Imposter

by Antony John

  Sabrina peers over her shoulder, hair fluttering across her face. The sun illuminates her left side, leaving her right in mysterious shadow, and for a moment I’m right back at the party, watching her from afar, wondering if something so beautiful can possibly be real.

  “I trust you, Seth,” she says. “I think you know what I want.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re back in the car. Sabrina leans over to click her seat belt and our heads almost bump. She breaks the silence with another round of laughter, her breaths laced with the odor of cigarette smoke.

  It bothers me, that. Scuffs the sheen of perfection.

  “Did you choose wisely?” she asks.

  “I hope so, yeah. Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere quiet, so I can tell you stuff that matters.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how sorry I am that Kris was at the party last night. If I’d known you were going to be there . . .” She starts the engine. “Some things end naturally, I guess. Others, not so much. Guess it serves me right. I’ve never been good at keeping friends.”

  We head west on Sunset Boulevard. I’ve driven the street before, several times, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine making the journey with a movie star. “What about Genevieve Barron? There are thousands of photos of you two.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Thousands?”

  “Uh, that sounds kind of stalkerish, huh?”

  “No. Knowing that Gen and I were friends doesn’t qualify you for that. You’d need to know really detailed stuff. Like, how Seth Crane missed out on a Chevy commercial.”

  A part of me feels embarrassed; another part feels flattered that she’s been checking up on me as well. “So you’re a stalker too.”

  “No. I just like to research my costars.”

  “All of them?”

  She covers her mouth to hide the smile. “Well, half of them.”

  I think we’re back to flirting again.

  She reaches across me and flips open the glove compartment. Removes a pair of shades and slides them on. I have to make do with squinting as we face the sun head-on.

  “So you and Genevieve,” I say. “Did something happen?”

  She grips the wheel a little tighter. “You paparazzi now?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Just finding it hard to believe anyone wouldn’t want to be your friend.”

  “Ah. Well, there’s not much to say. We did three movies together, but she wanted out. She’s in college now. Doesn’t make it back much.” Her eyes linger on the rearview mirror. “I guess she’s pretty into her studies. Or maybe she needed to get away from here.”

  “Why?”

  Sabrina tilts her head from left to right, like she’s weighing up how much to tell me. “So she can find out what real life feels like.”

  We continue to the end of Sunset, where the road follows the hills like switchbacks on a mountain trail. Sabrina turns right onto Pacific Coast Highway, attention split between the road and her mirror.

  I turn around in my seat. “Is something back there?”

  “Forest-green Mazda. It’s been following us since we left the rehearsal.”

  The car is about fifty yards back. I can’t see the driver’s face behind the sun visor.

  “Why would someone follow us?”

  “Are you serious?” She accelerates gradually, holding the outside lane. “Your Hollywood education’s about to begin, Seth Crane. And it won’t be pretty.”

  We nudge over the speed limit. I glance at the side mirror. The car is still tailing us. “We should just pull over.”

  It’s like she doesn’t hear me.

  “Seriously, Sabrina. There’s no point in—”

  She jerks the steering wheel to the right. We knife across two lanes and skid to a halt just off the highway. Behind a cloud of dust, the Mazda passes right by. I get a split-second view of the driver’s profile—a youngish male—but not his face.

  “Are you all right?” I gasp.

  Sabrina’s eyes are fixed on the vehicles flashing past us. “I don’t like being followed.”

  I want to tell her it was a crazy thing to do and maybe he wasn’t following us at all. But Sabrina’s hands are shaking. Maybe I’d be paranoid too, if I were her.

  She breathes in and out slowly. “Let’s go eat.”

  It’s reassuring to feel solid ground again. I fill my lungs with brisk, salty air, and roll up the sleeves of my shirt. Sabrina locks arms with me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and leads me to a tunnel under the highway.

  We emerge onto Topanga Beach. The sun is setting over the ocean, casting long shadows of a lone couple and their dog. To the left, the lights of Santa Monica pier blink on, and beyond that, Venice. If Sabrina had planned this trip to the minute, she couldn’t have picked a more beautiful time to arrive.

  We stop a few yards from the water’s edge and sit on the cool, hard sand. “Keep your eyes peeled,” she says. “You might see dolphins.”

  I’m not optimistic about that. It’s already twilight, nothing but the glow of the December sun as it’s swallowed by the ocean.

  “Do you come here a lot?” I ask.

  “Used to.” She coils her hair around her right hand and drapes it over her shoulder. “I don’t go out much anymore.”

  I hand her a sandwich and she pretends to weigh it in the palm of her hand. “Vegetarian special.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. I just hoped, is all. It would mean you’ve read about me, and bothered to remember stuff. It would show you care.” Her features, twisted and tense, relax suddenly. “Do you think we’re going to be friends?”

  A few minutes ago, we were laughing and flirting. Now, as we unwrap our sandwiches and eat, things feel different.

  “I think that anybody who buys me food and doesn’t ask for the change is my kind of person,” I say.

  She holds her hand out, palm open, and I give her the money. “Good. Because anyone who can be bought for twenty bucks is my kind of date.”

