Identity Crisis (14 page)

I think I am going to be sick. It doesn't make sense. All this time––all these nights—I've been talking to Eva? It can't be. I mentally scroll through all the personal things I shared with her, potentially embarrassing things that now she can use against me. Being jealous of my sister. My dad's affair, how he left our family for Claire, how I couldn't forgive him. I'd confided all my weaknesses to my worst enemy.

“What do you want me to do?” Declan asks me. “Tell my parents? Or call her myself, tell her to knock it off?”

I mentally weigh my options, which range from sucks to totally blows.

Scenario A: Declan tells his parents, who'd tell Eva's parents, who'd get her busted. Maybe, depending upon whether they were the kind of parents who cared about that stuff. And she'd hate me ten times over. And she'd make sure the word got out at school that I was so desperate, I fell for some online boyfriend who didn't exist.

Scenario B: I tell my mom, who'd freak out and call the principal, who'd get Eva suspended or maybe even expelled, depending upon whether he was the kind of principal who cared about that stuff. And she'd hate me twenty times over. And she'd make sure the word got out at school that I was so pathetic, I fell for some online boyfriend who didn't exist.

Scenario C: Declan tells Eva he knows, which would let her know I know, which would rule out any possibility of revenge. And she could still make sure the word got out at school.

Suddenly, anger overwhelms me. Just like the five stages of grief we studied in health class, my emotions shift from denial to rage. I want to grab Eva by the throat and strangle the life out of her. How dare she play me like that? Why won't she just leave me alone? This time, I don't want to roll over and take it.

“No,” I tell him, a plan already forming in my mind. Maybe, I can take control. Turn the tables on Eva. “I'll handle it. For now, don't do a thing.”

We ride home in silence. Maeve probably doesn't know exactly what to say, and I sit and stew, replaying every conversation over again in my mind, trying to put a face to the words, a rhyme to the reason. Maeve's phone bursts into song, breaking the awkwardness, and she gratefully answers it. “What? Yeah. Yeah. What?”

She listens, and through the phone's speakers I can hear someone's voice in the background, extremely upset. “Calm down.” She sees me eyeing her in concern and mouths the name, Samantha. Her little sister. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You did what? Didn't I tell you—? You are not! No, Sam. I swear.”

This goes on for a full ten minutes until she finally gets off the phone. She takes a deep breath and turns to me. Her face is purple with fury.

“What happened?” I ask, almost too scared to know. “Is everything okay?”

“Well, no one died,” she says with a harsh laugh. “But no. Definitely not okay.”

Apparently, Samantha had gone and entered Tori's weekly beauty pageant, against our express warnings. “She only got two votes,” Maeve explains, “and some loser wrote U.G.L.Y. below her picture, and now she's devastated. Saying she wants a nose job. I mean, I seriously can't believe someone would be so low as to insult a little girl like that. It's sick!”

“That's so messed up!” I can't believe someone would slam sweet, beautiful little Samantha, although a small, less generous, part of me wonders why her sister—or any girl, really—had to be such an attention-seeker and enter these contests in the first place. And then I immediately feel evil for thinking that, like an eleven-year-old kid should know any better. But still.

Maeve grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. “Whatever you're planning to do to get back at Eva and her friends, I'm in. I am so, so in.”

On Saturday morning, I wake to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes, luring me out of my bed and down the stairs. As I pass by my dad's office, I hear his voice inside, talking to someone, this serious tone in his voice. I slow down to try to figure out who he's talking to and catch the phrase, “going solo.”

Going solo? I linger, trying to hear a little more, but suddenly the door swings open, nearly banging into me. “Oh, hi honey,” Dad says, emerging and carefully shutting the door behind him.

“Who were you calling?” I ask.

He pauses, then answers me. “Pro shop. Making a tee-time.”

I relax. What was I thinking, anyway? Going solo obviously means he's playing golf as a single.

“Any plans today?” he asks, and I shrug, following him as he heads down the hall.

In the kitchen, my mom is sitting at the counter, sipping some home-brewed Starbucks and reading the
Boston Globe
, my parents' normal morning routine. Only she is doing it all alone.

