Identity Crisis (22 page)

ElenaB
: what?

KnuckLise99
: i'll fill you in at head of the charles

The guy behind the Will Call window has black-rimmed hipster glasses and an I-hate-being-trapped-in-this-cubicle scowl.

“Two tickets for Annalise Bradley,” I say, and he rifles through his list of names.

And then, he is pulling a small envelope from a little box and handing it over to us. My two golden tickets: floor seats, center section.

“Wow, I have seriously never had seats this good,” Maeve says, looking them over. “And you guys are only a few rows away! Cooper must have mortgaged his house for his tickets.”

“Don't you dare say anything,” I warn. As far as I'm supposed to know, they were comped.

“I won't,” she promises. She gestures toward the guys, who are entering the lobby, holding two rolled up T-shirts. “There they are. Let's go.”

But I am not done.

“Be there in a sec,” I call after her when she turns back to see why I am not coming. She gives me a knowing look, aware of what I am up to, but doesn't say anything, and goes to join the guys in the bag check line while I duck back to the Will Call window.

“Can you, um, do me a favor?” Hipster counter man looks at me warily. I reach in my bag and pull out a bright yellow envelope with the name “Declan” written on the outside. Inside, is a note I have carefully prepared, which says all that needs to be said. A little unfinished business. “Someone might come here, looking for someone. If they do, can you just give them this for me? It's really important.”

I try to slide the envelope to him through the slender opening beneath the bulletproof glass window, but he pushes it back at me, shaking his head. “I can't do that,” he says snottily through the built-in speaker. “Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“It's policy,” he shrugs. “We can't be responsible for personal items. Only tickets we've issued.”

“Please?” I try asking him again. “I don't know what this person looks like, so I—”

“Sorry,” he repeats, looking around me to the customers behind me, who are shifting their feet in annoyance. “Next?”

I stare at him, desperately. This has to work. There is no other way.

I know what other girls would do in this situation. Lean way in, flash a little cleavage. Or, as Maeve likes to say, whip out my weapons of mass destruction. Make them work to my advantage, at least this once. But as much as I'm tempted, I'm just not going to stoop to that.

“Wait,” I say, desperately thinking of something else. “Maybe I should call Colin, you know, Colin Dirge, their manager?” I pull out my phone and show him our last text exchange. “We're his personal guests, and maybe he can clear this.”

He frowns, looking at the phone and back down at his list, confirming what I am telling him. “Fine,” he grunts. He gestures for me to slide the envelope through the slot and stuffs it into his metal ticket box. “Just D for Declan? No last name?”

“Just Declan. Thanks,” I say sweetly.

Maeve and Declan go in to find their seats, while Cooper and I get in line to buy some snacks. When we are almost up to the counter, Cooper starts to pull out his wallet, but I grab his arm and say, “No, let me. You got the T-shirts, right?” He starts to protest but I insist, knowing it's the least I can do after he probably blew his life savings on tickets.

“So are you a nachos girl?” Cooper finally relents. “Or a chocolate girl?”

“Guess,” I say, teasingly.

He eyes me up and down, lingering on my body a second too long. “Salty. Or maybe, sour. You're definitely not all that sweet.”

“Watch it,” I blush, punching him in the arm, less for the comment than for the once-over.

“What?”

“You know what.” I duck my head. We are
not
having this conversation standing in line for nachos.

He still doesn't get it, but his eyes dart downward again. “No, what?”

But I am finally fed up with him playing coy. “This,” I snap, pointing to my boobs. “I've had enough with the staring. Yes, I have boobs, but so does every other female on the planet. Yes, they're freaky big, but get over it. My brain is up here. My face, too. And if you can't keep your eyes off them, that's as close as you'll ever get to any of me, ever.”

I don't realize how loudly my voice carries, but when I finish my lecture, the entire line is staring at me. And then, a few other girls and women start to clap and whistle.

Cooper's lopsided grin has been completely set straight. “I, uh, g-get it,” he says, stammering, his face now bright red. “I'm a jerk. I didn't mean—”

“Yeah, you kinda are,” I snap. “How would you like being ogled like a piece of meat all the time? Do you know what that's like?”