  She raises her eyebrows and takes a bite of sandwich. Then she turns to the ocean, and for several silent minutes, it’s like she’s forgotten I’m even here.

  When we’re done, I fold the wrappers and slide them into my pants pocket.

  “Why did you think that Mazda was following us?” I ask.

  “Because every time I looked in the mirror, it was there,” she says.

  “Could’ve been a coincidence.”

  “That’s why I drove off the road. It happened right in front of him, but he didn’t even slow down. Could you ignore something like that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Exactly. They never stop watching, see.”

  “What about now?”

  “Even now.” She begins to open her purse, but stops herself. Tilts her head to the left instead. “There’s a guy a hundred yards away. Has a camera. Long lens. I don’t imagine he’s shooting the gulls at twilight.”

  I glance across the beach. “The camera isn’t pointed at us.”

  She cups my elbow and pulls me to a stand. “You’re sweet, Seth. I like seeing the world through your eyes.”

  We walk along the beach to an outcrop of rocks. Sabrina perches on one, while I take a seat on the sand beside her. She opens her clutch purse and removes cigarette papers and a pouch of tobacco.

  I’ve never seen anyone roll a cigarette before. It’s unnerving how smoothly she does it, like an actor delivering memorized lines in monotone. She licks the gummy edge of the paper and seals it, places it between her lips. “You don’t approve,” she says without looking at me.

  I shrug. “Why do you do it?”

  She removes the cigarette and stares at me. There seems to be a lot going on behind that stare. “Because it’s not illegal.�
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  “That’s a pretty weird reason.”

  She gives a wan smile. “Point is, they don’t follow me with cameras in case I do something they can write about. They do it because they have to write something. When there’s no story, they make one up.” She lights the cigarette with a lighter—not a disposable one either—and exhales smoke in a steady stream. “This is the closest I come to keeping control of the story.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me. That’s fine—you’ll learn. It doesn’t end with one guy in a Mazda. Just do a little research tomorrow and you’ll see this moment captured for posterity as well.” With each hand gesture, the glowing tip of her cigarette slices the air. “Anyway, I don’t smoke much.”

  “Liar.” I mean it to sound kind of funny, but her eyes grow wide. “I mean, you smoked at the cafe today. You roll your own. And you have a silver lighter. There’s probably an engraving on it too.”

  “Impressive. You sure you’re not paparazzi?” She holds out the lighter and I take it. I figure it’s a gift from Kris, but the engraving reads: Love, Mom.

  “Your mom gave you a lighter?”

  “Still wonder why I wanted legal emancipation?” She stares at the ocean. “That’s how my parents were back then. Each trying to outdo the other—give me anything I wanted just as long as I promised to go live with them. Then they’d go to court and say all the terrible things the other was doing.” She takes the lighter back. “Dad found this in my stuff along with cigarettes. Used them as evidence that Mom wasn’t fit to have custody.”

  “How is that evidence?”

  “I was fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? Your mom . . .” I swallow the comment. No need to state the obvious. “How do you have it now, if they took it as evidence?”

  “Dad gave it all back to me the moment we left court. Responsible parenting one-oh-one, huh?”

  I try to imagine how it must have felt to be in the middle of her parents’ war. To be viewed as a winnable commodity, even as they let her hurt herself. Who could behave like that and still maintain they loved her?

  “I was earning over a million dollars a year when I was fourteen,” she continues. “I’d like to tell you it was a surprise to see how much my parents wanted a piece of that pie, but everyone knows that’s bull. Fact is they put me in front of a camera when I was three months old. I was in four major advertising campaigns before my fifth birthday. I was almost seven before anyone realized that Mom’s homeschool curriculum was nonexistent. The year I turned eight, I earned more than my parents combined. And they were responsible for all of it. They just never asked me if it’s what I wanted.”

  “Was it what you wanted?”

  “That’s not relevant anymore. I was a child. I did as I was told.” She bows her head, and her hair falls across her face. She doesn’t sweep it away.

  Sabrina says she wants us to be friends, but I still don’t understand why she’s telling me these things. In fact, I don’t recognize this version of her at all—not from her movies, or her interviews, or her photos, and definitely not from last night.

  “Can I give you some advice?” she says finally.

  “Sure.”

  “You ever heard that Rita Hayworth saying? ‘They go to bed with Gilda. They wake up with me.’”

  I shake my head.

  “Gilda was her most famous role. But it was just a role.”

  “I get it. You want me to separate the real you from the characters you’ve played.”

  She hesitates. “Actually, I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.”

  I press my palms against the beach. I’m focused on her every word, but I have no idea where this conversation is going. Sabrina’s unpredictable, but not random. There’s a point to all this.

  The cigarette has gone out. She relights it, perhaps for the benefit of the camera she’s certain is clicking away in the shadows. “Do you know what Rita Hayworth did wrong?” she asks.

  “Became a movie star, I guess.”

  “No.” She stares at the smoke wisping away. “She saw herself as two distinct people—the real Rita, and the one made up by screenwriters. Only, the fictional one was better. Sexier. None of the imperfections.”

  “And you know the solution?”

