Identity Crisis (23 page)

I hear whoops and whistles from the audience inside the arena. The show is starting, and fans still lingering rush inside to their seats, leaving me alone, with just the ticket takers eyeing me indifferently.

My phone vibrates. It is a text from my dad, just a big question mark, asking what's taking me so long. Well, that's that. Dad's waiting in the car, and I see no other choice but to go find him. As I turn to leave, I feel someone grab my shoulder. It's Eva, and she looks wild-eyed, reckless. The slit in her dress has torn way up her thigh.

“Come on.” She takes my hand and tugs me.

“What? Wait. Where's Amos?” I am almost afraid to ask.

“Screw Amos.” And when I look closely at her face, I can see that she has been crying as well. We must look a wreck, the two of us. “He dumped me, okay? For real this time. He's gone. But no way I'm missing my song with the band. So are you coming, or what?”

I don't want to go anywhere with her, and I don't know why she'd want me after I told her we were through, but I numbly follow her past the bag check, into the arena, out of habit, or maybe sympathy, or maybe one last hope of finding Annalise.

I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and the brain-thumping roar of the music already pervading the arena. I pull the VIP pass over my head as an usher with a flashlight stops us and checks Eva's tickets, then leads us down, down, down, past rows of jealous faces until he pauses at the front row, right in front of the stage, gesturing to two seats in the center of the floor. We apologetically bob and weave our way past our already-standing seatmates until we find our spots, so close up that I have to tilt my chin and crane my neck to see the singer looming above us.

The spotlights bathe Brass Knuckles in a bluish glow, transforming the musicians into an aquarium of exotic undersea creatures. My eyes sweep the stage as I take in the various band members that, thanks to Annalise, I already know so well: the drummer, Johnny Cape, with his overdeveloped arms and shaved head already shining with sweat; the long-haired bass player, guitar slung low on his hip in a stance of indifference.

Viggo himself commands center stage, dressed all in creamy-white leather, the blue streak in his spiky black hair gleaming dangerously. His face is manly perfection: chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, dark piercing eyes. The music crashes inside my ears and vibrates throughout the rest of my body in waves, obliterating everything else.

I twist and turn, trying to spot Annalise and Cooper, but there's no way I'll ever make them out in the dim arena. We listen, silently, as the band plays one song, then the next. Eva starts revenge-flirting with two guys on the other side of her, trying to see if they are at least twenty-one and will get her a drink. After a few minutes, she is successful, and she downs most of it lightning-fast, laughing to herself, “Liquid courage, right?”

Then she holds the cup out to me, in case I want a sip.

“Beer?”

I shake my head no, remembering that my dad is still sitting waiting in the car, and the smell of alcohol on my grounded breath sure won't go over well. Like he read my mind, my dad texts me again. “I have to go,” I tell Eva, but she grabs my hand, pleading, “Not until after my song. You can't.”

I sigh, and text my dad back, begging for ten more minutes.

Eventually, Eva starts talking. At first, I don't even realize she is talking to me, because she is staring straight ahead. I hear her mumble something like, “You were right.” But those words would never come out of Eva Winter's mouth.

“What?” I shout.

She raises her voice even louder. “I said, maybe this was more about me and Amos than Annalise. Maybe it wasn't entirely her fault. Fine, okay? I get it. So if you have to make amends, whatever.”

I am so shocked that she is actually owning up to it, making an attempt at an apology, that I can't speak.

“Did you hear what I said?” Then she finally looks at me and notices my puffy, tear-stained eyes. “Wait, what happened? What's wrong, Noey?”

I try to speak, but can't. How do I tell Eva that I already tried but failed? Annalise will never forgive me, that I came down here ready to grovel, just to have her reject me. But I can't, it is just too loud. Too humiliating. Silently, I hand her the note. She reads it and looks stunned. Hands it back to me.

I expect her to say sorry, to comfort me, to give me a hug.

Instead, she glares at me. “So, you're just going to take that from her?”

“What can I do?” I wince at her harsh words. “She's right.”