He stares at me, floored. “You're right,” he says slowly, nodding, as if coming to some decision. “I don't know. But what's fair is fair. I embarrassed you, so . . .”

We have reached the front of the line, but instead of placing our order, he winks at the cashier, “You don't mind, do you, if I just—” and then he starts climbing right up onto the counter. Everyone in line behind us stops talking to gawk at the crazy boy who is now gyrating and wiggling his butt around to the beat.

“Cooper.” I cringe. This cannot be happening. “What are you
doing
?”

The entire line is laughing and pointing, and one guy whistles.

He doesn't even seem to be fazed, smiling down at me. “I'm seeing what it feels like. Go ahead, check out the merchandise. I checked you out. Now it's your turn.”

“Cooper, stop, please.” I want to cover my face with my hands, but I can't look away. I am mortified for the both of us, but at the same time, I can't stop smirking.

“Not so bad, right? Take a good look.” The crowd breaks into applause and catcalls, enjoying his outrageous behavior.

When what looks like a manager starts barreling towards us from behind the counter, Cooper quickly jumps down and holds up his hands in apology. “Sorry sir,” he nods to the silently fuming manager, then quickly addresses the counter girl in the orange visor. “Two Diet Pepsis, one nachos—and one M&M'S.” As she rushes off to fill the order, he leans over to me and whispers: “Don't apologize for your looks. Own it. You're a beautiful girl. But that's not all you are. You're the whole package, okay? Inside and out. And under that hard-as-nails shell, I'm guessing you can be pretty sweet, Annalise Bradley.”

He steals a sidelong look at my stunned reaction as I try not to melt. Instead, I pay the girl, grab the box of M&M'S, and return the smile. I may even fish around and find him a green one.

I watch Eva disappear into the sea of bodies, until I can't see her any longer. But I have to let her go. I am here on another mission. I quickly head back inside the lobby to the Will Call window, hoping to find Annalise waiting there for me, that I haven't missed her. But I don't see her there. Disappointment rushes through me. Isn't she coming? Or has she changed her mind? Or had she never really planned to come? Maybe that's it, then. It's over. All over.

I hover in the lobby, uncertain what to do next. I eye the guy behind the Will Call booth and he eyes me back. “Can I help you?” he eventually asks. “No,” I shake my head. “I'm waiting for someone.” But no one comes. After a little while, when the crowd has all but died out, I hear him calling me. “You. Yes you.” He stops and consults something behind the counter. “You wouldn't happen to be Declan?”

I hesitate, then step forward. “Yes.”

The guy in glasses gives me a funny look, then pulls something from his box of tickets.

It's not a white ticket envelope like everyone else's—this one is bright yellow. On the outside it says “Declan.” He hands it to me and watches me curiously as I walk away to open it. I stop a few feet from the ticket window and tear open the flap. I am confused. Where is Annalise? Why didn't she show? Is this from her? How can I reveal who I am, explain things, give her the VIP pass, if she doesn't come? Did she leave a ticket for me instead, to come and meet her at the seat? But no. Instead, I reach in to find a handwritten note on lined paper tucked inside the envelope. I pull it out, unfold it, and begin to read.

To: “DecOlan”

(OR WHOEVER YOU REALLY ARE)

Did you really think I would forgive you? Why? Because you showed up here in person? Did you really think that an apology would make it all better, after you jerked me around for weeks, played with my emotions, laughing with all your friends at how gullible I was? How I believed all your lies? What you did was sick, twisted, lower than low. What do you expect? That you and I have any basis for a real relationship, after feeding me lies on top of more lies? That anything you told me meant anything? That you can make it up to me? Well, you've come all this way for nothing. Now I hope you know how it feels, to have your hopes raised, to believe in someone, only to be totally humiliated and rejected. Because whoever you are, and whoever you turn out to be, know this: I want NOTHING to do with you. Ever.

Drop Dead, DecOlan.

