It took a moment, one very long moment, but Oliver nodded. Giving me a small, tight smile, he vanished from the yard.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
I thought about faking a cold on Monday, so I could stay home sick. But then I thought about another day at home, alone, stuck inside my own head, with nobody but Ziggy to protect me if Xavier dropped by for a visit. So I dressed in the most comfortable outfit I could find, drove to school, and braced myself for the worst.
I arrived at my calculus classroom early , but I wasn’t the first one there. Simon was already in the room, iPod on, using his desk as a pillow. A jolt of nervous energy shot through me, and I paused in the doorway. Xavier wouldn’t disguise himself as Simon and fall asleep in a classroom. Would he?
I eased into the room. Simon opened one bleary eye and pulled one of his earbuds out.
“You’re here early,” I said, moving warily toward an empty desk.
“Nnngh,” he said. “Moron Morton failed me on the quiz last week. Wanted to ask about extra credit.” He sat up straight, blinking rapidly. “Which means I should probably be awake when he comes in.”
“Probably so,” I said with a cautious smile.
Simon stretched his arms over his head. Then looked sharply over at me. “Hey!” he said. “Where’d you go after your set?”
My heart sank. This was really Simon, which was great. But if he meant what I thought he meant, that was a lot less great. “My set?” I asked.
“Saturday night,” he said. “Duh. I was looking for you. Did you leave early?”
I dropped my backpack and sank into my seat. This day sucked. I hadn’t even been at school for ten minutes, and this day totally and completely sucked. “Yeah, I did,” I said. “Sorry. Wait, how did you even get in?”
“Friend of mine. You don’t know him. Scored me a fake ID so we could go.”
“Ah. And, um . . . was it just you and your friend?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I asked MaLinda, and she would’ve come, and Danny Q would’ve come with his boyfriend, too, except we only found out on Friday, and everyone already had plans.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Only one person I knew had been there. That was one more than I wanted, but it was still manageable.
“But don’t worry,” Simon continued. “I took video with my phone and put it all up on YouTube!”
I stared at him in horror. “No. No, no, no! Why would you do that? You can’t do that. You have to take it down.”
“Why?” he said. “You put on a good show! You deserve to be seen!”
“But I . . . Wait. A good show?”
“Really good!” he said, grinning. “I mean, like, horrible, but in this totally ironic way. The ultimate commentary on the state of the music industry today. Like in that one song? Where you had the part that just went ‘sparkle sparkle sparkle sparkle’ twenty times in a row? Effing hilarious.”
He held out a fist toward me, like he was trying to punch me but someone had hit the pause button right in the middle. I gave him a confused look, and he rolled his eyes. “Fist-bump, dude.”
“Ah,” I replied, and dutifully bumped fists with him. “Um. Well, thanks. Did your friend think it was hilarious, too?”
“Nah, I don’t think he really got it. I mean, whatever, he’s not a music person. He ditched me to chill at the bar for, like, the entire show. But it’s okay.” He leaned in, like he was about to tell me a secret. Like he’d done at the Bat Boy cast party, right before we’d kissed. “You and me, dude, we know what’s what.”
“Simon,” I said slowly, enunciating each syllable as I leaned away from him. “You have to take the videos down. Now.”
He blinked at me. “How? Bell’s about to ring.”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
A pause, and then he shrugged. “If you say so. It’s your music, after all. I have study hall third period, so I’ll do it then. But I’m just saying, leave it up and this could go viral. You could be famous.”
There were so many things wrong with that idea, I didn’t even know where to begin. But luckily, Naomi chose that moment to walk in, followed closely by Kara and Eli, two other seniors I didn’t know as well. Naomi strode right over to my desk, her smartphone in her hand.
“What the hell, McKenna?” she said, practically radiating fury.
I recoiled at her expression, which was one she usually reserved for actors who still didn’t know their lines by final dress rehearsal. “What? What’d I do?”
She thrust the phone at me, then crossed her arms and waited. A video was playing on the screen. A video of someone who looked an awful lot like me, playing an out-of-tune guitar and singing lyrics that I couldn’t make out.
“Oh,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”
“That’s you,” she said. “That’s you, playing at the South Star Bar, uploaded on Saturday night at exactly eleven forty-two p.m.”
I tried and failed to come up with an explanation that didn’t involve magic. But all my brain could cough up was, “That can’t be right. That’s not me.”
“Shut up, that’s totally you,” said Simon, leaning over Naomi’s shoulder. “That’s my vid. Isn’t it awesome?”
I hadn’t thought it possible for Naomi to look angrier, but apparently I’d been wrong. “Saturday at quarter to midnight, which, I might add, is around the same time you called and asked me if you could sleep over. Without telling me that after you ditched me and Willoughbee, you and your little dropout boy toy turned around and went back to New York to, I dunno, play a late show or whatever it was.”
“No, no, no!” I said quickly, holding my hands out defensively. Simon, finally sensing that he had no place in this conversation, backed slowly away.
“Then what happened?” said Naomi, snatching her phone back and pointing to the screen. “Explain.”
That’s not me, I wanted to shout. Why can’t anyone see that’s not me?
