Imposter

by Antony John

  Amazing might not be the best choice of adjective, but Dad makes nothing of it. “I worked this afternoon. Tomorrow I’ll be f-full time.”

  “So what’s the job? Where’re you working?”

  “UC–Northridge.”

  The words just sit there. Mom was supposed to work at UC–Northridge. It’s why we moved out west. We always figured that Dad would get an accounting job there too, sooner or later, but after the stroke, all bets were off. Now we’ve come full circle.

  “Which department?” I ask.

  “A f-few of them. Wherever they . . . need me most.”

  It can’t be easy to manage accounts in several departments, so maybe he’s doing audits. Not his favorite work, but between his income and mine, we’ll be comfortable for the first time in years.

  “I’m so proud of you, Dad. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, son. Is G-Gant there?”

  I pass the phone to my brother. As usual, he’s sitting at the desk, studying photos of me and Annaleigh and Sabrina. He must already know Dad’s news from my response, but he bubbles with excitement when he hears it firsthand.

  A few seconds later, he turns to me. “Dad says I can stay here, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, as long as you move to the sofa.”

  Gant relays the information. “Seth’s even letting me have the bed!”

  My brother has a weird sense of humor.

  Ryder goes ahead with the rehearsal the next morning, even without Annaleigh. She says she doesn’t feel well, but we all know what the real problem is, and there isn’t a pill to fix it.

  Sabrina and I sit on opposite sides of the table and read aloud the latest version of Ryder’s script. She warns me—her best friend, Andrew—not to get too involved with Lana. She tells me that I’m being irrational. She wonders why I don’t trust her anymore. As Andrew, I assure her that she’s wrong about everything. As Seth, I want to add that it’s none of her business.

  After half an hour, Ryder offers us headcams.

  “No way,” says Sabrina. “Not now.”

  Startled, Ryder turns to me. “You’re going to be wearing them during filming,” he says.

  I don’t want to wear one either. I just want the rehearsal to end so I can check on Annaleigh. Then again, isn’t it time Ryder got to call the shots?

  Sabrina watches intently as I pull the strap over my head and adjust the camera.

  “Remember,” says Ryder, “you can improvise. I want you to improvise. Scenes like this are tough and emotional, I get that, but the script is only a starting point. Let the dialogue flow.”

  Sabrina reaches for the other headcam. It ought to be comical, watching Sabrina Layton strap a camera to her forehead, but she’s not smiling. Like adversaries choosing pistols at dawn, we use the cameras as weapons in our duel.

  “Only one headcam at a time, please,” says Ryder. “Seth, just put yours on the table facing Sabrina.”

  It would seem petulant to point out that I was wearing my camera first, so I do as I’m told. All the same, the message feels familiar: There’s only one real star here.

  “Do you love her?” asks Sabrina.

  “What?” I reply.

  “Lana. Seems to me, she’s hooked you good.”

  Earlier, Sabrina was reading the lines straight off the page. Now she’s ignoring the script altogether. She stares at me, bristling with impatience and frustration and maybe even anger.

  “I . . . yeah, she’s special.”

  “Special?” Sabrina makes the word sound trivial, childish.

  “I like her.”

  “Is that why you’re shutting me out?”

  “I’m not. Things are different now, that’s all.”

  “They sure are. You don’t want to hear a word I say. Don’t even want to look at me.”

  I return my focus to her camera, unaware that I was even looking away. “It’d help if you could just be normal for a change.”

  Sabrina flares her nostrils. “So I’m right—you are shutting me out.”

  “Not everything has to be about you.”

  “Why can’t you admit you hate me? Just say it!”

  Silence hangs between us. A minute ago, she came out firing, but she’s out of ammo now and vulnerable. I could go for the kill right here, but I’m not Andrew and Sabrina’s not my best friend and this is feeling way too real.

  “I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just feel like things would be easier if you weren’t around.”

  She doesn’t respond for several moments. Then she removes the headcam and places it gently on the table. “Good luck with that.” She stands, so that I’m staring up at her. “’Cause this is my story too, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  As if to prove her point, she lights a cigarette and blows a stream of smoke across the table. I wait for Ryder to intervene, to chasten her for being out of line, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s like he’s our audience, not a director at all, and he’s afraid to break the spell.

  Scripted reality has never felt more real.

  Gant’s waiting for me in my room. “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

  I don’t argue. I want to get away too.

  We leave the hotel, walking north on Rodeo. Then Beverly Drive. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Franklin Canyon.”

  “Ever heard of taxis?”

  “Ever heard of legs?” He glances over his shoulder. “So far, so good.”

  I look too. “What’s back there?”

  “Nothing,” he replies enigmatically. “That’s the point.”

  He knows the canyons well. Not just Franklin, but Dixie, Fryman, Coldwater, Laurel. They run like fingers—some slender, some stubby—from the Santa Monica mountains. He used to bring his camera here and photograph the landscape. Then he’d put the pictures on a website. It’s how he landed his first paid work.

  He hasn’t brought his camera today, though.

