Impostor (11 page)

“What are you waiting for?” I ask.

“No more waiting,” he says, and then he leans down for a long, warm kiss.

Chapter Twenty

I
t’s five in the morning, and Rollins has parked his car in our driveway. I stare at the house, dreading going inside. Ever since I found out that Lydia had my mother’s picture, I feel like I’m starring in some freaky reality show. If she has the power to slide, she could pop in at any moment and observe me. It’s beyond unsettling.

“I don’t want to go in,” I moan.

Rollins squeezes my hand. “You’d better, if you want to be there when everyone wakes up. I’ll be back around seven forty-five to pick you up for school.”

Almost three hours. I can go back to sleep for a bit, then shower, grab a Pop-Tart, and it’ll be time to leave again. That’s doable, isn’t it? I might not even see Lydia.

“Okay,” I say, “but not a second later, promise?”

“I’ll be here.”

Shyly, I lean in for a kiss. It’s funny how quickly things can change. Last fall, if you had asked me how I felt about Rollins, I would have said he was like my brother. I would have been somewhat lying, of course. Every once in a while there’d be a little spark between us, but we were both too chicken to do anything about it. But now. Now, when I press my lips against his, it’s like I can’t get enough. I don’t want him to leave, not even for a second, but I know it’s for the best. My dad will freak if he wakes up and I’m gone.

“See you soon,” Rollins says softly.

I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. The air is brisk, and the earth as I cross the lawn is muddy from the storm the night before. My slippers sink with every step.

All seems quiet when I open the door. But when I cross the foyer to tiptoe up the stairs, a voice startles me.

“It’s about time.”

I turn to see my father and Aunt Lydia sitting at the dining room table, each with a mug of coffee. My father has dark circles beneath his eyes, and I know with sudden certainty that he didn’t sleep last night—just like I am positive that I am in deep shit.

Defeated, I slump into the dining room and fall into one of the chairs, avoiding eye contact with both of them. How can I explain my whereabouts last night? Especially when the woman who might have been responsible for my disappearance is sitting right here?

“A little past your curfew, young lady,” my father says.

“I don’t have a curfew,” I say.

“Well, if you did, it certainly wouldn’t be five o’clock in the morning,” my father says, his voice rising to a near-shout. I notice Lydia discreetly reach out and touch his arm, and he immediately becomes subdued. The intimate gesture infuriates me.

“It happened again,” I say, looking straight at Lydia, a challenge in my eyes. “I blacked out, and when I woke up, I found myself in the cemetery in the middle of a thunderstorm. Rollins happened to be driving by, and he rescued me.”

While my father takes this in, I stare at Lydia, although I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for. Shame? If she was the one who trotted me out to the cemetery and abandoned me there during a rainstorm, would she look guilty about it? Do I detect a slight wince to reveal her involvement?

I can’t be sure, but I think she leans back just slightly, as if my revelation impacted her physically. She looks away from me and then, maybe to cover her reaction, lifts her cup and takes a long sip.

“Rollins just happened to be driving by, huh?” my father says. “Forgive me, Vee, but I’m not sure I buy that.”

I shrug. “Buy it or not, that’s what happened. I didn’t want to wake everyone up, so I just crashed at his place.”

My dad shakes his head. “You know, I’ve always liked Rollins, but this is the second time in two weeks you’ve been out until all hours of the night.”

I look at Lydia. She won’t meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, Sylvia. I think your father has a right to know what you’ve been up to.”

My father lets out an exasperated sigh. “Vee, I’ve always thought of you as the responsible one. Now you’re lying to me, not coming home at night. What’s next? Are you drinking? Doing drugs?”

“It’s not what you think, Dad,” I say, but it’s no use.

He’s already going on, deaf to my protests. “The only solution, I think, is to ground you. If I have to keep you here to make sure you’re safe, so be it.”

“But—”

“No buts, young lady. You should have thought of that before you betrayed my trust. I’m beginning to think Rollins is a bad influence on you. I want you to take a break from him. I have to work, but Lydia can drive you to school and pick you up. Is that all right with you, Lydia?”

Lydia shoots me a look that is almost remorseful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she actually regretted tattling on me. But she turns to my father and says, “Yes, of course. It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s all set then,” my father says, rising from his chair. “I have to get dressed.”

“Are you sure you can’t call in sick?” Lydia asks. “You’ve been up all night.”

My father tilts his head back, clearly exhausted. “I can’t cancel surgery just because my teenage daughter decided to stay out all night with her boyfriend.” His words sting like a slap. I feel guilty for making him worry when he has life-and-death matters to be thinking about, but then I remember this isn’t
entirely
my fault. Someone slid into me and led me to my mother’s grave last night.

I glare at Lydia.

My father walks slowly up the stairs.

“How could you?” I ask when he’s out of earshot.

