Among the Impostors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

April 28—Student withdrawn, surly during entrance interviewer. Refuses to look interviewer directly in eye. Refuses to answer questions. Sullen behavior. Hostility believed connected to dissociation with parents. Can assume high risk of repeated attempts at running away. Treatment to commence immediately.

  April 29—Sullenness continues. Attempts at interaction rebuffed. Teachers report disinterest, hostility.

  The log continued in that vein, with an entry for every day Luke had been at Hendricks. There was repeated mention of therapy and treatment, and its success or failure. But Luke had had no entrance interview. He’d had no therapy, no treatment, no attention from the school officials at all. Obviously, this was another faked record.

  But who had faked it? And why?

  Thoroughly baffled, Luke turned the page. And there was the thick sheaf of his entrance papers.

  Mr. Talbot was listed in the second column of the sixteenth page, as an emergency contact.

  Luke grabbed the phone and started dialing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A woman’s sleepy voice answered.

  “Is Mr. Talbot there?” Luke asked. “I need Mr. Talbot.”

  “It’s three in the morning!” the woman hissed.

  “Please,” Luke begged. “It’s an emergency. I’m a friend of—” He barely managed to stop himself from saying, “Jen’s.” Mr. Talbot’s phone was probably bugged by the Population Police. Maybe the school’s phone was now, too. Luke didn’t know. But he tried again. “Mr. Talbot is a friend of my parents’.”

  There was only dead air in response. Then a man’s voice, just as sleepy as the woman’s.

  “Hello?”

  It was Mr. Talbot.

  Luke wanted to spill out everything, from his first confusing day at Hendricks, to Jason’s treachery, to the oddness of the file Luke still held on his lap. If only he could explain all his problems, surely Mr. Talbot could solve them all. But Luke had to choose his words carefully.

  “You told me to blend in,” he accused, hoping Mr. Talbot would remember. “I can’t. You have to come get me.” And four other boys, he added silently, as if Mr. Talbot were actually capable of telepathy. If only Luke could just say, flat out, “You need to get four more fake I.D.’s for these friends of mine. And you’ll need to protect their families, too.” But Luke couldn’t think of any code that would clue in Mr. Talbot, without clueing in the Population Police as well.

  “Now, now,” Mr. Talbot said calmly, sounding like an elderly uncle dispensing wisdom. “Surely school isn’t that bad. You need to give it more of a chance. Is this finals week or something?”

  Luke couldn’t tell whether Mr. Talbot really didn’t understand, or whether he was acting for the sake of the bug.

  “That’s not the problem!” Luke almost screamed. “It’s—it’s like a problem I had before.”

  “Yes, problems do seem to repeat themselves,” Mr. Talbot said, still sounding untroubled. “Usually, there’s some root cause. You need to attack that first.”

  Was Mr. Talbot speaking in code? Luke hoped so.

  “It’s all very well to say that,” he protested. “But the problems are multiplying. There are four others, now, I have to think about. And they can’t wait until the, um, root cause is fixed. This is an emergency. You have to help.”

  Luke was proud of himself. He couldn’t be any clearer than that, not using a potentially bugged phone. Surely Mr. Talbot would understand.

  “You children can be so melodramatic,” Mr. Talbot said irritably. Now he sounded like a man ripped from sleep at three in the morning for no good reason. “I have every confidence that you can deal with your problems by yourself. Now. Good night.”

  “Please!” Luke pleaded.

  But Mr. Talbot had hung up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Luke stared at the phone. He’d tried so hard. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t even know if he’d succeeded or not.

  No. He knew. He’d failed.

  He’d heard the careless tone in Mr. Talbot’s voice. Luke couldn’t fool himself into thinking it was all an act, with each word carrying double meaning. It was three in the morning. He’d awakened Mr. Talbot out of a dead sleep. How could he possibly have understood what Luke needed?

  Luke dropped the phone and put his face down on Ms. Hawkins’s desk. The file he’d been holding on his lap spilled onto the floor, dumping out papers filled with lies. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that anyone walking by would catch him where he wasn’t supposed to be. He was past caring about anything.

