Pretending to Be Erica (21 page)

“Should’ve turned the lights off earlier, Kerwin,” I singsong to no one, and start into the darkness.

The moon is full, shining like a cold sun on the scrub trees and brush. Every few feet I crack a glow stick and drop it on the ground. A trail. Hansel uses fluorescent green in our world, our time. Hansel is going to dig up Gretel.

The shovel slows me down. The damn dress slows me down. I’d traded the high heels for gardening galoshes, but the new pleather rubs blisters on my feet. Just one mile and a third. Push through the pain. Push through it just like you’ve pushed through time, life, people. Blowing holes in them, passing them off to others, deflecting their attempts at real friendships—

I trip. The sparse grasses give way to broken fence. Rusting barbwire clings like vines to the posts. Beyond is the burned barn Sal mentioned. The outside is charred black, blistering where fire consumed it. The roof is a half fang, standing proud and stabbing at the moon. I turn west, the direction the moon is setting in. Follow the moon. I would be afraid. Trekking through darkness makes people afraid. But it’s never really dark here. The lights from the Strip might be faint, but I can see the glow on the horizon. I’m not really alone.

Shards of cow skull mark a coyote’s den. A mother grouse leads her babies across the cool hard-packed sand, clucking comforting things. They scatter when they hear me coming. I look at the ground, watching for scorpions and keeping my ears open for the faint hiss of any snake.

My eyes strain against the darkness until the spindly branches of my goal poke my vision. The acacia isn’t blooming anymore, a great blanket of molding flowers spreading beneath its twisted roots. Purple shows faintly through the browns and greens of decomposition. It’s an old tree, three times my height. Abandoned ravens’ nests cling to the naked branches, the trunk hollowed by owl holes and bug pits. Everyone has taken advantage of the tree. I put my bag and shovel down, and hike my dress up.

Thirteen years ago, Gerald carried a little girl’s dead body here.

I hate it, but I slide into his mind-set—where would I bury the body if I were him? On the west side of the tree? No, the sand is packed too hard there. Definitely not the south; a huge root blocks most of that area. The softest patch of dirt, easiest to dig in, and with the least roots in the way. Northeast.

I double around, shake Gerald out of my head, and grip the pickax. The first strike is hard, the iron spike puncturing the dirt crust. The clink of the pickax against sand and roots is the only sound in the wasteland. The wind whistles faintly, snaking around cacti and through the brush. This is the land of the dead—I’m the only one here. The Strip, Vegas, is just a few miles away, and yet I’m the only one out here. I am alone and surrounded by people all at the same time.

My phone rings, the orchestra ringtone I picked for James piercing my brain. No. Not now. Not anymore. I wipe dirt off my face with my shoulder and reach for the shovel. Again, the orchestra rings. Stop, James. I’m not her anymore. She’s below me, just below me in sand and mud—

He rings five times, a tired silence settling after the last ring. I break into the torn-up dirt, shoveling the excess over my shoulder. Three inches. It’s gotta be more than that, otherwise the coyotes would’ve gotten her. Four feet? Maybe the full six. I don’t know if I can dig that far down. But I have to try.

I have to find her.

Someone has to bring her home.

Sand spills down my dress and itches my skin. Sweat smears my makeup as I get a foot down, two feet. Scorpions scatter, my shovel edge smeared with green guts and pieces of pincers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I have to get down there. I’m sorry, move on to something better—

Taylor’s ringtone resounds, a hard rock song. Once. Twice. Go away, Taylor. It’s over now. I can’t be Violet anymore either.

Water. I reach into the bag and gulp at the bottle greedily. It spills down my chest and washes away the sand, darkens the blue silk. This isn’t my dress. I tear at it, the silk resilient. This isn’t my dress; it’s hers—

I grab the shovel and stab into the earth, bring it up, fling it into the air and make it fly. Merril’s ringtone, the sound of bells. I squeeze my eyes shut and fling more sand. More sand. More dirt. Somewhere in this dirt is the one girl everyone’s been looking for. Somewhere in this dirt is closure, Marie,
closure—

The sapphire slides on my sweaty neck. I unclasp it and throw it into the bag. Too slow. More speed. More dirt. My arms cry burning tears, the shovel a blur as I push harder. I have to see her. Just once. I have to find her, bring her back to the people who want her, to the hole in the shape of her in each of their hearts—

James’s orchestra rings.

