Identity Crisis (3 page)

“Where were you?” Tori asks, squinting at the background.

“Oh, our family reunion. At my grandma's house. Apparently, I've got, like, twenty second cousins,” Eva says as she deftly crops herself out of the image. I have to admit, I'm impressed; all those hours on Instagram have given her some wicked editrix skills. She is typing madly while we watch, Tori in amusement, and me, fascinated into paralysis. When she is done, she spins around and points at her handiwork, triumph shining in her eyes.

“Voilá! Meet Annalise Bradley's dream guy.”

Why hasn't my mom returned any of my texts?

Especially today, when she knows I'm counting on her? Isn't she the one always lecturing how she expects
me
to answer her messages promptly? The whole forty-minute bus ride home, I'm freaking out because I still haven't heard back. Where is she? Usually, she takes the night shifts, so she can be around when I'm home from school, but maybe some last-minute emergency called her in to the hospital?

Maeve had to talk me off a limb during lunch period, and has texted me twice from volleyball tryouts, asking if we got the tickets, and I still don't know what to tell her. I burst into the house, breathless from jogging up the driveway, where I find my mom, totally alive and unscathed, sitting at the kitchen table, chatting merrily away on the phone. Unbelievable. As soon as she sees me, she holds up her finger and gives me the universal “one sec” sign, which always means fifteen minutes at least, so I grab an apple from the fridge and hover over her, frantically waggling my eyebrows at her, hoping she'll cut her chat short.

Quickly, though, I can tell it's just not a call with a friend but somewhat serious; her end of the conversation mostly consists of “uh-huhs” and “okays” and jotting down random numbers on a scrap of paper.

The second she hangs up, I explode, “Mom! What happened? Didn't you get—”

But she is already sighing and slumping in her chair and talking over me. “You wouldn't believe the day I had. This woman in a honking Odyssey comes out of nowhere on Route 15. Totally took out the whole fender. Then we had to wait for the police to get there to file a report, then forty-five minutes for AAA to tow me a mile to the body shop. Two weeks, they need, can you believe it? So then I had to wait for Enterprise to drop off a rental. Which reeked of smoke, so I had to get another. Nightmare.” She runs her fingers through her short brown hair in aggravation.

“Mom,” I say, a twinge of dread prickling down my spine. “You did get the tickets, right? The concert?”

She gives me a pained look. “I know, I just saw all your texts, Lise. And your alert. I'm sorry, things were a little crazed. And my phone was dead.”

“So that's a . . . no?”

Now my mom is giving me a death stare almost as bad as Eva's, her eyes like laser beams. I've gone too far. “Did you hear what I just said? How about, ‘Are you okay, Mom? Were you hurt? I'm glad you survived a potentially fatal car crash without a scrape, Mom?' Really, Annalise. No, I didn't get the tickets. I just got in the house ten minutes ago. I'm sorry. Life happens.”

Um. I am the Worst. Daughter. Ever. Because she is right. What if she'd been seriously injured? Or killed? Then what would happen? I know what: Elena and I would probably have to go off and live with Dad in North Carolina with his mistress-turned-new-wife Claire, or actually, just I would, since my sister's escaped life in Dansville a.k.a. Dullsville and is now a freshman at UMass Amherst. So it would just be me. Which would be a nightmare. But none of that is my mom's fault. She struggles mightily to keep things together, between being a single parent and her high-stress job as an X-ray tech. “Sorry, Mom. I just . . . I just . . .” I taper off, too upset to talk, my head reeling at this epic fail.

She heads over to her laptop, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Look, let's check online right now. I'm sure there's still something available. How quickly could they sell out?”

That quickly, Mom
.

Five minutes later, a quick online search and phone call proves what I already know—they are gone gone gone. All of them.

“How can an arena that seats 10,000 people sell out in three hours?” My mom stubbornly argues with a customer service rep, while I click onto StubHub.com and find what I am looking for. “Mom, look! Front row tickets. Two of them!”