  Had Jen ever reached this point, planning the rally?

  Luke remembered the last time he’d seen her, the night she’d left for the capital. She’d seemed almost unearthly, as if she’d already passed out of the realm she shared with Luke. And she had. He was still in hiding, and she was about to risk her life to be free.

  It was simpler for you, Luke accused silently. You weren’t confused.

  It was hard having a dead hero for a best friend.

  I just can’t live up to you, Jen, he thought. I’m not you.

  He wasn’t Lee Grant, either. Slowly, just to get rid of them, he began picking up the faked papers and stuffing them back into the file. Moving like someone in a dream, he put the phone back on the desk and the file back in the filing cabinet, and shut the drawer. He walked out of the office and pulled the door closed behind him, making no effort whatsoever to hide the broken glass.

  He’d have to run away, that’s all there was to it. He could take the other four with him. They’d just have to take their chances. They could head to the city.

  Luke had lost all track of time, now. Before he woke the others and terrified them out of their wits, he decided, he’d peek outside and see how much time they had left before daylight.

  He went to the door they always used, the one that led to the woods and had once led to his garden. He tried to turn the knob, but his hand must have been weak with exhaustion. His fingers slipped right off. He gripped the knob again, and tried harder.

  The door was locked. Locked from the outside.

  Panicked, Luke ran to the front door, the one he’d come through with Mr. Talbot that first day.

  It was locked, too.

  What kind of a school kept its students locked in, at night?

  No school. Just prisons.

  Luke rushed around trying every door he could find, but it was hopeless. They were all locked. And none of them had glass panels for him to break.

  Finally he sank to the floor outside his history classroom.

  We’re trapped, he thought. Trapped like rats in a hole.

  Luke was not the least bit surprised when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He hardly dared look up. But it wasn’t Jason or someone from the Population Police standing over him. It was his history teacher, Mr. Dirk.

  “Back to bed, young man,” Mr. Dirk said. “I appreciate your dedication to history, but studying through the night is strictly prohibited. I’m afraid I’ll have to give you—”

  “I know, I know,” Luke said. “Two demerits.”

  Under Mr. Dirk’s stern gaze, Luke resignedly trudged back upstairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Luke was overcome by guilt when he woke up the next morning. How could he have slept away so many hours? He’d had to come back to his room because Mr. Dirk was watching. But he could have sneaked out later. Why hadn’t he at least warned the others?

  Some rational side of his mind argued: What good would a warning do when they couldn’t escape?

  Around him, his other roommates were complaining about the exams they faced that day. One or two of them had books open on their beds and were studying as they got dressed. It seemed unreal that anyone could care about exams at a time like this.

  Fearfully, Luke looked over at Jason’s bed. It was empty. The sheets were rumpled the same way they’d been last night. The pillow still held an indentation. But Jason was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’
s Scott?” Luke asked. His voice trembled despite his best efforts to sound casual.

  His question was met with blank stares.

  “Don’t know,” one boy finally mumbled, and went back to studying.

  At breakfast, Luke sat with Jason’s gang, but Jason was still missing. Luke peered around the table at the four boys Jason had betrayed: Antonio/Samuel, who had flashing dark eyes and a quick laugh; Denton/Travis, who knew hundreds of riddles; Sherman/Ryan, who talked with an accent Luke had never heard before; and Patrick/Tyrone, who had once claimed he got his fake I.D. by “the luck of the Irish.” Luke couldn’t have said he really knew any of them well. But it was agony to sit there watching them eat their Cream of Wheat, making jokes, totally unaware that they were doomed. Luke tried to lean over and whisper in Patrick’s ear, “You’re in danger—I need to tell you—” But Patrick only brushed him away with the words, “Quit it, lecker. You’re bugging me.” And then all the others stared at Luke. How many of them were on Jason’s side, working for the Population Police?

  Luke didn’t dare give his warning out loud.

