Identity Crisis (9 page)

I feel conspicuously alone. A big part of me is regretting that I hadn't told Maeve to skip practice and come be my second, like in
Grease
when Kenickie bashes his head and Danny has to drive Greased Lightning in the drag race. I should never have come here by myself.

“So, where's your fanboy?” she asks, flipping her long brown hair behind her ears.

“What?” I shout, making like I can't understand what she's asking, even though I do. Between the music blaring, the people screaming, and the bad acoustics, it's pretty impossible to hear anything.

“She said, where's your fanboy?” Tori repeats, raising her voice.

Good question. I scan all the bodies standing around the info booth, but I don't see Declan anywhere. Yet.

I make an exaggerated shrug, trying not to show my nervousness. “I'm sure he'll be here soon.”

“We'll help you find him,” Eva yells.

Tori peers into the crowd. “What's he look like?”

I'm about to describe Declan, but it's going to be tough to make myself heard. Instead, I just pull up his picture on my phone and point at it.

“Oh, cute,” Tori says, grinning like a hyena and poking Noelle for confirmation. “Definitely pageant material.”

Noelle looks briefly at the photo and just nods, too superior to actually speak to me.

The three of them scan the crowd while I stand there, trapped. I can't figure out why they're here. Does Eva no longer hate me, now that I have moved on to another guy and am no longer a threat to her and Amos? Or are they waiting around to see him so they can trash him, mock him? Part of me can't wait for him to get here, and part of me is dreading him showing up, not knowing what Eva has planned. I eye her suspiciously. Is she going to tell him that I tried to steal her boyfriend and not to hook up with me? Or am I just being paranoid?

A man in a black T-shirt and black jeans bounds up on the stage. “Hell-o Boston,” he mouths into the microphone in a sexy British accent as the crowd whoops loudly in return. When I see who it is, I almost have a massive heart attack—it's Colin Dirge, the manager for Brass Knuckles! What's
he
doing here?

“Who's that?” Eva crinkles her nose as everyone around her roars in excitement.

“I'm Colin Dirge, the manager of Brass Knuckles, and I wanted to thank you lovely fans for turning out today. We are so thrilled to close up our first U.S. tour here in Boston, and thank you to WXKS for organizing this raffle benefiting Changing Faces, an organization that has deeply touched Viggo's life. I've popped by today . . .” He pauses dramatically and it feels like we all collectively hold our breath. What is he going to announce? Is the band really going to make a surprise appearance? “. . . to give you lucky fans a sneak peek at the first single to be released off our new album,
Mistaken Identity
. It's called “Inner Beauty” and I think you're going to love it. Also, I have a surprise for you. If you check the back of your posters, there is an access code, which will allow each of you one free download of the song!” The crowd hollers and cheers, and everyone scrambles to make sure they still have their posters.

“And now here, it is. Take a listen,” he says, beaming like a proud father, as the new song begins blasting from the loudspeakers.

It's the same song that Declan had sent me, but something is different. I listen hard for a half a minute and then I figure it out: The original version was stripped down, raw and pure, while this one is more upbeat, more catchy, more commercial. An instant hit, guaranteed. There had been rumors swirling that the band was back in the studio this week reworking one of the songs, all obviously true. Although I had to admit, I liked the original slightly better; either way, the song was genius—never mind what that numbskull Cooper Franklin would say.

“Brilliant, right?” Colin smiles as the song wraps up and the crowd goes nuts. “And now, let me introduce DJ Dr. Groove, who will pick the lucky winner to come up on stage and sing ‘Identity Crisis' with the band. So good luck! Thank you, Boston! We'll hope to see you all next week!” He performs some fist-pumping, palm-sliding handshake with the DJ, waves goodbye, and hops off the stage. I crane my neck like an ostrich to try and see where he is going, but he has already evaporated into the crowd.