“I'm heading out,” he tells her curtly, grabbing his keys and his rain jacket.

“Fine,” she replies just as coolly. I can tell what she's thinking. That he should be spending every waking moment scouring the job boards. Meanwhile, my dad would say he does his best thinking—and networking—out on the links.

“I'm playing with Bob Pontin,” he tells her pointedly. “He may have some leads for me.”

“Great,” she says through gritted teeth.

Now I am confused. If my dad is playing with Bob Pontin, then why is he
going solo
?

Before I can crack that mystery, my cell phone buzzes. It's Eva, wanting me to meet her and Tori at LuLu's at 11:00. She always says that I can calculate 40 percent off a $59.99 skirt faster than she can whip out her mom's AmEx. But I'm starting to dread the thought of being around her, waiting for her next scheme to slam Annalise. Or me.

The phone buzzes again, demanding a reply. When I push decline, my mom gets all nosy.

“Aren't you going to get that?” she asks.

“They're going shopping at LuLu's,” I croak, my mouth dry and teeth still unbrushed.

“Don't you want to go?” she asks. “You should go.”

I hesitate. “I'm not really in the mood,” I finally say. “I think I'll go swimming instead.” Even though swim season doesn't officially start until winter, I still go a few times a week to stay toned.

My mom spots an opportunity. “Well, if you want to take a break, I could use your help. The winter line is in, and I brought home some last-minute product I need to sort before Monday's photo shoot. Maybe you could help when you get back?”

“Sure,” I say, hiding my lack of enthusiasm. My mom's always trying to push her company's product on me, insisting this eyeliner or that lip gloss would “enhance” my natural looks. Meaning, make me look less plain vanilla, more Chai Spice. But every time I put that goop on my face, I immediately want to dive in the pool and wash it all away.

I'm about to head back upstairs, but something compels me into my dad's office instead. I slip inside and stop by his desk, where I notice a notepad lying on top with his unintelligible handwriting scribbled all over it. Beside it, there's a business card from the law firm of Haddock, Nelson, & Pike. I'm starting to get freaked out. Going solo? Lawyers? Lying about golf partners. What does this mean? Why would he even be talking to an attorney? Is it possible that my dad is thinking about . . . about getting a divorce?

I wonder what Annalise would think. She's the only friend I can think of who's just been through this with her own parents. Even though it was an affair that broke them up, maybe she'd still recognize the warning signs. How to know when things are really getting bad. Bad enough to worry. I try messaging Annalise as Declan, but she doesn't respond. Where is she? I really want to talk to her.
Need
to talk to her. Come to think of it, I haven't heard from her at all since the day before yesterday. What's going on?

I decide the best way to distract myself is to head over to the pool. I change into my bathing suit and grab my gym bag with goggles and towel and flip flops. “I'm heading out,” I call to my mom, slipping out the door before she can answer. I bike the few blocks down to the local Y, enjoying the blue sky, the crisp fall day.

When I get there, the place is empty, just the way I like it. Only one of the pool's six lap lanes is occupied. Everyone must be out picking apples or enjoying one last beach day or a hike in the woods before the arctic winter sets in. Their loss. I dive into the cool water, kicking hard, wishing I could leave my troubles in my wake. Gliding below the surface always clears my head. Sometimes, it feels like the only place I can see things clearly. I hold my breath and stay underwater as long as I possibly can.

When I get home, I find my mom in the dining room, surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes. She pleads for me to stay and help her. “Come on,” she says. “You used to love doing this.”

Yeah,
I reply in my head.
When I was, like, six
. “Fine,” I sigh, even though I am on to her. She thinks this forced mother-daughter bonding time will get me to reveal my inner angst. Well, Mom, think again. We start opening different packages and sort the makeup into piles all along the mahogany table: mascara wands, lip liners, brushes, compacts, and gels.

