Identity Crisis (13 page)

“So, sale at LuLu's tomorrow,” Eva says, mentioning the local boutique we all love. “Anyone want to check out the racks?”

Tori says she's in, but I hesitate, wondering if I am still allowed to go clothes shopping. Even with a sale, LuLu's is not cheap, and we'd already bought a bunch of back-to-school clothes before my dad's big announcement. I know my parents had told me we'd be fine, finance-wise, but after last night's fight, things have been über-tense at home. I hadn't thought through how my dad's decision left us on the brink of danger. Would we become like some of those people you heard about on the news—losing our house, drowning in debt, bankrupt? Homeless, even? Maybe my mom was right: He should have kept quiet and sucked it up. What would she say if she found out I'd been the one who planted the seed of encouragement in his mind? Would she blame me?

I say nothing, knowing what will happen if I share my financial fears. My friends would tsk ooohhh nooo, and give each other a
look
over my head, which meant they'd be texting frantically about me the minute I turned my back. Once my clothing budget is limited to Target, how long before Eva and Tori's trash talk turns on me?

“Maybe,” I hedge, thinking of a way I could bring in some extra cash on my own. The math department is always looking for tutors, and Ms. Pinella is always asking if I am interested. There is that. Eva shrugs and moves on to gossiping about the school principal, who is rumored to wear a hair piece to cover his bald spot. “What about a reverse pageant?” Eva asks Tori. “Worst-looking teacher at Dansville High!”

I watch as Eva gazes at Tori, seeking her reply. Her approval. Tori considers it for a moment, then regally shakes her head. “No way. I get enough drama without pissing off the entire faculty.”

“I know,” Eva clucks sympathetically. Then Eva snaps her fingers and turns to me. “Oh, before I forget. What excuse did you come up with for Declan's no-show yesterday?” She says it casually, like the drama we set in motion is no big deal.

I recap how I'd said his parents came home unexpectedly, and she nods in approval.

“So all is forgiven?”

“For now.” I realize neither of them knows what happened afterwards, and explain how Annalise somehow bumped into Colin Dirge at the mall and he offered to leave her free tickets at the door.

“Un-be-liev-a-ble,” Eva drawls when I finish the story, looking outraged. “That girl always gets her way. I wonder what she did for him—”

I don't bring up the fact that she herself waltzed off with a pair of front row tickets and a chance to perform on stage with the band, over the hundreds of way more devoted Knucklies. Cooper was right: people like Eva didn't seem to need luck. They make their own—through sheer force of will, if necessary.

Tori leans closer to me. “Seriously, Noelle, do you realize every single person we know is going to this concert but us? I downloaded that song and now I really like them.” I know what she means. That band has a way of worming into your affections even if you try to resist. Sort of like Annalise herself.

“Speaking of fangirl, should we see what she's up to?” Eva says, whipping out her phone.

I am silent, as I watch her try repeatedly, locked out of the account until finally, she glances over at me, frustrated. “What's the deal, Noey? It keeps saying I have the wrong password. Did you change it or something?”

I feign sudden recall. “Um, oh yeah.”

“Why?” she demands.

I want to tell her the real reason so badly it hurts.
Because I don't want you playing Annalise anymore.
But all my fearlessness from the night before escapes me now. So I backslide into a lie. “Oh, I, ah, forgot it, and I got locked out, so I had to reset it.” I grab her phone and quickly type it in for her, so she can't see. Then I summon up my last ounce of nerve. “But I've been thinking, we have to be more consistent, Eva. We can't have one of us writing one thing and then the other writing something else later. What if she notices? We're going to get busted, don't you think?”

“I guess,” she concedes.

Sensing my opening, I add quickly, “And since you guys have been so busy with play practice, and now your song, and Tori's got her pageant stuff, I'm fine with staying on top of it.”

Eva stares at me, trying to read my face, slowly twirling a finger around a long strand of hair. “That's really sweet of you, Noey. Just, you know, we were talking at lunch—where were you, anyway? But listen, I get it. Tori was saying, chatting with her every night. It's only natural you might start sympathizing with her.”

