverman asks coolly.
“No, going home. Gonna let the lovebirds work it out on their own,” Taylor says back, the same coolness in her voice. Mrs. Silverman looks to me.
“I want you home before eight.”
“Right.”
“If you start to feel uncomfortable, call me and I’ll pick you up.”
“He’s not that kind of guy,” Taylor murmurs.
Mrs. Silverman stiffens. “I know. I met him. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. Promise me you’ll call, Erica.”
“I will.” I shoot Taylor a look.
When we’re on the bus, riding into downtown and laughing at the businessman snoring across from us, Taylor’s chuckle fades. She leans her head on the back of the seat and looks at the tin roof.
“She’s going to smother you.”
I look at her. In the fluorescent bus lights, her jet black hair shines with jagged white lightning.
“She’s going to suffocate you. You can’t hide your true self forever just to please her.”
“People do it all the time,” I grumble.
“You really like her.” She laughs softly. “She’s the best mom you’ve ever had. Maybe the only mom you’ve ever had.”
I stare out the window. Taylor rubs her eyes with her fists.
“They leave. They all leave eventually. They pretend to like you, love you. They tuck you in and braid your hair and kiss your father, but they all leave, and the new one is different from the last. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse.”
Her words echo from the dark precipice of experience.
“Mom will never leave me,” I assert.
“No,” Taylor agrees. “You’ll leave her.”
A sword, punching a slit clean through my torso and out my spine. Just pull the blade up a little more, and my insides
will spill out. Taylor stands to let me by as the bus halts at my stop. She keeps reminding me of who I really am. Of what I’m really here to do.
This date is just a distraction. A fake. I shouldn’t get so wound up about it. It’s just a con—like everything I’ve done so far.
He likes a fake girl.
I walk into the pizza place, a warm little shop, quiet in the golden afternoon glow. An old woman behind the register is doing a crossword. James sits at one of the tables, texting. When I come in, he looks up, his smile nervous.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I slide into the seat opposite him. “Cute little place. Did you find it all by yourself?”
My words are rushed and saccharine, the tone too sweet. Too Erica. James shrugs.
“I came here one day after band practice. The rest is history.”
“How boring was Roth’s class today?” I laugh. “I couldn’t wait for him to shut up. Taylor looked even more bored than you, and that’s saying something. I couldn’t decide if I should try to sleep like you or doodle.”
“Erica—”
“I mean, who even listens to him? Arnold, but he’s in the front and a nerd. I guess it’s good there are people like that in the world, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to sleep behind him and I’d actually have to take notes—”
“Erica!” He puts his hand on mine. “Slow down.”
“There’s no time to go slowly.” I smile and pull my hand away. “It has to be today. Let’s order. I’m starving. Should we get half and half or can we agree on toppings for the whole thing? I don’t like peppers or anchovies, but that’s about it.”
His blues eyes go soft. “You don’t have to be so nervous.”
“Nervous? Me?” I laugh. “No way. I’ve never been nervous in my life. I’m stone-cold.”
He sighs. That little motion tugs my heart around, but I quash the feeling. That’s good. More. I need more of that. He won’t like me after this date is done. Frustrate him. We manage to agree on olives and pepperoni. He gets up to order, the old woman muttering something in Italian and toddling to the kitchen. I talk about nothing and everything until my throat is sore. Interrupt him when he tries to say something. The pizza arrives and we eat in dead silence. While he finishes, I look out the window to the dimming streets and brightening lampposts. Vegas comes alive at night, breaks out of its daily cocoon. The splendor of its lights is hidden by the sun, and when darkness falls, Vegas can show its true beauty. Grime. Indifference. Dazzle.
Even in the middle of my first date, Violet is somewhere else in my head—turning over the idea of a zoo, Robinson Crusoe, and numbers on walls. She holds those three clues up to Erica, like she’s trying to say they’re more important than James. I force both of them to focus—what we need now is to focus on this moment. One goal. One face. Just get through this stupid date, and we can get back to what we really came for. The painting.
“You don’t have to be like this,” James murmurs.
I know exactly what he means, but I tilt my head and smile at him instead. “Be like what?”
“You can be yourself with me. You know that.”
The smile on my face falters. I steel it. “I don’t know what that is anymore.”
He flinches. I rip a napkin to shreds.
“I know you’re going through a tough time—”
“Not really,” I singsong.
“But I’m here for you. I’m your friend. If you need to talk about it, or hit something, I’ll be here with open ears and a punch-ready cheek.”
I want to laugh. I want to laugh so badly. I want to take his offer, but I can’t. It would blow my cover. He’s looking at me with those soft blue eyes, his unguarded face. He cares about me. If I opened my mouth, I would spill everything.
I stand and grab my purse. “I— I have to go. Thanks for the food.”
“Not yet. I’ve got one last thing planned.” He grabs my hand. It pulls me back. “Please.”
