Pretending to Be Erica (17 page)

I visit Mr. Silverman on my own. His gray hue isn’t promising, and he isn’t as enthusiastic as he normally is to play checkers. At least he’s out of the room. He moves his pieces listlessly. I write the code down on a piece of paper and show it to him. Mr. Silverman’s eyes widen. I lean in.

“This is the code, isn’t it? For the thing behind
Robinson Crusoe
. You hid it, but I found it.”

His hazel eyes bore into mine—an animal on point. A rat pausing to sniff the air for danger. After a beat he shakes his head, points to the
2p
and
6pm
. “Reverse.”

I take a pen out and switch the two. Mr. Silverman touches the new code, and lingers on the tiny
h
. The last digit.

“Home,” he says wistfully.

I smile and move my black piece. I feel like celebrating. Even if he is crazy, the confirmation means something. Means everything. I’ve gotten a code with a very good chance of being the right one. I’m that much closer. One step closer to getting out of this place. Violet wants to dance. Erica wants to comfort the pitiful shell of the man who was her father.

“Why don’t we do something different for once? Do you, I dunno, like to dance?” I start.

“Dance,” he repeats dully.

I stand from the table and pull him up by the hand. I tap on my phone and bring up a default song—something classic and orchestra-y. Something James might play. Mr. Silverman looks wary at first, but when the nurses don’t come screaming to reprimand us, he twirls me around and we do a sort of shuffle-jig facing each other. He’s dancing something from an era before my inception, and I’m making it up as I go, flailing hands and schizophrenic feet. Violet misses showing her true emotions like this. The other visitors are staring. Some patients get up from their stools and clap. An old woman holding a child’s toy squeaks it in time to the music. A tattooed menace of a young man dances in his chair and whoops.

The orderlies are not amused.

Violet has never seen Mr. Silverman smile like he means it until this moment.

Erica tried to imagine that same smile, tried to hide in the memory of it, when Gerald’s hands were slitting her wrists.

Sal never made a habit of keeping guns around.

The only gun I’d seen before going into Taylor’s TV room was the revolver Sal kept for emergencies. He’d never fired it. It’s unsettling to see so many guns in one place: mounted on the walls, under glass cases. The type of man to hoard this many guns is a hunter or a fanatic collector. No stuffed heads or photos of kills, so Taylor’s dad is the latter. A collector of guns who doesn’t actually use them. This says oodles about his character: focuses on details, a little pompous. The guns are in plain sight. He likes intimidating people or showing off.

The best con artist knows it’s dangerous to have hobbies and quirks. They give away personality. Giving away personality is giving the opponent an advantage. Knowledge is everything. A con artist’s job is to manipulate, not be manipulated. Violet’s only vice is a good hamburger.

And a witty boy.

I shake my head to get rid of that thought. Taylor walks in bearing two cans of soda and a bag of popcorn. She hands me a can.

“Thanks. For inviting me too.”

“Don’t thank me.” She snorts and pops her can open. “Consider it a sorry-I-was-a-jerkass-all-this-time-so-here’s-some-popcorn night. Sleepover makes it sound so kiddish.”

“I’ll do your hair like normal girls do. Give you a Mohawk.” I smirk over my soda. Her hair’s down to her back. “It’d be a lot of hair gel. But worth it.”

“So you can take pictures and blackmail me? I don’t think so.” She snorts again.

“You’re such a suspicious individual.” I pretend to act shocked.

“So are you, Fakey. You just act all smiley about it.”

Taylor’s fighting bruises are healing slowly but surely, faint rings of purple and green. She doesn’t wear as much caked foundation to hide them anymore. She flips through the movies on Netflix. Her queue is full of horror and thrillers. Crime thrillers.

“You like guessing who the murderer is?” I ask.

Taylor shrugs. “Yeah. But TV is too predictable—it’s always the best-known actors. British TV is a little harder to guess.”

A woman strides by us, legs long, wearing little more than a towel. I nearly jump, but Taylor’s expression is dully unsurprised.

“Taylor, do you know where the extra shampoo is? Charlotte used it all.”

“Bottom drawer on the right,” Taylor says.

The woman’s face lights up. “Thanks!”

I wait until she’s gone to speak. “I saw you at Green Foods. You work at a lot of places, right? To get out of the house. Because your dad lets these girls practically live here, and it annoys you. Makes you feel caged in.”

She grunts again and sinks into the couch. Her house isn’t so different from Erica’s. It’s smaller, but just as chic and filled with expensive things—stainless-steel refrigerator, art on the walls, leather couches. She doesn’t find solace in the rich things like Violet does. Even if it’s fancy, it’s not a home to her.

“Where’s your mom?” I ask.

“New York. I spend summers there.”

“You can’t live with her instead?”

“The only things Mom loves are herself and her art.” Taylor shrugs. “I’d just cramp her style and ruin her idiotic bohemian parties.”

My stomach clenches. She fishes her cigarettes out.

“S’fine. I’ll be gone in a year to college, anyway. They can fuck up their lives without me stopping them. I bet they’ll be thrilled.”