“Thank you, Mr. Colin Dirge!” The DJ with the mustache gestures after him as the crowd roars again. “Are you pumped? Get those wristbands ready! We'll be picking a winner any minute now.”

Where is Declan? I am getting panicked that he is going to miss the drawing. My mind races through the possibilities. Maybe he missed the train? Maybe his parents caught him trying to sneak out? Or maybe he is here, but waiting for me at some other information booth? Is that possible? Did he see me with Eva and her friends and get scared off? Or did he see me and not like what he saw in person? Did he take one look and go running in the opposite direction?

All three girls are looking at me, either in pity or, in Eva's case, a look of smug triumph I want to smack off her face. I want to look anywhere else, so I look up. Above us, on the jumbo screen, is a slideshow of the children from Viggo's charity, faces that are twisted and misshapen, and for a brief second, looking at those hollow eyes makes me feel petty and small for obsessing about my own stupid problems.

“Why don't you just, like, text him?” Tori is looking at me as if I am an imbecile not to have thought of this earlier.

“He can't text,” I say in frustration, realizing as the words tumble out of my mouth how implausible they sound. “He's grounded. His parents confiscated his phone.”

As if to contradict me, all of a sudden, my phone zings. Could it be Declan, finding a way to text me somehow? Even though I know it's impossible, my heart pounds and I grab it while the three of them watch me.

But no. It's just a text from Maeve.

MaeveRose
: So?????

I shake my head, trying not to let my face reveal my disappointment, and shove it back in my pocket. “Not him.”

Then the DJ's voice hums into the speaker. “Okay kids, this is the moment. One of you is about to win two front row tickets to the Brass Knuckles concert—and get to sing with Viggo Witts himself! Check those wristbands, because I am about to call out the winning number in 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .”

The crowd chants along with him 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . while I want to shout, Wait. You. Have. To. Wait. Declan will be here. I know he will.

But I don't and he isn't and then the DJ is reading out a series of random numbers: 2-4-1-0-2-9.

My heart falls. Twice. Just as I process that Declan is really not coming, that the winning number is not my number, that once again, my chance to meet Viggo Witts has slipped out of my fingertips, that once again, the guy I am waiting for has failed to show, I hear an ear-piercing, dream-crushing whoop erupt beside me.

“I won!”

I can't believe it.

Eva is frantically waving her arm in the air and hopping up and down for joy and screaming, “Oh my god, that's me. That's me!” She turns and grabs Tori and me, and we instinctively embrace in a celebratory hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Annalise standing there. Alone. Excluded. Stunned.

I can tell from the look on her face exactly what she's thinking. Eva has won.
Eva
. Who probably couldn't even name a Brass Knuckles song if it were the Final Teen
Jeopardy!
question and $50,000 in college scholarship money was riding on her reply. Eva, who I know has come here just to see the look on Annalise's face when she got stood up by her phantom boyfriend. Annalise looks like she's been sucker-punched.

“Young lady, yes you, come on up here.” The DJ points at Eva, and she scrambles through the parted crowd up onto the makeshift stage. The DJ, who has long dirty-blond hair and is wearing a button-down shirt that is only partly buttoned, asks her name and where she's from. She giggles out her replies. He asks if she is a Knucklie and she gushes that she is. Then he asks who she is going to take with her to the concert. What is she going to say? The three of us never discussed what we'd do if one of us actually won. Will she pick me—or Tori? Is one of us about to be odd girl out? Will it be me? Eva gazes over to where we are standing, like she is trying to decide between us. Then, she locks eyes with Annalise. She says, “I'm going to take my boyfriend, Amos,” and I can hear the slight emphasis she puts on the words
my
and
boyfriend
.

“Is he here?” the DJ asks, scanning the crowd.

“No, he's at soccer practice.” She smiles proudly, as if she had something to do with it.

“And are you ready to sing?”

She grins with the confidence of someone who, as a sophomore, just landed the plum role of Sharpay in
High School Musical
. “I will be.”