Eva is angry. But not at Annalise—at me. “Geez. Noey. I thought you'd finally grown some balls. I was actually impressed when you told me off today. That's the first time in a long time you've ever stepped up.”

I silently take that in.

“So, don't just take that brushoff from her. If you want to make amends, make amends.”

I am shaking my head. “It's too late.”

She gets right in my face, grabbing my shoulders with both hands. “It's not. But you're going to have to
make
her accept your apology. Force her to hear you. Show her you mean it.”

I want to, but it feels helpless. “How?”

In the background, I hear Brass Knuckles segue into the opening chords of “Identity Crisis.” Just then, a huge blinding spotlight shines in my eye. I literally can't see. The white glare freezes me in a hot glow as the crowd cheers, eager for one of its own to be coroneted. A backlit figure is standing high up above us, gleaming, reaching his arm toward us like an angel.

It is Viggo Witts, his microphone tucked under his arm, smiling down at us, out of a crowd of thousands of screaming girls. Suddenly, I feel a hard shove from behind. I am jolted forward, and he is taking my hand, pulling me up on stage. I try to tug away, shake him off, tell him he's picked the wrong girl, that he's supposed to pick Eva, of course, not me. But it is chaos all around us, and it is too late. I have been chosen, the Jumbotron has zoomed in right on me, and he is not letting go.

I stumble up onto the massive stage of the Agganis Arena. A zillion darkened faces examine me from a million angles, like a dressing room mirror that shows 180 degrees into infinity. Offstage in the wings, more sets of eyes are piercing me: roadies, musicians, groupies.

“What's your name, luv?” Viggo asks indifferently, and I whisper it into the microphone. Oh my god, that stupid raffle that Eva had to go and win. They must have told him exactly where the winner would be sitting, to pick us out from our VIP passes. But he's somehow gone and got the wrong girl. And Viggo Witts is already gesturing for me to sit on a waiting stool, where I know what will happen next. He will start serenading me with “Identity Crisis,” while I sit there. And then—oh, god—he will share the microphone with me and expect me to sing the chorus with him. To actually sing a song in front of an entire stadium of people. Not just that, but people will be filming it on their phones and putting it up on YouTube, where my performance will be immortalized forever. Eva has spent all week practicing, but I haven't. I'm not even exactly sure I know all the words by heart. Compared to reviewing a math problem, singing in a packed arena is like the difference between tackling a rock-climbing wall and scaling Mt. Kilimanjaro.

My head spins with altitude sickness. My body spasms with the bends. And this time, I think it will take my poor pounding heart a million years to recover.

For the second time in a week, I stand there flabbergasted, as I watch Noelle Spiers—my newfound nemesis—get pulled up on stage instead of Eva, instead of me. What happened? Some mix-up? I look over at Eva, expecting to see her having a tantrum—waving her arms in outrage that Viggo has picked the wrong girl, demanding that security let her get by. But instead, she is standing there serenely, a little smile on her face, nodding encouragingly as Noelle gets pulled on stage.

I might not have noticed it before, but now that Cooper has pointed it out, I can see it clearly: being up there completely freaks Noelle out. She is trembling, literally trembling, as Viggo asks her name and gently gets her seated on the stool. Viggo is perfect, gorgeous, so near I could almost touch him. I will him to look into the audience at me, to give me this chance instead of her. Noelle just sits there, looking zombie-like, or as if she is sleepwalking, awake but not really. I remember the anecdote DecOlan shared about choking at a school concert when he was younger, and wonder if that really happened to her. Is that why she always seemed so stuck-up, when really, she's just super shy?

“Is she going to be all right?”

“I'm not sure.” Cooper's brow is creased in concern for her. I can feel his anguish. Because he's always going to care about her, I realize, first and foremost, even though he doesn't know it yet.

I think back on all the heart to hearts we'd had, personal stuff, when she'd told me about her dad losing his job and her parents' argument. Was any of it real? Or like she said, was all of it real—except for who she was?

