Identity Crisis

by Melissa Schorr

  Eva must have read my mind, because she brings up his name. “First Amos, now Cooper. Someone has to keep that girl’s claws out of Dansville’s entire male population.” She hops off my bed with an evil gleam in her eye, the same one that convinced Tori and me to cut class last spring and head into the city for a daytime Divergent marathon. The same one that got us busted when Tori’s mom found her ticket stub in her jacket pocket. Usually, I envy Eva’s bravado, something I totally lack. But not when it gets me grounded for a week.

  Eva settles into my desk and starts tapping away at my laptop, suddenly shouting, “Noelle! Oh. Em. Gee!” so loud Tori practically smears the lip gloss across her perfect upper lip.

  I rush over to the screen, freaked she’s discovered a virus about to fry my hard drive or some Net Nanny monitoring software my parents have secretly installed. But no. She’s just pulled up Annalise’s profile and is scrolling down through her friends, photos, favorite books, movies, TV shows, and music, where there’s just one artist listed: Brass Knuckles, with a link to their fan site. Well, duh. Anyone with half a brain can’t help but notice how Annalise cycles through a different Knucklie T-shirt every week, plasters their photos all over her notebook like she’s in middle school, and talks about them incessantly.

  Eva whips around and scolds me. “I can’t believe you’re still friends with her! You traitor!”

  Clearly, I’d missed the memo that I was supposed to defriend Annalise after the “Amos incident.” But I dreaded the defriending process. What if someone noticed and called you on it? Confrontation is not my thing. Besides, I don’t have over a thousand contacts like Eva, who friends every person she’s ever met—and even more she hasn’t. Or Tori, who’s practically an Internet celebrity, with a zillion tween followers from her weekly beauty pageant, InstaHotOrNot? When you have a measly 151 friends like me, every one counts.

  I mutter something about forgetting to get around to that, not sure when I’d even friended Annalise to begin with. At the beginning of freshman year, probably, when the three middle schools in Dansville merged into Dansville High. Those first few weeks, things were fluid and everyone was still super-friendly to everyone, until you looked around and suddenly cliques had hardened into place, just like the chocolate dip on a Dairy Queen ice cream cone that starts all gooey then an instant later turns into a shiny candy shell.

  Eva shoots me a look and says, “Well, I guess I can forgive you since it’s going to work to our advantage.” Tori drops the lip plumper and strolls over to the computer, curious what Eva is up to, and Eva turns to both of us and smirks mischievously. “Like I said, something needs to get her distracted from Cooper. Something like . . . an online romance!”

  Tori laughs cautiously, asking with who, and Eva replies, “With nobody! With someone we invent. The perfect guy. Someone cute. Someone she has so much in common with they are meant-to-be. Her soul mate. A Brass Knuckles fanboy! And, someone who lives far away, so they have to do the long distance thing.” I see the familiar determined look in her eye and realize she is dead serious. I secretly believe everybody, whether they know it or not, has a defining motto, a principle by which they live their lives. Eva’s would be: only boring people get bored. She’s the original Drama Queen, even if she has to occasionally create her own.

  “We can’t do that!” I object, thinking how wrong that would be. Not like I have much sympathy for Annalise, after what she did to Eva last year. And watching Cooper flirt with her every day for the last couple weeks feels like being stabbed in the gut, Caesar-style. I had this delusion that sharing math class with him this year might actually lead to something, but instead, I just had to sit and watch him slobbering over her day after day. Still, there were too many potential pitfalls in creating a bogus boyfriend. What if we got caught? We’d had umpteen assemblies about bullying and cyberbullying. I’m pretty sure concocting a fantasy boyfriend would qualify. I can’t remember exactly—wasn’t there some news story, some girl, some state law . . . ?

  But Tori and Eva don’t listen, of course. They begin discussing strategy over my head, ignoring me completely—something they do more and more lately. Why is it that sometimes, the loneliest place in the world is sitting right in between my two so-called best friends?

  “It’ll never work,” I say.

  “It will,” Eva insists. “But for this to be believable, it has to be someone real. We need someone who doesn’t already have a profile.”

