Pretending to Be Erica (3 page)

“He said something about a ballet class?”

Hope gleams in her eyes. “Yes, you took ballet when you were younger. Maybe he’s coming to. We should keep visiting him. Work him out of his shell.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth or disagree. She’s still in love with him. A mother and father who love each other. I wonder if Erica knew just how lucky she was.

When we get home, I realize Marie picked out new bedcovers for me—blue with white flowers, smelling of fancy department stores. I hug her and she laughs something in Spanish. I flop onto the bed and spread my arms, feeling the high-quality softness, so different from the thin motel blankets I’d slept in most of my life. Dinner is short ribs practically falling off the bone. Dessert is sorbet. I’m in heaven. These meals are a million times better than Sal’s burnt monstrosities or convenience store takeout. Mrs. Silverman pushes a glass of wine toward me, her eyes twinkling.

“Try it. Sip slowly. It’s a very good wine from a very good vineyard.”

Sal’s let me have sips of his favorite whiskey. This is milder, more fruity. It doesn’t burn as much as whiskey. I still cough. Mrs. Silverman laughs and takes a sip.

“Now that you’re officially in high school, let’s lay some ground rules.”

“Rules,” I echo.

“Alcohol, for instance.” She spins the wine glass by its stem. “A few sips here and there won’t do you any harm. But you’re young, and groups of young people like to drink. You’ll make friends soon, I’m sure. The Erica I know is loved everywhere she goes.”

I want to grimace, but Erica forces a flattered face instead.

“Believe me when I say there is plenty of time for drinking in your life. You don’t have to do it all at once. That’s not healthy. I don’t mind the occasional drink—as long as you’re at home with your friends, and I have the keys to everyone’s cars. Is that clear?”

I’d seen glimpses of her stern side before, when she’d demanded to know the details of my life with my kidnappers. If it concerns my safety or my past, she becomes an iron-spined demon of willpower. I nod meekly.

“Crystal clear.”

“If you ever find yourself in a position where everyone is drunk, where you are uncomfortable or feel scared about getting in the car, call me. I’ll pick you up no matter what, and I won’t ask questions.”

“No questions asked?” I tilt my head.

“None at all. I might need answers after incident two, though.”

I nod. It sounds fair enough. Sal never gave me any restrictions, really, except that I had to be home in time to pull a con or catch the bus/train/plane with him to our next port of shelter. Partying was redundant when you pulled cons in nightclubs on a daily basis. Loose pockets on the dance floor, easily blackmailed Johns with overeager libidos and the stupidity to hit on an underage girl like me. Sorority girls looking for coke and scoring baking soda instead. The possibilities were endless. But going just for fun? Just to drink and not to make money? That sounds like a waste of time.

“Did those people tell you everything?” Mrs. Silverman presses. “About growing older, and, ah, interactions with the opposite sex?”

“I got that talk. Pretty sure I know how it works.”

“You should know there’s always a condom involved. Always. I’ll have no STDs or pregnancies from you. I want you to have the best life you can now that you’re home.”

Violet rolls her eyes. Erica blushes. “I’ll be safe. Common sense, right?”

“If you want to get birth control, we’ll schedule a doctor’s appointment. Just tell me. Be open with me.”

This is what parents do. It feels weird. Moving around with Sal left me little time for solid friends, let alone boys or love. It was never an option when every day was spent plotting a con for tomorrow or running from yesterday’s. I’d pretended to be in love before, when it was part of a con. The emptiness bleeds through in my words.

“I doubt anybody will like me enough to do that sort of thing with me.”

Mrs. Silverman’s brow wrinkles. “Of course someone will like you, and you’ll like them. It’s just a matter of time. I want you to be properly prepared when it does arrive.”

It won’t arrive. I smile like it might. People like it when you’re stupidly optimistic. Makes them want to protect you.

“Thanks for dinner. And everything.”

“What have we said about thanking me?” She looks at me sternly.

I sigh. “Don’t do it, because families help each other without expecting gratitude.”

Her smile comes back. “It’s just what mothers do.”

That final sentence echoes in my head as I brush my teeth and then scrub my hair with the fancy shampoo and my body with the loofah that probably cost more than all the secondhand clothes I used to own. I don’t know what mothers do. My real mother, the one who’d birthed me, left me on the steps of a church. She was probably too young to have a kid. The priesthood turned me over to foster care, and Sal picked me up when I was five. I don’t know what
mother
really means. Sal loves me, I guess, but not so deeply, so desperately. I’ve seen movies and stuff, but that sense of longing hasn’t hit me until now. I’ve gotten a taste.

