Imposter (4 page)

As people walk by, I catch glimpses of the patio. Kris still has his arm on Sabrina, but she's leaning away from him like something's wrong.

“Have you seen Ryder?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“Hold this.” I hand Annaleigh my glass and stand. I can't see Ryder anywhere. “What about Curt?”

Annaleigh stands too. Follows my eyes to the drama unfolding between Sabrina and Kris. “They're not in the movie anymore. What are Ryder and Curt supposed to do?”

I don't have an answer for that. I just know there's about to be a scene. Sure enough, Sabrina bats Kris's hand away, and he grabs her arm, roughly this time.

I slip through the patio doors. Sabrina's expression has changed again—no longer indifferent or uncomfortable, but frightened. I can see it in the way she tries to pull away from Kris, desperate for space.

“Everything okay?” I ask. I'm shooting for light and friendly, but it comes out loud and anxious.

Kris spins around. Glares at me like I've just asked the stupidest question in the history of the world—which, in a way, I guess I have.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he says.

“Sure. I know. It's just . . . Curt Barrett wants to speak to Sabrina, is all.”

Kris narrows his eyes. He smells BS, but my face is frozen in a vacant nothing-to-see-here smile, and he can't be sure. If he's wrong, he might have to answer to that huge bald guy by the front door.

One of Sabrina's dress straps hangs off her shoulder. She pulls it back up like she feels naked. As she walks away, a tear runs down her cheek.

Kris watches her go. “Do you think you're my replacement, Seth? Is that what you think?”

I don't know if he's talking about my role in the movie, or if this has something to do with Sabrina. I don't want to pick a fight with him, but I'm not sure how to make peace either. Before I can speak, his eyes shift to something over my shoulder.

He steps toward me so quickly I flinch. “Oh, you're gonna take photos, are you?” he snaps.

Behind me, the guy who served the drinks earlier is leaning against the patio doors, cell phone pointed toward us.

An arm falls across my shoulders. A moment before, I thought Kris was going to punch the guy. Now his hand locks us together instead. He's the same height as me. Similar build, too. So why do I feel small beside him?

“Smile, Mr. Crane,” he mutters. “Cameras are a-poppin'.”

I peer at Kris. Take in those famous deep-set eyes and the thin layer of stubble. It's easy to imagine he's spent his whole life being told he's hot. And whatever was going on inside of him just a moment ago has already been locked away so deep there isn't a trace of it on that pretty face.

His isn't just a winning smile. It's victorious.

The server continues to take pictures. I have no idea how many he's taking, or why. All I know is that I couldn't smile if my life depended on it.

Kris raises his hand, bringing the impromptu session to an end. As the server shuffles away, Kris leans in close. He squeezes my shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh. “Welcome to Hollywood, Seth. I'll be keeping my eye on you.”

THE HOTEL BED IS QUEEN-SIZED. IT'D
probably be the most comfortable bed I've ever slept on, if only I could sleep. Instead my mind replays Kris's thinly disguised threat like a movie trapped on an endless loop. I can still feel his arm clamped against me, recall the lightning-quick switch from seething hatred to open smile. Onstage, I try to be ready for anything, but no one told me a cocktail party is a stage too.

It's still dark outside when I get up. I pull out my laptop and check for messages. There's only one, from Gant, reminding me that celebrity autographs go for a premium on eBay. Trust my brother to plan for my retirement before I've done a day of work.

I fire back an email—Dad's preferred mode of communication ever since the stroke—but I don't send it. Detective Gant will notice if it arrives at four o' clock in the morning, and Dad will have questions about why I'm up so early.

I type Curt Barrett's name into a search window. Turns out, he's Executive Director of Project Development at Machinus Media Enterprises, specializing in everything from reality TV shows to cutting-edge investigative documentaries. Judging by his extensive credits, he's definitely earned that fancy house.

I type Sabrina's name next. I tell myself it's just a way of passing the time, but it draws me back to the world of the party and makes my heartbeat race like it did just a few hours ago.

There are literally thousands of hits. Photographs, too, like a one-girl fashion parade. Hard to believe an eighteen-year-old's life can be so exhaustively documented. I read her biography, even though I already know most of it: She was born in East L.A., and raised there until her parents used her income to buy a condo in Westwood. After their messy divorce and a tumultuous custody battle, she appealed for and was granted legal emancipation at the age of sixteen. She began dating Kris Ellis a month later, and the media assault, already in full swing, became an around-the-clock issue for her. She hasn't spoken to either parent in two years.

I return to the photographs. I've looked at pictures of celebrities before, on websites and in magazines, but this feels different. I've seen that teasing smile up close, heard that voice and watched those lips, and every word she spoke is branded on my memory. Being with her was like appearing on a Broadway stage and playing myself—confusing, sure, but exhilarating too. I wish it wasn't a one-time-only performance.

