Identity Crisis

  Identity Crisis

  Melissa Schorr

  Copyright © 2015 by Melissa Schorr.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Merit Press

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.meritpressbooks.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9013-3

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9013-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9014-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9014-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.

  Cover design by Stephanie Hannus & Sylvia McArdle .

  Dedication

  For Alexa & Charlotte

  Acknowledgments

  I was standing, oh so appropriately, in the middle of Disney World when I received the magical words from Jacquelyn Mitchard that she wanted to publish this book, so, yes, dear reader, dreams can come true. Thanks to her and the whole team at Merit Press, including Deb Stetson, publicity manager Bethany Carland-Adams, designer, Sylvia McArdle, for the beautiful cover, and Stephanie Hannus for the keen copyedit. Thanks to my savvy agent Jackie Flynn, who was willing to take the leap with me into a fresh new partnership. And of course, a shoutout to the inspirational Stephanie Gertz, whose invitation led to a chance conversation with Meredith O’Hayre, who made it all happen.

  Time is a writer’s most precious resource, and Justin Ahern, Deb Dunn, and the Noepe Center for Literary Arts on Martha’s Vineyard gave me a pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming gift—a glorious week in August on the Cape to complete the manuscript, alongside a talented group of children’s writers. I am also fortunate, after irrationally holding out for so long, to have landed in the critique group I did, with the amazing moral support and sharp feedback from Monica Tesler, Marilyn Salerno, Julia Flaherty, Lisa Rehfuss, and Debbie Blackington. Thanks to Rebecca Fredey for serving as my honorary teen beta reader. And a shout out to my supportive colleagues at the Boston Sunday Globe Magazine, who graciously let me wear two writing hats.

  Much love to the entire Cohen clan: my in-laws Jeff and Maureen, Eric, Brian and Dan, and my sanity-saving sister-in-spirit Stephanie Cohen. And always, to my supportive family, my exceptional mom, Thelma Grossman, and my dearly missed dad, Seymour, whose warped sense of humor lives on in everything I write. To my two dazzling girls, Alexa and Charlotte: Thank you for letting me keep pursuing my dream, and may you always keep pursuing yours. And forever gratitude, a second time, to my husband Gary. Even when I lost faith, you always believed.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: ANNALISE

  Chapter 2: NOELLE

  Chapter 3: ANNALISE

  Chapter 4: NOELLE

  Chapter 5: ANNALISE

  Chapter 6: NOELLE

  Chapter 7: ANNALISE

  Chapter 8: NOELLE

  Chapter 9: ANNALISE

  Chapter 10: NOELLE

  Chapter 11: ANNALISE

  Chapter 12: NOELLE

  Chapter 13: ANNALISE

  Chapter 14: NOELLE

  Chapter 15: ANNALISE

  Chapter 16: NOELLE

  Chapter 17: ANNALISE

  Chapter 18: NOELLE

  Chapter 19: ANNALISE

  Chapter 20: NOELLE

  Chapter 21: ANNALISE

  Chapter 22: NOELLE

  Chapter 23: ANNALISE

  Chapter 24: NOELLE

  Chapter 25: ANNALISE

  Chapter 26: NOELLE

  Chapter 27: ANNALISE

  Chapter 28: NOELLE & ANNALISE

  Chapter 29: ANNALISE

  Chapter 30: NOELLE

  Chapter 31: ANNALISE

  Chapter 32: NOELLE

  Chapter 33: ANNALISE

  Chapter 34: NOELLE

  Chapter 35: ANNALISE

  Chapter 36: NOELLE

  Chapter 37: ANNALISE

  Chapter 38: NOELLE

  Chapter 39: ANNALISE

  Chapter 40: NOELLE

  Chapter 41: ANNALISE

  Chapter 42: NOELLE

  EPILOGUE: ANNALISE

  Chapter 1

  ANNALISE

  Cooper Franklin thinks that just because I’m staring at the clock on the wall, I didn’t notice him sneak a peek at my boobs. But I did. I totally did. Didn’t anyone ever teach this boy the concept of peripheral vision?

