Читать книгу Imposter - Jill Hathaway - Страница 10

here’s a girl waiting for Rollins at his locker. She’s curvy with black, choppy hair and a tattoo that runs the full length of her right arm. As we come near, I let my gaze trace over the tattoo. It’s full color and totally gorgeous, a depiction of Alice from Alice in Wonderland chasing the white rabbit. The girl’s eyes light up when she sees Rollins.

“Aw, hey.” Rollins gives the girl a hug. Jealousy prickles up my spine. He turns toward me. “Vee, this is Anna. She’s been training me at the radio station.”

I lift my face to hers and somehow manage a smile. The most distinctive feature of Anna’s face is her eyes, which are the most startling purple color with eyelashes that seem to go on for miles. I wonder if she’s wearing contacts because I’ve never seen eyes that color before. She’s wearing a lacy baby-doll dress over rainbow-striped tights and combat boots.

She is everything that I am not.

Suddenly I start to feel sick, remembering the song Rollins played last night. I’d kind of assumed he was thinking of me when he played it. But what if, the whole time Dave Grohl was singing, Rollins had been staring at this beautiful girl? The thought is so uncomfortable, I banish it from my mind. I am the one he loves. He told me as much that night he rescued me from the fire. True, that was six months ago, but still—could his feelings have changed that much?

“Hi, Vee,” Anna says, holding out her hand to shake mine. I pump perhaps too vigorously and then feel like an idiot.

“Hello,” I say. “Cool tattoo.”

Can she hear the envy in my voice?

She touches her arm gently. “Thanks. The artist is a good friend of mine. If you ever want to get a tat, let me know. I can get you a special deal.”

Rollins laughs. “I don’t think Vee is exactly a tattoo kind of girl.”

I scowl at him. “I like tattoos. Why would you think I’m not into them?” I turn to Anna. “I used to have pink hair, you know. I only recently dyed it back because . . . because I was bored with it.”

I don’t know why I said that. I guess it’s because I feel out of place somehow. Anna and Rollins just look like they belong together with their piercings and tattoos. And then there’s me . . . former preppy cheerleader turned narcoleptic slider.

Anna nods politely. “Well, Rollins, I’ll catch you tomorrow night if I don’t see you before then.” She disappears into the crowd.

I stuff my hands into my pockets so Rollins won’t see how my fingernails are digging into my palms. “She seems nice,” I say in a strained voice.

“Oh, yeah. She’s really cool. Knows her music, too.”

“Oh.” I don’t dare say anything else, in case the jealousy I’m feeling will come through in my words. How can I be feeling jealous? This is Rollins, my best friend. Of course he can have another friend. He should have other friends. I’m so ridiculous sometimes.

But then I wonder, as I watch him slam his locker shut and head toward first period, what if he likes her as more than a friend? What would I do then?

The five-minute bell rings, saving me from my thoughts. I rush to my locker and grab my books for English class. As I reach into my backpack to grab a pen, my fingers brush against an old bottle of caffeine pills I stashed away for emergencies. I let my hand linger for just a moment and then pull it away.

My head throbs from lack of sleep. As Mrs. Winger works her way up and down the aisles, picking up homework, I feel my eyes droop.

“Look alive, Sylvia,” Mrs. Winger says, stopping at my desk. “Do you have the assignment?”

I open my folder and pretend to look through the papers, even though I know I didn’t do the work. I’d planned to do my homework while I listened to Rollins’s show, but I ended up falling asleep instead. Perhaps I could bring up the car accident for sympathy points. But, no, then everyone would just think I’m weirder than they already do. Add sleepdriving to my narcolepsy and I’m a Grade-A Freak.

“Sorry, Mrs. Winger. I must have left it at home.”

She shakes her head as though she doesn’t believe me and moves on to Samantha, who looks even worse than I feel. Her hair, usually perfectly straightened, is swept back in a messy ponytail. She’s not wearing any makeup, and there are huge circles beneath her eyes. Remembering how she was drunkenly singing in the back of Scotch’s car, I wonder just how hungover she is today. But Sam doesn’t just look dehydrated. She looks regretful or something. Her demeanor unsettles me, reminds me of how I felt the morning after the homecoming dance last year. I wonder if something happened to her. I wouldn’t put it past Scotch to take advantage of an inebriated girl. If Rollins hadn’t burst in on us in the locker room, who knows what would have happened?

“How about you, Samantha? Did you finish the assignment?” Mrs. Winger hovers over Samantha, tapping her foot.

Samantha doesn’t even pretend to look through her things. She just glares at Mrs. Winger wordlessly until the teacher gets uncomfortable and moves on. Sam must sense my eyes on her because she then levels her gaze at me. I don’t look away.

She continues to give me her patented death stare while I scoot into the empty desk between us so I can talk to her without Mrs. Winger, who has moved to the back of the room, hearing our conversation.

“Hey, Sam,” I say, using her nickname for the first time in ages. It feels strange on my tongue. “Everything okay?”

Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you care?”

I hesitate. Samantha was so out of it last night. Unless Scotch told her about our encounter, which I’m thinking is highly unlikely, she probably has no idea that I saw her in Scotch’s car. If I explain, I’ll have to tell her about the car crash, which I really don’t want people finding out about. But if I don’t tell her, I’ll just look really nosy.

In the end, I choose nosiness over freakishness.