“That’s not true. They love you,” I try.

“Yeah.” She chuckles and takes the first drag. “Sure.”

Taylor offers me a cigarette. I’ve never smoked in my life. Violet thinks it’s nasty. Erica wants to try everything at least once, before she has to go away for good. I choke, and Taylor pounds me on the back.

“Shoulda known you wouldn’t know how. Look”—she puts her hand on her chest—“put the cigarette to your lips. Breathe in once, hold it in your mouth, and then breathe in again so it goes in lower. And now let it out.”

I exhale. Smoke spirals toward the ceiling. I wrinkle my nose.

She takes her own drag and checks her phone. “You wanna go somewhere?”

“I’m up for whatever you are.”

She doesn’t drive, so we head to the bus stop. I don’t ask where we’re going—it’s just nice to be going somewhere, period. An older woman watches Taylor suspiciously from a bench.

“Black jacket and leather pants make you an automatic bad girl,” Taylor mumbles. “Or it’s the contrast. Angelic you standing next to grungy me.”

“Like chocolate and vanilla,” I offer.

“
Harold and Maude
,” she counters.

“Hamburgers and French fries.”

“Why are all yours food? Are you hungry?” She laughs. I rub my stomach as the bus rolls up. She uses her pass and pays for me, and we sit across from a sleeping hobo.

“Don’t worry.” Taylor removes her jacket, tank top showing off her arms. “Where we’re going, there’s plenty of free food. The good, fancy stuff too. Salmon, pesto, salad.”

The bus takes us to another suburb, one farther from the city. It stops in front of a sprawling golf course, a huge white building with a waiting roundabout.
BLUEWELL COUNTRY CLUB
, the sign blares. Taylor jumps off the last bus step and breathes in.

“Ah, fake grass and arrogance. My favorite smells. Oh, and a hint of—could it be—Botox?” A group of overtanned women in golf gear rivet their heads toward her at the word. Taylor waves. “Afternoon, ladies.”

“What’s so special about this place? Other than the prime snob-watching?” I ask.

“Look who’s talking.” She elbows me. “Your mom’s one of these snobs, I’m sure. You, Fakey, are destined to become one of ’em too. If you stick around.”

“Me and destiny aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Country clubs!” She throws up her arms. “Home of Rolexes, inane conversation, and who-knows-who-is-who. And recitals.” She opens the front doors for me. The lobby isn’t big, but it’s swarming with people. My stomach sinks. Moths beat their wings against the lining. Recitals. She can’t mean—

“Excuse me, ladies.” A man at a podium in a suit clears his throat. “What are your member numbers?”

“We’re here for the recital, Chumley. Friends of James.” Taylor smiles.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to need an invitation in order to—”

“Calvin!” a voice booms.

A man in a neat vest walks up. I’d recognize that face anywhere—

“I’d recognize that face anywhere!” The man smiles at me. “Erica Silverman, right?”

I nod. Calvin the concierge fumbles. “Sir, I certainly—”

“Let them in, will you?” The man thumps Calvin on the back. “They’re friends of James, and one of them’s a minor celebrity. What more could you ask for?”

“Not much, sir,” Calvin grits out, and waves us through. Taylor mock-salutes as we pass.

“I’ve seen you on the news, Erica.” The man adjusts his vest. “Terrible tragedy, but at least you’re back now, eh? What doesn’t kill you and all that?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?”

He smacks his forehead and extends a hand. “I apologize. I’ve been all over the place today. I’m Michael Anders, James’s father.”

I knew it. His face is a lot like James’s—placid, mild. An everyman’s face. He shakes my hand vigorously.

“I’m Taylor.” She offers her hand.

He just smiles at it and adjusts his collar. “Pleasure. Let’s get you some good seats, shall we?”

Mr. Anders puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me toward a ballroom. Taylor stalks after us, clearly pissed at being slighted. The tables are crowded with people. At the front is a grand piano, gleaming midnight on the small platform. At the sides are buffets of cold meats, salad fixings, and finger sandwiches. Taylor heaps a plate and leaves me to be corralled around by overeager Michael.

“So how are you liking Saint Peter’s?” he asks, and pulls out a chair for me at a front table. This isn’t good. James’ll definitely be able to see me as soon as he walks in.

“I like it.” I put on my best smile. “Everyone’s been so nice to me. I was expecting something more showy when the police said my real home was in Vegas.”

Michael nods. “It’s a place built on show business. Once you get used to it, that mentality starts to leak into your lifestyle. It’s a fantastic mind-set—positive energy covering up all the negative stuff.”

“To be honest, I like the nonglitzy parts best. Much less shallow.”

“Of course you do.” He smiles dismissively and motions to a few people. “Ann! Simon! Come over here for a sec. Got someone you’ll want to meet!”

I glance around for Taylor, but she’s still stuffing her plate. Am I supposed to be here? Would James hate me being here? Why did Taylor even bring me? They’re the ones who should date eventually. Does she still think I like him? Am I that obvious?

“Ann, Simon, this is Erica Silverman,” Michael says.

