Pretending to Be Erica

by Michelle Painchaud

  Just a little more.

  I just need to hold on a little more.

  The house is dim and quiet.

  It’s not unusual, but that’s only when no one is home. And Mrs. Silverman is home.

  Marie shoots me a look, and while she’s unloading groceries, I check upstairs.

  “Mom?”

  Her door is ajar, a low lamplight flooding through. I knock, two timid raps.

  “Come in.”

  Her voice is sub-zero. The cold makes me suck in a breath. Something’s wrong. I open the door. Mrs. Silverman’s sitting at her vanity, dabbing on foundation. A few outfits are spread out on her bed for later tonight—a charity ball. On her bedside table is a magazine. The magazine. She sees me staring at it.

  “Just ran its first publication today. A friend sent it to me in the mail.”

  “Mr. White,” I say breathlessly.

  “Ever-thoughtful man.” Her words splinter with too-formal ice.

  “Mom, let me explain—”

  “There will be no explaining. At least not until he gets here. You will wait in the living room with me for him to arrive. Situate yourself there. I will be down shortly.”

  What most would see as anger, I see as pain. She’s feeling betrayed but trying hard to keep her composure. She wants to cry. Her lips quiver as I back out and shut the door. Marie doesn’t look at me. I settle on the couch and press my hands between my knees.

  Why would she invite Mr. White over? To confirm he saw me there? To clear the air once and for all? All of my training narrows down to this one moment. This confrontation. I have to get through it. I’m too close to the painting to be booted out like this.

  All of my suffering, all of everyone’s suffering, has to be for something.

  I go through the modes in my head—martyr, victim, accuser. I can be all of them, but which one will work? A con artist’s work is not preplanned—it’s reactive, not proactive. I need to relax. Breathe. Deep breaths, just like Mrs. Silverman and I practiced. Just like we practiced together, calming down together, laughing together—

  Erica’s eyes water.

  The tears drip on Violet’s knees.

  Focus. Focus harder on the edge of the coffee table. Wipe your eyes on your sleeve and learn some composure, sweets.

  Mrs. Silverman comes in, moves stiffly. She sits beside me, too far away. The knock on the door shortly after mashes my heart into my throat. Marie answers it and ushers in Mr. White to the sitting room. He takes off his hat and settles across from us in an armchair.

  “Mrs. Silverman. Thanks for having me.”

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She smiles. “Would you like tea? Or perhaps coffee? With your long hours of work, caffeine must be your friend.”

  He chuckles. Chuckles. He doesn’t even care that at the moment he’s stress-aging me by a decade. He refuses any drinks, gaze flickering between us with almost-regret. Now he’s having second thoughts? Or maybe he knows he’s ruining me. Us.

  “I’ll get straight to business, Mr. White, to save us all valuable time.” Mrs. Silverman folds her hands on her lap. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “Fire away.” He nods.

  “Why have you been following my daughter without my permission?”

  Mr. White’s eyes darken. Hesitates. “With all due respect, ma’am—”

  “By following my daughter without my express order, you are showing a profound lack of respect for my family and me, Mr. White.”

  “I understand—”

  “Do you? Do you really understand thirteen years of unending visceral nightmares? Of doubts? Of being questioned by the police who think you or your husband killed your own daughter?”

  Mr. White keeps his mouth mercifully shut. Mrs. Silverman’s face tinges red.

  “I will not have you harassing my daughter like the police have harassed me. We have been through enough—”

  “With all due respect, ma’am”—White raises his voice—“your daughter was seen at a club with the daughter of a notorious criminal defender with mob ties—”

  “And that proves what, Mr. White?” Mrs. Silverman interjects, her voice rising too. “That she’s a teenager who sometimes makes poor choices? We all have. We all still do. You most of all.”

