Imposter

by Antony John

  “Our chaperone just ditched us,” I tell her.

  “What happens now?”

  “Well, since there’s no one to watch out for you, I take advantage of your innocence by linking arms and making idle chitchat.”

  “Sounds scandalous. Don’t tell me: Then you cast me aside.”

  “You’ll be soiled goods.”

  “No one’ll marry me.”

  “Tsk. Guys!”

  “Yes,” she says, linking arms anyway. “Guys.”

  We head out to the waiting limo. Safely inside, Annaleigh rests her head against the window. It’s a wide backseat, and there’s a lot of real estate between us.

  “I was worried about you this afternoon,” I say. “You seemed . . .”

  “Depressed?” She reaches for her neck again, for the long hair I’m pretty sure she used to have. “I’m fine. That stuff about Sabrina being your friend instead of your sister caught me by surprise, is all.”

  “She said you’re great in the lead role, though.”

  “Based on one read-through.”

  “Sometimes once is enough. I only saw you on the treadmill for a moment last night, but I can tell you run track.”

  “Uh-uh. I just run by myself. I do it to get out of the house mostly. That’s why I started acting too—so I have something to do when the days are short.” She lowers her voice. “When I’m in a play, I can go almost a full day without being at home.”

  She peers up at me, which is how I realize that I’m sitting very straight. I had her pegged as a classic overachiever—fit, smart, motivated—and now I realize that it isn’t just her accent that she’s been keeping under wraps.

  “Is home so bad?”

  She bites a fingernail. “It’s complicated. My parents and me, we don’t get along. The things my dad does . . .” She shakes her head, closes the book so soon after opening it. “What about you? Why do you act?”

  I’m still clinging to her confession, wanting to know more, which is probably why my answer is unguarded. “It’s the only time people really notice me. Most of the time I feel like my dad and brother and me, we’re completely invisible. Like, nothing that happens to us can ever move the needle for anyone else.”

  “But it’s different when you’re acting.”

  “Yeah. When I’m onstage, everyone watches. They don’t even see Seth Crane. They see whatever character I’m playing, and the character matters to them, you know? I want to feel like everything I do and say—every single moment—really matters.”

  The limo slows down. Cameras flash through the closed tinted windows.

  “You’re not in character now,” she says, “and the cameras are waiting for you anyway.”

  I get out and wrap an arm around Annaleigh protectively. I try to carve a swath through the hustling photographers, but they’re reluctant to move aside. Their flashes burn white spots at the center of my eyes.

  No wonder Sabrina told me to divide myself in three. If this is what it feels like to matter, it’s not what I expected. Onstage I’m in control no matter how bright and hot the spotlights, but here I’m a patient on a gurney as a team of surgeons examine every part of me. They’re invasive and unapologetic. I belong to them now.

  Annaleigh startles me by putting her hand in mine. “This way,” she says, taking charge.

  Machinus Media Enterprises is housed in a large open-space industrial building. A cacophony of modern art hangs over concrete walls. The music is loud and the mood lighting is low, as if everyone prefers to exist in a state of perpetual twilight. I recognize their faces anyway, though, because there are celebrities here—teens and adults, actors and musicians. They linger at the bar in the center of the room, and huddle in the nooks and crannies that fan out from the corners.

  I remind myself what Ryder said about getting people to notice me, but I’m not about to introduce myself to strangers. Maybe I should follow Gant’s advice instead: Celebrity autographs sell great on eBay!

  “What are you smiling about?” asks Annaleigh.

  “I was just thinking, I’m so out of my league.”

  “We,” she corrects. “We are so out of our league.”

  My cell phone chimes. I hope it’s Ryder, our personal choreographer, offering directions for how to behave, but the text message is anonymous: Get a drink, imposter.

  I tense up. I don’t like that word—imposter—and I especially don’t like that it’s anonymous. Only a few people know this number.

  I look around the room, but the only person I recognize is Curt Barrett, our financier, and he’s too busy schmoozing to send a text. As our eyes meet, he peels away from his entourage and joins us.

  Like a busy maitre d’ Curt introduces us to people whose names I instantly forget, and some whose names I’ve known for years—a reality TV host, an award-winning character actor, a former child star. An official-looking photographer records every introduction.

  Curt steers us toward a tall guy with long hair. “You’ve already met Kris Ellis, haven’t you?”

  Kris tilts his head. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks me.

  He’s flanked by at least half a dozen guys, all of them watching me. I recognize a few from TV shows, but not the others. They shadow him as closely as bodyguards.

  As I gawk at the entourage, Annaleigh steps forward. “We haven’t met,” she says. “I’m Annaleigh.”

  “I know who you are.” A smile pulls at the corner of Kris’s mouth. “Interesting junket this afternoon. I kept thinking: I wish I could see more of the female lead.”

  Annaleigh blushes. “You would’ve seen plenty of her if you and Sabrina hadn’t dropped out.”

  “I’m just saying, when it comes to junkets, people often say too much. Sometimes less is more.”

  “And more is less, yeah. Which one am I, by the way? More, or less.”

