Identity Crisis Page 10

  “I know,” Eva clucks sympathetically. Then Eva snaps her fingers and turns to me. “Oh, before I forget. What excuse did you come up with for Declan’s no-show yesterday?” She says it casually, like the drama we set in motion is no big deal.

  I recap how I’d said his parents came home unexpectedly, and she nods in approval.

  “So all is forgiven?”

  “For now.” I realize neither of them knows what happened afterwards, and explain how Annalise somehow bumped into Colin Dirge at the mall and he offered to leave her free tickets at the door.

  “Un-be-liev-a-ble,” Eva drawls when I finish the story, looking outraged. “That girl always gets her way. I wonder what she did for him—”

  I don’t bring up the fact that she herself waltzed off with a pair of front row tickets and a chance to perform on stage with the band, over the hundreds of way more devoted Knucklies. Cooper was right: people like Eva didn’t seem to need luck. They make their own—through sheer force of will, if necessary.

  Tori leans closer to me. “Seriously, Noelle, do you realize every single person we know is going to this concert but us? I downloaded that song and now I really like them.” I know what she means. That band has a way of worming into your affections even if you try to resist. Sort of like Annalise herself.

  “Speaking of fangirl, should we see what she’s up to?” Eva says, whipping out her phone.

  I am silent, as I watch her try repeatedly, locked out of the account until finally, she glances over at me, frustrated. “What’s the deal, Noey? It keeps saying I have the wrong password. Did you change it or something?”

  I feign sudden recall. “Um, oh yeah.”

  “Why?” she demands.

  I want to tell her the real reason so badly it hurts. Because I don’t want you playing Annalise anymore. But all my fearlessness from the night before escapes me now. So I backslide into a lie. “Oh, I, ah, forgot it, and I got locked out, so I had to reset it.” I grab her phone and quickly type it in for her, so she can’t see. Then I summon up my last ounce of nerve. “But I’ve been thinking, we have to be more consistent, Eva. We can’t have one of us writing one thing and then the other writing something else later. What if she notices? We’re going to get busted, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” she concedes.

  Sensing my opening, I add quickly, “And since you guys have been so busy with play practice, and now your song, and Tori’s got her pageant stuff, I’m fine with staying on top of it.”

  Eva stares at me, trying to read my face, slowly twirling a finger around a long strand of hair. “That’s really sweet of you, Noey. Just, you know, we were talking at lunch—where were you, anyway? But listen, I get it. Tori was saying, chatting with her every night. It’s only natural you might start sympathizing with her.”

  “Yeah,” Tori adds. “It’s like . . . whatchamacallit. When the bad guys slowly convince their hostage they’re really not so bad?”

  “Stockholm syndrome,” Eva nods. “But her sweet act? It’s not real. She thinks you’re the love of her life. Of course, she’s nice to you.”

  “I know,” I try to protest.

  Eva leans closer to me. “But we all know what she’s really like. What she is capable of. Right? Just make sure you’re don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t,” I say, shaking my head, wondering if Eva is right, wondering if it’s already happened. “But, honestly, you guys. She’s not all bad.”

  They both don’t answer me, giving one another a look. I know instantly I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “Maybe Noelle is confused.” Tori nods her head knowingly at Eva. “You know, like we said.” They both smirk at each other.

  “What?” A pause. “What?” I repeat, an edge of bile rising in my throat.

  Eva looks at me with her lips still curled. “She means, maybe you’re falling for her for real.”

  Then I catch on to the meaning of their words. And I can’t believe it. Eva wouldn’t really go there, would she? Tori might, but not my oldest friend. “I am not! You know I like Cooper that way. I’m doing this for Cooper.”

  My eyes plead with her and the silence drags on and on, until finally she says, “Kid-ding!” She and Tori suddenly jump up, clapping loudly and whooping, and I turn and see that Amos has just scored a goal.

  Somehow, this is going all wrong. My dad had managed to stand up for himself, why can’t I? I feel like I have wandered into quicksand, and any effort I make to fight it only sucks me in deeper. I read once that this is what it feels like to drown, that eventually, you just grow weak and give up, and the water blankets you into submission.

