Imposter (6 page)

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“Sure is,” she says. “We're movie stars, see.”

“I can't believe you don't recognize us,” I add.

In the moment before he turns around and leaves, I'd say the guy looks a little freaked out.

Annaleigh grins. “Can't believe he didn't recognize us, huh?”

“You're the one who said we're movie stars,” I point out.

“'Cause we are. Could be a while before anyone knows it, though.”

“Hmm. We need to make headlines.”

“You could try starting a fight with Kris Ellis. Oh no, wait—you already did!”

“Kris is small-fry. I need a bigger target.” I smack the water. “I'm going to take down Hollywood!”

Annaleigh whistles. “Wow. You do think big.” She removes the headcam and offers it to me. “Remind me not to get in your way.”

While I adjust the strap, she pushes off from the edge and slides into the pool. She ducks down, and swims a length underwater. Beams of light dance around her like flames. When she reaches the end, she does a tuck-turn and continues back toward me without stopping to breathe.

She surfaces beside me. I expect her to gasp for air, but she doesn't. “Penny for your thoughts,” she says. She sweeps her short hair back. It's spiky, but cute.

“I was just thinking: How can any of this be real? Why
me,
you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I've lived near here all of high school, but everyone knows there's two Hollywoods. There's the place where Muggles walk around on sidewalks and cars drive bumper to bumper, and there's the magical Hollywood, where people's faces are on billboards a hundred feet tall, and anything can happen.”

She thinks about this for a moment. “Did you really just go all Harry Potter on me?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Hmm.” She puts her hand over her mouth to cover the grin. “I see your point, though. It's hard to believe this is real.”

“So what about you?” I ask. “What are
you
thinking about?”

She points toward the top of the hotel. “I'm thinking that penthouse up there is where Richard Gere and Julia Roberts got cozy in
Pretty Woman
.”

I follow her finger. “No way. My dad loves that movie.”

“All dads love that movie. Or maybe it's just Julia Roberts they love.”

“Do you blame them?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don't get me started.” She smiles again, but her expression is serious. “Do you believe in that whole Pygmalion, ugly-duckling-turns-beautiful-swan thing?”

“I don't know. I mean,
Pretty Woman
is hardly trying to be real, right? But yeah, I do think people become more beautiful the longer you know them.”

“Really? The way I see it, most people can hide their flaws for a while, but eventually the truth comes out.”

If she's talking about Sabrina, she's wrong. I know now that
Sabrina's not perfect, but she's more fascinating than ever.

“Here,” says Annaleigh, swimming close. “My turn again.” She eases the camera over my head, her fingers running through my hair. A few seconds later, the lens is pointed at me. “So did you and Sabrina hook up today?”

“What?”

She wields an imaginary microphone. “It's what all our viewers want to know.”

I splash her. Then I remember Brian telling us not to test the waterproof capabilities of the camera.

“
I
would've hooked up with her, if I were you,” continues Annaleigh.

“And if you weren't me?”

“I would've hooked up with Kris instead.”

“After what he did at the party?”

“We're talking about hooking up, not getting married. Anyway, since we're at Hogwarts, I'd just use a memory charm on him afterward to make him forget. Wouldn't want him to go all stalker on me.”

“Is that a problem for you normally?”

“Absolutely. Ex-boyfriends trail me around like puppy dogs.”

“Maybe you smell like bacon.”

She busts out laughing. “That is the weirdest thing I've heard in years. I'm so glad I'm filming. This is going straight on YouTube.”

“What?”

“Kidding! What happens at Hogwarts, stays at Hogwarts.”

She climbs out of the pool. Grabs a couple towels and tosses
one to me as I join her. Lays the camera gently on a deck chair.

“I'm sorry I didn't come with you and Sabrina this afternoon,” she says. “To be honest, she kind of intimidates me.”

“She's cool.”

“Yeah. She and Kris were the coolest, most beautiful couple in all of Hollywood. Makes you wonder what went wrong between them.”

I wrap the towel around me. Annaleigh does the same. The air is chilly, but neither of us moves.

“Hey, we're going to look out for each other, right?” she says finally.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Promise?” She holds out her closed fist.

I bump it. “Promise.”