Lydia’s brows knit together, and she reaches out as if to grab my hand across the table. I snatch it away. “I told you, Sylvia. I was your age once. I know what it’s like. Sometimes you have to let the older, wiser ones make decisions for you. Don’t worry. Your punishment won’t last forever. Perhaps I can speak with your father, soften him up a bit . . .”

I stand up quickly, knocking my chair onto the floor. The implication that she is close enough with my father to convince him to lessen my sentence enrages me. What exactly have they been up to when Mattie and I haven’t been around? Is it that easy for her to forget the fiancé she left behind in California?

“Don’t do me any favors,” I mumble, picking up the chair and setting it right. Trembling, I head upstairs, determined to take a long, hot shower and wash away the mental image of Lydia “softening my father up.”

Just as I’m texting Rollins to tell him not to bother coming by and that I’ll talk to him at school, there’s a knock on my door. I pause, thinking it might be Lydia, but then Mattie’s muffled voice says, “It’s me.” I let her inside and close the door behind her, not wanting Lydia to pass by and eavesdrop on our conversation.

Remembering that Mattie shared my private business with Lydia, I cross my arms over my chest. “What exactly did you tell Lydia about Scotch?”

Mattie looks unsure. “Just . . . what happened at the dance. We were looking at an old yearbook, and I was telling her about everyone at school. When we came to a picture of Scotch, I got kind of quiet. She knew there was something off about him. She kept asking until I told her. Vee, she was furious about what he did to you. Her face got all pale, and she kept clenching her fists. She cares about you.”

“I can’t believe you told her about that,” I say.

“I—I didn’t think you’d be so upset,” Mattie responds. “I know you don’t like Lydia, but I really think she could help us if we told her what happened.”

The irony is astounding. Mattie thinks that Lydia can get us out of a mess that, in all probability, she created.

“Look,” I say after taking a deep breath. “Don’t tell her anything more. Just give me today to think about what we should do.”

Mattie nods after a moment. “I heard Scotch is still alive. That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Except when he wakes up, he’ll probably tell everyone he was with Regina before he fell. And then she’ll crumble and spill everything.”

Mattie’s face clouds, as if she hadn’t thought of this complication. She crosses the room and sits on the bed, letting her head fall into her hands.

She looks so miserable that I regret yelling at her. I sit down next to her and rub her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix everything.”

I don’t know how.

But I will.

On the way to school, I stare out the window of Lydia’s lemon-yellow Toyota. Mattie is in the front, and I am in the back, trying to ignore the way Lydia keeps attempting to make eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.

“So, guys, isn’t prom coming up pretty soon?” Lydia asks, flipping the radio dial until she finds some cheesy pop station. She sways her head with the beat.

I roll my eyes.

“Yep,” Mattie says. “In a couple of weeks.”

“Has anyone asked you yet?” Lydia puts on her turn signal and drives past McDonald’s. She directs the question to Mattie, probably realizing that it wouldn’t matter if Johnny freaking Depp asked me, because I’m grounded.

“No, but there is this guy I’ve been talking to. Russ. He’s a senior, but he’s actually Vee’s age. We’re supposed to go to the movies with Rollins and Vee on Friday.”

I can sense Lydia throwing a questioning look in my direction, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her gaze. “Really?” she finally says.

“Yeah,” Mattie replies. “Hey, Vee, did you ask Dad about that yet?”

I clench my teeth. “Not yet.”

Lydia pulls into the school parking lot and shifts the car into park.

“Thanks for the ride, Lydia. I’ve got practice after school, so I’ll probably just catch a ride with Samantha or someone.”

“All right. Have a good day, honey.” Lydia calling Mattie
honey
strikes me as ingenuous, the way a salesgirl at a department store might address you when goading you into trying on some expensive perfume. But Mattie doesn’t seem to notice. She just waves and slams the door.

I make a move to exit the vehicle, but Lydia turns around to face me. “Wait a second, Vee. I want to talk to you.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to hate me,” she says.

“Um, then why did you get me grounded?”

A silence hangs between us for a moment, and it seems that she’s on the verge of confessing something. My breath quickens, and I wonder if she’s about to reveal her sliding ability. But then her face changes, and I know she’s not going to come clean.

“Everything I’m doing is for your own good. I wish you’d believe that.”

“Okay, I believe it. Now let me go to school. I’m going to be late for first period.”

She nods. “Okay,” she says weakly. “I’ll be here at three thirty.”

Without another word, I scramble out of the car and slam the door behind me.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
’m yanking books out of my backpack and throwing them into my locker when someone taps on my shoulder. I turn to find Rollins, his eyebrows raised. “So what’s up?”

“I got busted. My dad thinks I basically snuck out to spend the night with you.”

“Didn’t you tell him what happened?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t believe me. Lydia told him that I was also out of the house on Thursday night, so he
grounded
me. Lydia’s supposed to be driving me to and from school from now on.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” I say, grabbing my English notebook.

