Pretending to Be Erica (8 page)

“After you, madam.”

I laugh and make a fake curtsy, slipping past the door.

The bald head is easy to spot from the windows of the classroom.

The PI, Mr. White, is sitting in a café across from the school. He reads a paper and puts it down when he hears the bell ring. The large glass windows of the café let him see the campus clearly. They let
me
see
him
clearly.

The reporters are dwindling by the day. If he decides to stand on the fence, he won’t be mistaken for a reporter. He’ll be seen as suspicious. Maybe that’s why he’s in the café now. Sal was right—the guy is certainly ex-military, his walk trained and limber. There’s a slight lope to his gait, though, the kind you see in people who spend a lot of time on the water. Navy, maybe special branch. Why would someone Navy turn to being a PI? An injury of some kind, most likely, that forced him to retire into civilian work.

A con artist is the world’s most desperate actor.

A PI is the world’s most desperate truth seeker.

He watches me as I wait for Mrs. Silverman to pick me up. I stand on the curb and shift my weight from one foot to another. Fiddle with my bag. Turn my head and glance at him out of the corner of my eyes without moving them, the first trick Sal ever taught me. Baldy is watching me very intently—an intent with more than money behind it. Doesn’t take his eyes off me. When people are being paid to watch you, they usually look away, take a drink of something, blink. He doesn’t. He’s doing this because he wants to, because he has some personal motivation. I doubt he was even asked by Mrs. Silverman to follow me. I can be wrong, like any human can, but I’m usually very right.

“Hey there, Fakey!” Taylor walks up. “Who are you looking at?”

“The bald man you told me about.”

“He looks real serious. Could be trouble.”

“I’ve got him under control.”

“So he’s not your partner, then,” she muses. “Must be your informant.”

“I don’t know him, okay? He’s just stalking me.”

“Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you’re a fake and he busted the other two fakes before you.”

I whirl to face her. “Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t care.” Taylor shrugs. “I just want to see how far you get before someone busts you. I’ve got money on a month.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I snarl. “But I’ll be sticking around for years. Get a refund while you can.”

The acid in my voice ricochets and hits me. Not years.
Years
is a lie. Saying
years
makes me feel worse. Heavier.

Taylor looks taken aback, her expression going soft, amused. “And here I thought you were just a spineless, whiny, rich-girl crybaby.”

“We rich-girl crybabies have our moments too.”

She laughs. No hyena cackle or half sneer tints it. It’s a normal laugh. One that isn’t condescending or cruel. Mr. White is staring at us now. His eyes flicker between Taylor and me, trying to work out our relationship.

“You’re not so bad when you aren’t being . . .” I trail off.

“Go on, say it,” Taylor challenges.

“Bitchy.”

She throws up her hands. “Bitchy, lesbo, emo—it’s always something. It’s like a girl can’t be sure of herself and not be called names.”

“Anger is a fire. Passion. It’s not a bad thing at all.”
Violet is like you, Taylor. Very much like you
.

Taylor quirks an eyebrow. “Erica Silverman—Queen of the Masses and prodigal returned child, telling me it’s okay to be me. Good thing you said it, otherwise I never would’ve known.”

The sun peeks out from behind a cloud. In the bright light Taylor’s hair looks even glossier. She’s proud of it. Takes good care of it. For all her sass, she still cares about what she looks like, what people see when they look at her. The heavy makeup she wore today covers her pale skin, hides it. It’s a shame. She doesn’t need surgeries like I did to be beautiful. She just
is
, naturally.

“Hey, do me a favor. Go ask that bald guy if he’s doing this for my mom,” I say.

“What’s in it for me?” she sneers.

“Fame. Love. Gobstoppers. Whatever you want.”

“I want the truth.”

I give a neutral shrug.

“Then no dice, Fakey.”

There’s a moment of quiet. She steps off the curb and spans the crosswalk.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Doing your shitty little favor.” She doesn’t turn around.

I watch her slip into the café. She stands over Baldy’s table and sneers my question. I watch his face. The corners of his mouth twitch. He looks outside, at me, and we stare through each other. I finally break into a smile and wave. It intimidates him more than the staring, because he severs eye contact. Taylor trots back across the street to me.

“What did he say?” I ask. I don’t need to know—that look told me enough. He’s definitely doing this for Mrs. Silverman.