“Do you want to try this?” she asks, holding up a sparkly purple eyeliner. I take it, inspecting it before I wrinkle my nose. “A little too Lady Gaga.” I hold up the eyeliner. “But can I give it to Tori?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” Maybe if I keep bribing her with swag, I will be safe from her wrath. I pocket a few extra tubes of shimmery body lotion, too, just to be sure.

“So how are Eva and Tori?” I grimace at hearing the names, but try to hide it.

“Oh, that reminds me. There's something Tori wanted me to ask you.” I tell my mom about Tori's crazy idea that her company should sponsor her online beauty pageant and mention products in return for giveaways to
InstaHotOrNot
contestants.

“Hmm.” My mom's face is busy scrutinizing some label, making her reaction unclear.

“It's dumb, I know.” I backpedal, already sorry I asked.

She raises her head and looks at me. “No, that's very entrepreneurial of her. Tell her to write me a proposal. I'll pass it around to the right people.”

“Wait, really?” I guess I fail to hide the disdain on my face because my mother fixes her dark brown eyes on me.

“Yes, why not? I know you think this is just a bunch of makeup,” she says, waving at the boxes at our feet. “But this is a real industry, a real profession, and besides all that, it happens to pay our bills. And, yes I use makeup and Botox. The reality is, the working world judges you on your looks. I'm in a youth business, and I have to keep my edge.”

“I know that,” I tell her. Up close, I can see my mother's laugh lines around her mouth and tiny crow's feet by her eyes. Is my mother worried about losing her job, too? What if that happens? Or is she worrying about something else? The Big D?

I finally work up the nerve to ask in a roundabout way what I've been wondering all day. “Is everything okay around here?”

“What?” If she is at all caught off guard by my question, she quickly recovers. “Yes. Of course. We're going to be fine. Not heading to the poor house. Yet.” She purses the corner of her lips, to let me know this is just a joke. “Wait. Is that why you didn't want to go with your friends today?”

I hesitate. It isn't, but it's easier to let her think that, so I kind of shrug again, like it might be. “Just because your dad's not working, you can still go shopping. Don't go crazy or anything—” She breaks off and leans towards me. “You know honey, I'll tell you a little secret. I actually make more money than your dad ever has.”

This is news to me. “You do?”

“Yup. Unlike your friends' moms, who've been busy taking yoga classes all these years.” I know she's making a dig at Eva's mom, who is part of this exercise-obsessed clique that Eva calls “the tiny hineys.” She nods with satisfaction. “Well, luckily for us, I've kept working.” I think back to elementary school, when all the other moms were room mothers and field trip chaperones, and mine was always too busy at the office. But now, they all thought her job was super cool, especially Tori, who was horrified and swore us all to secrecy when her mom took a part-time holiday job folding scarves at Chico's.

She gazes at me steadily. “A woman should never completely depend on someone else. She should be able to stand on her own two feet. Be prepared for the worst. That's what I've always believed. That's what Nana and Papa wanted for me, and that's what I want for you, too. Don't you agree?”

“Sure.”

As mottos go, it's not the worst I've ever heard. I wish I had enough courage to stand on my own, instead of clinging to a sinking friendship. But inside, my spirits droop.
Stand on her own two feet? Never depend on another? Prepare for the worst?
It sounds like my fears could be right. My mom and dad's marriage is definitely on the rocks.

Bam. Bam. Bam. I'm running through a Plexiglass funhouse maze, trying to find Declan. But no matter which way I turn, I ram into something cold, glassy, hard.
Bam
. With a gasp I wake up to the ringing of the house phone. For a blissful moment, I don't remember any of what went down the day before, and then my stomach sours and it all comes rushing back. Worcester. Declan. Catfishing. Humiliation.

I groan and stumble down to the kitchen, fumbling to find the handset, to see who on god's green earth would be calling us so early on a Saturday morning. On the land line, no less.

It's Elena. “Where's mom?” my sister demands, not bothering with a polite hello or to ask how I am.

“Hello to you, too,” I croak, still strangely comforted to hear her voice. Part of me wonders if I should confide in her, if maybe she might even have some good advice on what to do about the whole DecOlan-Eva disaster. Despite our rocky relationship, we've shared some rare moments of sister solidarity.