She comes over and looks over my shoulder at the screen. “Five hundred dollars?” Her voice is dark like thunder. “Ab-so-lute-ly not.” I give her a pleading stare, although my babysitting stash won't come close and I know we don't have that kind of cash to spare. “Absolutely not!” she repeats, her voice rising an octave. “I'm sorry, that is just highway robbery. There's got to be another way.”

“Like what?” I try to choke back a sob. I could ask if Dad would cough up the dough, but I know if I bring up his name, her face will get that sour look like she's just bitten into a lemon.

“I'm sorry, honey. Maybe you can see the band the next time they have a show. Or we can drive to a different venue?”

“That won't work,” I shake my head, my chest tightening up. “This is their last stop. They just added it on. There is no other possible show . . .” I trail off, too upset to continue.

My mom puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Oh sweetie. I know you love this band right now, but let's get some perspective. Remember how much you used to like the Be Bop Brothers? And now you don't even play them anymore.”

“That's not true!” I cry, breaking away. Actually, it was exactly true. Two years ago, I did have a total middle-school crush on Ramon, the guitarist for the Be Bop Brothers, and plastered the walls of my room with posters of his face. But this is different. For one thing, I've matured eons since then. Plus, Viggo Witts is an artist.

“Just . . . forget it.” I grab my bag and rush up the stairs toward my room.

“Oh, and your father called,” she yells up after me, using the term she now prefers for him.
Your
.
Father
.

“Great,” I mutter, pulling my door open and slamming it shut behind me. Like I'd want to talk to him right now.

My mom doesn't get it. I've been dreaming of this moment forever. The chance to see Viggo Witts, live. In person. Breathe the same air. I couldn't believe my luck when they added this extra stop in Boston. Now, I'll never get to see him, let alone meet him. I collapse on my bed. I'd call Maeve, but she's probably in the middle of tryouts by now, and I don't want to blow her chances. Anyway, she's not really a true Knucklie like me; she's only tagging along because that's the kind of BFF she is. No, there's only one place where people will understand. I grab my laptop, click onto the Brass Knuckles fan page, and spill my sorrows onto the waiting wall.

KnuckLise99
: devastated in dansville. lost out on tix for the upcoming show. can anyone help?

While I wait for a reply, I scroll back up and see all the other posts, mostly other Boston peeps bragging about what awesome tickets they scored, comparing seat locations and planning to meet up at intermission or find a way to get backstage access. I am consumed with jealousy. A bunch of the regulars—Juniper77, DaisyFlour84—ping me back “no, sorry, that's too bad, wish I could help” but then suddenly, someone I don't recognize—someone new—lobs in a comment.

DecOlan
: sorry, that sucks.

DecOlan
: i didn't get tix either.

DecOlan
: so what happened?

I hesitate for a second, then type a reply.

KnuckLise99
: my mom was supposed to get them.

KnuckLise99
: got in a fender bender instead.

KnuckLise99
: now it's all sold out!

DecOlan
: that's the worst. you can't be mad at her

DecOlan
: but you can't help but be pissed.

KnuckLise99
: exactly.

DecOlan
: man, they are the best. i would eat nails to see them play live.

KnuckLise99
: i know!!!! i've been #1 fan 4ever.

DecOlan
: me too.

Weird he's never shown up on the site before, if he's such a big fan. Every other Knucklie in the universe has found their way here.

DecOlan
: what's your fav song?

KnuckLise99
: besides
Identity Crisis
? probably
Failing, Falling.

DecOlan
: mine too!

KnuckLise99
: really?

DecOlan
: yeah, genius right?

KnuckLise99
: it's obviously his most meaningful work.

DecOlan
: exactly.

KnuckLise99
: the lyrics can be taken on so many different levels.

DecOlan
: yes!!! i was just going to say that.