  Breakfast time slipped away, with Luke’s panic only growing. His thoughts ran in circles. He should go hide, by himself, if he couldn’t save the others. But he couldn’t just abandon the others. He had to save them. But how?

  “If you’re not going to eat your breakfast, I will,” Patrick said when Luke’s was the only bowl that wasn’t empty.

  Silently, Luke passed over his food.

  “Hey, thanks,” Patrick said, with a huge grin. “You’re the greatest.”

  If only you knew . . ., Luke thought miserably.

  Just then, the dining hall door banged open.

  “Population Police!” a booming voice called out.

  Luke froze. He’d known this was coming, but it still didn’t seem possible. He tried to yell, “Run!” to Patrick and the others, but he opened his mouth and nothing came out. His legs were frozen, too. He could only sit and watch and listen in horror.

  A huge man stepped into the room. Medals covered his olive green uniform. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his fist.

  “I have a warrant here for the arrest of illegals who have compounded their crime by the use of falsified documents,” he announced.

  Luke closed his eyes, in agony. It was all over. He’d failed at everything. He hadn’t saved the others, and he hadn’t saved himself. He’d never done anything for the cause. He was going to die before he’d had a chance to accomplish a single thing.

  The police officer peered at the papers in his hand. He cleared his throat.

  “The sentence for those in violation of Population Law 3903 is death. The sentence for falsification of documents by an illegal citizen is death by torture, Government’s choice.”

  One of the autistic boys was crying. Luke could hear him across the room. Everyone else sat in deathly silence. Luke hoped that he’d at least have the chance to apologize to the other four. The police officer continued.

  “The first illegal I have come to arrest goes by the name of—”

  “Relax, Stan. I found him,” someone interrupted from behind.

  Luke recognized the voice. A second later, Mr. Talbot came into the room.

  And behind him, with his wrists in handcuffs and his ankles in leg-irons, was Jason.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The entire dining hall full of boys gasped.

  “He was hiding in the nurse’s office,” Mr. Talbot was saying. “And the other one’s over at the girls’ school. Come on. I don’t want to miss my golf game this afternoon.”

  “No!” Jason roared. Even in chains, he had a commanding presence. The police officer with the chestful of medals turned to look at him with something like respect. “I told you! I’m not an exnay. I can show you the exnays!”

  Jason stepped forward, chains rattling. Mr. Talbot reached out to grab his arm, but the officer stopped him.

  “Maybe he’s right,” the officer said. “I always love it when they betray each other. And I wouldn’t mind getting a bonus for exceeding my quota this month.”

  Mr. Talbot shrugged and looked at his watch, as if all that worried him was showing up late for his tee time.

  Jason hobbled slowly across the room, until he reached Luke’s table. Luke felt faint. Everyone around him seemed to be holding his breath, too.

  Jason pointed.

  “Him. Antonio Blanco is his real name, but he goes by Samuel Irving. Him. Denton Weathers, alias Travis Spencer. Him. Sherman Kymanski, alias Ryan Mann. Him. Patrick Kerrigan, alias Tyrone Janson.” Now Jason pointed to Luke. “And him. I don’t know his real name, but he’s pretending to be Lee Grant.” He turned back to the Population Police officer, beseechingly. “And I know there are more. Just give me some time—”

  Mr. Talbot started laughing. His guffaws rang out in the silent dining hall like bells after a funeral.

  “Lee Grant an imposter? Now, that’s a good one. I’ve known Lee since he was a baby. His whole family used to celebrate Christmas with mine, back when we lived in the city. Come to think of it, I’ve got one or two of those Christmas pictures in my wallet right now. Want to see them?” Mr. Talbot asked the police officer. He was already pulling the wallet out of his back pocket. “Hey, Lee, good to see you. Come look. Remember the year your parents made you wear the Santa Claus hat?”

  Somehow Luke managed to make his legs carry him over to Mr. Talbot. Once before, Mr. Talbot had lied and said that he was a close personal friend of Luke’s father’s cousin. That was dangerous enough. Mr. Talbot could never back up this lie.