“Did you have a rough night?” I ask, hoping to sound sympathetic.

She narrows her eyes. “Why? What did you hear?”

I try to look innocent. “Nothing. You look kind of tired this morning, that’s all. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

My neighborly concern doesn’t seem to be winning Samantha over. She pulls out a notebook, flips to a clean page, and writes the date at the top. I realize that she’s ignoring me.

“Samantha, we don’t have to be enemies,” I say, thinking how false the words sound even as they come out of my mouth. Nothing has changed since I tried to save her life. I am still the girl who went out with the guy she had a crush on. She is still the girl who told everyone I was a slut. She is still the girl who watched Scotch drag me into the boys’ locker room and didn’t do a thing to help me. A few words aren’t going to change that. Still, I want to try. “I don’t hate you.”

Samantha makes a disgusted noise and sets down her pen deliberately. “Vee, I don’t give a shit if you hate me or not. You are, like, the least of my concerns this morning.”

Her outburst wasn’t exactly what I was going for, but it’s something. At least she’s admitting that there’s something going on with her.

“What is your biggest concern this morning?”

The look Samantha gives me could freeze Satan himself. “None of your effing business.” She picks up her pen again, and I know I’ve been defeated.

Mrs. Winger moves to the front of the classroom and starts to talk about the Puritans. Reluctantly, I return to my seat. The rest of the period crawls by. I keep sneaking peeks at Samantha, but she is either really immersed in Mrs. Winger’s lecture or completely determined to pay no attention to me whatsoever. At the end of the period, she stuffs her notebook and pen into her oversized purse and rockets out of the room, never once looking my way.

I sit in the back of the library with the tattered copy of Sports Illustrated lying open before me. Before I try to slide, I wait for the librarian to take attendance and then sit down with her own magazine.

I’ve gotten to the point where I’m almost always successful at triggering slides, except when I’m amped up on caffeine. Thank God I didn’t give in to the pills in my bag this morning. Otherwise I don’t think this would work.

I’m going to slide into Scotch and see if I can figure out exactly what went down last night. He’ll be in gym class. If I’m lucky, he’ll be gossiping with his jock friend again. If something did happen with Samantha, I’m sure he’ll be bragging about it to the whole school.

Once the librarian settles down with her copy of Crock-Pot Adventures or whatever the hell she’s reading, I run my fingers over the glossy pages of the magazine. I’ve opened it to an article about some NFL player who overcame great adversity—family problems, health problems, academic problems—to get where he is today. The page has been turned down, as if someone wanted to return to it for inspiration. I wonder if that person was Scotch.

I rest my head on my desk as the bookshelves of the library melt away, turning into basketball hoops and banners in our school’s colors. Just like the last time I slid into Scotch, the students are doing laps.

Scotch’s sneakered feet slap against the wooden floor. His breathing is more labored than it was the last time I was inside him. He’s probably feeling the ill effects of the alcohol from last night’s party. Serves him right.

“So how was it?” a voice to my right asks.

Randall Fritz.

Here comes the part where Scotch brags about his conquest to his friend. I brace myself for a detailed description of Scotch’s sexual prowess. And then a troubling thought occurs to me. There’s no way for me to verify whether Scotch is telling the truth. If he says he had sex with Samantha, it could be true or it could be a lie. If it is true, having sex with a practically unconscious girl makes Scotch a date rapist. If it’s a lie, that just makes him scum.

Before I can think about what I’ll do if Scotch does say he hooked up with Samantha, he throws a curveball.

“Oh, man. Last night was so freaky. So Samantha and I were driving out in the country, looking for a quiet place to have some privacy if you know what I mean . . . and who do you think we came across, just walking along the side of the road?”

Oh shit. Hold everything.

“Who?” Randall asks, panting for some juicy gossip.

“Vee Bell.”

“Damn,” Randall says. “She is hot. Especially since she dyed her hair back and doesn’t look like such a freak anymore. Tell me, did you get some of that?”

Scotch stops running for a second. “Do you even need to ask? Vee’s had the hots for me since freshman year. I went out with her last year, but then I had to cut her off when she went through that weird goth phase. But she was begging for it last night.”

Scotch stops speaking and starts grinding his teeth together. Without my realizing it, the rage brewing inside me has taken over. “Asshole,” I mutter.

Randall looks confused. “Uh, did you just call me an asshole?”

“Misogynistic douche bag.” I can’t help it. The words just fly out of Scotch’s mouth.

“Wait. Miss-oh-ginous . . . what?” Randall scratches his head.

“You want to know what really happened last night?” I ask. Since we’ve stopped running, more and more people are slowing down to listen to our conversation. The gym teacher has disappeared into his office.

Randall looks seriously freaked out now. “Um. Okay?”

I take a deep breath. “Last night, I dropped Samantha off so I could go home and watch some Golden Girls. That Betty White gets me hot, if you know what I mean.” I wink at Randall twice, and he turns bright red.

A couple of girls start to laugh.

“What did he just say?” asks a guy with a fauxhawk.

“I think he just said he whacks it to Golden Girls,” a girl in a pink Juicy Couture sweatshirt answers helpfully.

Considering my job done, I slide back into my own body. I lift my head from the desk and realize I’ve drooled a little bit on the copy of Sports Illustrated. I wipe the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. The librarian didn’t even notice me appear to fall asleep.