It was so cool to connect with another fan who got it, really got it. Most of the other posters on the fan site were girls who spent their time salivating over Viggo's perfect abs or cheekbones, but to be honest, few were guys, well, unless they were the types of guys who also salivated over his perfect abs and cheekbones. None of them ever got into analyzing the lyrics like this. While we chat about the meaning behind the words, I click over to his full profile to check him out. His full name is Declan O'Keefe, and he lives way out in Worcester, about an hour and a half west of the city. He's even posted a picture of himself (cute!) sitting alone on a picnic bench.

Suddenly, a personal InstaMessage from Declan pops up on my screen. I click to accept.

DecOlan
: shhh. kinda sketch, but how about crashing the show without tix? :)

KnuckLise99
: i'm in. how?

DecOlan
: meet in the parking lot and listen from outside?

KnuckLise99
: brilliant! just one problem.

DecOlan
: ??

KnuckLise99
: it's an enclosed arena.

DecOlan
: d'oh! Ok . . . bribe the ushers to let us in?

KnuckLise99
: wait wait! i know.

KnuckLise99
: say we're covering it for the school paper and get press passes!!

DecOlan
: no can do :(

KnuckLise99
: ??

DecOlan
: i don't go to skul.

I realize his profile page didn't list a school. What's up with that? My Stranger Danger alert gets triggered. Who is this guy, anyway? He looks my age, but you never know . . .

KnuckLise99
: what are you, like, 50?

DecOlan
: ha. 16. homeschooled.

KnuckLise99
: cool. i guess. or is it?

DecOlan
: Beats flipping burgers at Mickey D's.

KnuckLise99
: don't you miss being around other kids? friends?

DecOlan
: yeah, i need to get me some of those.

DecOlan
: interested?

I chuckle out loud, amused. I don't know if he's serious or joking, but I'm flattered. And, what's the harm?

KnuckLise99
: lol. sure why not?

DecOlan
: because most people think we're unsocialized freaks.

KnuckLise99
: r u?

DecOlan
: dunno. test me.

KnuckLise99
: ok. favorite book?

KnuckLise99
: movie?

KnuckLise99
: tv show?

And here's where it gets weird. It's crazy how much we have in common! Not just liking Brass Knuckles, but also our all-time favorite book (
The Great Gatsby
) and movie (
Clueless
), and even little things, like hating artichokes but loving asparagus, which we agree is downright eerie. I finally ask why he hasn't been on the fan page before, and he tells me that his parents have been really strict about letting him use social media, and have only just given in, now that he finally turned sixteen (“insane, right?”). I hear my mom calling me down to dinner, and even though I'm still mad at her, I'm also suddenly ravenous since I barely picked at my lunch.

KnuckLise99
: mom calling. gtg.

DecOlan
: ok. maybe we can talk later?

KnuckLise99
: sure.

DecOlan
: later, gator.

I head downstairs, for some reason unable to stop smiling. Missing the concert still completely blows, but I take some small comfort that in this whole sucktastic universe, at least I am not alone.

I know nothing about being a guy.

That much is clear.

Eva, of course, had no problem posing as Declan. Her fingers flying over the keyboard, she chatted forever with Annalise about this and that. Music and books and whatnot, parroting back Annalise's likes without her suspecting a thing, Tori and me watching in awe over her shoulder the whole time.

The two of them thought it was soooo hilarious. How Annalise lapped it all up—that she and “Declan” just “happened” to share the same favorite song, the same books, even the same food likes and dislikes, all lifted right from her old posts.

But then they broke for dinner and Eva went home, dumping the whole crazy project in my lap, saying I should take over since she and Tori were going to be much too busy with after-school play rehearsals. Now, I have no clue how to pick up where she left off. What, exactly, do guys say to girls they're trying to hit on, online? I sit staring at the keyboard, trying to figure out where to begin. How a guy—our guy, our made up, fictional guy, Declan O'Keefe, who is a real person but not exactly—would sweet talk a girl.