  I half-want to call him on it and give him a piece of my mind, but I decide I better not. Ms. Pinella, our tenth grade math teacher, has just partnered us up for today’s lesson on probabilities, reaching into her bag of teacher tricks for a gimmick guaranteed to get our attention—especially during fourth period, the last class before lunch.

  Sheer bribery.

  She’d tossed each team an unopened package of M&M’S and told us to start by tallying how many of each color are in a given bag. For a nanosecond, it feels like an end-of-the-year party, especially when loudmouth Tyler Walters calls out, “Can we eat the candy afterwards?” and Ms. Pinella laughs, “Yes—so long as you get all the answers right.” Then, naturally, she hands out a worksheet full of mind-numbing questions:

  When you open a bag of M&M's, what is the probability your first piece of candy will be tan?

  Brown or red?

  Not yellow?

  Ooof. Way to crash a sugar high.

  Cooper grabs the bag, full of enthusiasm, and starts sorting the candy into little piles on his desk, while I flip open my notebook, ready to mark down how many of each color we have.

  Still, there’s no way my brain can concentrate because in T-minus five minutes, concert tickets will go on sale to the all-time, most awesome rock band, ever, ever, ever, to hit the States, since the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Sex Pistols combined. I’m talking, of course, about Brass Knuckles, who will be playing Boston’s Agganis Arena two weeks from today in their first-ever U.S. tour. And even though my mom swore up and down to Sunday she wouldn’t forget to call Ticketmaster right at noon today, do I trust her? No way, José Olé. Not with something this essential. I secretly programmed an alert on her iPhone, with an alarm set to go off exactly . . . three minutes from now.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  My eyes are Super Glued to the regulation black-and-white clock up on the wall, watching the sweeping second hand count down to the moment when those golden tickets are safely mine. I can imagine myself at the concert, singing along with 10,000 other Knucklies to the lyrics of their breakout hit, “Identity Crisis.”

  “You see me, Baby

  And I see you

  But perception can be so untrue

  I’m having an . . . identity crisis

  Why’d you have to leave me to my own devices?”

  I can’t stop fantasizing about The Moment. It’s Viggo Witts’s trademark move; I’ve watched him do it in countless YouTube videos. He strolls into the audience, plucks one lucky girl out of the crowd, pulls her on stage, and serenades her. Then, they sing the last chorus together, as a duet. Not like my voice would ever get m
e voted the next American Idol, but who cares? When I’m at that concert, Viggo will look out into the sea of girls, just know I’m his most devoted fan ever, and choose me. He’ll lead me on stage, and even though we’ll be watched by an arena full of people, it’ll feel like it’s just the two of—

  “Bradley!”

  I jerk at having my daydream so rudely interrupted. I realize Cooper has just said something to me—and I have no idea what.

  “Hel-lo? Annalise Bradley, are you there?” Cooper is peering at me. “That’s seven yellows,” he repeats patiently, pointing to a pile of yellow M&M’S on his desk.

  “Sorry,” I sigh. Sad but true, I am here, not where I really I want to be: in a private jet with Viggo and the guys, who I happen to know from following their tweets are flying down to San Fran for tonight’s show right this very minute. “Seven yellows.” I jot it down in my neatest handwriting, which isn’t exactly all that neat.

  “Ten blues. Eight oranges. Got that?”

  “Got it.” I make a big point of tilting my notebook in his direction so he can see for himself.

  Pleased to finally have my undivided attention, Cooper grins at me, patting his belly. “I’m starving. Think Pinella would notice if I—” he scoops up the small pile of red M&M’S and cups his hand toward his gaping mouth.

  “Cooper, come on!” I shriek, pressing my fingers into his arm, which I can’t help but notice is more muscular than I’d expected. “We haven’t finished counting those yet!” I’m pretty sure he’s just messing with me, but I can’t take the chance. I’m not some numerical savant like Little Miss “Brainiac” Noelle Spiers over there, and don’t want to blow this assignment because he’s having a mid-morning snack attack.