“Told me to get lost. But, hey. Now you owe me, Fake Girl.”

“I’m thrilled,” I deadpan.

“You know, you’re not the happy little popular star when no one’s around. It’s like you’re another person entirely.”

My heart skips a beat painfully.

She laughs. “But that’s no different from anyone else in this school. In this
world
.” She holds her hands over her face and opens one like a door. “One face.” Opens the other hand. “Two faces.”

I take out a pen and grab her arm.

She recoils. “Oy! What are you doing?”

“Hold still.” I write my number on the back of her hand. “My number. I hate being in debt to someone. Call me when you think of how I can pay you back.”

Mrs. Silverman’s car pulls up then, and I jump in.

“Who’s that girl?” she asks.

“Taylor. I just gave her my number.”

“She looks awfully mad. Did you say something?”

“No, that’s her default expression.” I chuckle and strap myself in. “And, not to freak you out or make you worry, but do you know that guy?”

I point to the café. She glances at Baldy. They lock eyes. Or I think they do. Baldy gets up abruptly and leaves the window. Her face instantly pales, and she grips the wheel hard. Checkmate.

“He’s been following me. He’s just a little creepy. Probably a reporter.” I keep my voice light. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She smiles but doesn’t say anything more until we get onto the highway. “I don’t want any secrets between us, Erica. I want us to be honest with each other. That man back there was a private investigator.”

I look up from playing with my phone. She turns her blinker on.

“I hired him to look into the previous Erica. And the one before that.”

“Mom—”

“I didn’t hire him this time, honey. At least I did, but I hired him to look into your old parents, not you. I wanted him to find them. You have to believe me. I don’t know why he’s doing this; maybe he feels obligated? He’s the type of person who’d feel it was his duty.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I will,” she assures me. “I most certainly will be talking to him.”

We pull into the parking lot of the mental hospital. Mrs. Silverman tightens her coat around herself.

“He’s a little touchy today, but when I told him you were coming, he looked very happy.”

“He’ll want to play checkers again probably.”

“Probably.” She smiles, and her milky fingers search for my hand. I clasp it around hers.

The nurse sets up the board, and I settle in the seat opposite Mr. Silverman. He’s shaved recently—a step up. Today he’s the red side, and I’m the black. He bites his nails and drums his fingers on the table, but otherwise he makes no noise. Mrs. Silverman stays at a distance. It’s like she thinks I’m some miracle cure—a cure that can only be worked when Mr. Silverman and I are alone.

“I think I like someone, Dad,” I try. He moves his piece wordlessly. “A boy.”

Dads are supposed to hate the idea of their little girls going out with a boy. But Mr. Silverman’s protective instinct seems about as present as his mind. He sighs and motions for me to hurry up and make my move. I jump over a piece and capture it.

“He’s not very social. But then again, neither am I. I just pretend to be. Erica is social. Violet isn’t.”

My voice is too low for anyone but Mr. Silverman to hear.

“The boy doesn’t know who I am. He thinks he does. He’s good to talk to—challenges my brain. Seems like he’s always trying to look inside of me. It’s nice. To have someone try to figure you out. He never will, but the effort is nice.”

We play until I capture his last piece.

“You win,” he murmurs, disappointed.

“Not yet.” I pat his hand.

Sal,

No reports on the surprise yet. Going to ask about those special times and see if I can’t get her to remember the right one. It’s in the library—behind the right bookshelf. Can see the indent marks where it opens up. You’d think they’d put a rug.

They feed me too much—getting fat. Not body fat. Happy fat. Forgetting what it’s like to go hungry. Dull. Not sharp. Need sharp.

Don’t work good alone. I’ll do my best. This is the final exam. Won’t let you down. So many rules here. Don’t smile, smile, pretend you like this kid, help this girl go out with this guy. A sting is easier than one day in high school.

Will get code.

Violet

I track down Kerwin between chem and study hall. He’s leaning against a locker, chatting up some girl.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I smile. Kerwin straightens; the girl throws me a glower.

“Erica? What’s up?” he asks. “Sorry, Ruby, let’s talk later, yeah?”

The girl turns on her heel and sniffs. I smile wider.

“A friend of yours?”

“Something like that.” He grins nervously. “What’s up?”