“Yeah,” Tori adds. “It's like . . . whatchamacallit. When the bad guys slowly convince their hostage they're really not so bad?”

“Stockholm syndrome,” Eva nods. “But her sweet act? It's not real. She thinks you're the love of her life. Of course, she's nice to you.”

“I know,” I try to protest.

Eva leans closer to me. “But we all know what she's really like. What she is capable of. Right? Just make sure you're don't forget that.”

“I won't,” I say, shaking my head, wondering if Eva is right, wondering if it's already happened. “But, honestly, you guys. She's not all bad.”

They both don't answer me, giving one another a look. I know instantly I've said the wrong thing.

“Maybe Noelle
is
confused.” Tori nods her head knowingly at Eva. “You know, like we said.” They both smirk at each other.

“What?” A pause. “What?” I repeat, an edge of bile rising in my throat.

Eva looks at me with her lips still curled. “She means, maybe you're falling for her for real.”

Then I catch on to the meaning of their words. And I can't believe it. Eva wouldn't really go there, would she? Tori might, but not my oldest friend. “I am not! You know I like Cooper that way. I'm doing this for Cooper.”

My eyes plead with her and the silence drags on and on, until finally she says, “Kid-ding!” She and Tori suddenly jump up, clapping loudly and whooping, and I turn and see that Amos has just scored a goal.

Somehow, this is going all wrong. My dad had managed to stand up for himself, why can't I? I feel like I have wandered into quicksand, and any effort I make to fight it only sucks me in deeper. I read once that this is what it feels like to drown, that eventually, you just grow weak and give up, and the water blankets you into submission.

“Maybe you're right.” I say, submitting to my fate, circling the drain.

Eva nods, gracious in victory. “Keep your eyes on the prize.”

Still, I am the one on the hook, and need to know our end game. I remind her we can't keep this up forever. The story I used for Declan—about being grounded until his mom gets the cast off—was only going to give us a few more weeks.

“Right,” Eva agrees, waving her hand dismissively. “So maybe, there's a complication. Her wrist never healed right and she needs two more weeks. You see?”

I say I do, but I'm not unconvinced. That eventually, I think Annalise will figure it out.

Eva just shakes her head, blithely unconcerned. “Nah. She'll keep believing because she
wants
to believe. We all do. As long as we don't tell her, we're fine. Like, what's she going to do? Show up on his doorstep in Worcester?”

Over the next few excruciating minutes, three things become extremely obvious: a) Maeve and Declan are super-delighted to see one another again because, b) Declan is also a longtime camper at Camp Chicawawa, and c) Maeve and Declan have completely forgotten all about me. They start swapping stories about fellow campers and beloved counselors and even subject the entire neighborhood to a quick rendition of some Color War-winning cheer, until eventually, they run out of good times to relive and notice I am still standing there, speechless.

“So, wait, what
are
you doing here?” Declan finally says to Maeve, who looks over at me.

She shakes her head delightedly at me, as if this is all some happy coincidence. “I can't believe your Declan from Worcester is Dec O'Keefe from Chicawawa!”

“
Her
Declan?” Declan repeats uncertainly, still looking at Maeve for answers, as I realize I'd never told her Declan's last name.

I kind of clear my throat until I have his attention, although I don't understand what is happening. Why did Declan recognize Maeve—but not me? Do I look that different in real life?

“It's me, Annalise,” I say, lamely, trying to jar his recognition.

“I'm sorry,” he says, peering at me more carefully now, but still with a look of polite confusion. “Do I know you?”

I'm completely floored. “Know me?” I croak out. “Are you kidding? We've only been chatting online every night.”

“I'm sorry, you must have me confused with someone else,” he says, glancing at Maeve for support. “I don't do online chatting.”

The blood drains from my face. Is this a joke? Am I getting Punk'd? No, I get it, he must be covering up because his parents are hovering somewhere nearby, listening to us, and he wasn't supposed to be using the computer that way while he was grounded.

I lower my voice and talk urgently, sure this is it. “Declan, it's me. We met on the fan site? Brass Knuckles?”

But no.

It gets worse. He crinkles his nose. “Brass Knuckles?” he repeats as if I'm speaking in Swahili.

