Imposter

by Antony John

  I can tell from his face, Ryder really believes he’s putting me on the front line of cinematic history. He reminds me of a dictator single-mindedly pursuing his vision, blind to the wreckage piling up around him.

  “You should be proud, Seth,” says Brian. “You’re a natural. Take Sabrina, for instance. The reason she was at Curt Barrett’s party is because she was on the fence about rejoining the movie in a smaller role. But then you two started flirting—yeah, we have that on camera too, don’t worry—and anyone could see the sparks flying. She signed on the next day. Which is great, because when it comes to drama, nothing adds intrigue like a love triangle.”

  “Except telling everyone she’s a drug addict,” I snap.

  “That’s true,” says Tracie, nodding sagely. “Although we only found out about the pills because she insisted on sticking around. Sabrina was only in the movie to complicate things between you and Annaleigh, but I guess we underestimated how much she likes you.” Tracie smothers a smile. “Oh well. At least she gave us a major publicity push on her way out.”

  “Listen, Seth,” continues Ryder, still upbeat, “I saw you onstage. You had presence. But at the end of the show, you couldn’t even bow in time with the rest of the cast. Then you told me about the commercial—about how close you’d come—and I realized, we’re alike, you and me. We get knocked down, but we keep fighting. That kind of determination, that optimism . . . there’s something noble about it, don’t you think? And that’s the version of Seth Crane I’d like people to see in this movie—talented, aspirational . . . real.”

  It sounds like he’s giving me another pep talk, but I’m on high alert now and quickly decipher the underlying threat: As editor, he gets to dictate what version of me people will see.

  “So if I play along, you’ll make me look good,” I say. “And if I don’t . . .”

  Tracie has heard enough. “You should get on with your work, Ryder. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  Ryder doesn’t want to leave—probably still thinks there’s a chance he can win me over—but he does as he’s told. As soon as he’s gone, Tracie slides a small stack of papers across the table.

  “I’d like to remind you that you signed a nondisclosure agreement,” she says. “Break it, and we’ll sue the crap out of you. Play ball, and you get paid tomorrow. Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You think I care about that right now?”

  “You ought to. If you back out today, the contract is void. Annaleigh’s too, if we can’t continue. Think she’ll forgive you?”

  Brian takes out his cell phone and taps the screen. “Just in case you still need convincing . . .”

  I try not to look, but then I hear Sabrina’s voice coming through the tiny speaker: “That wasn’t a read-through. It was a humiliation. Seth was a fucking mess. If that’s all he’s got, we’re screwed.”

  Next is me: “I don’t care about Sabrina right now. For a while there, I honestly thought we were going to get cut. Now we’ve gotten a second chance, there’s no way I’m going down without a fight.”

  Sabrina’s voice again: “Why can’t you admit you hate me? Just say it!”

  Me: “I just feel like things would be easier if you weren’t around.”

  Brian walks over and holds the phone in front of me. The video playing on the small screen was shot right here in the rehearsal room, though I’m the only one in frame. “You probably feel guilty for letting the Kris and Tamara story get out,” says Tracie. “But hey, one fewer cast members means more time for everyone else.” In high-definition, I watch myself accepting money—hundreds of dollars by the look of it. “You won’t tell anyone about this, right?” Tracie asks. My reply: “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  I look up. Tiny cameras dot the rehearsal room ceiling. I never noticed them before. How many other cameras have I failed to notice?

  As if in answer, Brian loads new footage onto his cell. The lighting is low, but it’s clearly a hotel room—specifically Annaleigh’s room, filmed last night. I know because we’re both in her bed.

  “Ryder thinks we should fade to black,” says Brian, turning down the volume. “But I’m not so sure. Seems a shame to waste such great material.”

  I look away. I can’t watch it anymore.