  “I can prove that she’s been using a magazine to clandestinely communicate with—”

  “You are speaking from your heart, Mr. White. Not your head.” Her voice is a near-scream. It echoes in the huge house—the call of a dying hawk. I swallow hard and glance at Mr. White, his frown tightrope-tense. She knows about his attraction. I hadn’t told her. Maybe she knew from the beginning.

  “Erica,” she says finally, “is there anything you’d like to say?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I think we all deserve more than two words,” she insists.

  “I went to the club. It was fun. I didn’t drink or do anything crazy. I promise. But Taylor, she got a little drunk, and I had to help her home. She lives on the edge, she has a weird dad, but she’s not a bad person. She’s just trying to live in her own way. Work things out in her own way.”

  “Why did you lie to me?” Mrs. Silverman asks softly.

  “I felt so caged in. I love you, I love this house and everything you’ve given me, but after a while it just felt like . . . stuff. It felt like I was carrying it all around, like it was sitting on my chest. I had to get out. Try something different. Live. Try to be a normal”—I choke on the word, and it’s not faked—“a normal teenager.”

  There’s a beat before Mrs. Silverman stands. “You will not lie to me again. If you need that escape, that release, just tell me. Remember? We promised to be open with each other?”

  “Sometimes”—I stand—“sometimes I just want to close down.”

  “And you can. If I’m too pushy, if I pressure you again, speak up. I’ll give you space. You just have to communicate your needs with me.”

  Her understanding words are soothing harp chords on my tense brain. Unwind me note by note. Forgiveness. I expect a closet, no dinner. Some punishment. Mr. White stands as Mrs. Silverman draws me into her for a hug, and he makes for the door.

  “Mr. White,” she calls over my head. He turns. “Thank you. For your good intentions.”

  Mr. White and I lock eyes over Mrs. Silverman’s shoulder for a split second. An acknowledgment. He nearly bested me. I nearly bested him.

  A draw.

  A courteous nod, and he’s gone through the door, a mountain of a man who’d come the closest to busting the greatest teenage con artist this side of the Mississippi.

  I still get grounded. My cell’s taken away for a week, and I can’t go anywhere with Cass or Merril. Taylor coming over is out of the question. Any plans I had of going to James’s once-a-week band meetings to say sorry are kaput.

  It takes one phone call to the lawyers to get the magazine’s circulation to stop. I can only pray no one at school saw it or bought a copy. But my prayers haven’t been known to do much. If the school sees it, they’ll associate me with Taylor. While Violet doesn’t care, it’s not good for my Erica good-girl image.

  Of course the school has seen it. The halls buzz with glances and whispers about Taylor and me. Cass shrugs and waves it off. Merril is angrier.

  “How could you hang out with her like that? When Kerwin said you went, I didn’t think you actually did it. Why Taylor? She’s Commander Bitch.”

  “She’s not so bad, Mer.” I sigh.

  “Really? Because this morning she drew a penis on my locker with red Sharpie and tried to trip Kerwin down the stairs. Do you know how dangerous stairs are? You can break your neck if you fall down too many. She could’ve killed him.”

  “She’s a Goth, not a murderer.” Cass laughs. “You overreact, Merril, seriously. Chill for once. I th
ought getting a boyfriend would mellow you out.”

  The rumors have even reached the faculty. Mr. Roth stops me as I pass his desk after class.

  “Erica. A moment, please.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll get right to it.” He rubs his eyebrows. “I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with the office about your level of mathematical education. I feel as though you’re holding yourself back. Many times, even on problems you get wrong, you take highly advanced shortcuts.”

  “Mr. Roth—”

  “Please, Erica. This is not an argument. It pains me to see a brilliant student hold back her true potential just to fit in with her peers. I’ve seen the magazine like everyone else, and I won’t grill you on it, but Taylor’s is not the best example to follow.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I guess I don’t realize when I’m doing it.”

  “If you keep dumbing yourself down, you won’t be able to reach for the bigger scholarships. Your talent will go unnoticed.”