Frustrated, I pull out my phone and pull up his profile on the site. “Isn't this you?” I demand, pushing it into his palm. “Declan O'Keefe? Homeschooled. Live in Worcester?”

He stares at it for a long time, scrolling back through some of our conversations, then hands it back reluctantly. “That's my photo,” he slowly admits. “But I never wrote any of that. And I still don't understand why you're here.”

We stare angrily at each other. What am I supposed to say now?
I'm here because I like you?
I'm not even sure that I do. This guy is nothing like my Declan. He talks in this stiff, formal way, and his teeth are kind of off and he's scrawnier than he looked in his photo. And his eyes are cold, distrustful, foreign. Any attraction I might have had to Declan O'Keefe is rapidly fading now that I'm standing here in front of him in the flesh. Especially after hearing him tell Maeve about a million times how great she looks.

I glance at her for help, but she hesitates, unsure what to say. Why had she never mentioned Declan? Or had she? Maeve went on and on about her camp stories and of course, Aiden Sylvester, the Junior Olympic blond Adonis that was her summertime obsession, but I wasn't sure if she ever mentioned a dark, wiry guy named Dec.

Finally, Maeve attempts to explain things. “Annalise has been chatting online with someone who said he was Declan O'Keefe,” she says. “We came to meet him—you—in person.”

“Well, I'm not . . . whoever.” He crosses his arms, as if that is the end of that.

My head is swimming, as a million questions pound in my brain. Is Declan putting me on, for some sick reason? Are we at the wrong house? Is it possible I have the wrong Declan O'Keefe, that there is another, unlisted O'Keefe family somewhere in Worcester? And if none of those possibilities is true, it begs the most important question: If
this
is the one and only Declan O'Keefe, and he has no idea who I am, then WHO ON EARTH have I been talking to all this time? Who has been filling my brain with their thoughts and opinions and insights, night after night after night?

“I think someone's been playing you,” he finally says, stating the obvious.

“What? Like she's being catfished?” Maeve's face scrunches in concern. “Like that MTV show?”

Declan looks at her, confused, then shrugs. “I don't know. We don't get cable.”

But I've seen the show and know exactly what she means. My mind reels as everything I thought was true dissolves like cotton candy in a rainstorm. “You mean, my Declan is a fake? But I must have been talking to someone. I didn't just imagine it. Who would do this?”

Maeve and Declan swap a glance of pity. My face is burning. I know what Maeve must be thinking: a big, fat I told you so. Why hadn't I listened to her? Why hadn't I ever asked for his home number, or suggested a video chat, before making this fool's pilgrimage to Worcester? Who hated me so much they would do this to me—and why?

“Forget it,” I say to Declan, just wanting to get out of there, to escape this humiliation. “Let's go,” I tell Maeve, glancing up at the sky, which is growing darker by the minute. “The train back to Dansville leaves in an hour.” She hesitates, clearly feeling bad to leave Declan on such weird terms. “Are you coming?”

“Wait a sec.” Declan reaches to touch my arm, stopping me. “You guys live in Dansville?”

“Yeah, why?” Maeve asks.

“Oh, probably nothing, just my cousin lives there. Eva?”

Slowly, I turn back around to face him. “Eva Winters?”

He nods.

Maeve has a look of horror on her face, and my brain is processing this news as fast as hers. “Does Eva have this picture of you?” I pull out my phone again and we all three examine the photo. This time, his face lights up in recognition. “Oh jeez, that was, yeah, that was taken at our family reunion this summer. I think she was next to me, but she must have been cropped out.”

“Or cropped herself out,” Maeve says dryly, pointing to the sliver of a bare leg, barely visible next to his, which I'd never noticed before.

Within minutes, the three of us have pieced it all together. Maeve tells Declan the backstory: what happened with Amos, why Eva tormented me last year and hates me to this day. Now I know why Eva insisted on being at the mall that day: to get a front row view of Declan standing me up. I more than obliged.

Declan shakes his head angrily, erasing any lingering suspicions I had that he was in on it with his cousin. “That's a rotten, dirty trick. Really vile.”