But I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t tell her the truth. Unfortunately, that didn’t leave me with a lot of plausible options. None, in fact, except the story she’d already come up with on her own.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted—”
“You wanted me not to be there,” she finished darkly. “You know, you could’ve just said so.”
“Said so . . . ?”
“Yeah. You know, ‘Hey, my bestest gal pal, thanks for wasting your Saturday night on me, not to mention all the gas money it took to get to New York, but I’d rather hang out with Simon Lee and my stupid camera-happy sophomore boyfriend tonight.’ See what I mean? Like, if you’re gonna be a terrible friend, at least don’t lie to my face about it.”
Everyone was watching us, mouths open and eyes wide. I wanted to crawl under my desk and die.
“I thought you were gonna turn out cool, McKenna,” said Naomi. “But you seriously need to grow the hell up.”
I knew my face was beet-red, and I could feel my heart pounding. But I kept my voice steady and sweet as I said, “Grow up? I’m not the one starting fights in the middle of school.”
Her expression grew stormy, and I knew I was in for it—but then the door swung open and Mr. Morton, our calc teacher, came in. He didn’t even seem to notice the tension in the air as he walked to his desk. Naomi stared at me, clearly torn between speaking her mind and avoiding detention. After a moment, she just shook her head and stalked away to sit on the other side of the room.
“Late show?” I heard Simon murmur. Nobody answered him.
True to his word, Simon took the videos down during third period, but the damage had already been done. People looked at me funny in the hallway. Five different students, three of whose names I didn’t even know, whispered “Sparkle sparkle!” as they passed me. And Naomi didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.
Since that night was the first meeting of the Sweeney Todd tech crew, Miss Delisio had her hands full with set-building preparations, whi
ch left the cast in George’s hands. As I came in, I saw our esteemed director near the back of the stage, gesturing expansively at a ragtag assortment of students while Naomi took notes. The cast remained in the audience, looking on with vague curiosity, but there wasn’t a single person among them I wanted to talk to.
“Margo!” called a voice, and I whipped around, an image of a blade flashing in my mind. Sure enough, Vicky was heading toward me. My heart started pounding, but I willed it to calm down. This was Vicky, not Xavier. Probably.
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” she said breathlessly, as soon as she was close enough to speak quietly. “I saw Simon’s video last night. I saw it, and I thought, that explains why she was so upset on Saturday. Not that you wouldn’t’ve been upset anyway, but that wasn’t really you, was it?”
The one person who could tell me apart from Xavier’s version of me, and it was Vicky Freaking Willoughbee. Awesome.
I nodded.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “But who was it? Oliver said someone like him. Another genie?”
Her eyes were wide, and everything about her radiated nervous energy. Okay, not Xavier. I sighed, letting my shoulders slump. “Another genie,” I said. “He made himself look like me. That was the second time I saw him. The first time, he looked like you, and he stabbed me in the leg with a switchblade. He wants Oliver’s ring.”
Vicky gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “He was me? But how did . . . oh no.” Her face went pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There was this guy,” she said, and swallowed hard. “Um. This guy, a couple weeks ago at the bowling alley, he made some comment about Oliver’s ring.” She paused, and I tried and failed to picture her bowling. “I was wearing it, so I didn’t think it was weird, but he asked if he could see it, and then he got really mad when I said no.”
“That sounds like him,” I said. “What did he look like? Anyone we know?”
“I didn’t recognize him. He introduced himself, but I don’t remember the name he said.”
“Xavier?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
An intense feeling of claustrophobia crawled up my spine. He’d used another name: yet another reminder that he could be anyone. He could be Miss Delisio, or Naomi, or George, or . . .
“How’d he know to look for me?” Vicky asked softly, interrupting my fit of paranoia. But I didn’t have an answer for her.
And I didn’t have time to think of one, because that was when George walked in and beckoned me over to the piano. Mouth suddenly dry, I left Vicky behind and slunk toward him. I could feel the eyes of at least half the cast watching me, but hey, at least they’d be witnesses if he turned out to be Xavier in disguise.
“Different songs, huh?” he said, eyeing me as he pulled his Sweeney Todd score out of his bag and set it on the piano.
“Um,” I said stupidly. As many times as I’d imagined this conversation over the past two days, I’d spent all my energy envisioning what George might say to me. Not once had I thought about what I’d say back. What had happened to the Margo who always had a plan? And who was this idiot standing in her place?
He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Not what I had in mind when I asked you to open.” His voice was as calm and even as ever, but underneath it was the very thing I’d been searching for in my mom’s reaction.
Disappointment.
“I know. I’m sorry. I was terrible. I . . . I don’t even . . .”
“It was my fault,” came a quiet, steady voice from beside me. My heart leaped into my throat. Oliver was there, a flash drive in one hand and a contrite look on his face. “I shouldn’t have let her get up on that stage,” he said.
“What do you,” I began, but he gave me a look that told me plainly to shut up and let him talk.
“That so?” said George, settling himself on the piano bench.