“Well, I hope you two have a rockin' good time,” he says, patting her on the back and guiding her toward the back of the stage. “And to all you fans, thanks for coming out today and helping to support Changing Faces. Enjoy your poster and free download, and keep on listening to WXKS, the number one rock station.”

“Can you believe it?” Tori shrieks and grabs her phone to share the news with everyone she knows. I shake my head, looking over at Annalise. We watch as Eva dances toward us, a crisp white envelope clasped tightly in her hand.

“This is so amazing!” she says, still slightly dazed by her luck. “They said they'd even get me some backstage passes. See, Noelle, and you said we'd never win.” She pulls out the tickets and Tori begins snapping shots of Eva holding them up to tweet with the world as she twirls around and fluffs her hair and babbles about how much she's going to practice and what she should wear and how this could be her big break like Courteney Cox.

I can see Annalise struggling with the sheer unfairness of it all, the desire to snatch those tickets out of Eva's unworthy hands. Then, as if Eva would take pity on her and change her mind, she asks, sort of pitifully, “So, you're definitely taking . . . Amos?”
Amos
. There is a moment of silence. Tori and I gape at Annalise, shocked she went there. Dared to say his name aloud. The word seems obscene, like she has no right to say it in Eva's presence.

Eva stiffens and glares at Annalise. “Well, he is my boyfriend. You know, the kind that actually exists.” She looks over at Tori, who kind of snickers approvingly.

“Declan
exists
,” Annalise replies. A pause. A sharp intake of breath. “He does.”

“Riiight,” Eva says, as she gives me a knowing look. “If you say so.”

Annalise looks like she has been slapped across the face. I can see her fighting back tears. But I know and Eva knows she has no good comeback. No way to prove what she says is true. No physical evidence.

Without another word, Annalise turns and flees into the crowd.

I know this was the plan all along. What else did I think was going to happen? I know Eva would say I shouldn't feel sorry for her. Not at all.

So why do I feel so hollow inside?

I push my way through the mall, with only one thought going through my mind. Escape.

It was bad enough, standing there and watching Eva win the tickets that should have been mine, taking the spot on stage that could have been mine. And then, breaking down and groveling, actually asking her if she'd take someone else (me me me?) instead.

Pitiful.

Even if I offered to do her math homework from here to eternity, there was no way she'd give up this chance for me. And then worse, her accusing Declan of not even existing, implying that I'd made him up. I could tell by tomorrow, her version of the story would be all over the school and, once again, it would all start up again. Everyone would be staring, whispering, evading. Talking about me but not to me.

Declan exists!
I want to shout. But where is he? Why didn't he come? I have no defense. All I have is a photo on my phone and some pretty words on a screen. And a connection that I know is real.

But all I can hear are Eva's words, echoing in my mind. My boyfriend, Amos. My boyfriend.

And against my will, my mind flashes back to that day, the way it felt to stand there, waiting, for someone who also promised to come.

Amos.

Whom I stumbled upon curled up in the hallway outside the Freshman Fling, on my way to the bathroom, all alone, because Maeve had started debating the stupidity of intelligent design with some fundie guy from her biology class. Amos, who had spiky dirty-blond hair and a trim waist and a ready smile. Amos, who had been dating Eva since practically the first week of freshman year. Amos, whose body was heaving almost like he was . . . crying.

Then he turned, and our eyes locked, and even though we really only knew each other from third period American History, I couldn't ignore that. His blue eyes were all watery and red, which you never see on a guy, especially not a guy like that. So I stopped and asked if he was okay. He muttered, “I'm fine,” but it was obvious he wasn't and so I slid down against the wall beside him, not really knowing why. Up close, his breath reeked of alcohol, and he'd offered me a sip from a silver flash he pulled out of his jacket, but I shook my head. Eventually, he told me how he and Eva and gotten into a huge fight and how she had broken up with him. Then we heard the click of a teacher's heels coming toward us and, not wanting to be busted, we made our way down the hall.