My bed is cold. The dolls leer down at me from the shelves.

The plan is simple. It’s not anything as complicated as a will, or having Mrs. Silverman allot me half of the estate. That would be too messy. I’d have to stick around for years to pull off that con, and possibly wait until she died.

I mince downstairs in my pajamas to get a glass of water. I stop on the last step and stare into the dark library. Mrs. Silverman inherited a very old painting. Sal knew, like all Vegas con men, that Mrs. Silverman created a safe somewhere in the house to hide it. A Japanese collector has offered a huge sum to whoever “acquires” the painting. A buyer meant we wouldn’t have to navigate the black market for a willing fence, and with art, that’s important. A near-priceless original is a viable theft only if you can sell it quickly. We have a buyer. All that’s left is for me to steal the thing.

It’s called
La Surprise
, an oil-on-wood painting done by Jean-Antoine Watteau in 1718. Sal said it’d been stolen during the French Revolution and then made its way down Mrs. Silverman’s family for years. Maybe her family was too scared to turn it in, or maybe they were waiting to get the maximum money for it. Whatever the case, when Mrs. Silverman inherited the painting, right before Erica was taken, she never documented it on tax papers or house revaluation forms. She wanted to keep its existence a secret.

She failed.

Every crook in Vegas knows Mrs. Silverman has the painting, but few know where she keeps it. Most speculate in a bank in Switzerland, or inside one of the heavily guarded vacation houses the Silvermans own. No one thought Mrs. Silverman would keep such a painting in her main house—but that was exactly why no one had found it. Sal, by a stroke of sheer luck, met the man who constructed a vault off the Silverman’s library. Sal bribed him for info. The library is fixed with four closed circuit cameras monitored by Mrs. Silverman’s security all the time. The vault’s encrypted with an eight-digit code comprised of letters and numbers. Only Mrs. Silverman knows the code. Mr. Silverman knows it, but his brain is too scrambled for any chance at reliable extraction. I only have one shot to try the library vault. If I hang around the vault, it’ll raise suspicions. Once is enough to blow my cover. I have to get the correct code beforehand and use it when I make the getaway. I haven’t actively started searching for the code. This code is something I’ll find by listening, not asking. Questions make people suspicious. I need to keep my mouth shut and ears open while I establish myself as the real Erica Silverman. Time is my ally. Just a little more time, and the people in Erica’s life will come to trust me, and with trust, the code will start to take shape.

The microwave clock spills over into midnight, and the marionette girl walks up the stairs to sleep in her puppet bed in the puppet house, filled with not-puppet people.

They are made of flesh and blood, and she is made of lies and wood.

The small space between my stomach and heart where I keep Violet chained is churning, blades mixing the concrete that used to be my impenetrable nerves. When did I get so soft? It’s just TV. Violet isn’t afraid of anything—not camera lenses, not the crowd of people in the house, not the impending performance she has to act out. Erica quivers uncertainly, corrupts Violet—a patch of rust on a suit of armor. Mrs. Silverman’s publicist flits around the couch, his slicked hair reflecting the light trees a few feet away. He waves a script in his hands.

“Just be natural. Katie won’t ask any unsettling questions. She’s usually good about that kind of thing. If she asks something you don’t like, I’ll jump in and stop her. Just give me a nod or a look.”

Mrs. Silverman talks with the producer and her lawyer in the kitchen over coffee. She looks just as uncomfortable as I am.

“Erica, are you listening?” Publicist snaps.

I already know what I have to do out there. Don’t coach the master, apprentice. Erica shoves Violet aside and smiles apologetically.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just really nervous. I’ve never been on TV before.”

Publicist’s tone softens. “Whatever you do, focus on the fact you’re glad to be back home, and how you’re coping. This isn’t live, so they can edit out any stumble.”

“Five minutes!” someone shouts.

Publicist gets twitchy and calls out, “Mrs. Silverman, are you ready?”

Mrs. Silverman sits on the couch beside me, grabbing my hand. “No one is ever really ready for television.”

Her makeup is caked on, unnaturally so. Mine is too, the concealer and powder making my muscles work twice as hard to show emotion. At least the interview is in the house. At least we can sit together. Publicist settles in an armchair just off-camera, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. The crew assumes positions behind lenses and lights and boom mics. Marie stands with Publicist, face creased with worry.

The interviewer, Katie, comes in. Her red suit matches her nails, her nods short and curt as she holds out a hand. Mrs. Silverman and I stand.

“Mrs. Silverman, Erica. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Katie Tims, and I’ll be interviewing you today. Thank you so much for agreeing to this.”