  Kris knows she’s teasing him, but he laughs anyway. And once he laughs, his posse laughs too. Difference is, they’re all still looking at me, not Annaleigh.

  “So,” says Annaleigh. “You got any career advice for us?”

  Kris looks at Curt loitering a few yards away and lowers his voice. “Sure. Curt Barrett is a visionary. If he’s putting up the money for this movie, he clearly believes in it. Don’t do anything to change his mind.”

  “You mean, like dropping out without warning?” I ask.

  Kris flexes his jaw muscles. “Exactly.”

  “He still invited you here tonight, though.”

  “You might say we made up.” On cue, Kris’s entourage laughs like well-trained dogs. “But you’re not me. Not everyone deserves a second chance.”

  My phone chimes again, startling me. I glance at the screen: Smile for the cameras.

  None of Kris’s guys has a cell phone out, so they can’t be sending the texts. Plenty of other people around the room have phones out, but I don’t know any of them.

  “Is everything okay?” Annaleigh whispers.

  I don’t want to freak her out. “Yeah . . . fine.”

  “Seth, Annaleigh,” booms Curt, rejoining us. He’s clearly anxious that we remain within his gravitational pull. “I don’t think you’ve met Tamara.”

  Kris peels away as the new arrival steps up.

  “Tamara Pelham,” she says, shaking our hands. She has the angular face and dramatic makeup of a model. “You’re the ones in Whirlwind.” She runs a finger around the rim of her wineglass. “Tell me, what’s it like working with Sabrina?”

  “She’s a talented actress,” says Annaleigh, staying close to me.

  “Actress, yes. Must be hard to know where you stand with her.”

  “That’s kind of the point of semi-improvised drama, right?” I say.

  Tamara smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You two are cute. Funny too,” she adds like we’re
part of the evening’s entertainment.

  “Funny’s good.” I turn to Annaleigh. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Absolutely. Almost as good as a drink. Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  As Annaleigh leaves, Tamara’s eyes drift over my shoulder. “Time for me to go too, I think.”

  She steps away as Sabrina arrives, like a partner cutting in during a dance. Did Annaleigh see Sabrina coming? Is that why she left?

  Annaleigh and I aren’t the only ones who have had another wardrobe change. Sabrina’s black cocktail dress ends well above her knees. She’s wearing her game face too: teasing lipstick smile, eyes dark and smoky.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite costar.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I trust you weren’t taken in by the competition.”

  “Competition?”

  She locks our arms and leads me away. Guests raise cell phones to capture the image of us together, hips touching, perfectly in stride.

  “Did Tamara get what she was after?” Sabrina continues, ignoring my question.

  “What was she after?”

  “Oh . . . news. Information.” She leans in close. “She’s the model Kris has been seeing in secret since we broke up.”

  So that’s what Sabrina means by “competition”—for Kris. “Why is it a secret?”

  “Because he likes to keep his options open. Plus, she’s engaged.”

  “What? Does anyone know she’s seeing Kris?”

  “Sure. But no one will say a word. In this business, the moment you start shooting your mouth off is the moment you put yourself next in the firing line.”

  Guests turn to face us, cell phones at the ready. They stand in a bunch, wearing identical alcoholic smiles. All except for a young curly-haired guy on the left. He keeps one phone aloft as he talks on another. He isn’t even watching us, which makes me think he’s filming us, not photographing.

  Sabrina tugs my arm and we keep moving.

  “What about the press?” I ask. “Do they know about Kris and Tamara?”

  “Maybe. But you don’t make money by revealing gossip on Twitter. You make it in an exposé—something with good sources, so you’re safe if anyone sues for defamation or slander.” Does she memorize this stuff, or is it the kind of thing you learn from a life spent in Hollywood? “Anyway, they’re safe for now.”

  Safe seems an odd choice of word, but I don’t ask her about it. We’re almost to the back of the building, and the crowd has thinned out. Even the official photographer seems reluctant to follow. Presumably he likes to stay where the action is.

  “I thought we’d be having our rehearsals here,” says Sabrina.

  “In this room?”

  “No, in one of the rooms next door. It’s where Kris and I had read-throughs. But Ryder wants a closed shop. Says it’ll be easier to keep the dailies under wraps if we’re in our own building.”

  We round a corner and are completely alone. The corridor is narrow and poorly lit. I think I prefer Ryder and Brian’s office to this place.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming tonight,” I say.

  “Think I’d miss a chance to see what outfit Ryder laid out for you?” She obviously means it to sound funny, and her smile flattens out when she sees my reaction. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Although,” she adds, “you’ve looked pretty uncomfortable ever since you got here.”

  “So it was you who sent the texts, huh?”

  “What texts?” The question sounds sincere. But of course it would—Sabrina’s an actress.

  She breaks eye contact. Famous or not, she looks shy, demure as she bites her lip. “Forget what I said just now. The clothes look fantastic on you. You look fantastic. That dimple on your left cheek, the way you smile with your eyes and try to tame that cowlick—it’s all just so . . . real.”

  At the beach yesterday, she could hardly lift her eyes from the ground. Now they rove, taking in every part of me. In the whole crowded building, Sabrina has found the most private place to talk. It’s impossible not to wonder why.

