Imposter

by Antony John

  I’m a half-hour car ride from the Valley, but I’ve landed in a different galaxy.

  Eyes turn at my arrival. I hug the perimeter and head for an unpopulated corner. There’s a bathroom, so I slip inside and lock the door.

  Marble countertops and sinks. A mirror that covers an entire wall. Soothing music piped in through hidden speakers. A row of scented candles on a shelf. The only thing missing is a personal masseur.

  I take in my reflection. Hair, artfully disheveled. Dark blue slim-fit suit, courtesy of Ryder. I look less like me than ever before, but hey—it might be fun to impersonate a movie star.

  When I unlock the bathroom door, Ryder’s waiting for me.

  “Constipated?” He pauses a moment and erupts in laughter. “I’m just messing with you, Seth. You need a moment to calm the nerves. I get it. Everyone’ll get it. It’s natural.”

  He wraps an arm around me and leads me to the center of the room. “How’s the hotel?”

  “Amazing.”

  “Good. Brian complained that there’s a perfectly good, cheap motel on the interstate, but at the Beverly Wilshire they appreciate their guests’ privacy. You’re going to be grateful for that, soon enough. Talking of money”—he taps the shoulder of an older guy with wild hair and horn-rimmed glasses—“Seth, this is Curt Barrett. He’s our financier.”

  “Our leading man!” Curt takes my hand and pumps it up and down mechanically. “Talk about culture shock, eh?”

  “You could say that.”

  He gives an understanding nod. “Well, between you and me, I think you’re going to fit right in. Just be yourself. Have fun. If you can’t let your hair down, then what’s the point, you know?”

  I can’t tell if he expects an answer. “Is this your house?”

  “Yes. Funny things, these houses. All this glass for maximum transparency. But then we hire security teams, and put up ten-foot fences and trees so no one can see us. I think that’s Hollywood in a nutshell. Appear to show everything, but always control the view.” Ryder clears his throat, and Curt laughs. “Listen to me! One cocktail and I think I can nail an entire city with a single sentence. If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around to hear what I say after my second drink.”

  Curt takes a handful of nuts from a bowl on the table beside him—cashews and pistachios, by the look of them; no cheap peanuts here, thank you—but pauses before eating. “No,” he continues in a lower voice. “If I were you, I’d go talk to the redhead on the patio. The one who’s been eyeing you ever since you arrived.”

  I fight the urge to look straightaway. Channeling the new me, I shake his hand and give a casual salute as he raises his empty glass and moves on to the bar.

  I see her as soon as I turn around. She’s taller than the women around her. Her green dress shimmers in the light from the pool. Her dark red hair is pulled high in a sleek ponytail.

  As our eyes meet I freeze. She’s too beautiful to approach, like a painting secured behind several panes of glass. But what will she think of me if I don’t talk to her?

  In all my years of acting, I’ve never been so conscious of how I look when I move. My arms and legs feel awkward and stiff. She watches me the whole time, waiting, a faint smile teasing the corner of her mouth.

  “I’m Sabrina.” She offers her hand. In heels, she’s only a few inches shorter than me.

  We shake. “I’ve seen your movies,” I tell her.

  “All of them?”

  “Some. Saw Swan Song last week.”

  “Ugh.” She rolls her dark eyes. Manages to make even that look sexy.

  “You don’t like it? You won an award.”

  “That movie was only made to win awards. I thought it was self-indulgent and melodramatic.”

  “No sequel, then, huh?”

  She smiles fully at last. “Well, as my agent reminded me: Never say never.” She narrows her eyes and leans a little closer. “But seeing as how my character died at the end, it’d be kind of difficult, don’t you think?”

  My face flushes red. I wonder how bad it would look for me to run straight out of the party.

  “Hmm,” she murmurs, running her thumb across her lips. “You didn’t watch all of it, huh?”

  “No. I-I kind of thought it was, well . . . self-indulgent and melodramatic, I guess.” She seems surprised that I actually say this out loud. She’s not the only one. “Sorry.”

  “No,” she says quickly. “This is good. I like honesty. Which means we’re compatible, doesn’t it, Seth?”

  Sabrina Layton knows my name!

  “I didn’t think you’d know who I am,” I say.

  “Oh, I know you, all right.” Her voice is silky smooth, every word delivered with teasing certainty. It’s impossible not to be nervous beside her. Impossible not to want to impress her.

  “So tell me something about me,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.

  “Okay. Let’s see . . . you’re out of your element here, and you wish it felt better than it does. You hate not knowing who most of these people are. You haven’t got a drink even though everyone else has one. And my guess is, you won’t take a cocktail because you’re worried what people will think of you for it.” She tilts her head to the side. Her ponytail swings languidly in amber silhouette.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t choose those clothes.”

  Somehow, my heart beats even faster. “How do you know that?”

  “You’re too buttoned up.”

  She places her glass on the wall and draws closer to me. I hold my breath as she reaches up and undoes a second shirt button. As she adjusts the cloth, her finger slides underneath and brushes against my bare skin. Such a fleeting movement, but it’s electrifying.

  “Better?” I croak.

