Authors: Jill Hathaway
Impostor (6 page)
O
n Monday morning, Rollins shows up to give Mattie and me a ride to school, just like normal. What isn’t normal is the silence in the car. Rollins doesn’t even have the radio on. Mattie, who’s exhausted from tossing and turning all night, rests her head against the window with her eyes closed. The only sound is me flipping through the pages of my math notebook, pretending to study for a nonexistent quiz.
I peek at Rollins every once in a while. His shoulders seem tense, and his face is like a mask. I wonder what he’s thinking about, if—like me—his mind is set on that terrible moment when I closed my eyes and pouted my lips . . . and he just stared at me.
Thinking of the moment again makes me shrink into myself. I look out the window for the rest of the car ride, counting down the seconds until we get to school and I can get away from Rollins.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say too loudly when the car comes to a stop in the school parking lot. Rollins opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but I’m too quick and shut the door before he can say anything.
“Whoa Nelly,” Mattie says, hurrying to keep up with me. “What was that back there?”
“What was what?” I toss back at her. She pulls on my sleeve, forcing me to stop.
“You know what. Deathly silence. Something happened between you and Rollins, didn’t it?” Mattie crosses her arms over her chest.
“I thought you were sleeping,” I say, shoving my notebook into my backpack.
Mattie’s voice turns stern. “Sylvia Bell, you tell me the truth right this instant. Why are you and Rollins acting so weird?”
Fairly sure I’m not going to get out of this interrogation without telling Mattie exactly what happened, I sigh. Before I say anything, though, I look around to make sure no one is within earshot. “If you must know, I gave Rollins every opportunity to kiss me on Friday night.”
Mattie squeals. “Really? Vee, that’s great!”
I glare at her. “You know what’s not so great? He just stared at me like I was stupid or something. It was the most awkward moment of my entire life.”
Mattie shocks me by laughing.
I spin on my heel and walk toward the school’s entrance, furious. I should have known better than to tell Mattie. There’s no way she can understand the implications of what happened between Rollins and me. Our friendship is basically ruined. There’s no going back to just being friends. That moment will always be hanging there between us.
Mattie catches the back of my shirt. “Slow down. I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that you probably stunned the poor guy. He’s been pining after you for months, and all of a sudden you throw yourself at him? No wonder he’s confused.”
I shake off her hand. “I didn’t
throw
myself at him.”
“Come on. Admit it. You’ve been giving him mixed signals ever since Zane died. At first you were all like, ‘Woe is me. I’ve been betrayed. I’ll never love again.’ And now you want to make out with Rollins? It’s a little bit sudden, is all I’m saying.”
I cock my head. She does have a point. I’ve been pushing Rollins away for so long now. It must seem strange for me to change my tune so quickly. Maybe I’m being a little too dramatic. I should give him another chance.
“Listen to your genius little sister. Rollins worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure that didn’t change overnight,” Mattie says teasingly. “Just talk to him at lunch. And don’t forget to ask him about seeing
Scar
with me and Russ this weekend.”
“All right, all right,” I mutter. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Atta girl.” Mattie slaps me on the back.
At first, I’m not even sure Rollins is going to show up at our meeting place under the bleachers at lunch. Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen. Finally, I hear the familiar crunch of leaves as he makes his way toward me. Taking a big bite of my brown-sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart, I nonchalantly stare out at the empty football field, like I haven’t been counting the minutes until he showed up.
“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to me.
“Hey,” I say, and then take another bite.
I notice Rollins is sitting a little farther away from me than usual. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he pulls out a Sharpie and focuses on the intricate design he’s been doodling on the bottom of his shoes for the past few weeks.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I was talking to Anna. It sounds like she can get me an interview with Who Killed My Sea Monkeys for my zine.”
“Awesome,” I say, hoping my enthusiasm doesn’t sound too fake. Rollins writes, designs, and produces his own magazine, which he passes around school and hands to strangers on buses. Though he editorializes about stuff that happens at school and world events in general, his focus is definitely on music.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m pretty stoked.”