“You like me.”

For ten seconds I think he’s gone comatose, but he blinks, his eyes growing dark. His depressor anguli oris goes slack and tightens again—a dead giveaway that what I said startled him. He wasn’t expecting it. It looks true, but some part of his face is holding back. There is something false here. He puts his hand over my shoulder and leans into me.

“So what if I do? Is that a problem?”

“I don’t like you.” I look up at him.

“And I can’t do anything to change your mind?”

“No. I already like someone else. But I do know someone who likes you.”

“Your friend Merril by any chance?”

“She’s pretty transparent,” I say, and laugh.

“But I don’t want her.” He leans in farther, nose brushing my cheek, his cologne flooding my sinuses. It doesn’t ring true. It’s not the motion of a simple high school playboy—rather of a worldly and experienced young man. “I want you.”

You want a lie, liar
.

“Where are you from, Kerwin?”

“I thought it was obvious. Wales.”

“Where exactly in Wales?”

The corners of his mouth crimp. “Swansea.”

“Do they know the meaning of
no
in Swansea?” I smile and duck to the side, breaking free of his shadow. “Merril really likes you. You might want to try her.”

His eyes get a hard edge. I walk away, four steps, and turn. “Oh, and Kerwin?”

He glances up, the hardness sharpening into a knife of something I can’t quite pinpoint. I’m not afraid. This isn’t sweet mutable Erica talking anymore. Violet is a raging fire burning out of my eyes, snapping the flaming reins.

“I know your game. I know you’re hiding something. If you hurt her, I’ll destroy you from the inside out.”

Kerwin Howell. I bring up the Google map of Wales, and find Swansea. He was lying, I’m sure. When people lie on the fly like that, they tend to stray just a bit off the truth. Instinct. It’s not Swansea, but there’s a good chance he’s from a town around there. Swansea is the biggest city in the county, and it’s a port city. A nearly as large port city is just south. Port Talbot. I scour the online newspaper, and get three years back before my eyes start to hurt. Nothing on Kerwin. Not even an obituary for anyone with his family name.

My phone dances on the table in vibrating circles. A strange number is on it. I pick up.

“You called, mistress?”

Taylor groans. “Don’t call me that. How’d you figure it was me?”

“I’m smart. You should try it sometime.”

“Whatever.”

“How can I help you?” I shut down the PC.

“That thing you owe me—meet me in two hours, in front of the Green Foods.”

“Just letting you know now—I’m not the best shoplifter.” Another lie. It’s the one thing I’m better than Sal at.

“Just meet me there, Fake. Wear something halfway nice.”

The line goes dead.

“A friend? That’s good, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you, but what are you two going to do at Green Foods?” Mrs. Silverman raises an eyebrow.

“Taylor’s dad is picking us up. We’re going to the movies. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay, I just—” She cuts off. “I’m worried. Just you and Taylor? That angry-looking girl? She didn’t look like your friend when I saw her, sweetie.”

“I’m getting to know her better.” I nod. “I promise, I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“Before eleven. I’ll pick you up,” she asserts.

“And I’ll text you her address.” I smile.

She sweeps over and kisses the top of my head. “I’m so glad you’re making friends. Just be careful, all right? I trust you.”

“I know.”

If anything, Taylor is starting to become my frenemy. I’m still unsure about her and what she wants from me. Mrs. Silverman offers to drop me off. In front of Green Foods, standing out among the pulsing families darting in and out with their dinner groceries, is a girl in all black, dark hair almost touching the bench she sits on. Taylor smiles and waves as we approach.
Smiles. Waves
. She’s better at faking happy than I thought.

“Hi, Mrs. Silverman.”

“Hello, Taylor, was it?”

“Yeah. It’s good to meet you finally. Erica’s told me lots about you. Good things, mostly.”

“Has she?” Mrs. Silverman shoots a look at me, and I nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your father will be here shortly?”

It’s Taylor’s turn to glance at me. “Yeah. In ten minutes. He’s getting off work, so—”

“Of course.” Mrs. Silverman smiles. “And what movie are you going to see?”

“The new vampire one.” Taylor shrugs. “Erica said she really wanted to see it.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” Mrs. Silverman turns and hugs me. “Stay in touch.”