“Stop! Leave me alone!”

Three feet. Too deep to reach down and shovel. Rocks. I throw rocks in the bottom, the biggest and heaviest I can find. Use them as a ladder, in and out. I’m not digging wide enough. I’m not digging fast enough, I’ll never find her—

The airy ringtone I’d chosen for Mrs. Silverman pierces my panting.

“I don’t want to talk!” I scream, the shovel biting into the dirt with more force. “I never liked any of you! I never liked you to begin with!”

A lie. Lies on top of lies, dirt on top of dirt—

“It was just a con!” I laugh, my breathing heavy, the shovelfuls of dirt getting even heavier. “All of it was just a big fucking lie, and you all fell for it!”

Did they really . . .

“Every last one of them, blinded by the pretty face and the pretty clothes and the pretty memories; outside is all that counts, always. Just make your outside shine and they love you, they’ll love you!”

Merril rings.

“You never liked me!”

Mrs. Silverman rings.

“You loved a dead girl!”

James.

“You never f-fucking loved me! I’m not real, none of it is, it’s all a stupid lie—”

The shovel’s too heavy. Too slow. Fingers scrape at the bottom, a mole, a rat in the maze, vultures, something disgusting—

Something hard, smooth. I sift the sand off. The moonlight shines down; a soft wind spirals into the hole and dries my tears. Two eyes peek out at me, two dark holes. The face skin is brown and leathery, dry and smooth despite the deep wrinkles. The mouth hangs open, a few baby teeth just barely wiggling loose. Fine, pale, angel-blonde hair laced with roots and dust falls around her wrinkled shoulders, the bones sharp. Little arms are crossed over each other, hands clasped together. On the leathery wrists, two deep cuts pry the skin apart, darkness inside.

She stares right through my shouted lies.

“Erica.”

The desert sand has preserved her—a perfect mummy. She smiles that baby-tooth smile up at me, the same smile in the photo album: friends, Slip’n’ Slides, pools, laughter, and dreams transform into a ballerina, a girl who can do anything, a girl who never,
ever
dies.

I scrabble to haul myself out of the pit and to my now-silent phone. Seventeen missed calls. I look in my phone book, for a certain number I’d stolen from Mrs. Silverman’s phone.

It rings twice before a tired gruff voice picks up.

“Hello?”

“Mr. White.” I wipe my eyes. “I found her.”

“Found who? Who is this?”

“I found the girl you’ve been looking for all this time.”

There’s rustling as he gets out of bed. “Erica? Is that you?”

“Sure.” I give a watery chuckle. “Both of us are here.”

“What are you talking about? Where is ‘here’?”

“Kalstead Road. Mile marker twelve. I left a trail of glow sticks.”

“Erica—”

The world blurs, my eyes pour. “C-come and bring her home, M-Mr. White.”

I hang up and look into the sky, trying to force the tears back into their ducts. I need clear vision and clearer thoughts. Deep breaths. Just like we practiced.

I put my tools away, brush sand off Erica’s face to see her properly. My voice, though small, is eerily loud among the sands and cacti.

“Come out, Kerwin. I know you’re there.”

There’s a crack in the brush. I don’t turn around.

“Guess I wasn’t as smooth as I could’ve been.” He sighs.

“Tell me once and for all,” I murmur, staring into Erica’s hollow eyes. “Who are you?”

“Sal said you’d go for the body instead. I kept telling him: ‘No way, not Violet. She’s your best student. She’ll definitely go for the painting before the girl.’ Looks like I lost that bet.”

“You’ve called him, then.”

“Yeah.” Kerwin yawns. “He’ll be here. Even if you change your mind and go for the painting, he’ll still be pissed.”

I stand and brush sand off my dress. “Your real name?”

“Darren Morris. Nice to meet you.”

“The accent was faked?”

He drops the accent. “Yeah. Accents are my forte, like math is yours.”

“No wonder I couldn’t find anything on you. Where did he raise you?”

“Colorado. Boulder.”

“He teach you the Grover trick first?”

“Breadbasket version.”

I scoff. “That’s a hard one to pull off.”

“He figured I could do it.”

I face him and laugh, the sound bitter. “How many more of us are there?”

“I don’t know. He never talked about any of them except you.”

“So in a weird fucked-up way, you’re like my brother.”

“And you’re like my little sister.”

The desert wind blows, cold and biting. I hug myself and shiver.