Silence.
I take another bite of Pop-Tart. It tastes like sand.
“So . . . anything new with you?” Rollins asks, his voice strained. He’s clearly trying to move past this weirdness between us.
I search for something to talk about. Then I realize I haven’t even told Rollins about my aunt Lydia randomly showing up on our doorstep. Under normal circumstances, Rollins would have been the first person I called.
“Yeah, actually,” I say. “You’ll never guess who showed up Friday night after—after you left.”
Rollins looks uncomfortable at the reference to his abrupt departure. “Who?”
“My aunt Lydia, who I’ve never met before. I guess she ran away to California when she was a teenager and never came back. Until now. Anyway, she turned up on our doorstep with a suitcase.”
“Crazy,” Rollins says. “What does she want?”
“She claims she just wants to get to know her family, but I think that’s just a cover story. She could have come back at any time, right? Besides, some really weird stuff has been happening since she got here.”
Rollins twirls his Sharpie, looking interested. I’m relieved that Lydia’s sudden appearance has given us something neutral to talk about. “What weird stuff?”
“Well, think about it. I got into that accident on Thursday night. What if she had something to do with it? She could have gotten here on Thursday and stayed at a hotel or something. Maybe she’s able to slide. Maybe she forced me to steal my dad’s car and drive out into the country.”
Rollins looks doubtful. “But
why
? What would be her motivation?”
“That’s the kicker. My dad said she got into a huge fight with my mom when they were in high school. She vowed to destroy everything my mom ever loved. Hence the car accident. She’s trying to kill me.”
Rollins clears his throat. “If she actually slid into you, wouldn’t she need something with your emotional imprint on it? She would’ve needed it before she even got to your house, since someone slid into you the night before, right?”
Stupid, rational Rollins.
“Well, what about this? Last night I woke up to a crashing noise. When I went downstairs, I found my dad throwing pictures everywhere. He busted his own wedding portrait. He was totally out of it, like someone else was controlling his actions. When he finally realized where he was, Lydia showed up. And
she was wearing his bathrobe
.”
The dubious expression on Rollins’s face gives way to thoughtfulness. “That is a pretty big coincidence.”
“Right? If she slid into him, she was forcing him to break wedding pictures of his dead wife. Pretty sick.”
“I don’t know. It still seems like a stretch. Saying you’ll destroy everything someone loves is pretty melodramatic, like something you’d say during a fight and then forget five minutes later. I seriously doubt she’s trying to wreck your family. I bet Lydia just realized how lonely she was and decided to come back and meet her nieces.”
I crumple up the wrapper from my Pop-Tart. “Maybe . . .” I say, even though I don’t really believe it. “Oh, hey. I’m supposed to ask if you’ll go with me and Mattie and Russ White to
Scar
this weekend.”
Rollins goes back to doodling on his shoe. “Russ White?”
“Yeah, you know the senior who should be in our grade but skipped a year in elementary?” Rollins’s face is blank, and I remind myself that he wasn’t here in elementary school. “He’s the guy who drives the silver pickup you’re always drooling over.” Rollins nods in recognition.
“Apparently he’s the white knight of library fines,” I joke, and go on to explain the story of how Russ introduced himself to Mattie. Rollins chuckles.
“So would you be willing to play chaperone with me on Saturday? I know you wanted to see
Scar
, so we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Rollins sighs. “I guess so, but I’m not going to lie—I’m not all that psyched about spending another Saturday night babysitting your sister.”
“We won’t have to babysit her,” I say, slightly irritated. “We can sit in the back and whisper snarky things during the stupid parts, like always. I just need to be in the general vicinity.”
Rollins must sense my annoyance because he reaches over and grabs my shoulder. “Hey, of course I’m in. Friends?”
I take a deep breath. This is what I want, isn’t it?
“Friends.”
I
nstead of heading to my afternoon gym class, I duck into the computer lab. I’m not too worried about getting into trouble. The teacher forgets to take attendance half of the time, and even if he does mark me as absent, I can make something up about having a narcoleptic episode.