“Well, at least we can still see each other at school. Lunchtime? Under the bleachers?” Rollins murmurs, leaning close. I close my eyes, feeling his warmth so close to me. His lips press against mine, and all the bad things seem to melt away, if only for a moment.

When I open my eyes, I’m greeted with a decidedly unwelcome sight.

Anna.

“Oh, I’m sorry, guys. Rollins, I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for this afternoon.”

I raise my eyebrows at Rollins, who scratches the back of his head.

“You know, you were going to help me with my play-list?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, Anna. I totally forgot. But I think I’m free after school. That shouldn’t be a problem.” He looks at me questioningly.

“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be at home, counting the daisies on the wallpaper in the kitchen.”

“Great. I mean, not great. . . . You know what I mean,” Rollins says, flustered. “See you at lunch?”

I sigh. “Sure.”

I watch Rollins walk off down the hallway with Anna, noticing how her vintage jeans hug her butt so perfectly. It’s how magazines say your butt should look, like an apple or an upside-down heart or something stupid like that. I can’t help comparing it with my own straight-as-a-board ass.

I try to comfort myself by remembering what Rollins said to me last night.

I don’t like her that way.

But it’s not enough to quell the uneasiness I feel when I see Anna reach over and grab Rollins’s arm. And he doesn’t pull away.

Mrs. Winger spends the first ten minutes of class reviewing vocabulary on the projector. I try to follow along, but I keep finding myself staring at the clock, counting the minutes until lunch. Once or twice, I try to catch Samantha’s eye, but she purposely looks away every time.

Mrs. Winger turns off the projector. “Okay, go ahead and put away your notes. I’d like you to get together with the partners you were with yesterday when we read ‘Young Goodman Brown.’ Today I want you to come up with a practice thesis for a literary analysis paper. Whenever you’re ready, you may go sit with your partner.”

I gather my books and move them to the desk next to Samantha’s. She ignores me, taking out a fresh piece of notebook paper and smoothing it on her desk.

When everyone seems to be absorbed in their work, I say, under my breath, “I told.”

Samantha writes our names at the top of the paper. After a minute, she says, just as quietly, “I kind of figured that out. I saw a bunch of cops in the office this morning.”

My voice is urgent. “You know I had to.”

Samantha shakes her head disgustedly.

At that moment, the door opens, and Officer Teahen steps inside. Samantha’s eyes widen, and then she drops her head down. Officer Teahen walks over to Mrs. Winger and speaks to her quietly. She goes to her desk, shuffles through some papers, finds what she’s looking for, and hands it to the police officer. As she gives it to him, the paper tilts just enough for me to see that it’s a class list.

“Melissa Abraham,” Officer Teahen says, and the girl whose name he just called eyes him nervously. “Could you come with me for just a second?”

Melissa stands, looking at Mrs. Winger questioningly. The plump English teacher nods, as if to tell her to go ahead. Officer Teahen politely waits for Melissa to make her way to the front of the room, and then he follows her into the hallway, closing the door with a soft click.

Samantha and I look at each other.

You’re next,
she mouths, and for a second I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then it hits me. Officer Teahen is calling on students alphabetically. Technically, Billy Armstrong should be next in line for questioning, but the cops aren’t looking for guys. The person who made the 911 call was a female. When Officer Teahen returns with Melissa Abraham, he’ll call the next girl on the list.

Sylvia Bell.

Me.

I swallow.

My palms start to sweat. I can’t imagine looking into Officer Teahen’s eyes and explaining my plan to him, the plan to teach Scotch Becker a lesson, the plan that resulted in a catastrophic fall that could have led to his death. That probably
would
have led to his death if I’d waited any longer to make that 911 call.

Guilt is a funny feeling. You can evade it for a while, but it always creeps back. I tried to convince myself that I’d done nothing wrong, that Scotch’s fall was the fault of Lydia or whoever slid into me that night. But when it comes right down to it, the whole thing was my idea. If not for me, Scotch would be at school right now, making lewd jokes about the lunch ladies.

And now that it’s time for me to spill everything that I know, I’m not ready. I feel like wrenching open one of the windows and running away before my name can be called. I feel like, at the very least, asking to go to the girls’ room and hanging out there for the rest of the period.

And then it dawns on me.

I have the perfect excuse.

Because of my so-called narcolepsy, I have a permanent hall pass. Whenever I start to feel woozy, I can ask my teachers to let me go to the nurse, and they have to say yes. They don’t want me to collapse in their classrooms.

I push myself into a standing position and walk up to Mrs. Winger. “Is it okay if I go to the nurse?” I ask.

Her eyes flick up to me.

She sighs.

“Sure, Sylvia.”