“Yeah,” said Oliver. “See, we were on our way to the South Star, and Margo got this horrible migraine. I had some pain medication in my car, so I gave her some. I think she must have been allergic or something. Her speech was slurring, and she kept saying her vision was funny, and I asked if she still wanted to perform, and she said she was perfectly fine, and . . . I’m so sorry, I really am. I should have known better.”
George looked dubiously back and forth between Oliver and me. I kept my mouth shut. The story sounded far-fetched at best, but it was a hell of a lot better than saying a genie had stolen my identity and taken my place.
“Pain meds?” said George.
“Yes,” said Oliver, his tone as meek as his expression. He was a damn good liar. But of course, I knew that already.
As much as I hated giving Oliver any credit right now, I played along: “I don’t even remember half of what I played that night. But the ones I do remember . . . god, I’m so embarrassed. I wrote that stuff when I was like twelve. I’m so sorry you guys had to hear any of that.”
George was starting to look mollified—even amused. Finally, he just shook his head. “No worries, I guess. Just retire those songs, okay?”
“Consider them retired, shredded, burned at the stake, and shot with silver bullets. I’ll do better next time. I promise.”
“Next time?” he said mildly, turning back to the piano.
Of course. This gig had been a trial, and in his eyes, I’d failed spectacularly. Panic surged through me, and I grabbed his leather-clad forearm.
“Give me one more chance,” I said. “I can do better. You know I can. I’m just really new at this. Please.”
George looked at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. There was sympathy in the smile he gave me, which just made things worse.
“I have to start rehearsal,” he said, and shrugged my hand off.
I left George and the piano behind, feeling oddly numb. But when I reached my seat in the third row and started to rearrange my stuff, I realized that Oliver had followed me. He stood a few feet away, not quite looking at me, obviously waiting for me to speak first.
“What?” I said.
He looked up, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re welcome,” he said pointedly.
Simon, a few seats over from mine, looked curiously over at us. So did a few other people. I decided not to care. “For what?” I said coolly. “You got me into this mess in the first place.”
Which was not only mean, but also mostly untrue. Still, it felt good to say. Well, a little bit good. Also a little bit horrible. But I didn’t apologize.
“What are you even doing here, anyway?” I went on. “I thought you dropped out.”
“I did,” he said evenly, and held up the flash drive. “I just stopped by to give Miss Delisio the pictures for her slide show. And to find you. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice. “As Oliver, or as you?”
“Both,” he replied, clutching the flash drive harder. “I know you’re angry at me. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. But I do think you deserve an explanation.”
“I deserve one, or you deserve the chance to give me one?”
He hesitated, then said again, “Both.”
I moved my backpack to the floor and sat down, ignoring him. I was being childish, and we both knew it, but I didn’t know what else to do. There was no script for what to do when you find out that the boy you like isn’t real. Especially when the boy in question, real or not, was standing over you, his pretty green eyes silently pleading with you to forgive him.
After a moment, he sighed. “Okay. I’m going to give this to Miss Delisio, and I’m going to leave you to your rehearsal. If you want to talk, call me when you’re finished. If not . . .” He shrugged expressively, but didn’t finish.
I gave him a single, quick nod to let him know that I’d think about it. But as he walked away, I already knew I wanted to hear what he had to say.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Only when rehearsal ended, two hours later, did I let
myself think about Oliver again. Spending most of the rehearsal as Toby had done good things for me. It was the first time since Saturday that my head felt clear. So I went immediately to Tom’s Diner, where I snagged the same back-corner booth, the one under the framed fajita picture, and touched the ring. Almost right away, Oliver appeared inside the door—just like the first time I’d called him here, not even two weeks ago.
As he slid out of his coat and into the seat opposite mine, a waitress plunked two menus down on the table and asked if we wanted anything to drink.
“Just a hot chocolate,” I said. “No whipped cream.”
“Belgian waffles,” said Oliver. “Everything on them. Oh, and lemon tea, if you have it.”
“Tea,” I said dryly as the waitress left. “How very healthy of you.”
He nodded gravely. “You may have noticed that I am a very health-conscious individual.”
Pointedly ignoring his attempt at wit, I took a breath and said what I’d come here to say: “You wanted to talk. So talk. And don’t you dare think about turning this place into a French café again.”
He frowned at me. “Margo, are you okay?”
“Of course I’m not okay,” I snapped. “You lied to me.”
Oliver’s eyes flicked downward, just for a second, and I could tell I’d caught him off guard. “I didn’t lie, Margo. Not to you, at least not the way you think. You never gave me a chance to explain myself.” It wasn’t an accusation. Just a fact. “You asked if I programmed myself to like you. I did, and that’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth.”
This sounded like the beginning of a speech. I wondered how many times he’d practiced what he would say to me tonight. Something inside me softened a little, and I nodded for him to continue.
“The thing is,” he said, “I have to do that. Every time I create a new identity, I’m creating a brand-new version of myself. I add things here and there, depending on who my master is. Like, say my ring gets picked up by some German expat living in Japan. I’ll probably want to make myself fluent in German and Japanese, you know? But that’s just little stuff. The big stuff doesn’t change. It’s always me. Different-looking versions of the same person.”
The Art of Wishing Page 16