  “Kidding, Bradley. Jeez.” He laughs and gently spills them back onto the desk. “Although, if I were to eat just one, it would be . . . this one.” He plucks out a green M&M and holds it lasciviously between his thumb and index finger. He leans toward me, close enough that I get a whiff of something sickeningly sweet. Cologne? Conditioner? Raging pheromones? “You know what they say about the green ones, dontcha?”

  I can’t help but snort, half in laughter, half in disgust. “Funny.” I roll my eyes at him. Cooper is cute and all, with his wavy brown hair and green eyes and Zoom-brite smile, but he totally knows it, which kind of cancels it out, in my opinion. Elementary math, right? And I still haven’t forgiven him for the sneak peeks, either.

  Not like that makes him any different than all the infantile boys at Dansville High. Chest-obsessed, every single one of them. Ever since I developed these darn “floatation devices,” as Tyler Walters chortled at Amanda Gerard’s pool party the summer before seventh grade, the entire male species has treated me differently. Oh, sure, their mouths still talk to me, Annalise Bradley—five-four, curly reddish hair, hazel eyes—but inevitably, their eyes slip southward, as if my brain is too dumb to notice.

  The guys—and honestly, even the girls—at my school all assume that just because you look a certain way, you act that way too. Which is So. Not. True. It’s not like I vamp around in V-necked rhinestone bustiers like a Real Housewife, or post multiple selfies of me in a bikini daily, like the desperates in one of Tori D’Fillipo’s online beauty contests. No, every morning, I cram myself into a curve-flattening compression bra from Macy’s, like I’m Mulan trying to pass for a Chinese warrior, and slap a Knucklie T-shirt and a hoodie on top. Still doesn’t matter. The rumors that spread about what happened between me and Amos Landry at last year’s Freshman Fling didn’t help any, that’s for sure.

  Thank god for my best friend, Maeve, who’s model-tall and string-bean skinny. She says that boys are just pigs and girls are just jealous, and that if she had my boobs, she would use them for world domination.

  “Final tally?” Cooper asks, crumpling up the empty M&M’S bag and shooting it at the wastepaper basket in the corner without Ms. Pinella noticing. Score.

  I point at my notebook.

  Yellow: 7

  Blue: 10

  Orange: 8

  Red: 7

  Tan: 5

  Brown: 7

  Green: 10

  Total: 54

  As we get started on the worksheet, I can’t help but sneak another peak at the clock over his head. It’s a quarter after already. What’s taking my mom so long? Could she still be on hold? I’d told her to have Ticketmaster send me a confirmation text so I’d know the instant the deed was done. But my phone’s in my pocket set to vibrate, and hasn’t so much as made a twitch.

  “What’s with the time check?” Cooper asks, tracking my gaze to the dial face. He arches an eyebrow at me. “Secret fourth-period rendezvous? Should I be jealous, Bradley? I thought this was our special time.”

  “Puh-leeze.” A jock like Cooper wouldn’t get it. Sports is his thing, not music. He’d probably mock Viggo’s signature blue streak in his bangs, or Teen Heart Throb status, or how he got his start on the Disney Channel when he was eight, like most haters. Cooper probably still listens to Kanye. Or, worse, country.

  The room fills with the sound of pencils scratching on paper and low murmurs. As Cooper and I work through the answers, heads tipped together and whispering softly, I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I glance over my shoulder and, sure enough, from two rows behind me, Eva Winters is giving me her trademark death stare, the one she’s perfected just for me. Brrrr. I quickly turn away.

  After about fifteen minutes, Ms. Pinella comes around to collect our work, reviews the answers, and gives us all permission to chow down on the leftover candy during the last few minutes of class. Cooper offers me some, but I shake my head. As if I’d really want them, after his grimy boy hands have been all over them. Not to mention I’ve lost my appetite. A pit is beginning to grow in my stomach. Still no word. How could my mom blow this simple assignment? I am dying to text her for an update, but I know if Ms. Pinella even catches me checking my phone during class, she’ll confiscate it for the rest of the day, and I can’t take the risk. I’ll just have to wait until class is over to find out.