Viggo launches into the band's trademark song, but then, before the first chorus ends, Noelle seems to snap out of her trance. I watch as she rises unsteadily off her stool.

What is she doing?

His eyes squeezed shut with emotion, Viggo doesn't seem to notice her, or at least, he pretends not to. He continues to sing as she inches closer to him.

“Stop,” she mouths, and now he gives his head a small, almost imperceptible shake and a frown, as if to say,
don't upstage me, psycho chick
. “Please,” she mouths again, and then, incredibly, she yanks the microphone right out of his hands.

Cooper and I exchange a look.
Has she gone mad?

The crowd starts mumbling and grumbling and the music is still playing, and I can't tell what is going on. Until I hear my name. And I realize that Noelle is speaking into microphone about me. Or to me.

“Annalise Bradley,” she says, her hand shielding her eyes from the spotlights as she scans the front rows. Finally, she locates me in the fourth row, pointing at me and repeating my name. “She's the one who should really be up here. Not me. This is her dream, not mine. And it's all I have left, to make it up to her, for what I've done. To show her that I'm truly sorry. To show her that I meant what I said. Every word.”

I am stunned.

That she would do this. That she would offer this. That this is really happening. That she is making this happen. If I step forward, I can take her place up there on the stool, and Viggo Witts will sing to me, and I will sing to him. All I have to do is forgive her. I think back to Elena, and why she said she forgave our father. “Because he got swept up in something he wasn't strong enough to stop. He was weak, I know. But also I know he didn't want to hurt us.”

Noelle looks me in the eye. “I know I lied about who I was. I regret it. But everything else about our friendship was true. And all I want is for it to survive.” Then she goes on to say she hopes I give Cooper a chance because he really likes me and she's known forever that he's the most amazing guy she knows, but she doesn't deserve him and maybe I do and she hopes we'll be happy together.

Cooper doesn't know exactly what she's babbling about, and gives me a quizzical glance, but it doesn't seem to matter. When she finishes speaking, with a slight crack in her voice, I feel him freeze and gaze at Noelle, like he was seeing her for the first time ever. I can literally feel his crush on me draining away, like a soul leaving a dead body, and rematerializing in a halo of light around her, and although part of me is sad to see it go, another part thinks maybe it is only right.

The audience seems mesmerized, too, staring at Noelle on the Jumbotron, and down on center stage, drinking in every word she is saying, rubbernecking like they are watching a ten-car pile up come to life. They all crane their necks to see who she's talking to, and who this Cooper guy is.

But here's the weird thing: The whole time she's talking, even though the microphone is in her hand, even though Viggo Witts is standing right there, gaping at her like a goldfish, you can hear his silken voice, still oozing from the speakers, loud and clear. And it feels like all of sudden, the entire stadium's attention shifts back from Noelle to Viggo and collectively notices that pesky little detail.

And that's when the proverbial you-know-what
really
hits the fan.

Everyone—and I mean everyone—is staring at me, but for this brief, exceptional moment, I totally don't care. I have put it all out there. What I did. How I feel. What I want. The only one I am watching now is Annalise, sitting there next to Cooper in the fourth row. Viggo just stands there, dumbly, when I finish talking. The music is about to launch into the final verse of “Identity Crisis,” the one he and I are supposed to sing together. Annalise still hasn't made a move. I can't tell if what I said has made a difference. Not knowing what else to do, I plead, “Come on, Annalise,” and I start singing along. Well, singing would be generous. Wailing badly is more like it. I manage to remember the words to the final verse.

And then I see her whisper something to Cooper—will she?—and she leaves her seat and clambers tentatively up onstage to stand beside me.

Our eyes connect. But before we can say a thing, the audience's murmurings have turned into outright boos and yells of outrage. For a minute, I am confused. Why is the crowd so angry? Did I mess up the song that badly? Did my stunt ruin the concert? Then I realize what everyone else has already figured out: Viggo Witts's voice is still wailing alongside mine, even though I am the only one holding the microphone.