“Did you have fun pretending to be normal?” I ask.

His eyes darken, voice softening. “Yeah. Too much.”

“Look, I just want to go. I don’t want to be a part of this shit anymore. Just let me go.”

“I can’t, Violet. You know that.”

A figure cuts through the bushes, scraping thorns announcing his arrival. He always makes an entrance, and against the black sands and white moonlight, this is no exception. The stolen cable company uniform, the flashy rings, hair slicked back and slightly balding toward the front. His shoulders are broad, age wrinkling him with dignity around his blue eyes.

No one moves.

No one can move. Sal ingrained it into us that we stand straight, tall, and proud when he’s around. That we look him in the eye and answer in clear concise words. Especially during a job.

He’s
smiling
.

“It feels like ages since I’ve seen you, Vi.”

“Three months,” I say.

“That’s, what, a fourth of a year?” He shrugs. “Can’t be kept away from my star student for that long. It’s cruel. Inhuman.”

He walks closer. Circles me, the grave. Nods at Kerwin as he passes.

“Can I ask what you’re doing out here, Vi?”

“As long as I get to ask a question afterward.”

“Course.” Sal smiles. “Fair is fair.”

“I came to bring the body back to the family. They deserve closure. Erica deserves to go home.”

Sal nods and motions for me to ask my question.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Kerwin? Why didn’t you trust me?”

“It looks like I didn’t trust you with good reason.” He points at Erica’s body. “I understand living this con might’ve messed with your mind, your priorities. But I taught you better than this, didn’t I? The job first. Everything else later.”

“How many more kids were there before us?” I bark. Kerwin flinches at my tone.
I
flinch at my tone. I never talk to Sal like this. Never. Sal puts a finger to his lips, as if he’s thinking, and then shrugs.

“Let’s not talk about them. None of them are as good as you, Vi. None of them had that inherent talent, that mystical potential people are born with once in a lifetime. You’re the clear gem, and they are the costume jewelry fakes.”

Kerwin shifts, a shadow passing over his face.

“We’re here because you’re not where you’re supposed to be.” Sal smiles at me.

“I’m not stealing the painting. I don’t want it. No one should have it. It’s Mrs. Silverman’s, not ours.”

“She’s well-off already. She won’t miss it.”

“Don’t try to persuade me, Sal. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not stealing that painting. I’m not doing anything for you anymore.”

Sal’s face doesn’t change—a masterful control keeping it the same. A tendril of sand blows by. Kerwin clenches his fists.

“You’ll give me the code, then,” Sal says.

“I don’t know it.”

“You said you did.”

“I was mistaken.” I pour everything into the lie, but Sal still sees right through it, smile growing toothy.

“So this is your final decision?”

No more conning. No more lies. No more nothingness.

“Yes.”

There’s another silence. Sal paces, adjusts something in his pocket. Nods to himself. Mumbles. My eyes dart around for an exit, but Sal’s too close. Kerwin’s too close. I can’t get away from both of them.

It hits me when Sal takes the gun out like one would take out a pen. Calmly. Without thought.

I’m not going to get away this time.

As Sal steps closer, barks at Kerwin to restrain me, I realize I knew, the moment I left prom, I wasn’t going to come back from digging up this grave. The feeling uncoils, cold ribbons of acceptance. I’ll never leave Sal. The con world. They won’t let me leave alive. I’ve seen Sal do it a hundred times—call his “people” and tell them to clean up a “mess.” Someone who knew too much would go missing in a matter of hours, never to be found.

I’ll be one of them, buried in this unforgiving desert. Probably right next to Erica.

I kick at Kerwin, but he’s so much taller and stronger. He holds my arms behind my back and forces me to my knees by kicking the back of them.

“Kerwin, please. You don’t have to listen to him. You don’t have to do this.”

He kneels with me, mouth near my ear. “I’m not as brave as you.”

Sal walks in front of me. Loads the gun—a revolver—one bullet at a time.

“In the days of the old West, they’d shoot thieves in the hands. Right through the palm. Murderers shot through once in the middle of the forehead. Execution-style,” he says.

I can’t stop the whimper that tears from me. Sal smiles at it.

“Vi, I’m not gonna kill you. You know I’d never kill you. I’m just not the killing type. But what I
am
gonna do”—the cold barrel of the gun rests against my kneecap—“is ask you politely, one last time, for the code.”