Impossible not to wonder what might have happened if Kris had stayed home. And why anyone would've invited him and Sabrina to the same party in the first place.

ANNALEIGH AND I SHARE A TAXI
to our first rehearsal. Beverly Hills bustles with pre-Christmas energy, and I gawk at the impeccably dressed pedestrians and parade of expensive foreign cars.

“This place is so pretty,” Annaleigh murmurs, staring out the window. “I feel like I've landed in a dream.”

“No kidding.”

In less than a quarter hour, we pull up at the production company's offices—a one-story building with few windows and a bunker-like concrete exterior. A stocky twenty-something woman with long, bleach-blond hair ushers us inside.

“I'm Maggie,” she says. “I'm just an intern.”

“Not
just
an intern,” Ryder corrects her. “Maggie's in film school at USC.”

He leads us along a short corridor to an empty room with a spotless oval table and smart black office chairs. Sun streams through a window, so he closes the blind. “Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water? Coffee?”

“Water,” says Annaleigh.

“Me too,” I say. “And maybe coffee.” It's only two o'clock, but feels later.

Maggie leaves with our order. Seated at the table, Annaleigh raises her hand to her neck, and then upward until she touches her short hair. It's an awkward motion, as if she used to have long hair and forgets that it's gone.

Neither of us is exuding confidence today.

“So,” Ryder begins, “did you have time to look over the script this morning?”

Only for about ten hours
.

“Yes,” we answer in unison.

“Okay, then. What do you think of your character, Seth?”

I'm not sure why, but I look at Annaleigh before answering. “I like how Andrew takes charge of his family because his dad's not around. But, I don't know . . . I guess I don't see how someone that responsible goes all in with Lana the first time he sees her.”

“Because I'm awesome, that's why,” says Annaleigh.

“Glad you like your character,” Ryder says.

She hesitates. “Yeah. Although actually, I think audiences are going to get pissed if she doesn't stand up for herself some more.”

“Her family is a nightmare,” I point out.

“Lots of people have crappy families,” she replies. “I don't think Lana should be shooting for the sympathy vote.”

Ryder purses his lips. “Well, I suppose I asked for your opinion. Look, if you want to tweak the character, even change the backstory, then go ahead. I mean it when I say that I want you to
own
these characters.”

“Then why have a script at all?” I ask.

“Good point. I like to think of it as a road map for the story. This movie is about star-crossed lovers—doesn't matter how perfect they are together, external forces are going to pull them apart. So if you feel like you're getting away from that, use the script to keep things on track.”

“Wouldn't you tell us if we're getting off track?” asks Annaleigh.

“If I'm there, sure.” He sees Annaleigh's puzzled expression, and holds up one finger. “As director, I'll take over some scenes completely. Like when you're out in public—crowds don't always behave how you want them to. But the smaller, intimate scenes will feel more authentic if you're in complete control. Just the two of you. Alone.”

Annaleigh tilts her head. “Like the opening scene?”

“When Lana and Andrew meet, you mean.” Ryder gives a knowing smile. “Look, we're not going for some deep, intellectual love, okay? We're going for infatuation—love at first sight.”

“I get that, but . . . I'm with Seth on this one. I'm having a hard time buying it.”

Ryder doesn't seem offended at all. “Does
Romeo and Juliet
feel realistic?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you like it anyway?”

“Sure.”

“Exactly. Seth does too. Right?”

I nod.

“Look, you're both fifteen in this movie. Everything is new to you. All that matters is, we feel a spark, a connection. Without it, the entire movie falls apart.”

Annaleigh snorts. “No pressure, then.”

Ryder laughs too, flashing perfectly white teeth. “We've got a few rehearsals for you two to get acquainted. Before long you'll be as comfortable acting here as you were back in Arkansas.”

“Except Seth'll be filming me,” she reminds him.

He
tsk
s. “One guy with a headcam has to be a lot easier than a live audience.”

“What makes you think our plays had an audience?” she deadpans.

I smile. I've seen my fair share of half-empty theaters.

“Listen, hundreds of people auditioned for these roles, but you're the ones here,” says Ryder, knocking on the table for emphasis. “I've seen each of you carry a stage play, so I know you can act. What I want now is something real. Something edgy. I want you to pour yourselves into these characters and create a world together. As long as you trust each other, good things will happen.” He slides a few sheets of paper over to us. “All right, pep talk over. Here's the alley scene. Feel free to improvise.”

I take a deep breath, and read the first line word for word:
“Where's your brother now?”

“I don't know,”
replies Annaleigh, her voice a little higher than usual, less assured.
“He doesn't normally leave me.”