  He cares. He cares about me. My “talent.” He said I have a talent. A talent for something other than conning? The thought sends a spark through my heart and warms my blood. I’m good at something. Something other than being a liar.

  “Thanks, Mr. Roth. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  After school, on the way to the hospital, Mrs. Silverman drives calmly, merging into the next lane. The high of Mr. Roth’s compliment is long gone. I’m back to reality now—conning. My life, my air, my blood. I need to take the next step in the con. I need more information on the code, and the zoo it pertains to.

  “We went to the zoo,” I say.

  “When you were younger, yes. The zoo was your favorite place.”

  “Pandas,” I murmur. “I remember them.”

  She breaks into a smile. “You were very scared of them.”

  “Scared? Of a two-tone teddy bear?” I quirk an eyebrow.

  “Don’t ask me why. Some children hate spiders; some don’t like deep water. You didn’t like pandas.”

  “They do smell bad.”

  She laughs. “We can go again if you’d like. Saturday’s the day your grounding lets up. We’ll go in the afternoon and avoid the lunch crowd.”

  I’ve brought a Polaroid camera I found in Erica’s room. It’s still loaded with a cartridge. Mr. Silverman must’ve gotten it for Erica—I found it tucked away in the closet with a From Santa still taped on the box. She was too small to use it, no doubt, but that didn’t stop him from buying a bright pink skin with unicorns on it.

  Mrs. Silverman shoots me a look.

  “I thought it would jog his memory.” I shrug. “It’s worth a try, right?”

  She sighs. “Anything is worth a try.”

  A stroke of luck—Nurse Rodriguez is nowhere to be seen. This is my opening. I have to act now. I steer Mrs. Silverman to ask the most harried-looking nurse around for access to Dad. Mrs. Silverman waits, like usual, by the vending machines. Instead of waiting for the nurse to bring Dad to me in the lobby, I meet them at his door.

  “I can bring him to the table”—I glance at the woman’s name tag—“Audrey.”

  “Would you do that?” Nurse Audrey sighs. “I’ve got a new admittance I need to see to.”

  I assure her it’ll be fine. I wait until her heels disappear around the corner before I turn to Dad, lacing my arm through his.

  “Can you show me your room?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Nobody sees it but me.”

  “But look!” I hold up the pink camera. “Do you remember this? You got me this. I never got to take pictures with it. I want to show my friends where my dad lives.”

  “I live in a bad place,” he mutters.

  My eyes glance around for Nurse Rodriguez. She could pop up at any moment.

  “C’mon, Dad, please? You worked so hard on those beautiful walls. It would be a shame to never have a picture of them. What if the nurses paint over them? Erase them? You don’t want them to disappear forever, do you?”

  He nervously shifts from foot to foot. He finally makes a decision, and pushes the door open. Clears his throat.

  “Only a few pictures.”

  “Thank you!” I dart in and snap away. Start with the top right corner, work my way down and up as I move in a circle. I air each picture out and line my coat pockets with them. Dad’s head bobs in a few frames as he paces the room.

  “Smile!” I call to him. He turns and makes a pained grin. Guilt. His listless smile sends dead bolt arrows of guilt to lodge in my stomach. I ignore them, smile back, and keep snapping.

  The code.

  That’s all I need.

  That’s all I’m here for.

  None of it makes any sense.

  I’d managed to write the equations from the pictures into a notebook. Eight equations show up more than the others. I start dissecting them. I’m vivisecting the math beast Dad created. I solve them in a basic, sane manner, and come up with impossible decimals. I punch them into search engines, and piece together sections. They read like madman scrawl, but the amazing part is, they somehow work. Nothing is out of place. Everything is there for a reason, and the equations should come to a solid answer. Not a decimal like I’m getting. Not a four-letter hexadecimal after binary conversion. I need one number or one letter for each equation. I’m doing something wrong, but I don’t know what.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe these eight repeating equations in his room mean nothing at all.

