Identity Crisis (20 page)

“Well, it's not right. And now, it's over. You want to know why I'm telling her? That's why.”

“So what, you're choosing her—over us?” Her eyes are suddenly hurt, wounded.

“It's not like that,” I say quietly, although I know it is. “I have to make it right.” I just hope my dad will agree to drive me to the concert tonight once I tell him the whole story.

“No way. It's not just up to you. This could get us so busted. All of us. Right, Tori?”

We both turn to see what Tori thinks. But she is no longer listening to either of us. Tori is staring down at her phone's screen, with a puzzled expression on her face, rapidly scrolling down with her thumb.

Then, her beautiful face twists in anger and she shouts, “Holy crap!”

Maeve is waiting for me at school Tuesday morning when I get off my bus. “Lise, how'd you do it?” Her voice rings with glee. To my relief, any hard feelings between us seem to be forgotten. “The feed has totally been hacked.”

“Who says it was me?” I say, giving her a faux innocent expression.

“Please,” she grins. “Who else?”

I had realized there was one group I could tap that would rally behind Samantha's cause. The Brass Knuckles fans. Duh. I had grabbed a tube of red lipstick and carefully written the chorus from “Inner Beauty” on my bathroom mirror. Then, I had snapped a picture and uploaded the image onto the fan feed, writing: Someone called an eleven-year-old girl UGLY in this online beauty pageant. But I think the pageant organizers are the truly ugly ones. Don't you?

People I had never even met—led by Juniper77 and DaisyFlour84—had all rallied behind the cause, tweeting and retweeting my message on a whole bunch of platforms. When I last checked before going to sleep, there had been about a hundred favorites, which I thought was pretty good. Enough to serve as an apology to Maeve, at least.

“Have you checked it today?”

“No. Why?” I'd completely forgotten I had a quiz first period in Spanish, so I'd spent the entire ride to school frantically conjugating verbs.

“Look!” She holds out her phone. “Look at it now!” I can see to my disbelief that Tori's
InstaHotOrNot
feed has received 42,989 uploads of the Brass Knuckles' song lyrics I'd scrawled on the mirror last night:

Plus, my message has spawned a whole slew of similar mantras. People around the planet have been chiming in with words of their own:

A beautiful exterior does not mean a beautiful interior

Pretty is as pretty does

Beauty is only skin deep.

“And did you see this?” Maeve adds, showing me dozens of spinoff hashtags have been created, like #StopTorisPageant and #TorisPageantSucks. To be honest, it looks like the whole thing has spun a little out of control. People have uploaded photos of pigs with tiaras, and a trio of boys mooning the camera, and even one of Tori obviously lifted from an old middle school yearbook, looking dorky with bangs and braces.

“Oh my god,” I say with a nervous laugh, thankful Tori and I don't share a class. I wouldn't want to get in her path today. “She must be out for blood.”

Maeve chortles as she wipes off her glasses. “She can't delete it all fast enough. It just keeps coming and coming.”

It turns out, Tori D'Fillipo may have a lot of online friends, but few true fans.

“So, thanks. From me. And Samantha.”

“I'm sorry for what I said.”

Maeve shrugs, accepting the apology. “But we still need to out who's been playing you. If it wasn't Eva . . .”

Now that we're talking again, I'm bursting to tell her the news about what happened. “It's over. I confronted DecOlan last night, said I knew the whole thing was a fake.”

“Did you find out who it was?” Maeve asks, shocked.

“Not exactly,” I admit and explain the rest: how the person apologized and asked me to meet up at the concert before we got cut off. Then I tell her my plan. “It's the only way to find out for sure. Since apparently,
your
Declan got the account deactivated.”

She nods, like the news doesn't surprise her. “He said he might. But, he's not my Declan.”

“He's more yours than mine,” I concede.

“We'll see,” she says with a mischievous smile. “But from now on—sisters before misters?”

“Always.”