There are only a few kids in the lab. One appears to be watching music videos on YouTube. He has headphones on and doesn’t notice me drop into the chair next to him.
My curiosity about Aunt Lydia has gotten the best of me. Maybe Rollins is right and she is just a lonely woman seeking out the family she left behind so long ago, but I can’t help wondering if there was some sort of impetus that brought her to us.
The school’s home page pops up, and I highlight the URL and type in Google. In the search field, I type in “Lydia Homer.” Homer was my mother’s maiden name. Since Lydia isn’t married (that I know of), I’m guessing that’s the name she went by in California. Millions of results pop up. I sift through them, not finding anything especially helpful. There’s a woman living in Missouri by that name, but when I click on her Facebook page, the picture doesn’t look anything like Lydia. Another woman in Idaho. I go back up to the top of the page and narrow my results to California. This leads me to the website of a dog trainer living in San Francisco, but again, the picture looks nothing like my aunt.
Twenty minutes go by, and I find nothing about my aunt. It seems odd that someone could live in today’s world without leaving any tracks on Google. I drum my fingers on the desk in frustration. Finally, the bell rings, and I log off the computer, thinking about how much I’d suck as a private investigator.
After school, I’m standing at my locker, contemplating which books I need to take home with me. Samantha Phillips stands nearby, gazing at herself in her locker mirror with a tube of lip gloss in her hand.
A few feet away, a couple of sophomore football players are huddled together. They keep looking over at Samantha and laughing. When she notices them, she slams her locker shut and strides across the hall to face them. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
I expect the sophomores to cower before her, but one of them looks her right in the eye and says, “Did you have a good time with Scotch on Thursday night? Because I heard you did. In fact, I saw evidence that you had a
really
good time.” The guy’s friend cracks up.
Samantha turns white. She backs away from the guys, who are now slapping each other on the back and roaring with laughter. Then she turns and runs down the hallway before ducking into the girls’ bathroom.
A debate rages within me. If Samantha and I were still best friends, I would immediately chase after her and make sure she was okay. Now we have this chasm between us. But I have to admit there’s a part of me that still cares about her. Plus, I’m curious about the evidence the guy was alluding to. Finally, I decide to go after her, even though she’ll probably brush me off like she did last week.
I take a deep breath and fight my way down the hall, through the crowd of students all anxious to get to their after-school activities or to just go home. I push the bathroom door open.
I hear the unmistakable sound of Samantha sobbing in one of the stalls. She gasps and stops crying, though, as soon as I walk in. Same old Samantha. She could never let anyone see her wounded.
“Samantha? It’s me, Vee.”
I hear her blow her nose, and then the toilet flushes.
“Sam? You okay?”
She opens the door and steps into the harsh fluorescent light, straightening her skirt. Her eyes are dry, but her cheeks are all splotchy and red. She takes a few steps to the nearest sink and starts to wash her hands.
“What do you want?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.
“I—I saw you run in here, and I thought you were upset.”
After drying her hands, she turns around and leans against the sink. “Why would
you
care? Of all people, why you?” The question cuts me to the bone. Sure, we haven’t been friendly in a while, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter to me, even after the terrible rumors she spread when I went out with Scotch.
“Why wouldn’t I care?” I ask gently.
“Um, because I’ve been a major bitch to you this last year? If I were you, I wouldn’t even speak to me.” Samantha’s voice breaks, and her façade begins crumbling before my eyes. It’s not that Samantha hates me, I realize. She just doesn’t want to face her own despicable behavior.
“Look, Sam. I was pissed at you for a long time. Really pissed. But I have the feeling you’re going through a hard time. I know you were out with Scotch last week. Did something happen? It might help to talk to someone who’s dealt with him before.”
Samantha looks up at the ceiling and fans her face like she does when she’s trying not to cry. I duck into one of the stalls and grab a bit of toilet paper. Wordlessly, I hold it out to her, like a peace treaty.
She accepts it.