I pick up the hall pass from Mrs. Winger’s desk on my way out. As I go by Melissa Abraham’s desk, I scan her belongings quickly. Did she leave anything behind that’s personal enough to carry an emotional charge? There’s an open notebook with a few sentences about “Young Goodman Brown.” A slightly chewed-up pencil. A half- full bottle of water.

My eyes drop lower, to her purse, which is propped up against her chair. There’s a little silver key chain in the shape of a heart hanging off the strap—the kind of thing a girl’s parents or her boyfriend might give her for Christmas or her birthday.

Bingo.

I pretend to trip and drop the hall pass onto the ground.

“Oops,” I mumble.

A few kids look my way, but their eyes promptly return to the doorway. Everyone is curious about what the policeman is doing at our school. I take advantage of the distraction to shoot my hand out and unclasp the key chain from Melissa’s purse. I stuff it into my pocket and straighten up. No one looks in my direction. On my way out of the room, I pray that Melissa doesn’t return before I do. It might be awkward, trying to explain why I have her key chain.

The hallway is empty. I turn right and make a beeline for the only place I know I won’t be disturbed—the staff restroom. While the girls’ room has multiple stalls, this bathroom only has one toilet and the ability to lock the door. They even have a cushy chair in the corner of the room, next to a dusty plastic plant and an end table. I’m not sure why anyone would want to hang out in there, but whatever.

After one last look to make sure no one is around to see me duck into the staff bathroom, I push my way inside and twist the lock behind me.

In two seconds flat, I fish Melissa’s key chain out of my pocket and throw myself into the chair. Squeezing my eyes closed, I hold the trinket in the palm of my hand and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

My heart is pounding too hard, I realize. I’m amped up with so much adrenaline, there’s no way I’ll be able to slide. I try to make myself relax by taking deep breaths and clearing my mind, but I keep seeing Scotch’s body at the bottom of the cliff.

Behave,
I tell my brain angrily, but that’s the thing about brains. They never do what you want them to do, especially if you’re trying
not
to think about something. The more I struggle to empty my mind, the clearer the picture of Scotch’s twisted figure becomes.

I open my eyes and heave a sigh of frustration.

Let’s face it. It’s not going to work.

When I open the door, I see Officer Teahen and Melissa coming my way. I turn around quickly and walk back toward the classroom.

I can hear them talking behind me.

“So you say Scotch was hanging out with Samantha Phillips last week? Were they dating? Do you think he would have gone to Lookout Point with her?”

Melissa’s voice is squeaky. “Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s in Mrs. Winger’s class right now if you want to talk to her.”

Officer Teahen says, “I just might do that.”

I walk a little faster.

Back in the room, I slip into my seat next to Samantha and lean over. My voice is barely above a whisper. “I heard the cop talking to Melissa in the hall. She told him you went to the party with Scotch last week. He wants to talk to you next.”

“Oh, great,” Samantha murmurs.

The door opens, and Melissa comes in. She avoids eye contact with Samantha and returns to her desk. Officer Teahen walks swiftly to Mrs. Winger’s desk and says something in a low voice. She gestures toward Samantha, and his eyes follow.

“Samantha?” Mrs. Winger says. “Could you come up here for a second?”

Samantha stands up and walks over to Mrs. Winger’s desk, throwing me a dark look over her shoulder. I watch as she listens to Officer Teahen, nods, and then follows him out of the room.

The rest of the class seems to last forever. I stare at Samantha’s notebook, in which she’s made several unintelligible notes about “Young Goodman Brown.” I doodle in the margins, counting the seconds.

After an eternity, the bell rings. Everyone gathers up their things and heads for the door. I hear more than one person speculating about why the cop was taking such a long time with Samantha.

A sudden cry pulls me away from my thoughts.

It’s Melissa Abraham. She is holding her purse in front of her, panic on her face. “Mrs. Winger! Mrs. Winger!”

Mrs. Winger rushes over. “What is it, Melissa?”

“Someone stole my key chain.”

Shit.

“What? Are you sure? It probably just fell off. What does it look like?” Mrs. Winger stoops down and scans the carpet.

“It’s a little heart. Actually, it’s my sister’s, but she let me borrow it. She’ll kill me if she found out I lost it.”

I discreetly pull the key chain out and flick it onto the carpet several feet away from me. Mrs. Winger continues her inspection, inching her way in my direction.

“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to the key chain.

Melissa hurries over. “Ohmigod, thank you
so much
for finding it.” She bends over and scoops it up.

“No problem,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt. “It’s very pretty.”

“Thanks,” Melissa replies. “See you around.”

Mrs. Winger gives me a grateful smile and then looks down at Samantha’s desk. “Oh, dear. Samantha isn’t back yet. Will you see her later today? Would you mind gathering her things?”

“No problem,” I repeat, but in my head I’m thinking that’s a lie.

I do have a problem.

A huge freaking problem.