I’m the one who’s been shutting him down the whole time. Carry it through, Violet. Be the bitch. Shut him down once and for all. Push the kill switch. Make this easy on yourself, painless for him.
My inhale shudders as I nod. He smiles and pays the old woman before tossing our trash and leading me outside by the hand.
“Your fingers are cold.” He frowns as we wait at the crosswalk for the light to change. He puts my hands in his and rubs them together, working friction into them. All my thoughts on the painting and the code and being mean to get him to dump me fly out the window. “There. Better.”
“Th-Thanks,” I stutter, the sudden contact jarring. I’m used to faring for myself—mittens or pockets.
“C’mon. It’s just a little farther.”
He leads me through the dusk, past the couture shops and to the park. It takes me three blocks to realize we’re acting like a couple—hand in hand. People walk the paths and sit on benches amidst sparse trees. The fountain burbles. James walks over to a man sitting on the grass, a keyboard on his lap. He’s older than us by a few years—college student. His beanie flops as he turns to look at us—dark eyes and dark hair.
“Sup, James? Is this her?”
“Yeah.” James grins. “Erica, this is Marley. He’s the other member of our band I told you about.”
“Hi.” I put on my best smile. Marley shakes my hand. He doesn’t say anything about my being kidnapped, which I’m grateful for.
“So this is where you guys practice?” I ask.
Marley laughs. “Nah. We practice over the Internet, mostly. It’s a powerful thing.”
“So I’ve heard.” I smirk.
“We get together once a month and collaborate in the park. And beg for change.” James bends, pulling the guitar case closer and opening it. He cradles the instrument and pushes the empty case toward the sidewalk, just in front of them.
“I’m your first fan,” I declare. Marley chuckles and runs his hands up the keyboard.
“You can dance. Probably get us a bigger audience.”
“No shedding clothes.” James tunes the guitar carefully. “We’re a legitimate business here.”
I snicker and pull my sweater around me tighter. A chill is setting in, but it gives the park atmosphere. James and Marley count in and start playing, the tune stutter-y but melodic. James’s voice is warm, but not confident or loud. It’s a tempting, hoarse speaking voice. Mellow and sweet, but with hidden energy, like a subtle mix of icing and espresso.
“And I never wanna see the sun,” he sings, “if it means our time is done.”
A few people stop to watch. A family with a little boy. A couple. A lone man taking a rest from his jogging, earbuds hanging around his shoulders to hear James’s song. A rushing businessman taking a shortcut through the park hears a single bar, walks past, and comes back to throw a dollar in the case.
I know the chorus after listening to it a few times, and when it comes next, I join in hesitantly, my voice mixing with James’s.
“Something’s gonna change. I heard it said by the man who sings. You and I will change, and in the end it’s just dew in rain.”
The world gets darker, the family leaves. People start going home. Marley takes out a trumpet and plays it, the sable wailing a bridge. When it ends, James strums the guitar one last time. Our eyes meet.
“And I never wanna see the sun if it means our time is done.”
Marley thumps him on the back and says it’s the best rendition ever. We say good-bye to Marley, and James drives me home in almost complete silence, my every mistake replaying through my head.
This is a mistake.
“Thanks.” He smiles, stopping at my driveway. “For giving me a chance today.”
“I’m sorry . . .” I start. “I’m sorry I ruined everything. You have to understand—No, you can’t understand, I just—”
“I know you need more time. Everybody needs time,” he interrupts softly. “But not everybody gets it.”
I sense I should kiss him, but I don’t. Because I’m a coward. Because I’m a fake. I want to kiss him—to thank him for being everything I’m not: polite and enduring and honest with me when I’m not with him.
Honesty.
I silently watch him go, his taillights two bloodspots in the night.
On Monday it’s like nothing happened.
Taylor asks me how it went. I shrug, and she pulls a frown but doesn’t press me. Merril and Cass are none the wiser—I never told them, for fear they’d berate me. James smiles politely when I talk to him, but it feels too forced. We both know we can get along spectacularly, but it’s a matter of me wanting to. James made his feelings clear. It’s just a matter of me allowing us to happen. Telling him how I feel too. Evening out the scales that were imbalanced from the start.
To make matters worse, Mr. White’s watching me. He sits in his car parked opposite the school. Wears a hat today, like it’ll make him harder to recognize. He’s just begging for me to talk to him.
I tap on the driver’s window. He rolls it down and eyes me over his sunglasses.
“Mr. White”—I clear my throat—“what brings you to this neck of the woods?”
He opens the glove box and pulls out a magazine with a familiar title. The cover is of two women standing on either side of an apple tree and smiling.
“Brackish.” Mr. White flips through a few pages. “A magazine for the gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender community.”
The one Sal’s column is in. The one I’ve been buying to read his words.
Pretending to Be Erica Page 13