Turning toward the sink, she blows her nose. Then she leans forward and stares at herself while she speaks. “There was a bonfire Thursday night. Everybody was there.” Her eyes flicker toward me. “Well, you know what I mean.”
I shrug. A bonfire with a bunch of cheerleaders and football players sounds kind of like the ninth circle of hell to me.
“Scotch asked me to go with him. I don’t know why I said yes—I guess I was still a little mad about you going to the dance with him last year. It’s like I had to prove something to myself—that he wanted me. Or something. It was dumb. Anyway, I chugged, like, four beers. And then I started to feel sick. I puked in the weeds, and Scotch held my hair. He was being really sweet. I remember getting in the car with him to go home, but nothing after that. When I woke up, I was propped against my front door. He just left me there, I guess . . .”
Sam stops for a moment and then looks at me in the mirror. “Vee, I didn’t have any underwear on.” She crosses her arms over her chest and starts to cry. “I looked everywhere and couldn’t find them. On Friday morning, I heard some guys talking about how Scotch was saying I slept with him. And that he had proof.”
I stand for a moment, not really knowing what to do. I can count the number of times I’ve seen Samantha cry on one hand. Even when we were best friends, she liked to pretend that she was invincible. I remember when her older brother had an emergency appendectomy, I went to visit Sam at the hospital. Her eyes remained dry the whole time I was there. I kind of wanted her protective shell to break, so I could be there for her and comfort her. But now that I have the chance, I feel totally lost.
“Holy shit, Samantha,” I say. My words feel stupid and worthless, but they seem to break through to her, just the same. She holds her arms out to me, and I bridge the gap between us to give her a long hug.
“I just wish I knew what happened,” she whispers.
“I know the feeling,” I say, thinking back to my own encounter with Scotch. To this day, it sickens me to know that he was alone with my unconscious body. He could have done whatever he wanted if Rollins hadn’t burst into the locker room.
Samantha pulls back and looks me in the eye. “I’m sorry about that night.” She doesn’t need to say which one. We’re both thinking back to Homecoming last year. I confronted her after the dance, accusing her of watching Scotch drag me down to the locker room. She never knew how I knew. The truth was I slid into her and saw the whole scene through her eyes. She never denied knowing about what happened to me, though. And she never apologized. Until now.
“I was so angry with you,” she says. “You knew how much I liked him. I—I kind of felt like you deserved what happened. And now I know I was wrong. No one deserves that. No one. I’m so, so sorry.”
Looking into her eyes, I know that Samantha’s being genuine. She feels terrible about what happened to me. Just like I’m sick over what happened to her.
“He’s an asshole,” I say simply.
She backs away from me and takes a deep breath. “That’s an understatement. I just wish there were some way to get back at him.”
The wheels in my brain start turning. I remember a novel I read once in which a girl pretended to make out with a guy in his car. She waited until he was completely naked, and then she stole his car, leaving him to walk home in the buff.
Lightbulb.
“Hey, Sam. I have an idea.”
She sniffs. “What?”
My scheme is still not fully formed in my head. Of course Scotch wouldn’t believe Samantha or I would want to get together with him—not after what he did to us. We need someone else. Someone Scotch would like. A cheerleader.
Regina.
I clap my hands together. “Come over after cheerleading practice. Bring Regina. I have the best plan ever!”
“Does your plan involve supergluing his privates to the wall?”
I laugh. “No. It’s even better.”
She smiles, but I can sense there’s something more she wants to say. She shuffles her feet, looking as though she’s searching for the right words. “Hey, Vee?”
“Yeah?”
“I never did thank you for what you did for me during the fire. I know that you risked your own life, trying to pull me out. I don’t know if I’d have been able to do the same thing.”
I study her face. It feels good to look at her and recognize the girl I see looking back at me. “You would have. I know it.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight.” She crosses the bathroom and puts her hand on the door, getting ready to leave.
“Wait a sec,” I say. “I’ll make sure those guys are gone.”