“Does he know I'm here?”

“If he knew that, I don't think he would've gone. Now it's my turn to ask a question. Did you follow me tonight?”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

“No. And yes. I'm glad you— Shhh. What was that?”

“I don't know.”

“I have to go.”

Next is a direction:
Lana kisses Andrew
.

Annaleigh looks at me, eyes flitting everywhere and nowhere.

Maggie saves us, bustling into the room carrying four paper cups on a cardboard tray. “You two okay?” she asks. “You look flushed.”

“It's a powerful scene,” says Annaleigh.

Maggie gives us our drinks and places an extra cup beside an empty seat. She retreats to the corridor just as Brian strolls in.

I didn't see him at the party last night, but I recognize him from the computer screen during my audition. He's intimidating in person—tall and powerful, with chiseled features and a military buzz cut. Even his light gray business suit, tie loose and top button undone, can't soften the hard edges. There are two small cases in his left hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He shakes our hands with a firm, businesslike grip.

“Good to see you both,” he says. “Everything going okay?”

“So far,” says Ryder.

“Pleased to hear it.”

Brian hands the cases to Annaleigh and me. Inside each one is a small but expensive-looking video camera.

“It's a top-of-the-line portable camera,” he says. “Lightweight, anti-shake, auto-focus, very hi-def. Water resistant, but not waterproof, so don't push it. There's a head strap in the bag too. Obviously, only one of you at a time will be wearing a camera during filming—it'd look pretty stupid if you appear onscreen with a camera strapped to your head—but it's important to get used to it now.”

“What's with the new cell phone?” Annaleigh asks, holding up the other item from the case.

“Think of it as a precaution. I've given each of you a new phone number, and programmed in some others you ought to have. If you add more contacts, keep it to close family, okay?”

I can't believe my luck. The minutes are about to expire on my old phone, and I've been meaning to upgrade. But I never would've bought one as expensive as this.

“I've already got a phone,” says Annaleigh, reaching into her bag. She places the old one beside the new. It looks even more decrepit than mine.

“No offense,” says Brian, “but if they haven't done it already, your friends'll be publishing your number on Twitter soon. You can guess what'll happen after that.” He turns to me. “Especially now that you're front-page news.”

I stop gazing at the phone as Brian unfolds the newspaper and slides it across the table. “Recognize anyone, Seth?”

There's a photograph of Kris and me—black-and-white, but unmistakably us. Kris is smiling, a happy camper at a happy party. In contrast, I look psychotic.

Below the photo is a caption:
Changing of the guard.
There's a story too: three columns dedicated to Seth Crane, my extracurricular interests, and an account of the “miraculous” stage performance that landed me my first movie role.

“How do they know this stuff?” I ask.

“There are these people called
reporters,
” says Brian. “They do
research
. Now, any particular reason you look like you want to beat the crap out of Kris Ellis?”

I struggle to catch up with what's happening—what this
means
. Annaleigh fiddles with her new phone and sips her water robotically, giving every appearance of someone who has no stake in the outcome. But everything I do will reflect on her.

“He was . . .” I swallow hard. Annaleigh stops sipping. “He and Sabrina were fighting.”

“Stop the presses,” says Brian. “Boyfriend and girlfriend have fight.”

“
Ex-
boyfriend and girlfriend,” interjects Ryder.

“Fine. Ex. Look, Seth, something like this happens, you've got to let us know.”

“He tried,” says Annaleigh. She turns to Ryder. “He was looking for you at the party, but you weren't there.”

“When was that?” asks Ryder.

“About ten minutes after I met Curt Barrett,” I say.

Ryder points his finger at Brian. “I was outside on the phone. Talking to you.”

Brian places both hands flat on the table. “Point is: You've got to be careful. This kind of thing can take on a life of its own.”

I feel stupid. Defensive too. “Got it,” I say. “Don't pick a fight with major Hollywood stars.”

Ryder snorts. Brian's expression doesn't change at all. “Do you know who took this photo?” he asks.

“One of the servers. A guy.”

“Well, we won't be seeing him again. Not now that he's sold these pictures.”

“Why were Kris and Sabrina at the party anyway? I thought they dropped out.”

“They did. Kris wasn't meant to be there.”

Annaleigh holds up her new phone. “Uh, talking of Sabrina, why is her number on here?”

Someone knocks on the door before Brian can answer. He opens it at once.

“Sorry I'm late,” says the new arrival in an unmistakable husky voice.

Annaleigh turns to face me, but I can't tear my eyes away from the doorway and the girl standing there. Her hair is down and frames her face. Her tiny jean shorts and gauzy white tunic look simple, yet effortlessly perfect.

Sabrina gives a gentle wave, and takes her place at the table.