  “Yeah. Go one step further. Divide yourself in three. The characters you play on-screen, the public persona, and the real you. Every time you step outside, you switch to the public persona. It’s another role, true, but it’s one you can keep forever. Don’t let them use you, Seth. Assume you’re being watched at all times. Judged. Photographed.”

  “Like we are now, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ah.” I scan the horizon. The man with the camera has moved on. We’re alone. “So who am I talking to at the moment? Real Sabrina? Or your public persona?”

  Sabrina continues to watch her cigarette, but she doesn’t smoke. Hasn’t taken a single drag since she first lit it, in fact. And when her eyes drift down and lock in on mine, I know why—because I don’t approve. Public persona Sabrina wouldn’t care. She’s showing me that I’m getting the real her. She’s letting me in.

  She slides off the rock and nestles against me. We stare into the blackness together. Our arms and legs and feet touch.

  At last, she stubs out the cigarette. “Like I’d tell you.”

  9

  IT’S ALMOST TEN O’CLOCK WHEN I get back to my room. I call home so Dad will have my new phone number and know I’m okay, but Gant says he’s already asleep. “Nice photo of you in the newspaper,” he adds. “You look badass.”

  “Uh-huh. What did Dad say?”

  “You’re front-page news, bro. Dad’s probably framed the picture already. Seriously, though, you want to tell me what went down?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s pretty weird they stuck you at a party with Kris Ellis, right?”

  Answering will only encourage him. “Not as weird as spending this afternoon alone with Sabrina.”

  He’s momentarily silent, and I love it. “Whoa. Back up. Sabrina Layton?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why the hell would she talk to you?”

  “Gee, thanks. Way to kill the vibe.”

  “No, it’s just . . . Sabrina Layton.” He murmurs her name like it’s a prayer. “She’s so . . .”

  “Cool?”

  “Hot.” He busts out laughing. “She is, though, right? It’s a fact. And she’s hanging out with you. Which doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Gant!”

  “No, no, no,” he says. “I just mean, she quit the movie, remember?”

  “And now she’s back in. Says she likes the project. I think she’s having some kind of crisis.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yeah. And a whole bunch of other stuff too.”

  “Wow.” He clicks his tongue. “Last week, you were killing yourself for Juliet. Now you’re Sabrina Layton’s arm candy.”

  “We’re not dating or anything.”

  “Whatever. It’s a step up.”

  I like hearing Gant say this, but still . . .

  “You won’t mention this to anyone, right?” I say.

  “Are you kidding? You just hung out with Sabrina Layton and you’re afraid it’ll be me spilling the beans?” He tsks. “It’d be a miracle if someone didn’t get a photo of you together. Heck, if you’d told me you were going one-on-one, I would’ve come down and taken the photos myself—made some quick money.”

  “Ha-ha. Good night, Gant.”

  “Good night, Romeo.”

  I hang up, and scroll through the numbers on my cell. Sabrina’s is there, but I don’t call her. It would feel kind of stalkerish. So instead I open my laptop and pull up images: Sabrina, Sabrina and Kris, Sabrina and Genevieve.

&n
bsp; I do a search for Genevieve Barron. Turns out, she’s a student at California Institute of the Arts, but the only link is to a story about her transition from actor to artist. There’s a quote about her needing to leave Hollywood to rediscover her “center.” She thanks her parents and God for helping her on her journey.

  I look up the institute’s website. The campus is in Santa Clarita, only thirty miles from Los Angeles. So nearby, yet there aren’t any photos of Sabrina and Genevieve together that date from the past month. Friends grow apart, I get that, but few have their separation illustrated so starkly.

  It seems crazy to feel sorry for one of the most desired girls in America, but looking at all these photos, I think I finally understand why Sabrina wants to be friends with me. Together, they chronicle the people she’s lost: her parents, her boyfriend, her best friend, and even her agent. Costars, love interest, and even stock characters have exited stage left. And when I scan the photos for their replacements, the ones who’ve won recurring cameos in her life, there’s no one onstage at all.

  10

  I NEED TO CLEAR MY MIND, so I put on swim shorts and head for the hotel pool. It’s dark outside, but the bright lights from the fitness center cast a warm glow over one end. Behind the large plate-glass windows, Annaleigh maintains a rapid pace on a treadmill. She has the metronomic, flowing gait of a seasoned runner. She also has a video camera strapped to her head.

  I slip into the pool and begin swimming: four short lengths of each stroke. When I turn onto my back, the hotel looms above me, festooned in Christmas lights. My life, previously so mundane, has become a fairy tale.

  When I switch to breaststroke again I realize that I’m not alone. Annaleigh sits on the edge of the pool, legs swishing through the water. She’s changed into a two-piece swimsuit. The underwater lights give her an ethereal appearance. Well, except for the headcam.

  “I don’t think treadmill footage is going to win many Oscars,” I say.

  “Hmm. What about footage of a naked Seth Crane?”

  “I’m not naked.”

  “That’s hard to tell from where I’m sitting.”

  A man emerges from the hotel, sees us, and stops. “Is that a, uh, camera?” he asks, staring at Annaleigh.