  We don’t have to go far into the park to feel apart from the city. One moment it’s spread below us, the next it’s disappearing. Gant stands on the threshold and surveys the gray concrete landscape under the steel-gray sky.

  “Your stalker’s taking the day off,” he says.

  I follow his gaze back down the path. It’s true—no one else is there. Which pretty much confirms what I already suspected: The stalker is more interested in Sabrina than me. What I still don’t understand is why Sabrina doesn’t seem to care.

  We take Hastain Trail, a wide dirt path that slices up the east side of the canyon. Scrub smothers the hills, and it’s quiet here. I feel like I could walk straight out the other end of the canyon, all the way home to Van Nuys, and discover that the past two weeks have been a dream.

  After a mile, we stop to take in the view. A sliver of downtown L.A. is visible again, and my heartbeat quickens. “Let’s keep going,” I say.

  Gant follows, but stops a short distance later. “It’s gone,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “The city. That’s what was freaking you out, right?” I expect him to laugh—it’s kind of ridiculous for me to get paranoid about an entire city—but he doesn’t. “Did you know that someone dies in these canyons almost every year?”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah,” he continues. “It’s usually dehydration, or heat exposure. They can be two hundred yards from a road, but it still takes hours for rescue teams to find the body. Sometimes days. Even with four million people in the city. Ten million people in L.A. County. Days.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But the cast of Whirlwind can’t stay out of the news for even one day.”

  I get the feeling this is why he’s brought me here—to talk about the movie. “Sabrina says it’s not really news, most of the time. When people can’t find anything to write about, they just ma
ke stuff up.”

  “But they’re not making it up, right? That’s the whole point. It’s like there’s this huge file of photographs and fresh-squeezed gossip just waiting for the right moment to come out. First, it was a picture of you and Sabrina on the beach. Then the story about Kris and Tamara. Then you and Sabrina, redux. Then you and Annaleigh making out on the kiss cam. Then bam! Suddenly her father is front-page news too.” He watches me from the corner of his eye. “It’s almost like someone has an agenda against all of you.”

  I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “It’s called making money. Selling stories and photographs to tabloids and magazines. How else do you think Kris and Tamara’s story got leaked?”

  It’s a throwaway remark, but Gant latches on to it. “Leaked? What do you know about it?”

  “At the Machinus party, Sabrina told me that Kris and Tamara were dating in secret. Later on, I told Maggie.”

  “Who’s Maggie?”

  “She was Ryder and Brian’s intern. They fired her when she leaked the story to some magazine.”

  “Does Kris know that?”

  “No. He thinks it was Sabrina.”

  Gant takes a water bottle from his backpack. “Let me get this straight. Kris thinks Sabrina ratted him out. Then he sees a picture of you two making out at the same party he was attending.” He takes a swig. “You can see why he might want to bring you all down, right?”

  “Kris is an actor, not a mafia kingpin.”

  “Do your research, Seth. He’s a rich, powerful actor with very loyal friends. An actor no one is talking about anymore, because they’re too busy talking about Seth Crane, the unknown guy who took his role and his ex-girlfriend.”

  “Then why wouldn’t Kris go after me? What’s Annaleigh done?”

  “She’s part of the movie too. Maybe he’s trying to shut the whole thing down. If the movie folds, you disappear along with it.” He hands me the bottle. “Look, there’s no way your stalker took that photo of you and Sabrina at the party, not with a cell phone. Kris could’ve done it, though. That’s probably why there are photos of you and Annaleigh and Sabrina, but none of him. It’d also explain why he didn’t sell the picture right away. He wanted to wait until it could do the most damage.”

  “If Kris took those photos of Sabrina and me kissing, I would’ve seen him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Gant finds a twig and sketches in the orange dirt: two stick figures, and a camera positioned high above us. “The downward angle of the photo was steep, like someone was shooting from above, right? I’m guessing whoever took it was camped out on a balcony. In the low light, you never would’ve seen him.”

  He’s all confidence and thinly disguised excitement. It may not be JFK and a rogue shooter and a grassy knoll, but Gant has a theory, and he’s clearly given it a lot of thought. He has no idea that his account is completely implausible.

  “There was no balcony.”

  He brushes the objection aside. “A second floor, then.”

  “The building was one story.”

  “Well, someone took it.” He flicks the twig away.

  This isn’t about solving a problem—it’s about holding someone responsible. Finding the cause of this bad luck, because bad luck has to have a cause. Gant looks like he did after Mom died, a preteen standing outside our father’s hospital room, teeth gritted and fists clenched at his sides, waiting for someone to explain why it was happening. He still doesn’t understand that bad stuff happens, and all you can do is pick yourself up and carry on.

  “Maybe it was a security camera,” I say. “Mounted to the ceiling.”

  He stares at me from under heavy brows. He thinks I’m trying to placate him, the little brother with the crazy theories. “You and Dad, you’re just the same.”

  “Yeah, we both have jobs.”

  “You don’t even know what he’s doing, do you?”