  “Better,” she agrees. “Sends a different message.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Two buttons undone says that although I get the lead role in local stage productions, I’m still just your normal laid-back high school senior.”

  “Undoing one extra button says all that?”

  “All depends which button.” She picks up her glass and downs most of the contents. “Tell me something, Seth Crane. Do you always go red so easily?”

  “Yes.” I take the glass from her and finish it off. “Now you tell me something, Sabrina Layton. Do you always drink water from a martini glass?”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Yes.”

  “Very clever.”

  “Aren’t I? Why don’t you get us two more?”

  Fighting the urge to run, I head back inside. One of the servers pours springwater into two clean martini glasses for me. He watches me closely, but doesn’t say a word. I think he might be jealous.

  And why wouldn’t he be? Sabrina Layton is talking to me, and wants to talk more. Everyone nearby seems to be watching me, as if breathing the same air as her makes me a celebrity too.

  I keep the glasses high as I weave through the guests. Air runs across my chest where Sabrina has unbuttoned my shirt. Suddenly it’s as though no one else at the party exists. Deep down I know it’s all an act, but it’s my fiction as much as hers. We’re writing this scene together.

  I stop before the patio doors.

  There’s another guy standing beside her. Tall, with muscular arms and shoulder-length hair that drapes across part of his face. It’s Kris Ellis, one-half of Hollywood’s favorite former teen couple. As Sabrina looks up and catches my eye, he wraps his arm around her.

  “Is that one spare?” A girl points at the glass in my left hand. She looks about sixteen. Black hair styled short in a pixie cut. Cute instead of beautiful.

  “I guess so,” I say, handing it to her.

  She clinks our glasses and we stare at the patio together. “Well, it looks like their separation didn’t last long.”r />
  “No.”

  She turns to face me. “I’m Annaleigh, by the way. Your star-crossed lover.”

  That gets my attention. I don’t know who I thought she was, but costar didn’t occur to me. Or maybe I’m not thinking at all. One conversation with Sabrina Layton and I’m starstruck.

  “I’m Seth,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Last time I checked, I didn’t have a lover.” I frown, realizing how weird that sounds. “In the movie,” I add, backpedaling. “Because, you know, she hadn’t been cast.”

  Annaleigh’s fighting a grin. “I’m a late addition.”

  I look at her properly. Notice her large blue eyes accented with a thin band of black eyeliner. The blush on her cheeks. Her small hands. I wonder if Ryder picked out her yellow dress the way he selected my clothes, and if she’s as freaked out about being here as I am.

  She raises a finger to her mouth, but stops herself before she bites the nail. “You’re tall,” she says, as if she’s just noticed the ten or so inches between us. “You must be, what . . . six-three?”

  “Six-two.”

  “Hmm. Guess I’m shrinking, then.” She tilts her head toward Sabrina and Kris. “You realize, if this carries on, ours could be the shortest careers in Hollywood history.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everyone knows they were first choice for the leads. If they get back together . . .” She chuckles. “Well, then I’d have cool stories about flying first class, and this crazy party in a ridiculous house. Yeah,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself, “that’d be an okay consolation prize, I guess.”

  We’re not the only people watching them. The eyes that followed me just moments ago are focused on Sabrina and Kris now.

  “That’s not why they’re here, though, is it?” I ask. “To get their roles back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kris runs his hand over Sabrina possessively. She doesn’t look pleased about it.

  “Sabrina’s beautiful,” says Annaleigh.

  The way she says it makes me feel guilty for looking outside when she’s standing right beside me. “So is Kris.”

  “Uh-uh. He’s attractive, not beautiful.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Attraction is superficial. And something tells me Kris Ellis is the most superficial person here.” She takes a sip from her glass, and grimaces. “This is water.”

  “Yeah. I’m only eighteen.”

  “So? I’m only seventeen.”

  “You want me to get you a cocktail?”

  “No, it’s probably best if I don’t get buzzed, cut from the movie, and arrested all in one night. Water’s fine. But I wouldn’t mind sitting down.”

  I follow her to an empty couch. Even though we’re attracting glances, no one approaches us to chat. People circulate in a constant wave of motion. Sitting on a couch must be too much of a risk, I guess—no one wants to be stuck talking to the same person for too long.

  Me, I’m happy to sit. Annaleigh is the least intimidating person here by far.

  She puffs out her cheeks and exhales slowly. “I’ve got to say, prom is going to be really anticlimactic after this.”

  “You don’t have waiters handing out cocktails at your prom, huh?”

  “Shocking, I know.” She raises her glass.

  “Unthinkable.” We clink again. “So where are you from?”

  “Arkansas.”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  “Good. I’m trying to blend in.”

  I hesitate. “My mother was from Arkansas. I liked her accent.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to . . .” She makes eye contact and snorts. “What am I saying? Of course I was being rude about Southern accents. I guess I’m self-conscious about it here.” With every word, a little more Arkansas creeps back in.

  “You sound more comfortable already.”

  “Hmm. Just don’t let me talk like this in front of that financier guy. If his first choice was Sabrina Layton, I can’t imagine he’ll be happy with my drawl.”

  “We’ll keep it between us, then.”