“I’ll text,” I assure her, and pat her back. She leaves hesitantly, walking backward a few times to wave at us. We wave back, Taylor’s mutter disgruntled.

“Nice lady. Little clingy.”

“You get used to it.” I sigh, and settle onto the bench. “Wanna tell me why you called me out here?”

She plunks a paper bag onto my lap. I peer into the dimness—bright rainbow hair extensions, lines of beads, and sticks of makeup.

“You called me out here to give me unicorn vomit?” I quirk an eyebrow.

She ignores my jab and stands. “You ever been to a rave?”

“No.”

Her smirk is wide. “First time for everything.”

We wait an extra twenty minutes, just in case Mrs. Silverman’s still around. Taylor leads me to the bus stop. Soon we’re mashed together in one plastic seat, watching the world sway by in rose-blush twilight. Lights sprout. Radio towers, closing shops, rows of houses. The lady in front of us snorts and sleepily adjusts her knit beanie. When Taylor gets out on the south side of the city and leads me to the line of people around the block, Violet feels a wave of nostalgia hit her. Sal didn’t fit in too well at younger clubs like this, so I used to go alone and try to score something for the night. People don’t bring much to clubs, but you can always count on a wallet or a tip that lingers too long on a bar countertop. The line of waiting people are Lite-Brite meets My Little Pony, every color wrapped around them in neon hues. Stripes on pants, necklaces, hair dye. Taylor’s extensions peek out as highlighter orange feathers in a raven’s wing.

“Candy,” she says, and grunts, passing an armful of beads to me. “Put them on.”

I try to mimic what everyone else does—wrapping them on your arms and around your neck in a choker style.

“So I’m here because you needed someone to party with?” I ask.

Taylor snorts over the music thrumming from the open doors. “You’re here because I want you to be here, and you owe me. Isn’t that enough?”

I push back Violet’s trembling excitement and bring out Erica. “I’ve never really done anything like this. I mean, raves mean drugs, right?”

“You don’t have to do them if you don’t want to. Just stick with me, Fakey. You’ll be fine.”

As we get closer to the bouncers—huge guys in black with bald heads—the stuttering synth and heavy bass crescendo. I act flustered and nervous.

“Do you have, like, IDs to get us in?”

Taylor just laughs and pushes me forward into the bouncer’s view. She puts her hands on my shoulders and smiles.

“Evening, Jeff.”

“Taylor.” He nods. “Your dad doing all right?”

“Fat and insufferable as ever. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

He motions for us to go in. The darkness inside the doors swallows us whole, the music screaming across my eardrums. Needles of rainbow light flicker over the heads of the crowd, waves of purple and red flashing with the epileptic strobes. The club is doused in black light, every white shirt and shoe glowing bright sky blue.

“My dad’s client owns the place!” Taylor shouts in my ear as she leads me to a table tucked along the side. Merril’s words come back to me; Taylor’s dad is a mob lawyer. Taylor’s father is the spokesman for some very dangerous, very wealthy people. Sal and I never messed with the mob. We took careful steps to keep out of their territory and never rip off businesses that were mob fronts.

I watch Taylor go to the bar and order drinks. All around her people are dancing, neon pants swirling and lurid glow-in-the-dark bikini tops flashing. Cat ears, glow-straw haloes, and rainbow Mohawks bob in the sea of heads. Ravers hold glow sticks and flash them around their bodies in pseudo martial arts waves and twists. I spot the drug dealers immediately—hanging around the bathrooms with big hoodies. Big pockets. Enough space to hold bags of drugs. I’m willing to bet it’s the pure stuff too. If this place is mob owned, they’ll have the best dealers with the best stash drumming up business.

Third rule of conning: always know where your exits are. The front door is one. There’s an exit tucked behind the bar, and another behind the DJ table. Everything was obviously just thrown together in this warehouse, but thrown together by pros—fantastic lighting and sound systems.

Taylor comes back with three shot glasses between her fingers.

“I don’t drink . . .” I start. Besides occasional sips of things, I’ve never gotten hammered. A con artist needs her senses. A con artist can pretend to drink, but unless she’s alone, in the safety of her apartment with no one looking to take advantage of her, she doesn’t drink. I’m in a strange rave club and I don’t know what Taylor has planned for me. Drinking now would be begging for trouble.