Her grip is smooth. Practiced. She settles in a chair across from us and asks over her shoulder,

“You’ve got my left side, Jerry?”

Jerry grunts from behind the camera. The producer shifts in his chair.

“Ready when you are, Mrs. Silverman.”

Mrs. Silverman looks to me. I nod. She gives a small
Ready
, and laces her fingers through mine. Katie clears her throat.

“On five.”

The lights blare, brightening a notch. The boom mic hovers like a foam flamingo. A crane. A
vulture
. Katie goes from a business frown to a concerned, devastated look in a millisecond.

“First of all, Erica, I just wanted to thank you for talking with us. There’s been a lot of controversy over your case.”

“That’s why we decided to tell the story . . .” Mrs. Silverman starts. “We want to get it out in the open, tell the truth, and go on with our lives.”

“You’ve been through so much.” Katie’s sympathetic tone is hard beneath it all—guiding. “How are you feeling, Erica?”

The swivel in the camera tripods yanks me into the spotlight. This isn’t a crowd I’m trying to blend in to or cause a scene to distract or pick which person’s pocket looks best. This is the entire nation, and all I’m supposed to do is be myself—no, Erica. Soulless black lenses are watching me, not human faces I can gauge reactions of. Just pretend. Pretend they’re people.

“I’m fine.” I swallow, and the nerves aren’t all faked. “I’m still confused. I guess that feeling will never go away.”

“How did you find out your parents weren’t your biological ones?”

I shift uneasily and shoot a look to Publicist. He makes a move to say something when I change my mind. Indecision, reluctance. I’m playing this pitch-perfect. I inhale.

“My old parents fought; one of them got hurt. They didn’t normally fight that hard, but . . .” I bite my lip. Mrs. Silverman puts her arm around my shoulders. “My old mom got injured, fell on some glass. We took her to the ER; there was a woman there. Social services. She thought it was domestic violence. They put me in foster care, and when they asked for my birth certificate. . . .”

I flinch. Mrs. Silverman squeezes my hand and answers for me.

“By then her old parents were gone. Running.”

“It must’ve been
devastating
for you. What happened from there?”

“The police took my DNA and matched it with Mom’s.” I incline my head to Mrs. Silverman. She looks shocked—this is the first time I’ve called her that. Gratitude and relief shine in her eyes.

“And how do you feel, Mrs. Silverman? How, if you’ll forgive me for asking, can you be so sure she’s your real daughter? After all, there was the Kara Smith fraud, and the Bethany Richmond fraud—”

“I know.” Mrs. Silverman’s arm tightens around me. “I can feel it in my heart—my baby girl is here, sitting beside me. DNA or no, I knew it was her the moment I saw her.”

“But didn’t you have those feelings about the previous Ericas?”

“No. Not so strongly. Not so purely. I know this is Erica. The world can doubt it, but to me, she is my beautiful, sweet, kind Erica, and she’s home with me. That’s all that matters.”

Me? Sweet? Kind? She’s not talking about Violet. She’s talking about my fake self. I tamp down what tastes like disappointment. Katie seems taken aback at Mrs. Silverman’s show of conviction, but she presses on.

“Erica, how do you feel about your old parents? I mean, when you found out, you must’ve just broken down. And the police haven’t been able to catch them.”

Clench my fists. Make a strangled noise in my throat. Mrs. Silverman pets my head like it’ll relax me.

“On one hand, I want them to get caught, to suffer, you know? But on the other, they raised me. Gave me a pretty okay life. I wish they hadn’t had to lie. I wish—”

Lies. This is a world, a girl, made of lies. Tears spring up that aren’t forced. They come naturally, frightfully easily.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, and wipe my eyes on my sleeves. Mrs. Silverman pulls my head under her chin. It’s just a little movement, but it makes the tears flow harder, and my hiccups resound. Why? Why am I crying?

Publicist clears his throat and waves a hand. “That’ll be enough, Katie. Let’s stop here.”

“The truth is always hard.” Katie’s voice is sympathetic, even after the cameras stop rolling.

This isn’t the truth. No truth could rival the prickling pain of these nesting thorns. They dig, pull back, embed deeper with every day I spend in this woman’s arms. It’s just a con. I’ve done hundreds of cons.

Why does this one hurt?

For once, Mrs. Silverman doesn’t insist on inching her way into my room. I watch the reporter vans leave through the curtains. I pull the new, stiff comforter over my head and cocoon my body in it. Break it in. Break it all. Break it into bite-size pieces, something easier to understand. I’d just been acting. The tears were a nice touch. Hadn’t planned them; it was Erica bleeding through too well. This Erica-only month tipped the scales. I need balance. I need Violet.