  She bumps my arm playfully. “Deal.”

  As people walk by, I catch glimpses of the patio. Kris still has his arm on Sabrina, but she’s leaning away from him like something’s wrong.

  “Have you seen Ryder?” I ask.

  “No. Why?”

  “Hold this.” I hand Annaleigh my glass and stand. I can’t see Ryder anywhere. “What about Curt?”

  Annaleigh stands too. Follows my eyes to the drama unfolding between Sabrina and Kris. “They’re not in the movie anymore. What are Ryder and Curt supposed to do?”

  I don’t have an answer for that. I just know there’s about to be a scene. Sure enough, Sabrina bats Kris’s hand away, and he grabs her arm, roughly this time.

  I slip through the patio doors. Sabrina’s expression has changed again—no longer indifferent or uncomfortable, but frightened. I can see it in the way she tries to pull away from Kris, desperate for space.

  “Everything okay?” I ask. I’m shooting for light and friendly, but it comes out loud and anxious.

  Kris spins around. Glares at me like I’ve just asked the stupidest question in the history of the world—which, in a way, I guess I have.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” he says.

  “Sure. I know. It’s just . . . Curt Barrett wants to speak to Sabrina, is all.”

  Kris narrows his eyes. He smells BS, but my face is frozen in a vacant nothing-to-see-here smile, and he can’t be sure. If he’s wrong, he might have to answer to that huge bald guy by the front door.

  One of Sabrina’s dress straps hangs off her shoulder. She pulls it back up like she feels naked. As she walks away, a tear runs down her cheek.

  Kris watches her go. “Do you think you’re my replacement, Seth? Is that what you think?”

  I don’t know if he’s talking about my role in the movie, or if this has something to do with Sabrina. I don’t want to pick a fight with him, but I’m not sure how to make peace either. Before I can speak, his eyes shift to something over my shoulder.

  He steps toward me so quickly I flinch. “Oh, you’re gonna take photos, are you?” he snaps.

  Behind me, the guy who served the drinks earlier is leaning against the patio doors, cell phone pointed toward us.

  An arm falls across my shoulders. A moment before, I thought Kris was going to punch the guy. Now his hand locks us together instead. He’s the same height as me. Similar build, too. So why do I feel small beside him?

  “Smile, Mr. Crane,” he mutters. “Cameras are a-poppin’.”

  I peer at Kris. Take in those famous deep-set eyes and the thin layer of stubble. It’s easy to imagine he’s spent his whole life being told he’s hot. And whatever was going on inside of him just a moment ago has already been locked away so deep there isn’t a trace of it on that pretty face.

  His isn’t just a winning smile. It’s victorious.

  The server continues to take pictures. I have no idea how many he’s taking, or why. All I know is that I couldn’t smile if my life depended on it.

  Kris raises his hand, bringing the impromptu session to an end. As the server shuffles away, Kris leans in close. He squeezes my shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh. “Welcome to Hollywood, Seth. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

  6

  THE HOTEL BED IS QUEEN-SIZED. IT’D probably be the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on, if only I could sleep. Instead my mind replays Kris’s thinly disguised threat like a movie trapped on an endless loop. I can still feel his arm clamped against me, recall the lightning-quick switch from seething hatred to open smile. Onstage, I try to be ready for anything, but no one told me a cocktail party is a stage too.


  It’s still dark outside when I get up. I pull out my laptop and check for messages. There’s only one, from Gant, reminding me that celebrity autographs go for a premium on eBay. Trust my brother to plan for my retirement before I’ve done a day of work.

  I fire back an email—Dad’s preferred mode of communication ever since the stroke—but I don’t send it. Detective Gant will notice if it arrives at four o’ clock in the morning, and Dad will have questions about why I’m up so early.

  I type Curt Barrett’s name into a search window. Turns out, he’s Executive Director of Project Development at Machinus Media Enterprises, specializing in everything from reality TV shows to cutting-edge investigative documentaries. Judging by his extensive credits, he’s definitely earned that fancy house.

  I type Sabrina’s name next. I tell myself it’s just a way of passing the time, but it draws me back to the world of the party and makes my heartbeat race like it did just a few hours ago.

  There are literally thousands of hits. Photographs, too, like a one-girl fashion parade. Hard to believe an eighteen-year-old’s life can be so exhaustively documented. I read her biography, even though I already know most of it: She was born in East L.A., and raised there until her parents used her income to buy a condo in Westwood. After their messy divorce and a tumultuous custody battle, she appealed for and was granted legal emancipation at the age of sixteen. She began dating Kris Ellis a month later, and the media assault, already in full swing, became an around-the-clock issue for her. She hasn’t spoken to either parent in two years.

  I return to the photographs. I’ve looked at pictures of celebrities before, on websites and in magazines, but this feels different. I’ve seen that teasing smile up close, heard that voice and watched those lips, and every word she spoke is branded on my memory. Being with her was like appearing on a Broadway stage and playing myself—confusing, sure, but exhilarating too. I wish it wasn’t a one-time-only performance.

  Impossible not to wonder what might have happened if Kris had stayed home. And why anyone would’ve invited him and Sabrina to the same party in the first place.