  Brian rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder what kind of leading man you’re going to be. Are you a sensitive hero, or a guy who takes bribes? Are you the guy who bares his soul to Annaleigh, or the one who baits Sabrina into baring hers? Do we show you making out with Sabrina or making love to Annaleigh . . . or both? ’Cause you ought to be thinking about this stuff. How you come across in this movie affects how everyone else comes across.”

  “Annaleigh’s and Sabrina’s secrets are already out there,” I remind him.

  He glances at the cell phone. “Clearly not all of them. Anyway, who said I was talking about Annaleigh and Sabrina?”

  As Brian’s eyes shift to Gant, my brother seems to shrink a couple inches. “The waivers,” Gant murmurs. “Ryder said they were a formality, in case we appeared in any footage.”

  “And now you’re in plenty,” says Brian. “Actually, you and your father have become fascinating characters. He just sits with his laptop, trawling through job listings and checking up on his dwindling bank balance, but you . . . you’re a regular little Nancy Drew. Selling photos behind your brother’s back—”

  “I didn’t sell anything!”

  “But who’ll believe that, huh? I’ve seen the footage of your argument with Seth from last night, and I’m still not sure. One minute you’re browsing through photos you never should’ve taken, the next Seth is accusing you of selling him out. I think viewers will be disappointed in you, Gant. You come across even colder and more calculating than your brother.”

  Shock and anger fade away, and now I feel only guilt. Gant swore he didn’t sell that photo, and I didn’t believe him. Even worse, I gave Brian material to use against us.

  “There’s still time for a happy ending,” says Tracie. “The party tonight is going to be beautiful. Really romantic. The perfect opportunity to show Annaleigh and everyone else what a nice guy you really are. And we’ll all be there to make sure that you do.” She narrows her eyes. “You do want a happy ending, don’t you, Seth?”

  Against my will, I nod—an obedient puppy cowed into submission.

  “Good boy,” says Brian. “You should get back to her now. You ran out on her this morning, and it sounds like she’s pretty cut up about it. Oh, and one more thing. That poor little girl isn’t as quick on the uptake as you—has no idea what’s going on here. I suggest you keep it that way.”

  “You expect me to believe she didn’t read the contract either?” I ask.

  “She’s a minor. Her parents signed it.” He gives the words time to sink in. “Oh yeah, they know exactly what’s going on. But she doesn’t.”

  “She deserves to know.”

  “If Annaleigh quits on us before tomorrow, she’ll lose the money, and so will you. And as the whole world knows, her family needs that money to pay for Daddy’s lawyer. You think she’ll forgive you if her father ends up behind bars? Think she’ll be okay that you’ve been playing her ever since you got here?”

  “I haven’t played her.”

  “But that’s not how she’ll see it, is it? Not when she realizes you took a bribe to stay quiet.”

  Brian and Tracie file out of the room. Gant follows. I remain a moment longer, taking in the sterile space, empty except for tables and chairs—an office that can be packed up and vacated in a matter of hours. Is that why they’re telling me everything? Because our “movie” is nearing its conclusion?

  Brian stops beside Gant’s duffel bag. “Looks like you’re heading home,” he says. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I’ll take a bus,” says Gant.

  “No, no, no. I insist. It’s
always a tough moment for an actor, bowing out. The least I can do is make sure it’s a safe exit.”

  Gant heaves his duffel bag over his shoulder. Standing at the door, head bowed, he finally looks his age. He’s a sophomore, my younger brother, whom I swore to protect that terrible summer three and a half years ago.

  I hug him. I honestly don’t know if he’s going to be a rag doll in my arms, or if he’ll push me away. I certainly don’t expect him to stare right at me, conveying anger and determination. As clearly as if he were speaking, I understand him: We may have lost this battle, but the war isn’t over.

  I hold him tight. Maybe this hug is my way of begging forgiveness, or a promise that we’ll stick together. Probably both. But it’s more than that too, and as I whisper into his ear, I hope that he understands.

  Gant turns away and trails Brian through the door. I’m about to follow them when Tracie picks up my cell phone. “Forgetting something, Seth?”