  My body is rigid, but my thoughts race. Why does she like me when she hardly knows me? Am I a rebound? A way to get back at Kris? What if we’re photographed? I don’t ask any of these questions, though. As long as I’m face-to-face with Sabrina, I can live without answers.

  She leans forward, lips almost touching my ear. “I need to use the ladies’ room, but you’ll wait for me.” Her voice rises at the end, but I’m not fooled—it’s a statement, not a question.

  She’s absolutely right too.

  Sabrina rakes her fingers across my chest as she disappears around the corner.

  I wait for several minutes, rooted to the spot. Servers pass me, carrying trays of empty glasses. They cast suspicious looks. Without Sabrina beside me, I feel conspicuously alone.

  My phone chimes again: She’s playing you.

  The words jolt me. Sabrina would never send this text. But then, who did?

  I turn the corner and survey the room.

  Annaleigh rushes over. “Where have you been?”

  “I was talking to Sabrina.” I look past Annaleigh, but there are so many people, and so many phones.

  “You needed some privacy, huh?” She doesn’t sound amused.

  “We were just talking. What’s going on?”

  “Maggie’s here. Remember Maggie? From the office? We had an interesting chat. Ryder sent her because he’s busy rewriting the script.”

  “For Sabrina?”

  “No, Seth. Not Sabrina. Turns out we’ve got another new cast member. Brian and Tracie are working on the contract right now.”

  I try to stay cool, but I can see in her eyes that this is big. “Who is it?”

  “Ryder seems to think I need a best friend too. Says it’ll provide symmetry. You know, because Sabrina and you are BFFs.” She sounds exasperated. “Speak of the devil . . .”

  I force myself not to turn around. I’m playing catch-up here, and from the way Annaleigh is staring at me, I know there’s more to come.

  “Who’s been cast, Annaleigh?”

  She gives a rueful smile. “Kris Ellis.”

  13

  “WHAT DID I MISS?” SABRINA ASKS.

  She rests her fingers provocatively on my arm. I stare at her hand, the black polish carefully applied to each fingernail, and feel only the wrongness of everything: Kris’s casting, the anonymous text messages.

  I expect Annaleigh to say something, but she’s already heading toward the bar and Kris. Is she about to argue with him, or is she hoping to make a good impression on her newest costar?

  Sabrina slides her hand under my arm and pulls me around, her eyes dancing, cheeks flushed.

  “Was it you who got Kris back into the movie?” I ask as she leads me back to our secluded nook.

  “Yeah.” She stands closer to me than before. Her impossibly dark eyes keep roaming, never fixing on me. “It’s just a small part.”

  “Until you can get your original roles back, you mean.”

  “What?”

  “If you and Kris are getting back together, you should just be honest about it.”

  The corner of her mouth twists upward in a smirk. “Wake up, Seth. If I wanted Annaleigh’s role, I’d ask for it.” She nods at my shocked expression. “You heard what they were saying at the junket. You saw all those people photographing us just now too. How many people took photos of you and Annaleigh, huh?”

  I hate her for saying that. It’s true that Annaleigh and I hardly make a ripple in this sea of celebrities and socialites, but I never thought Sabrina would lord it over us. Will anyone even remember us when Ryder presents Sabrina and Kris as a package deal again?

  “This is our big break, Sabrina.”

  “I know.” She squeezes my arm. “Relax, okay? Everything will work out.”


  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a bit player in Sabrina’s elaborate plot.

  “You trust me, right?” she says. “I opened up to you. Told you everything.”

  She’s wrong about that. The Sabrina who sat with me on the beach told me everything, but that vulnerable girl has gone now. This version of Sabrina seems distant and untouchable. I feel like I’m watching her cycle through her three personas.

  She runs her hand behind my head and pulls me in for a kiss. Coils her leg around me, so that our hips touch. For a few moments, I silence the voices in my head. Shut out the doubts. Sabrina is so freaking beautiful, and we’re kissing.

  “See?” she says, biting her lip. “You’ve got to learn to trust me.”

  She makes it sound like a threat, as if there’s a price for crossing her. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this entire scene is playing out in a darkened corner where no one will see us.

  A clattering sound to the right distracts me. A middle-aged woman apologizes as the curly-haired guy retrieves his phone from the floor. When he straightens, he glances over and sees me watching. He slides the phone away and leaves.

  “I think he was filming us,” I say.

  “Let it go,” Sabrina mutters. “These guys’ll drive you crazy.”

  “Crazy enough to skid off the road? That guy in the car yesterday was just following us. This one’s filming us.”

  “So what? Hundreds of people here have cameras.”

  Yesterday she was paranoid about a photographer one hundred yards away. Today someone films us kissing, and she blows it off. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that I might have an opinion about this too. This isn’t the same as sitting side by side on the beach. How much of our kiss did he get? What does he plan to do with the images?

  I expect the guy to head toward the bar, where he can blend in. Instead he’s making for the nearest exit. Who shows up to a party alone, and leaves by the side door?

  “Send any texts recently?” I call out to him.

  I’m not expecting him to react at all, let alone look anxiously over his shoulder. But as our eyes meet, he runs.