Identity Crisis (10 page)

Somehow, we ended up sitting alone on the west wing stairwell while he rehashed their entire relationship for me: how she was always getting on him for stupid stuff, and how he was sick of it, and how he was glad it was over. I felt exhilarated, honored that he was confiding something so personal with me. It made perfect sense after we talked for what seemed like hours, and his tears had dried up, that he turned to me, his breath warm, and slowly stroked a lock of my hair, and murmured, still sadly, “maybe, if I were with a girl like you instead,” and leaned way in, as if he were about to kiss me. In the background, I could hear the thump of Brass Knuckles wafting in from the cafeteria, an unmistakable sign, telling me this was meant to be, and so I leaned way in too.

That's when Amanda Gerard and Tess McDonohue stumbled loudly into our stairwell, clearly looking for a place to sneak a smoke. “Whoops!” Amanda had giggled when she saw us there, causing us to jump apart like magnets that repel. Then, she gave us a serious double take, her eyes boggling and nudging Tess as if she might have missed us. “Sorry!” they cackled, although you could tell they weren't one iota, as they hastily retreated back inside.

Amos jumped up, knowing right away this would be bad, but I, stupidly naïve, didn't realize that. Not right away, anyway. All I knew was that somehow, the spell had been broken. The bubble burst. We stumbled to our feet and walked down the hall together, but instead of going inside to the dance, he told me he needed to head on home because he was hammered. He paused and looked at me and my face must have begged the question because he tugged on a curl and said, “Meet me tomorrow, 'kay? At the flagpole?” I smiled and agreed, and floated back inside to the dance. Even though it was only minutes, no, seconds later, I was greeted by these looks that made my stomach queasy. Of course Amanda and Tess had come back and told people that Amos and I were hooking up in the stairwell; of course someone had texted Eva the news; of course Eva called Amos and chewed him out for humiliating her.

But at the time, I knew nothing. I'd gone to sleep that night still the princess of my own fairytale, believing him, what he said, that he meant it, that he wanted to be with me, all of it. Until the next day at school, when I showed up where he had told me to meet him. At the flagpole. And I waited. And waited. And waited.

Until finally, I saw him, strolling slowly, casually, up the cement steps, aggressively not looking my way, his arm slung possessively around Eva, who was shooting death daggers at me. My heart dropped into my shoes and I wanted to fold up and die. All the truisms I'd overheard my mother saying to her friends on the phone ever since the divorce came rushing through my head:
men are dogs, men are cheats, men are liars.

By noon, everyone knew what had happened the night before—or at least, Eva's version of the story. Which only got worse and worse, as the day progressed. How I had found him alone at the dance and tried to seduce him. How he'd gone along, happy to cop a feel. That we'd had sex, right there in the stairwell. That he was too drunk to remember any of it. How he came to his senses and confessed everything to Eva later that night, and she magnanimously took him back, because he truly loved only her, of course. And I realized it was all a lie, his supposed breakup, his tears, his murmurs, that he was playing me, right from the start.

Even though I tried to protest the truth, that nothing had happened, that he'd told me he and Eva weren't even together anymore, no one cared. Eva's friends whispered “home wrecker” and “man stealer” whenever I walked by, like I could ever do that, be that person, after I saw what my dad's affair put our family through. Even girls that I'd always been friendly with shied away, like I was toxic, contagious, while the popular guys leered at me knowingly like I was human trash, something to be used and tossed away.

At least school ended three days later, and I didn't have bump into Eva and her crowd for the rest of the summer, hanging out at the town pool or the Dairy Queen. With Maeve gone anyway, I begged Mom to let me escape, spending half the break at my grandma's house up in Vermont and the other half with my dad and his new family (the toddling terrors!) down in North Carolina. My mother, who was so good at scanning for damage inside other people's bodies, never once detected my own inner turmoil, and how could I tell her that I had become the thing she hated the most: the other woman.

After that, there was no way I was letting myself get burned again. Even by so-called nice guys, like Cooper. It was safer to just push them all away, the guys whose intentions were unclear, whose eyes lingered in the wrong places, who thought they knew who I was from a story they'd once heard. And Declan? I thought things would be different with Declan, who knew me from the inside out, rather than the other way around. But have I been all wrong about him, too?