  “Maybe you’re right.” I say, submitting to my fate, circling the drain.

  Eva nods, gracious in victory. “Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  Still, I am the one on the hook, and need to know our end game. I remind her we can’t keep this up forever. The story I used for Declan—about being grounded until his mom gets the cast off—was only going to give us a few more weeks.

  “Right,” Eva agrees, waving her hand dismissively. “So maybe, there’s a complication. Her wrist never healed right and she needs two more weeks. You see?”

  I say I do, but I’m not unconvinced. That eventually, I think Annalise will figure it out.

  Eva just shakes her head, blithely unconcerned. “Nah. She’ll keep believing because she wants to believe. We all do. As long as we don’t tell her, we’re fine. Like, what’s she going to do? Show up on his doorstep in Worcester?”

  Chapter 19

  ANNALISE

  Over the next few excruciating minutes, three things become extremely obvious: a) Maeve and Declan are super-delighted to see one another again because, b) Declan is also a longtime camper at Camp Chicawawa, and c) Maeve and Declan have completely forgotten all about me. They start swapping stories about fellow campers and beloved counselors and even subject the entire neighborhood to a quick rendition of some Color War-winning cheer, until eventually, they run out of good times to relive and notice I am still standing there, speechless.

  “So, wait, what are you doing here?” Declan finally says to Maeve, who looks over at me.

  She shakes her head delightedly at me, as if this is all some happy coincidence. “I can’t believe your Declan from Worcester is Dec O’Keefe from Chicawawa!”

  “Her Declan?” Declan repeats uncertainly, still looking at Maeve for answers, as I realize I’d never told her Declan’s last name.

  I kind of clear my throat until I have his attention, although I don’t understand what is happening. Why did Declan recognize Maeve—but not me? Do I look that different in real life?

  “It’s me, Annalise,” I say, lamely, trying to jar his recognition.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, peering at me more carefully now, but still with a look of polite confusion. “Do I know you?”

  I’m completely floored. “Know me?” I croak out. “Are you kidding? We’ve only been chatting online every night.”

  “I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else,” he says, glancing at Maeve for support. “I don’t do online chatting.”

  The blood drains from my face. Is this a joke? Am I getting Punk’d? No, I get it, he must be covering up because his parents are hovering somewhere nearby, listening to us, and he wasn’t supposed to be using the computer that way while he was grounded.

  I lower my voice and talk urgently, sure this is it. “Declan, it’s me. We met on the fan site? Brass Knuckles?”

  But no.

  It gets worse. He crinkles his nose. “Brass Knuckles?” he repeats as if I’m speaking in Swahili.

  Frustrated, I pull out my phone and pull up his profile on the site. “Isn’t this you?” I demand, pushing it into his palm. “Declan O’Keefe? Homeschooled. Live in Worcester?”

  He stares at it for a long time, scrolling back through some of our conversations, then hands it back reluctantly. “That’s my photo,” he slowly admits. “But I never wro
te any of that. And I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

  We stare angrily at each other. What am I supposed to say now? I’m here because I like you? I’m not even sure that I do. This guy is nothing like my Declan. He talks in this stiff, formal way, and his teeth are kind of off and he’s scrawnier than he looked in his photo. And his eyes are cold, distrustful, foreign. Any attraction I might have had to Declan O’Keefe is rapidly fading now that I’m standing here in front of him in the flesh. Especially after hearing him tell Maeve about a million times how great she looks.

  I glance at her for help, but she hesitates, unsure what to say. Why had she never mentioned Declan? Or had she? Maeve went on and on about her camp stories and of course, Aiden Sylvester, the Junior Olympic blond Adonis that was her summertime obsession, but I wasn’t sure if she ever mentioned a dark, wiry guy named Dec.

  Finally, Maeve attempts to explain things. “Annalise has been chatting online with someone who said he was Declan O’Keefe,” she says. “We came to meet him—you—in person.”

  “Well, I’m not . . . whoever.” He crosses his arms, as if that is the end of that.