  She tosses it to me. I pretend to fumble it. Let it fall to the ground.

  Then I stomp it into tiny pieces.

  34

  BACK INSIDE MY HOTEL ROOM, I head straight for the bedside lamps. Isn’t that where they hide spy cameras in the movies?

  Nothing.

  I check the desk, and the curtain rod, and the TV, but there are no cameras there either. It must amuse Ryder to see me scurrying around, frantically searching every nook and cranny. What will viewers make of my behavior when they see me on the big screen? Will they wonder if I was unaware of what was going on until this moment? Or will they say I’m just acting the role of innocent? Brian’s revelations have me caught in a web of second-guessing, and my own mind is doing the spinning.

  Someone knocks on the door. I answer it.

  “Where have you been?” Annaleigh asks. “I’ve been calling.”

  “I . . . I lost my phone.”

  I try the bathroom, but again, it’s clean. No cameras at all.

  “Ryder came by,” she says, taking my video camera from the nightstand. “He took the memory card from my camera and gave me a new one. When he realized we haven’t been filming each other much, he got real pissed. Said we ought to have hours of video by now.”

  She turns the camera on and films me. I don’t speak, though. Don’t even move, because it has suddenly hit me how Ryder got rid of the cameras in my room. Tracie sent him away from our meeting because he needed to get on with his work, but she wasn’t talking about editing. Ryder has been here, clearing away the evidence. I never thought about it before, but he must have a key, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to leave all those clothes in my closet. No wonder he was able to copy Gant’s photo from my laptop.

  I want to know if Ryder has taken down the cameras from Annaleigh’s room too, but it’s unlikely. Not while she was still around to see him. In any case, I’m not going to ask her as long as there’s a camera pointing at my face.

  “Talk to me, Seth,” she says. “I can tell something’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Really.”

  With a deep sigh, Annaleigh puts the camera away and turns on the TV instead. It’s a gossip show masquerading as news. There’s stock footage of Sabrina and the rehab center she’s checked into. The only live pictures are of the photographers lined up at the electric gates, camping out for a long-distance shot of Hollywood’s fallen star. And of her parents, still blaming each other for the mess their daughter’s life has become; still loving the feel of cameras on their faces, the delusion that they matter long after they’ve stopped having any influence at all.

  Annaleigh’s eyes fill with tears. “I didn’t know,” she says. “I swear, I didn’t.”

  I want to protect her from what’s happening, but that’s impossible. The only thing I can control is whether to tell her the truth now, or put it off until later. Will she hate me more for perpetuating the lie, or for opening up and making her share it with me? One thing is certain: Annaleigh needs the money even more than I do. Even though he doesn’t deserve it, she wants to help her father. Will she forgive me if I sabotage her only chance?

  On the TV, the stock footage plays on endless repeat: Sabrina in a sleeveless white gown at the Academy Awards. Her seductive, husky voice as she banters with the red carpet reporters.

  Blinking away tears, Annaleigh heads to the bathroom as another person knocks on the door.

  “Room service,” calls a voice.

  I open the door a crack. A waiter stands in the hallway, a large silver tray in his hands. There are two covered plates on it.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I say.

  He looks at the ticket. “Says here it’s for Annaleigh.”

  I take the tray and thank him. Go back inside the room and realize that I forgot to tip. By the time I return to the corridor, he’s gone.

  I place the tray on the bedside table and remove one of the lids. On a spotless white plate is a small Post-it note:

  $50,000-$500 = $49,500.

  I freeze, the silver lid swaying in my fingers. Stealing a shallow breath, I replace the first lid and lift the other.

  There’s a brand-new cell phone in the middle of the plate.

  It begins to ring.

  I snatch it up. The line is already dead, but the message is clear: They’re always watching.

  In the bathroom, Annaleigh shuts off the faucet. I don’t know how to explain the tray and the two empty plates, let alone the note and the new phone, so I carry them out to the corridor.