I duck my head outside, and sure enough, the two boys have disappeared. I motion for Samantha to follow me, and we return to our lockers. I grab my backpack and hoodie and then turn to find Samantha standing in front of her open locker door, staring at herself in the mirror.
“I can’t go to practice. All the girls will be talking about what I supposedly did with Scotch.”
I grab the tube of fuchsia lipstick from the shelf in her locker and hand it to her. “Of course you can, silly. You’re Samantha Phillips.” She takes the tube from me and holds it for a moment, feeling the weight of it. She uncaps it, swipes it across her lips, and returns it to its place on the shelf. As she presses her lips together, I think that only Samantha Phillips would have the balls to wear lipstick in such a bright shade of pink. She slams the locker door.
“You’re right. I am.” She gives me a shaky smile and then turns to head to the gym. I watch her walking away, her head held high.
Samantha, Mattie, and Regina show up a little after five.
Mattie does a belly flop onto my bed, and Samantha perches shyly on the rocking chair in the corner of my room. It feels so strange to have her in my bedroom after more than a year. Mattie keeps giving us curious looks, no doubt wondering why I invited Samantha and Regina over.
Regina wanders over to my desk and sits down. She picks up a framed picture of me and Mattie on the beach and sighs. “Is this at Lake Okoboji? My parents took Todd and me there every summer when we were little. We had so much fun.”
I gently take the picture out of her hands. “Did Samantha tell you guys what Scotch did to her?”
Mattie winces. “What an asshole.”
I examine Regina’s face, looking for confirmation that she’s disturbed enough by Scotch’s actions that she’ll help us with my plan. She scowls. “Yeah. I can’t believe he’d do something like that.”
“Well,” I tell her, “if you help us, we can get him back.”
“What can
I
do to help?”
“We’re going to teach Scotch a little lesson. And we need your help.”
“Why me?” Regina asks.
“He likes cheerleaders,” I say. “Obviously he’s not going to go for me or Mattie. He knows we both despise him. And he’d be too suspicious if Samantha came onto him, after what he did. We need someone younger, someone he’ll
think
he has the upper hand with . . .” I look at Regina, thinking how perfect she is for the part. Her hair is long and soft, falling around her face in light brown curls. Her heart-shaped face is bare except for a hint of lip gloss and mascara. She looks so innocent. Scotch would never suspect she’d be a part of a plan to take him down. “All we need you to do is ask him to take you to Lookout Point tomorrow night. Say you’ve been admiring him all year long, and you’d like a chance to get to know him better.”
Regina blushes. “I can’t say that.”
“Sure you can,” Samantha cuts in. “Just call on your inner vixen.”
“My inner
what
?”
“Your inner vixen,” Samantha says, tossing her hair. “It’s what I always do when I’m feeling less than confident. I ask what my inner vixen would do. She always gives me the courage to be the strongest woman I can be.”
“So what’s the rest of the plan?” Mattie asks, anxious to get back to business. “Regina gets Scotch up to Lookout Point, and then what?”
“All Regina will have to do is get him up there. Then she’ll get out of the car and find Samantha, who will be waiting by the old pavilion. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The three girls stare, waiting for me to go on.
“What are you going to do to him?” Mattie demands.
“Get him naked and leave him stranded.”
“How are you going to get him naked?” Samantha demands.
“You just leave that up to me,” I say mysteriously, thinking about how easy it’ll be to slide into Scotch, undress him, toss his clothes off the side of the cliff, and then leave him to find his way back to town, naked as the day he was born.
Scotch will get just what he deserves.
I wander into the hall, heading for the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth before bed. Mattie is downstairs with my dad, watching
MythBusters.
I notice that my father’s door is standing open. I see a shadow moving inside. It’s certainly not my dad, whose laughter I hear booming from below. It has to be Lydia.
I tiptoe right up to the threshold and peek around the corner. Lydia is standing before my father’s bureau with her back to me, but I can see her reflection in my mother’s antique mirror. She’s got the top drawer open and is sifting through his underwear and socks.