  My head is swimming, as a million questions pound in my brain. Is Declan putting me on, for some sick reason? Are we at the wrong house? Is it possible I have the wrong Declan O’Keefe, that there is another, unlisted O’Keefe family somewhere in Worcester? And if none of those possibilities is true, it begs the most important question: If this is the one and only Declan O’Keefe, and he has no idea who I am, then WHO ON EARTH have I been talking to all this time? Who has been filling my brain with their thoughts and opinions and insights, night after night after night?

  “I think someone’s been playing you,” he finally says, stating the obvious.

  “What? Like she’s being catfished?” Maeve’s face scrunches in concern. “Like that MTV show?”

  Declan looks at her, confused, then shrugs. “I don’t know. We don’t get cable.”

  But I’ve seen the show and know exactly what she means. My mind reels as everything I thought was true dissolves like cotton candy in a rainstorm. “You mean, my Declan is a fake? But I must have been talking to someone. I didn’t just imagine it. Who would do this?”

  Maeve and Declan swap a glance of pity. My face is burning. I know what Maeve must be thinking: a big, fat I told you so. Why hadn’t I listened to her? Why hadn’t I ever asked for his home number, or suggested a video chat, before making this fool’s pilgrimage to Worcester? Who hated me so much they would do this to me—and why?

  “Forget it,” I say to Declan, just wanting to get out of there, to escape this humiliation. “Let’s go,” I tell Maeve, glancing up at the sky, which is growing darker by the minute. “The train back to Dansville leaves in an hour.” She hesitates, clearly feeling bad to leave Declan on such weird terms. “Are you coming?”

  “Wait a sec.” Declan reaches to touch my arm, stopping me. “You guys live in Dansville?”

  “Yeah, why?” Maeve asks.

  “Oh, probably nothing, just my cousin lives there. Eva?”

  Slowly, I turn back around to face him. “Eva Winters?”

  He nods.

  Maeve has a look of horror on her face, and my brain is processing this news as fast as hers. “Does Eva have this picture of you?” I pull out my phone again and we all three examine the photo. This time, his face lights up in recognition. “Oh jeez, that was, yeah, that was taken at our family reunion this summer. I think she was next to me, but she must have been cropped out.”

  “Or cropped herself out,” Maeve says dryly, pointing to the sliver of a bare leg, barely visible next to his, which I’d never noticed before.

  Within minutes, the three of us have pieced it all together. Maeve tells Declan the backstory: what happened with Amos, why Eva tormented me last year and hates me to this day. Now I know why Eva insisted on being at the mall that day: to get a front row view of Declan standing me up. I more than obliged.

  Declan shakes his head angrily, erasing any lingering suspicions I had that he was in on it with his cousin. “That’s a rotten, dirty trick. Really vile.”

  I think I am going to be sick. It doesn’t make sense. All this time––all these nights—I’ve been talking to Eva? It can’t be. I mentally scroll through all the personal things I shared with her, potentially embarrassing things that now she can use against me. Being jealous of my sister. My dad’s affair, how he left our family for Claire, how I couldn’t forgive him. I’d confided all my weaknesses to my worst enemy.

  “What do you want me to do?” Declan asks me. “Tell my parents? Or call her myself, tell her to knock it off?”

  I mentally weigh my options, which range from sucks to totally blows.

  Scenario A: Declan tells his parents, who’d tell Eva’s parents, who’d get her busted. Maybe, depending upon whether they were the kind of parents who cared about that stuff. And she’d hate me ten times over. And she’d make sure the word got out at school that I was so desperate, I fell for some online boyfriend who didn’t exist.

  Scenario B: I tell my mom, who’d freak out and call the principal, who’d get Eva suspended or maybe even expelled, depending upon whether he was the kind of principal who cared about that stuff. And she’d hate me twenty times over. And she’d make sure the word got out at school that I was so pathetic, I fell for some online boyfriend who didn’t exist.

  Scenario C: Declan tells Eva he knows, which would let her know I know, which would rule out any possibility of revenge. And she could still make sure the word got out at school.