“And I hear you're buying my forgiveness with a pair of tickets?” I had told Declan last night that he and Maeve should use the spare set and come to the concert with me and Cooper.

“Exactly.”

“I can't believe you're ditching me to go with Cooper Franklin, though. After all that? Perhaps the lady doth protest too much?”

“Perhaps,” I admit. “He still says he hates Viggo Witts, you know.”

“Yes, but he lurves you.” She makes kissy faces at me and I have to threaten to punch her to get her to stop.

“So, are you psyched for the show?” Maeve asks.

“Totally,” I lie. To be honest, the thrill has been overshadowed by everything else. The prospect of coming face-to-face with my online enemy. The disappointment over Declan. Eva snagging the chance to sing on stage. But still, I remind myself, there will be Viggo, his amazing silken voice, the band, the music . . .

“What about you? Have I turned you into a Viggo fan?” I tease her.

She scrunches up her face in horror. “Nah, he's still kind of a tool. But, well, his fans are okay.” She starts telling me how a bunch of them are planning to meet up at intermission to hold an “Inner Beauty” sing-a-thon to raise money for the Changing Faces charity.

It's amusing, seeing Maeve lose her famous cool and get all enthusiastic over something, at last. She'd deny it with her dying breath, but it's true: wry, sarcastic Maeve Rosen has turned into the biggest Knucklie I know.

Eva escorts Tori down to the nurse's office so she can lie down until her mom can come pick her up. For the rest of the day, the whole school is buzzing with rumors: a) that Anonymous is behind her site getting hacked; b) that one of the pageant losers attempted suicide; c) that Tori has attempted suicide; d) that Viggo Witts is suing Tori for copyright infringement; e) that the whole thing is a stunt for a new reality TV show.

None of which is true. The principal establishes that all of it had taken place off school grounds and washes his hands of the matter by noon. Most people remain clueless as to who got the viral campaign started, but it's pretty obvious to me. I mean, you only have to look at the words on the screen to figure it out.

After school, Eva is waiting for me at the bike racks outside the building. “Poor Tori,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “It's so messed up.”

“I guess,” I shrug, glad this happened before my mom's company got involved. Honestly, I can't muster up much sympathy for the pageant's demise; it always seemed that it churned out more grief than good.

Just then, we spot Maeve and Annalise leaving the building and skipping towards the buses. They look triumphant, giggling and excited. Happy to be together. Friends. They're all Eva and I are not.

Eva stiffens. “Look at them. We are so getting them back.”

But I am done fighting Eva's fight. Where will it end? World World Three? Armageddon? “No,” I shake my head. “I'm out.”
“Really? So what, you're going to let her get away with this? Humiliating our friend? Taking your man? Seriously, Noey, you're a lost cause. I'm tired of sticking up for you. I've been doing it forever and I'm sick of it. You let people walk all over you. When are you ever going to stand up for yourself?”

Her question rings in my ears, a challenge. But for some reason, the thought of losing her doesn't scare me. Not anymore. Maybe because I already have, in a way. Like my mom, I want to be able to stand on my own two feet. Like my dad, I want to find the courage to say I quit. I put the two together and summon up the words I've been wanting to say to her for a long time.

“Now. I'm standing up for myself right now.”

From here on out, I am going to tell Eva what I really think. Right to her face. Even if it kills me. Or our friendship.

Then I tell her exactly what she's going to do and why she's going to do it. That if she does the one thing I ask, I'll take the blame for what we did. But if not, I'll make sure Annalise turns all three of us in.

“After that? You and me? We're done. I quit.”

She looks confused for a second, then a flash of recognition of what my words mean.

“You can't do that,” she sputters as I hop on my bike. “You can't go and quit a friendship.”

“Oh yeah? Watch me.”

I enjoy the memory of Eva's stunned face the whole ride home. When I get there, my parents are both waiting for me at the front door. At first, I am happy to see them. I can't wait to tell my dad what happened today. I know he'll be proud I've finally stood up to Eva and ended our friendship.