  “Yeah, but, like who?” Tori wrinkles her nose in confusion, unable to imagine a world where someone could have no online presence.

  “There must be someone . . .” Eva doesn’t seem at all deterred, so I try another tactic, pointing out that Cooper isn’t my boyfriend and can date whomever he pleases. This only makes her sigh in frustration. “Noelle, you need to get over this shy thing and make a move already. Something he can’t ignore. Just go jump his bones. I mean, we’re not freshman, anymore.”

  I shake my head, looking away. Doesn’t she get it? I’ve thought about it a hundred times. Well, not jumping his bones. But telling Cooper how I feel. But it’s too much of a gamble. What if he shoots me down? What if he finds me repulsive? What if it turns our friendship into something all awkward? I just can’t take the risk.

  Tori eyes me critically. “Plus, you’re ten zillion times cuter than she is. I mean, boobs aside, you have to give her that.” But Tori is just being loyal. Annalise is the kind of girl who’s hard to miss. She has curves to die for and traffic-stopping, reddish curly hair. She gets noticed without even trying. My looks are cute enough to get by on. Straight brown hair, large brown eyes like a trusty basset hound. Nothing special.

  “Right.”

  Hearing the doubt in my voice, Tori insists it is true in the way she knows best. “Seriously. I mean, if I set up a pageant between you two, you’d totally win.”

  Reflexively, I make a face. “Don’t you even!”

  I don’t want any part of Tori’s pageant. Early in their friendship, she’d put herself and Eva in the same pageant, and Eva had received two fewer “likes.” After that little episode, they practically didn’t talk for a whole week. But we never mention that, either.

  Eva stands up and slings an arm around me, her voice softer this time. “We’re just going to chat with her. What’s the harm? Besides, we’re doing this for you, Noey. Because I just want you to be happy. Like me and Amos. With Annalise out of the way you totally have a chance with him. You guys could be so good together.”

  Her words warm me. I do want what Eva and Amos have. A real boyfriend, not just a hook up. Someone to hold hands with during basketball games. Send me flowers on Valentine’s Day. Maybe even some top-secret, late-night sexts. There is a connection there, I know it. But how much longer will Annalise stay immune to Cooper’s full court press?

  Eva sees me shrug and relent, and before I know what’s happened, she’s shouting, “Brainstorm! I’ve got the perfect guy!” She races over to my bed, snatches up her rhinestone-clad iPhone where she’d left it, and begins scrolling back through her photos until she finds what she’s looking for. “My second cousin, Declan. He lives way out in Worcester. He’s cute, I guess, but a total dork. He’s this homeschool freak, and his parents don’t allow him to do anything online. They’re like, off the grid. He does, like, chess and fencing and takes classes at the science museum. That’s it.”

  She holds the screen up for me and Tori to see, and I have to admit, Declan’s not heinous. He’s decently tall, with really intense dark hair and eyes and is wearing a retro Disney World T-shirt. Tori gives Declan’s picture her professional appraisal, then nods her approval. Eva smiles, grabbing the cord to sync her phone to my computer, and a minute later, the photo of the two of them sitting at a picnic table pops up on my screen.

  “Where were you?” Tori asks, squinting at the background.

  “Oh, our family reunion. At my grandma’s house. Apparently, I’ve got, like, twenty second cousins,” Eva says as she deftly cro
ps herself out of the image. I have to admit, I’m impressed; all those hours on Instagram have given her some wicked editrix skills. She is typing madly while we watch, Tori in amusement, and me, fascinated into paralysis. When she is done, she spins around and points at her handiwork, triumph shining in her eyes.

  “Voilá! Meet Annalise Bradley’s dream guy.”

  Chapter 3

  ANNALISE

  Why hasn’t my mom returned any of my texts?

  Especially today, when she knows I’m counting on her? Isn’t she the one always lecturing how she expects me to answer her messages promptly? The whole forty-minute bus ride home, I’m freaking out because I still haven’t heard back. Where is she? Usually, she takes the night shifts, so she can be around when I’m home from school, but maybe some last-minute emergency called her in to the hospital?