  Suddenly, anger overwhelms me. Just like the five stages of grief we studied in health class, my emotions shift from denial to rage. I want to grab Eva by the throat and strangle the life out of her. How dare she play me like that? Why won’t she just leave me alone? This time, I don’t want to roll over and take it.

  “No,” I tell him, a plan already forming in my mind. Maybe, I can take control. Turn the tables on Eva. “I’ll handle it. For now, don’t do a thing.”

  We ride home in silence. Maeve probably doesn’t know exactly what to say, and I sit and stew, replaying every conversation over again in my mind, trying to put a face to the words, a rhyme to the reason. Maeve’s phone bursts into song, breaking the awkwardness, and she gratefully answers it. “What? Yeah. Yeah. What?”

  She listens, and through the phone’s speakers I can hear someone’s voice in the background, extremely upset. “Calm down.” She sees me eyeing her in concern and mouths the name, Samantha. Her little sister. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You did what? Didn’t I tell you—? You are not! No, Sam. I swear.”

  This goes on for a full ten minutes until she finally gets off the phone. She takes a deep breath and turns to me. Her face is purple with fury.

  “What happened?” I ask, almost too scared to know. “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, no one died,” she says with a harsh laugh. “But no. Definitely not okay.”

  Apparently, Samantha had gone and entered Tori’s weekly beauty pageant, against our express warnings. “She only got two votes,” Maeve explains, “and some loser wrote U.G.L.Y. below her picture, and now she’s devastated. Saying she wants a nose job. I mean, I seriously can’t believe someone would be so low as to insult a little girl like that. It’s sick!”

  “That’s so messed up!” I can’t believe someone would slam sweet, beautiful little Samantha, although a small, less generous, part of me wonders why her sister—or any girl, really—had to be such an attention-seeker and enter these contests in the first place. And then I immediately feel evil for thinking that, like an eleven-year-old kid should know any better. But still.

  Maeve grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. “Whatever you’re planning to do to get back at Eva and her friends, I’m in. I am so, so in.”

  Chapter 20

  NOELLE

  On Saturday morning, I wake to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes, luring me out of my bed and down the stairs. As I pass by my da
d’s office, I hear his voice inside, talking to someone, this serious tone in his voice. I slow down to try to figure out who he’s talking to and catch the phrase, “going solo.”

  Going solo? I linger, trying to hear a little more, but suddenly the door swings open, nearly banging into me. “Oh, hi honey,” Dad says, emerging and carefully shutting the door behind him.

  “Who were you calling?” I ask.

  He pauses, then answers me. “Pro shop. Making a tee-time.”

  I relax. What was I thinking, anyway? Going solo obviously means he’s playing golf as a single.

  “Any plans today?” he asks, and I shrug, following him as he heads down the hall.

  In the kitchen, my mom is sitting at the counter, sipping some home-brewed Starbucks and reading the Boston Globe, my parents’ normal morning routine. Only she is doing it all alone.

  “I’m heading out,” he tells her curtly, grabbing his keys and his rain jacket.

  “Fine,” she replies just as coolly. I can tell what she’s thinking. That he should be spending every waking moment scouring the job boards. Meanwhile, my dad would say he does his best thinking—and networking—out on the links.

  “I’m playing with Bob Pontin,” he tells her pointedly. “He may have some leads for me.”

  “Great,” she says through gritted teeth.

  Now I am confused. If my dad is playing with Bob Pontin, then why is he going solo?

  Before I can crack that mystery, my cell phone buzzes. It’s Eva, wanting me to meet her and Tori at LuLu’s at 11:00. She always says that I can calculate 40 percent off a $59.99 skirt faster than she can whip out her mom’s AmEx. But I’m starting to dread the thought of being around her, waiting for her next scheme to slam Annalise. Or me.

  The phone buzzes again, demanding a reply. When I push decline, my mom gets all nosy.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” she asks.

  “They’re going shopping at LuLu’s,” I croak, my mouth dry and teeth still unbrushed.

  “Don’t you want to go?” she asks. “You should go.”