“I’ve been following your case since day one, dear,” Ann assures me, horse face creased with concern.

“She’s even written letters to the governor calling for harsher sentencing on your kidnappers.” Simon laughs, his bald spot showing.

“Thank you?” I don’t sound convinced.

“Oh, it’s nothing big, really.” Ann smiles. “I’m just doing what any Good Samaritan would.”

“That’s my little activist.” Simon laughs again. Michael laughs with him.

Simon looks to me. “So, I heard you and James go to the same school. Do you know him well?”

“Sort of.” I smile.

“He’s a nice kid. Been coming here since he was little. Though I bet his dad wishes he was a bit more music-superstar material. Don’t you, Mike?”

Michael shrugs. “He’ll get there one day. You should see him play now; he’s got that stage fright thing mastered.”

“So I’ve heard.” Ann nods. “How did he do it?”

“Eight-hour practice days on the weekends, and four-hour sessions on the weekdays in front of minor crowds. Just family, mostly. Friends of family. Stick him in the middle of the living room while we’re having a party and make him play. It really works wonders for his performance anxiety.”

I furrow my brows. That sounds intense. Eight hours every weekend? And four every weekday? What kind of life could you have like that? It’s a miracle we’d gotten to go on a date at all.

Michael keeps on.

“I’ve been talking to my old professor at Julliard, says application season is hideous, but it’s only the top three percent that they really consider, you know?” Ann and Simon nod. “So I said to James: ‘You’re already in the three percent; just get a little better than the other two point nine!’”

As if on cue, they all burst into laughter. I don’t get the joke.

“What’s he playing today?” Ann asks.

“Oh, something surefire. Beethoven.”

“He should play one of your pieces, Mike,” Simon insists.

Michael waves his hand. “Someday. Right now it’s all about the old masters and developing technique.”

“Doesn’t he play guitar, too?” I ask.

Michael looks at me, startled. “We’re focusing on piano, as we’ve done since he was a child. There’s no room for that sort of thing right now, especially with Julliard so close.”

“What if he doesn’t want to do piano?” I shoot back.

Violet’s being too blunt. Ann and Simon both tense up. Michael looks as if I’d slapped him.

“He loves piano. Ever since he was—”

“What if he loves music? All music. Not just piano.”

Michael stares at me, his blue eyes near mirror images of James’s. But James’s are kinder. Michael finally breaks into a nervous laugh.

“Of course he loves music. That’s in the blood.”

Simon and Ann laugh with him. I roll my eyes and fix them on Taylor. She trots over and sits by me, spooning potato salad into her mouth.

“Why’d you bring me here?” I ask her.

She swallows her mouthful. “Because you like James.”

“Tay—”

“You realize”—she stabs a bit of salmon—“that in all the seventeen years I’ve known him, I’ve never ever seen him so happy. Upbeat. Fuckin’ positive instead of dreary and prissy! When he’s with you, he loses his wavy-haired head.”

“Look, I can’t date anyone right now. You know why—”

“You can date if you want. Don’t kid yourself, Fakey. You want to. I’m sick of seeing you mope around about it. Let’s settle this.” She takes out a coin and smirks. “Vegas style. Heads, you go out with him. Tails, you don’t.”

I pick at my jeans. She smiles.

“This is fair, right? A coin is fifty-fifty, nice and even and clean. Nothing personal. It’s the best judge.”

“I’m just going to hurt him, Taylor.”

“You never drop that dumb people-pleasing smile. So what if you hurt him? He’ll hurt you. You’ll hurt each other. That’s what love is about, right? You can’t know what’ll happen till you actually try it. Don’t try to make excuses like you’re protecting him.”

“I’m not making excuses!” I hiss. “This is how it has to be. He can’t go out with me. I can’t go out with him. I’m not a good person.”

“You wanna blame it on being
bad
?” She laughs. “Fine. Be my guest. But we both know that’s not it. You just don’t want to make your own choices.”

“That’s not true!”

“You like James, but you’re scared of choosing him for real, making a commitment, so you refuse to even try. Me and the populars, you waver between us. You like me. Even though they’re dumb airheads, you like them. You’re just standing on the middle ground and throwing around bullshit so you can delay choosing between us because you don’t know how to choose. Because you’ve never had to make your own choices. It’s always just been someone ordering you around, hasn’t it?”

Of course I take orders. I have to. What would you know about living your whole life for one con? Throwing yourself away to become another girl entirely? I never had a choice. This is what I was raised for. I can’t go against that. There’s always been a plan. Every breath, every month, every laugh or flu or Barbie doll has all been part of the plan. I’ve spent my life digging myself into this grave. I can’t dig myself out.

That’s what I tell myself every day.

Taylor tosses the coin up. It spirals then clangs against the tabletop. Taylor slams her hand over it. I faintly hear an announcer talking, the crowd cheering, but my eyes are fixed on the flash of silver between her fingers. It’s just a coin. I’m not serious about this insane bet, not like Taylor is. Her brown eyes are filled with something I can’t discern, and it scares me. She pulls her hand away. Heads.