  But the picture Mr. Talbot thrust at him was crystal clear. There was Mr. Talbot and three other adults, standing by a fireplace. Two boys that Luke recognized as Jen’s brothers—Mr. Talbot’s stepsons—sat on the hearth. And there, right between them, was Luke, in a flannel shirt and a Santa hat.

  Mr. Talbot even flashed the photo in front of Jason’s face.

  “But I know—” Jason fumed. “He—I mean, I’m sure of the others. I’m positive!”

  “Um-hmm,” Mr. Talbot said. “I bet you just made up those names, trying to save your own skin.”

  Suddenly Patrick/Tyrone spoke up.

  “He is, sir. My name is really Robert Jones.”

  “I’m Michael Rystert,” Sherman/Ryan added.

  The other two gave different names, too—Joel Westing and John Abbott. All four boys spoke in calm, even voices. Luke was stunned. What was going on? How could they possibly pull this off?

  “They’re lying! Look at their records!” Jason screamed.

  “Good idea,” Mr. Talbot said. “Is there a teacher or administrator who would be so kind—?”

  At a far table, Luke’s history teacher, Mr. Dirk, stood up.

  “Just give me a minute,” he said. Luke wondered how he could have ever found the man intimidating. He scurried out of the room like a mouse. In no time at all, he returned with four thick files. He handed them to the police officer. “Mind, please don’t let any of the boys see. We like to keep their records private—”

  But everyone was craning his neck, straining to see. Luke had the advantage because he was still standing next to Mr. Talbot. The police officer flipped quickly through the top file—Luke could see MICHAEL written again and again on each page. And in the next file, it was ROBERT, over and over and over.

  “They’re fake!” Jason howled.

  “Aw, who could have faked these? In the two minutes we were standing here?” the police officer said in disgust. He threw the files down on the table and jerked on Jason’s arm. “Come on. Out of here. Enough of your lies. We’d better go make that other pickup quick, or Mr. Talbot here will make me reimburse him for his lost greens time.”

  “But—but—” Jason sputtered, all the way out of the dining room.

  And then he, and Mr. Talbot, and the Population Police officer were gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was strange, after everything that had happene
d, that the boys could shuffle off to their classes as usual. The hall monitors watched as usual. Once the bell rang, the teachers cleared their throats as dryly as ever and began lecturing about integral numbers or laws of thermodynamics or long-dead poets.

  Luke took his history exam that afternoon, as scheduled. He was surprised that he could pencil in responses about Hercules and Achilles, Hannibal and Arthur, heroes of the distant past, even as his mind raced with questions about the present. He longed to ask Patrick/Tyrone—no, make that Robert now—for an explanation. Or any of the others. How had they known the right names to say? How had their records been changed? How was it that nobody in the entire dining room had stood up to challenge their stories? And—who had betrayed Jason?

  But each time he saw the other boys, they only groaned about their exams, complained about the school food, told stupid jokes. They acted like their names had always been Michael, Robert, Joel, and John.

  Nobody mentioned Jason.

  “Are we going to the woods tonight?” Luke whispered to Trey as they were leaving dinner. “To talk about—you know.”

  Trey looked at him as though Luke was speaking a foreign language.

  “Guess not, huh?” Luke said, unable to just let it go.

  Luke felt an arm on his shoulder just then.

  “I’d like a word with you, young man,” a voice said.

  With all his fears from breakfast-time rushing back, Luke had to force himself to turn around.

  Mr. Dirk, his history teacher, stood there, looking stern.

  “You are Lee Grant, are you not?” Mr. Dirk asked.

  The other boys stepped past him. Luke watched the doors of the lecture hall close before he could bring himself to nod.

  ’Then come with me,” Mr. Dirk said, and turned on his heel.

  Luke followed a few paces behind. So Mr. Dirk was going to tell him how badly he’d failed the history exam. So what? Luke remembered that, with Jason gone, there was no one to doctor his grades. But Luke had never cared about the grades.