Violet pulls herself out of the cocoon and turns a lamp on. Light peeks into the dark room. She spots the ancient crayon drawing taped to the mirror—the one the real Erica drew thirteen years ago. The one Mrs. Silverman’s kept up there until now. Violet pulls it down. Rips it into tiny pieces. The fragments spread on the carpet like islands in a blue sea.

“Erica?” The knock on my door is hesitant. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I sweep the fragments under the bed with my foot. “I just need . . . some time alone.”

There’s a pause. A stop in the flow. An eerie silence devoid of calming waves. The building rhythm of the last month is frozen. Something rests against the door, a hand.

“I love you,” I try—a tiny ripple meant to soothe her.

“I love you, Erica. Forever.” A tsunami of fire, resolve.

And the ocean starts moving again.

The second day of school is easier.

Mrs. Silverman’s hug is still as fierce as ever. When she pulls away, she takes something from her pocket and presses it into my hand. It’s smooth, square. A touch phone, the fancy kind Sal would swipe from a tourist’s pocket.

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to give you this; it just arrived yesterday. If you feel like you need to come home, or if it gets to be too much, call me. I’ll pick you up,” she insists. “I know high school isn’t easy. Especially if you’ve never been to a school before. Try your best, but think of this as an emergency way out, if you need it.”

“Thank you. It’s amazing.” My jaw unhinges a little. I’d always wanted one of these. Getting one wasn’t an option, with Sal and me using money to pay rent or bribe the next Joe in the Erica scheme.

“And if you can, get some friends’ numbers.” She winks.

I laugh. “I’ll try. Easier said than done.”

She waves as she pulls out of the parking lot and honks her horn in a final farewell. People stare. It’s a little embarrassing. The reporters shout their questions from behind the police barricade.

“Erica, now that you’ve gone on TV, do you feel any different?”

“Over here, Erica! Is it true you don’t want to prosecute your fake parents if the police find them?”

I put my backpack under an acacia tree and take my sweater off, spreading it on the grass and lying on it. Tune out the voices. Tune out the stares from the kids on the lawn around me. I put my arm over my eyes as if trying to get some sleep. The February morning is hot, but a sweet wind blows in the gray sky.

“Erica, right?”

I lift my arm at the voice. A girl with bright red hair sits by me in the shade.

“I’m Merril. Nice to meet you.”

“Why so forward?” I raise an eyebrow.

“You don’t like it?” She tilts her head, and it’s then I notice her eyes—huge and brown, with thick lashes. Doe eyes. Pretty-girl eyes I’d undergone plastic surgery to get and still don’t really have.

“Just not used to it.” I roll over onto my belly, the grass tickling me through my shirt.

“You’re all over the news. You should definitely get used to it.” Merril picks at grass. “I saw your bit on the morning show with Katie Tims.”

“It sucked.” I sigh.

“You were so sad looking,” she murmurs. “Made me feel bad. About ignoring you on your first day.”

“It’s all right. I’m getting too much attention lately. Getting ignored is refreshing.”

She fiddles with her skirt. “I guess, I mean, my mom said we went to school together. When we were younger.”

“Did we? I can’t remember.”

“It’s okay.” Merril smiles. “I don’t really remember it myself, but Mom won’t shut up about how we used to play together when we were kids. Me, you, and Cassie. All I remember is one really blurry Halloween. Cass was a fairy. I was, like, in a puppy costume, and you were—”

“A ballerina,” I finish for her.

She looks startled, but nods. It was an educated guess; Erica took ballet at a very young age. From the picture I’d ripped up, it was clear she liked the color pink. A tutu would have been right up her alley.

“You
do
remember.” Merril’s face softens.

“Sort of. It’s a fuzzy haze. Starting in the middle of the year sucks. Not remembering the people you’re supposed to sucks even more.”

She points. “Cassie’s over there. She’s pretty popular now. Has a boyfriend in college. You might wanna say hi to her. Over in that corner”—she points at a bench—“are the scary-smart kids. The punks go behind the building to smoke in the mornings, so you won’t see them that much. Just don’t go in the second-floor bathrooms. It’s, like, their hideout or something. Mr. Harold is a jerk, gives way too much homework. And don’t say the word
fat
in Ms. Anderson’s class. She flips.”

“Right.” I smother a laugh.

“Nacho day is Wednesday—it’s the only lunch worth eating.”

“No good tacos?” I lament.

“I know this great place around the corner that has awesome tacos.” Her eyes light up. She whips out her cell phone. “Here, give me your number.”