  “What did you order?” Annaleigh asks as I close the door.

  “Nothing. Waiter got the wrong room.”

  She glances at the TV. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

  We lie side by side on the bed. I run my thumb over the tear running down her cheek, and she kisses me. Instead of enjoying it, all I think is how lucky I am that Ryder has cleared the room of cameras, so that at least this moment is ours. Even when I’m not being recorded, Ryder and Brian are still in my head.

  We slide under the bedsheets, a barrier between us and the real world, and pull the covers over our heads. In that tiny space I hold her tight against me and we whisper like kids at a sleepover.

  At 4:53 I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I don’t want to leave Annaleigh, but I have to.

  I head to the bathroom to get a drink. I’m only gone a minute, but when I emerge, she’s perched at the end of the bed, eyes wide, lips quivering. I follow her gaze toward the TV screen, where the gossip show has found a new and perhaps even more tantalizing target.

  Us.

  We’re two lovebirds caught beside her patio doors. The photo is a little hazy on account of the glass that separates us from the photographer, but in the glow from her bedside lamp, one thing is clear: We’re both completely naked.

  “Turn it off, Annaleigh.”

  She turns the sound on instead.

  The commentators are running through the full repertoire of facial expressions: surprised, amused, appalled. A woman with big blond hair argues that we’re cute, and isn’t it good that Seth got away from Sabrina Layton before she pulled him into her sordid world. A ponytailed guy with sleeves of tattoos responds that having sex with a minor is hardly cool, and what must our parents think?

  “Please,” I beg. “Turn it—”

  The TV goes blank, and nothing remains but the sound of our breathing, and yards of empty room between us.

  “Why?” she murmurs. “Why is all this happening?”

  I don’t know what to tell her. Ryder has far more scandalous footage than that.

  “Do photographers just hang out there?” she demands. “Do they sleep on sidewalks? In bushes? Or don’t they sleep at all?”

  I traipse to the patio doors and lean my head against the cool glass. There’s no way any photographer could’ve gotten that shot, not with her room being on th
e fourth floor. But a camera mounted to the balcony rail would’ve captured it perfectly.

  “How do the paparazzi know which our rooms are, huh?” Her voice is a tortured growl. “Or that we were both there?”

  I could answer her questions, but I won’t. I won’t tell her that Ryder has listened to our nocturnal conversations through Annaleigh’s bugged cell phone, and set up enough cameras to capture every money shot. But I won’t play along anymore, either.

  The clock says 4:58. I’m going to be late.

  “We’ll get through this,” I tell her.

  She continues to stare at the blank TV screen. “We just have to keep going, right?” She says the words like she means them. Like this phrase I’ve been rolling out for the past three-plus years isn’t as meaningless as it is unconvincing.

  “I should go,” I say.

  She wraps her arms around herself. “Why?”

  “I just have to. But I’ll meet you downstairs before the party, I promise. I’m not going to leave you for a single second tonight.”

  “Even when I go to the bathroom?”

  I pretend to think about it. “Yup. Even then.”

  She chokes out a single laugh, grabs a pillow, and tosses it at me. I take the blow with a smile I don’t feel.

  “What if my parents don’t let me stay?” She slides back along the bed and pulls the sheets up to her chin. “When they see the news, they’re going to be pissed. If we’re together tonight, we should enjoy every moment, ’cause they’ll find a way to screw this up. Trust me. That’s all they ever do—screw up my life.”

  I want to reassure her that we’ll have tonight, no matter what. Her parents are counting on tomorrow’s payout, and they won’t jeopardize it with only a few hours to go. But now that I think of it, she’s right. What are the chances that her parents will let us stay together when everything is over? They’re about to get what they came for, and they won’t want any loose ends.

  As for Annaleigh and me, we’ll be collateral damage, a sweet story that blossomed fast and will pass away with similar quickness.