  Sal pushed me especially hard in math. Now I think I know why. Mr. Silverman was an engineer. A professional mathematician. Habit is not easily broken, but it is easily traced. It’s a scent the bloodhound in me is eager to follow, and the skills Sal honed can help me follow it further than anyone else. I’m the best person for this job. I’ve been created to be the best person for this job: Frankenstein in dirty blonde, elaborate lies, and cheerful smiles.

  I’m looking at this the wrong way. I consider taking the problems to Mr. Roth. No, too risky. He’d know right away the equations weren’t my work. He’d ask questions. Everything I do is under suspicion, and with Mr. White and Kerwin hanging around, I can’t trust anybody.

  Except one.

  But I’m too chickenshit to call him. He’s just as good as I am at math. He might have a fresh perspective, might see something I don’t. But beyond morning pleasantries, I haven’t talked to James since our date. Even Violet’s hesitating, bravado sapped. This is for the code, Violet.

  Learn some composure, sweets.

  I use the house phone to dial Taylor.

  “What’s up? It’s Taylor. Leave a message or go away.”

  “Hi, Taylor. It’s Erica. I just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven’t been talking to you much.” I laugh nervously and go quiet. “You probably saw the magazine. I’m sorry. You know that I can’t hang around with you when there’s something like that out there. I’m supposed to be an angel, not a fantastic devil like you.”

  What else is there to say? You would get along better with my real self? Thank you for even trying to be my friend when I can’t be honest or genuine with you? When I can’t even say I like you out loud to the public.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m so fucked up.”

  I hang up. My words are slurring informally. I’m swearing. Go away, Violet. I’m so close. I’m almost there.

  Taylor never calls me back. Friday passes. I pull a cardigan on and smooth my skirt. Mrs. Silverman wears a floral dress and a windbreaker. It’s the warmest day in weeks. She holds my hand as we buy tickets. Families yell and cry and whine all around us. Mrs. Silverman stares at a baby in a stroller.

  “You always wanted a brother or sister.”

  “Sister,” I tease. “Who would want a brother? Sticky and smelly and annoying.”

 
“But a sister would’ve stolen your toys to play with.”

  “Never mind. Brother, please.”

  She smiles and squeezes my hand. We watch the bright pink flamingos and wander through the African exhibit. The lions look cold and out of place lying across fake rocks. The hippos wade in murky water and drop poop. For a second I think Mrs. Silverman will wrinkle her nose or tactfully ignore them like a socialite might. But she laughs instead.

  “Give him some privacy.”

  The giraffes look like mistakes—who could ever stand so tall on legs so thin? Tropical birds in all colors flit through artificial greenhouses. The elephants delicately slide hay into their gaping mouths.

  “Their trunks have two points of dexterous contact. Imagine only having two fingers,” I say. Mrs. Silverman holds up two in a peace sign. “No, more like only your index finger and thumb. You could still write like that. I wonder if elephants can write?”

  “Probably,” she muses. “Maybe those two points are like two thumbs.”

  “Elephants do paint.” The zookeeper overhears us and walks up to the fence. She holds a hooked rod in her hand, probably for herding the elephants. “Though they generally need training. Just techniques and those sorts of things. The pictures they paint all come from their imagination.”

  “Do the pictures make sense?” Mrs. Silverman asks. The keeper shrugs.

  “Sometimes. Not usually, unless they’re guided by their handlers. They just scribble. But they’re beautiful scribbles.”

  Paintings. I focus on the word. That’s what I’m here for. I’m not supposed to be enjoying this outing as much as I am. I have to try to get the code from Mrs. Silverman too. Anything she says about the memory that the code is linked to will help. Delicacy is top priority.

  The pandas sleep under a spray of golden bamboo that looks unnatural against the Nevada sky. This isn’t foggy China. The pandas don’t seem to care. Or maybe they’ve just given up wanting to go home. Maybe this is their home. Mrs. Silverman closes her eyes and smiles.