  Maeve had to talk me off a limb during lunch period, and has texted me twice from volleyball tryouts, asking if we got the tickets, and I still don’t know what to tell her. I burst into the house, breathless from jogging up the driveway, where I find my mom, totally alive and unscathed, sitting at the kitchen table, chatting merrily away on the phone. Unbelievable. As soon as she sees me, she holds up her finger and gives me the universal “one sec” sign, which always means fifteen minutes at least, so I grab an apple from the fridge and hover over her, frantically waggling my eyebrows at her, hoping she’ll cut her chat short.

  Quickly, though, I can tell it’s just not a call with a friend but somewhat serious; her end of the conversation mostly consists of “uh-huhs” and “okays” and jotting down random numbers on a scrap of paper.

  The second she hangs up, I explode, “Mom! What happened? Didn’t you get—”

  But she is already sighing and slumping in her chair and talking over me. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had. This woman in a honking Odyssey comes out of nowhere on Route 15. Totally took out the whole fender. Then we had to wait for the police to get there to file a report, then forty-five minutes for AAA to tow me a mile to the body shop. Two weeks, they need, can you believe it? So then I had to wait for Enterprise to drop off a rental. Which reeked of smoke, so I had to get another. Nightmare.” She runs her fingers through her short brown hair in aggravation.

  “Mom,” I say, a twinge of dread prickling down my spine. “You did get the tickets, right? The concert?”

  She gives me a pained look. “I know, I just saw all your texts, Lise. And your alert. I’m sorry, things were a little crazed. And my phone was dead.”

  “So that’s a . . . no?”

  Now my mom is giving me a death stare almost as bad as Eva’s, her eyes like laser beams. I’ve gone too far. “Did you hear what I just said? How about, ‘Are you okay, Mom? Were you hurt? I’m glad you survived a potentially fatal car crash without a scrape, Mom?’ Really, Annalise. No, I didn’t get the tickets. I just got in the house ten minutes ago. I’m sorry. Life happens.”

  Um. I am the Worst. Daughter. Ever. Because she is right. What if she’d been seriously injured? Or killed? Then what would happen? I know what: Elena and I would probably have to go off and live with Dad in North Carolina with his mistress-turned-new-wife Claire, or actually, just I would, since my sister’s escaped life in Dansville a.k.a. Dullsville and is now a freshman at UMass Amherst. So it would just be me. Which would be a nightmare. But none of that is my mom’s fault. She struggles mightily to keep things together, between being a single parent and her high-stress job as an X-ray tech. “Sorry, Mom. I just . . . I just . . .” I taper off, too upset to talk, my head reeling at this epic fail.

  She heads over to her laptop, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Look, let’s check online right now. I’m sure there’s still something available. How quickly could they sell out?”

  That quickly, Mom.

  Five minutes later, a quick online search and phone call proves what I already know—they are gone gone gone. All of them.

  “How can an arena that seats 10,000 people sell out in three hours?” My mom stubbornly argues with a customer service rep, while I click onto StubHub.com and find what I am looking for. “Mom, look! Front row tickets. Two of them!”

  She comes over and looks over my shoulder at the screen. “Five hundred dollars?” Her voice is dark like thunder. “Ab-so-lute-ly not.” I give her a pleading stare, although my babysitting stash won’t come close and I know we don’t have that kind of cash to spare. “Absolutely not!” she repeats, her voice rising an octave. “I’m sorry, that is just highway robbery. There’s got to be another way.”

  “Like what?” I try to choke back a sob. I could ask if Dad would cough up the dough, but I know if I bring up his name, her face will get that sour look like she’s just bitten into a lemon.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Maybe you can see the band the next time they have a show. Or we can drive to a different venue?”

  “That won’t work,” I shake my head, my chest tightening up. “This is their last stop. They just added it on. There is no other possible show . . .” I trail off, too upset to continue.

  My mom puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Oh sweetie. I know you love this band right now, but let’s get some perspective. Remember how much you used to like the Be Bop Brothers? And now you don’t even play them anymore.”

  “That’s not true!” I cry, breaking away. Actually, it was exactly true. Two years ago, I did have a total middle-school crush on Ramon, the guitarist for the Be Bop Brothers, and plastered the walls of my room with posters of his face. But this is different. For one thing, I’ve matured eons since then. Plus, Viggo Witts is an artist.