  I sit there, antsy, distracted, willing the bell to just ring already, ring! as Cooper pops a handful in his mouth, savoring the taste of dissolving milk chocolate. He plucks another one, tan this time, holds it up, and looks me dead on in the eye. “Ever think how much M&M’S reflect humanity?”

  I look at him warily. Where is he going with this? I’m really not in the mood for another dumb horny guy joke.

  “We may come in different colors on the outside, but underneath?” He thumps his chest twice and makes the peace sign. “We’re all the same.”

  Inwardly, I have to sigh. Cooper is relentless. Ever since we ended up as seat mates in math this year, he’s been doing verbal backflips to get my attention, and I’m pretty sure I know why. But I’m not falling for some wannabe homeboy’s charm act. Not again.

  “Wow, Cooper,” I say. “You are soooo deep. Like, Grand Canyon worthy. I had no idea.”

  Cooper puts on a face like he is actually wounded. “You know, Annalise, you have no idea of a lot of things about me.”

  “Oh, really? Illuminate me.” I cross my arms. “Tell me your deepest desire, Cooper Franklin. Your innermost thoughts.” This ought to be good. Amused, I pop a piece of candy in my mouth and lean back to enjoy the show. I have no illusions. When it comes to Cooper, what you see is pretty much what you get.

  Clearly, my challenge has put him on the spot. He opens his mouth, grasping for what to say. “Well—”

  Before he can finish his thought, the bell rings. Freedom! I zip to my feet and sling my backpack over my shoulder. “Maybe next time,” I say, tossing the words behind me as I race into the hallway and pull out my phone. I need to text my mom right now and find out what’s going on with those tickets. I may not know Cooper’s deepest desire, but I definitely know my own.

  Chapter 2

  NOELLE

  Even though nothing Eva does should shock me by now, I still honestly can’t
believe her sometimes. She invites herself over to my house after school, with Tori, naturally, in tow, sprawls dramatically across my canopy bed, and announces, “Did you see how that skank Annalise was, like, throwing herself at Cooper all through math class? It was disgusting. She was all, `Oooh, Cooper, you are so funny. Oh, Cooper, you are soooo deep. Oh, Cooper, I want to scarf down green M&M’S with you.’”

  Tori, the only one of our threesome who wasn’t with us in class, because she’s in remedial math—which we all know, but never mention—stops unwrapping the new lip plumper I’d just tossed her and turns to me sympathetically, as if to say seriously?

  Then the two of them inspect my face, trying to gauge how upset I look. Even among my two besties, I hate being the subject of scrutiny like that. Hate it. Which Eva, of all people, should know. I try to tell her it wasn’t that big a deal, but it’s no use. Eva and Tori also know my dirty little secret that’s unfortunately crystal clean. That I’ve been in love with Cooper Franklin forever.

  “Yes it was,” Eva says, indignant I dared contradict her. “You should have seen her giggling and squeezing his muscles. You were all the way on the other side of the room, but I was right behind them. I heard the whole thing.”

  She’s right about one thing. Even from three rows over and two seats up, I can tell that Cooper’s into Annalise. He’s always stealing glances at her while we’re supposed to be doing the problem set—just like I do at him. It’s been like that since we all ended up together in fourth period math this year, either by fate, total randomness, or because some computer program has a wicked sense of humor.

  I’m not sure Eva’s right about Annalise, though. She doesn’t seem that into him. Today, she was staring mostly at the clock on the wall, like she couldn’t wait to get out of there. But Eva’s what my English teacher, Mr. Charles, calls an “unreliable narrator”: a person telling a story that you really can’t trust, like the creepazoid in the book we just finished, Lolita. She’s had it out for Annalise ever since what happened last year with Amos. Even now, she puts a slutty spin on every move that girl makes.