I push through shoppers strolling with their bulging shopping bags, tears now streaming down my face, blurring my vision. Storefronts flash before my eyes: Sephora. Starbucks. Barnes & Noble. Cheesecake Factory. A shopapalooza blur. I flee down the escalator and through the doors. All of a sudden, I see someone pivot into my path and before I can stop myself, we collide. I feel something cold and wet all over my shirt and neck and someone yelling, “bloody hell!” I rub the salty tears from my eyes and taste . . . chocolate.

I read the glowing red sign above us and realize I have run smack dab into some grown man, and creamy brown ice cream has splattered all over his black T-shirt and jeans, and my favorite Brass Knuckles T-shirt. And he sounds quite pissed. “Why don't you bloody watch where you're going!” he hollers in an accent that would be charming, if it weren't so angry.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” I freeze, not knowing what to do. Then I look up at his twisted lip and realize who I have just crashed into.

Colin Dirge.

Eva obviously doesn't feel the same way. Long after Annalise has fled, she is still doubled over in shrill laughter. “Can you believe it?” she says, gasping for air. “She's defending that her imaginary boyfriend exists—the one we made up.” Tori is infected with the absurdity of the situation and the two of them snort laugh for awhile, leaning on one another for support, wiping tears and snot from their damp faces.

Meanwhile, I feel empty. Deflated. Talking online to Annalise never felt hurtful, even talking about Amos. But now, seeing her in person, seeing her reaction to Declan's absence, the reality of what we are doing hits home. Hard. A crowd of dejected fans presses around us, streaming out of the area. More than one gives Eva a resentful look, but she is oblivious. “Let's get out of here,” Eva finally says, composing herself.

Tori links her arm through Eva's and asks, “Pinkberry?” As if nothing is wrong. As if we should just go grab smoothies and hang.

I say I am leaving and turn to head home. This air is pulsing with body heat and I feel like I am going to be sick.

“Noelle, don't go!” Eva says. “What's the matter?”

I can't disguise the hot accusation in my eyes.

“What?”

“I . . .” What now? I pause, and try to pick my words carefully. I tell Eva I think that was harsh. That this game is getting out of control.

Her dark eyes widen innocently. “Why? It's not my fault she made up a fake boyfriend and got busted when he didn't show.” She shakes her head, as if she can't quite believe it herself.

“Come on, Eva,” I say quietly. Is
that
the story she plans to share with the school? I can't believe I am sticking up for Annalise Bradley, but someone needs to. “It's enough. We should quit while we're ahead.”

Eva looks surprised that I am daring to defy her. When was the last time I contradicted her? Never? She looks at Tori, who rolls her eyes, as if I'm the one being lame. Before Tori came along, Eva always used to stick up for the underdog: usually me, but others, too. When did she change?

“Okay,” Eva says slowly, pulling out her phone. “So say we want to quit. How, exactly, do we do that? Do you want to just dump her, Noelle? Tell her ‘Declan' is really sorry, but he's met someone else? I can do that.”

And that's when the reality of what we have set in motion is clear—we, no, I am trapped. If Annalise finds out the truth, what we've done, how we could publicly humiliate her, she will be crushed. But if we just stop the game, pretend Declan has had a change of heart, cuts it off, she will be equally crushed. I knew this was a bad idea. Knew that I never should have gone along with it. Why did I? And now, I am the one stuck cleaning up Eva's mess. As usual.

“No,” I whisper, knowing I will handle it. I will apologize for Declan's no-show, come up with something convincing. And then what? Figure something out. Some way out.

“Okay. So we continue.” She starts typing something into her phone. Too late, I realize what she is doing. Remotely logging into Declan's account.

Why didn't I change the password when I had the chance? Now it's too late. There's no telling what Eva will do. When she is finished, she holds up the message for Tori and me to see.

A, So, so sorry I missed you today. Emergency! I'll explain later. Please forgive me. Did you win??? xoxo Declan.