  “Just . . . forget it.” I grab my bag and rush up the stairs toward my room.

  “Oh, and your father called,” she yells up after me, using the term she now prefers for him. Your. Father.

  “Great,” I mutter, pulling my door open and slamming it shut behind me. Like I’d want to talk to him right now.

  My mom doesn’t get it. I’ve been dreaming of this moment forever. The chance to see Viggo Witts, live. In person. Breathe the same air. I couldn’t believe my luck when they added this extra stop in Boston. Now, I’ll never get to see him, let alone meet him. I collapse on my bed. I’d call Maeve, but she’s probably in the middle of tryouts by now, and I don’t want to blow her chances. Anyway, she’s not really a true Knucklie like me; she’s only tagging along because that’s the kind of BFF she is. No, there’s only one place where people will understand. I grab my laptop, click onto the Brass Knuckles fan page, and spill my sorrows onto the waiting wall.

  KnuckLise99: devastated in dansville. lost out on tix for the upcoming show. can anyone help?

  While I wait for a reply, I scroll back up and see all the other posts, mostly other Boston peeps bragging about what awesome tickets they scored, comparing seat locations and planning to meet up at intermission or find a way to get backstage access. I am consumed with jealousy. A bunch of the regulars—Juniper77, DaisyFlour84—ping me back “no, sorry, that’s too bad, wish I could help” but then suddenly, someone I don’t recognize—someone new—lobs in a comment.

  DecOlan: sorry, that sucks.

  DecOlan: i didn’t get tix either.

  DecOlan: so what happened?

  I hesitate for a second, then type a reply.

  KnuckLise99: my mom was supposed to get them.

  KnuckLise99: got in a fender bender instead.

  KnuckLise99: now it’s all sold out!

  DecOlan: that’s the worst. you can’t be mad at her

  DecOlan: but you can’t help but be pissed.

  KnuckLise99: exactly.

  DecOlan: man, they are the best. i would eat nails to see them play live.

  KnuckLise99: i know!!!! i’ve been #1 fan 4ever.

  DecOlan: me too.

  Weird he’s never shown up on the site before, if he’s such a big fan. Every other Knucklie in the universe has found their way here.

  DecOlan: what’s your fav song?

  Knu
ckLise99: besides Identity Crisis? probably Failing, Falling.

  DecOlan: mine too!

  KnuckLise99: really?

  DecOlan: yeah, genius right?

  KnuckLise99: it’s obviously his most meaningful work.

  DecOlan: exactly.

  KnuckLise99: the lyrics can be taken on so many different levels.

  DecOlan: yes!!! i was just going to say that.

  It was so cool to connect with another fan who got it, really got it. Most of the other posters on the fan site were girls who spent their time salivating over Viggo’s perfect abs or cheekbones, but to be honest, few were guys, well, unless they were the types of guys who also salivated over his perfect abs and cheekbones. None of them ever got into analyzing the lyrics like this. While we chat about the meaning behind the words, I click over to his full profile to check him out. His full name is Declan O’Keefe, and he lives way out in Worcester, about an hour and a half west of the city. He’s even posted a picture of himself (cute!) sitting alone on a picnic bench.

  Suddenly, a personal InstaMessage from Declan pops up on my screen. I click to accept.

  DecOlan: shhh. kinda sketch, but how about crashing the show without tix? :)

  KnuckLise99: i’m in. how?

  DecOlan: meet in the parking lot and listen from outside?

  KnuckLise99: brilliant! just one problem.

  DecOlan: ??

  KnuckLise99: it’s an enclosed arena.

  DecOlan: d'oh! Ok . . . bribe the ushers to let us in?

  KnuckLise99: wait wait! i know.

  KnuckLise99: say we’re covering it for the school paper and get press passes!!

  DecOlan: no can do :(

  KnuckLise99: ??

  DecOlan: i don’t go to skul.

  I realize his profile page didn’t list a school. What’s up with that? My Stranger Danger alert gets triggered. Who is this guy, anyway? He looks my age, but you never know . . .

  KnuckLise99: what are you, like, 50?