  “He’s doing accounting at UC–Northridge.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yeah. He said he’s working in a few different departments.”

  “Sure, as a custodian.” He gives the word time to sink in. “Not an accountant. He’ll be cleaning toilets and polishing the freakin’ sinks.”

  I could say that someone has to do it, and that Dad sounded more excited last night than he has in a year, but Gant has made his point. I don’t ask the important questions. I just want to see the silver lining. Want the future to look better than the past.

  Even if that means closing my eyes.

  26

  THE NEXT MORNING, I BUY ANNALEIGH a latte and a Danish pastry and take it to her room. She answers the door in faded cotton pj’s.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  She returns to the bed and sits cross-legged on the comforter, eyeing the pastry. “You know those fishing shows on TV? The ones where guys trash-talk about the size of their bass catch?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you would, if you lived in Arkansas. Anyway, they always hold the fish up like a trophy, and you see it trying to breathe, but it knows it’s dying. Right now, I feel like that fish.”

  I think she’s trying to be funny, but it’s hard to tell.

  “Look, I’m not going to flake out on you, okay?” she says suddenly. “So stop worrying.”

  “Who said anything about flaking out?”

  “Trust me, I get it. If I were you, I’d be worried too. But I won’t screw this up for you.”

  Maybe I ought to be touched that she cares. Instead, I’m annoyed that she thinks this conversation is about me. “I’m worried about you, Annaleigh. Not the movie.”

  “Oh. Well then,” she says, holding up the pastry, “you’re doing a good job of looking after me. Five more of these and I’ll be ready for anything. Including a new wardrobe.”

  “With all the running you’ve been doing, I don’t think you need to worry.”

  She’s about to take a bite when she notices the backpack slung over my shoulder. “What’s that for?”

  “There’s something we need to do. You should probably get dressed first.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I fold my arms. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  She opens her mouth, and closes it again. “Fine,” she says, heading for the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

  I press the key for the top floor. Annaleigh leans against the elevator wall and tugs at the strap of her running vest. It’s tight against her. Every curve, every muscle is visible.

  The doors open, but she doesn’t step out. It’s eerily quiet. “Are we allowed up here?” she asks.

  I press a finger to my lips and whisper, “Definitely not.”

  The door to the suite is very slightly ajar, just as planned. I nudge it open.

  “Okay,” she says. “Now I’m getting nervous.”

  “Nervous is good. This room costs twenty-five thousand dollars per night.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Never been more serious.”

  There’s a tray beside the door. A couple plates of largely untouched food. A jar of caviar. An empty bottle of champagne. Last night’s guests have been enjoying themselves.

  I close and lock the door behind us.

  “What are you doing, Seth?”

  “We don’t want to be interrupted. Trust me.”

  She’s been trying to play it cool, but now she blushes. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

  I beckon her farther inside.

  She follows me along the marble hallway. “Wait a minute. Is this the Pretty Woman suite?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She stares at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Los Angeles is spread out before us, an urban ocean stretching to the horizon.

  “You’re not about to drop three grand on the bed a
nd ask me to stick around for the week, like Julia Roberts, are you?” she asks.

  “No, I don’t have three grand. Plus, security will drag us off a long time before that. But don’t worry. I gave housekeeping fifty bucks to clean this room last.” I place my backpack on the floor and pull out a couple bottles. Hand one to Annaleigh and glance at my watch. “We’ve got another forty-five minutes to enjoy the view. And we’re going to do it in style.”

  “Gatorade? Seriously?”

  “It’s important to stay hydrated.”

  We clink plastic bottles. Annaleigh takes a swig, and continues to explore the suite, which is at least twice as large as my house. She runs her free hand along the columns that line the hallway, and stops beside double doors. “Forty-five minutes, right?”

  “More like forty-two.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  She opens the doors and wanders inside. I join her. It’s the largest bathroom I’ve ever seen. Dark marble floor. Fresh bouquets of flowers on either end of the deep tub. There’s even a TV built into the wall.

  “In Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts got a bath,” she says.

  I follow her eyes to the tub. “Yeah. Wait . . . no way!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s crazy.”

  “You said no one would interrupt us.”

  “Sure, but . . .”

  Her thumb drifts up to her mouth. She almost bites the nail, but stops herself. “So what if they do interrupt us? They kick us out, right? Maybe take photographs and sell the story to TMZ. Tell me how that’s any worse than all the other crap that’s been happening.”

  I want to say that it can always be worse, and that I carefully organized this episode inside the hotel so that we wouldn’t risk generating publicity outside. But that’s not really her point. She’s tired of paying for other people’s mistakes. Why shouldn’t she go crazy herself?

  “Forty minutes,” I tell her. “I’ll keep guard.”

  I check the corridor for signs of unwanted visitors. As I lock the door again my cell phone chimes. It’s a text from Sabrina: Need 2 meet. 3PM. Back of hotel.

  I almost delete the message, but I have things I want to say to Sabrina too, about photographs and a mysterious stalker. Things that are best discussed away from the rehearsal room.