Then I see that my mom has her arms crossed, and my dad has an uncharacteristic frown on his gentle face.

“What?” I nervously wheel my bike closer to the house. What could be so dire that they're both standing outside waiting for me? Then I know. I feel it in my gut. This is it. The Big D talk. They've decided to tell me today. About the divorce.

“Noelle,” my dad says. “We need to speak to you. Now.”

“Don't,” I say, shakily, not ready to launch into this right now. Every person on the planet knows how this conversation starts:
You know your mother and I love you very much
. . . “You can't just split up because things are a little tough.”

My parents blink at each other, confused.

My dad shakes his head. “Who's splitting up?”

“You two?” I ask uncertainly.

“Not that I'm aware of,” my mom says, looking aghast, as my dad shakes his head for her benefit, only stronger this time.

“Then what?”

“We need to know who the hell is Declan O'Keefe? And why have you been impersonating him online?”

After I break down in tears, after I tell my parents why I thought they were getting a divorce, and after my dad assures me they are not, after he explains going solo just meant he had been talking to an old lawyer buddy named Bob Pontin about incorporating his accounting business as a solo practitioner, and my mom assures me she had no agenda beyond old-school feminism, I admit the truth about what I had been doing to Annalise.

They get very quiet and finally explain how they found out. My dad got a call from the website's tech support about a report of a fraudulent account that was traced primarily to our IP address. They were able to send my dad everything, every single conversation that took place between us. They told him that this could potentially involve charges or a civil suit. And now, the way he is lecturing me, I have a feeling I might never be allowed out of the house again, let alone let out tonight for the concert. My parents pepper me with guilt-laden accusations that set my pulse pounding.

They don't bring up faith, morality, or how I've disappointed Pastor Reilly and the entire heavenly bodies, but I can't help but feel as though I have. I bow my head, too ashamed to look them in the eye.

“Luckily for you, the boy whose identity you stole has opted not to press charges,” my dad says dryly. “For now.”

So Declan O'Keefe, the real one, Eva's cousin, has figured it out as well.

“So tell me again, from the beginning, exactly why you girls thought of this bright idea to masquerade as a boy and devastate this poor girl?”

I don't know what to say, it all sounds small minded when I replay it to myself. Because Annalise once almost hooked up with Eva's boyfriend while they were having a fight, or were broken up, depending on who you believed? Because I thought distracting Annalise would give me a shot with Cooper? And furthermore, what sounds really idiotic: that I ended up befriending her, even though the whole time I was also betraying her?

“I don't know,” I whisper.

“You don't know?”

So I tell them the whole story. How I had gone along with it and how I regretted it right from the start. How I had finally stood up to Eva. How Annalise had found out the truth. And how I wanted, no, needed, to make it right, but tonight was my only chance. I tell them everything, knowing with every word I say I'm more likely to get grounded exactly like “DecOlan,”—oh, the irony!—my phone, my freedom, stripped away.

And then I tell them what I've sworn to do, knowing in my heart there is no way they'll ever let me see it through.

“Annalise? You almost ready?”

My mom calls up to me as I'm finishing getting dressed for the concert.

Despite what I told Maeve earlier, I am actually starting to get pretty excited. Cooper and Maeve will be here any minute. My mom insisted on driving the three of us down to the arena—all along, she has been dubious that these tickets really existed, unclear why some old roadie would just give me tickets like that, convinced there must be some catch. She's still suspicious, even after I'd shown her my text message exchange with Colin, nervously reminding him about the promised tickets, and his curt reply: yup.

When I finally come down to the living room, she looks nice. Too nice. For her job, my mom normally wears her short hair pulled back, no makeup, and sensible white sneakers. Tonight, she is wearing a red silk dress, and her hair is fluffed up and she has even put on shimmery eye makeup, which gives her the look of a raccoon.