After I apologize a million times, Colin finally stops muttering “bugger,” and says, “s'okay,” looking a little embarrassed by his initial outburst. He takes the gob of white paper napkins in his hand and attempts to wipe the chocolate stains off his face and shirt. “I'll buy you another,” I offer, reaching into my purse and pulling out some dollar bills. I try to push them into his hand.

“No need,” he says, rejecting my money, and the bills flutter to the floor. I kneel to pick them up, shoving them in my pocket, and he offers me a chivalrous hand up. It is too much, this simple gesture of kindness, and I burst into tears again.

“Please luv, there's no crying over spilt ice cream,” he says. He notices the band poster clenched in my hand, now dented and spotted with brown smears. “Or over lost concert tickets,” he adds. “Is that it?”

I nod, yes, then shake my head, no. It is more than that.

“They'll be around next year, I'm sure. Or, you'll fancy some new band by then.”

Why do all these grownups keep saying that? I shake my head vehemently. Never.

He sighs to himself. “Trust me, luv, cry over Darfur, if you must, but not bloody Viggo Witts.”

At this, I just wail louder.

He looks around, anxious to move on, but unwilling to leave a sobbing girl crying alone at the mall. “Where's all your mates? Are you here alone?”

“Someone was supposed to meet me here. This boy . . .” It's all I can muster. He shakes his head and offers me one of the unused napkins to cry into and waits there patiently until my snot has turned the napkin all soggy. When I've finally recovered enough to regain my wits, I can't help but wonder what he's doing here. He was obviously in London doing post-production work on “Inner Beauty” all week, but shouldn't he already be with the rest of the band in Las Vegas, for this weekend's Teen Pick Music Awards? “Why are you in Boston?” I blurt out. “Aren't you supposed to be on your way to Vegas by now?”

He gives me a double take, like I'm some crazy stalker for following basic industry news.

“The TPMAs?” I stammer, knowing the band is strongly rumored to win, which means they have to show. “Isn't sound check, like, tomorrow morning?”

“Huh,” he chuckles uncertainly, looking around as if for assistance. Mall security, maybe. “Do I need a restraining order here?”

“Johnny Cape tweeted he had a bad night at craps at the Hard Rock,” I say, referring to the band's drummer. “I thought you were all out there already.”

“Ah, right you are,” he says, relaxing a teensy bit. “I stayed a bit late to tweak things. My flight had an eight-hour layover at Logan. Figured I'd pop in on an old chum for lunch, and since I was right here, check the turnout.”

I nod; it makes sense. He'd once told
Rolling Stone
that too many music execs get out of touch with their fans, and that he likes to sneak up into the cheap seats occasionally to watch a show. Then, something else clicks in my brain. “Oh! You mean, Roger Fenley?” I'd read in some industry magazine profile eons ago that Colin and Roger had been roommates at the London College of Music, and Roger Fenley was now a tenured professor at the Berklee College of Music.

“Right again,” he says slowly. “Roger. How'd you know that?” He eyes me, and I can tell he is thinking that he really
does
need a restraining order.

Now I am blushing like crazy. “No, it's just, I read it somewhere, I guess. I'm sorry. I'm just a big fan of your work.”

“Well, thanks, luv.” He looks around again, as if trying to find an invisible escape hatch to escape. But there is no way I'm letting
that
happen.

“Although, I have to say, I kind of liked the first version better,” I blurt out, desperately trying to keep his interest in our conversation alive. “Of ‘Inner Beauty.' It was less auto-tuned.”

His head swivels sharply in my direction. “You think so?” He looks at me critically, as if I've finally said something noteworthy. I beam, not believing I am standing here in a discussion with
the
Colin Dirge. Then he frowns. “Wait. How did you hear the earlier version?”

Busted. I stammer out something about an unauthorized copy online that a friend slipped to me.

“Bloody little buggers,” he shouts, slapping his thigh in anger, and then interrogates me on the little I know about the bootlegged copy. Eventually, his eyes soften and lock on mine. “Well, I happen to agree with you, but the president of the label thought otherwise.”

“Not that it was bad,” I say hastily. “It was still amazing. Viggo's voice, his lyrics . . . he's a genius.”