Annalise

The show is about to begin, so I send Cooper ahead to claim our seats, telling him I'm going to the bathroom but will be there soon. Then I sneak back downstairs to the doors just beyond the lobby, peering through at the Will Call window. I have to know. For good or bad, I have to see if he, she, it, whoever, actually shows up. I have to see for myself who DecOlan is.

It doesn't take long. The lobby is practically empty. Except for one person. The minute I see Noelle Spiers standing there, I know. The memory hits me, the phrase she used yesterday, when refusing to tutor me, seemed so familiar:
it's all on me
. It's something “DecOlan” used to say, too.

Everything I know about Noelle comes flooding through my brain as I try to piece together her motivation. Math brainiac. Swimmer. Stuck-up, or so I thought, but maybe just shy. Acute stage fright. Hates attention, kind of like me. We've attended the same school for a whole year, but I can't recall a single real conversation we'd ever had. How does that even happen?

I watch her as she lingers there, waiting. Now, the lights in the stadium start flickering, encouraging latecomers to take their seats, and the lobby empties completely. The man behind the window says something to her, and she tremulously approaches the ticket window. I see her lips moving, nodding, when the man says the word “Declan,” then pushes the yellow envelope I gave him through the slot to her. I see her take an uncertain step or two away from the counter, unable to wait more than a few seconds before peeling back the envelope and poking her trembling fingers inside, removing the note I had written. Aware of a deviation from the plan, a trap, she glances around, as if sensing my presence, and I shrink back behind the security guard to make sure she doesn't spot me.

I see her carefully unfold the paper, first one time, then a second, until my words are revealed. She smooths the note on her thigh, then furrows her brow as she begins to read what I carefully printed in hateful black ink.

I wonder how it all started. Did Eva tell her to do it? Did Noelle agree to start writing all those words, and then what? Did she start believing her own lies? That we had a real connection? A relationship? Did we? Didn't we?

And now, what has she come here expecting? Forgiveness? Absolution? Amnesty? After what she did? Really? For me to learn her motivation, hear her apology, clear her conscience for her?

No. As far as I'm concerned, my note says all I need to say.

I turn to go. Unlike Eva, I don't need to sit here and glory in someone else's misery. I have a concert to go to. Cooper Franklin is waiting inside, and Viggo Witts could be coming out any second, and I'm not going to let her ruin something I've been anticipating for so long. Already, I can hear the crowd's hum grow. I can't wait any longer to be a part of this moment.

And then I see it. Dangling from her hand. A precious VIP pass with a lanyard. A pass that allows its owner access to the post-party. To meet Viggo Witts. And I know that it's for me. To make amends. All I have to do is step forward and claim it. It could be mine, if only I could swallow my pride. I want to so badly. But I can't. My hurt is too deep. My trust is too shattered. My forgiveness can't be bought so cheaply. At the end of it all, I'd rather have my dignity than a chance moment with Viggo.

Noelle must have gotten to the end of the letter because she stops reading and looks up again. Even from a distance, I can't help but see the tears streaming down her wet cheeks.

Crying? I want to shake her. Why is
she
crying? She's the bad one here. She's the villain, not me. Eva Winters would never be so weak, would never break down like this. My words were harsh, yes, but nothing compared to what she's put me through. I won't feel sorry for her. I won't. How dare she stand there, making me feel like I'm the monster? She deserves this. She earned this.

I slip away, trying to erase the image of her twisted face from my mind. Stupid me, I thought saying what I needed to say would make me feel better, would somehow even the score, give me closure.

So why do I feel so hollow inside?

I am standing there numb, sick to my stomach at what Annalise had written. Because she is right. Every bit of it. I deserve it. What had I been thinking? That just by showing up here, ready to make my confession, all would be forgiven? That I could wash away my sins with a VIP pass? But, it was just like Eva had said that day at the soccer field. I'd believed because I wanted to believe. I squeeze the piece of plastic in my hand. The gaze of Viggo Witts seems to mock me, his ghostly image appearing and disappearing, depending on which way you tilted him.