Jill Hathaway - Imposter

I used to be like her, naive and wrapped up in the delusion that my reputation was everything, relying on my looks to garner attention. But then something happened my sophomore year that turned my perception of the popular kids on its head.

My best friend at the time, Samantha Phillips, and I both had a crush on the same guy: Scott Becker, the hottest football player in our class. I was the one he asked to Homecoming. And I said yes, even though I knew how much it would hurt Samantha. The night was going beautifully until I felt myself get woozy in the middle of the dance floor. Scott asked me if I wanted to sit down, and I nodded. By the time he pulled me down the steps to the boys’ locker room, I had completely passed out. When I awoke, I found my skirt around my waist and Rollins punching Scott in the face. I never found out exactly what Scott was doing while I was unconscious, but I have a good idea.

After that, my so-called friends ostracized me. Samantha passed around a rumor that I did it with Scott (nicknamed Scotch after he threw up all over the dance floor) in the locker room. None of the cheerleaders would talk to me, so I dropped out. I dyed my hair pink in some sort of defiant gesture. It made me feel more like I was rejecting everyone instead of the other way around.

Since then, I’ve dyed my hair back to the original shade that matches my sister’s. I’ve even started talking to some of the cheerleaders again. But it’s not the same. Once I saw behind the curtain, I couldn’t go back to thinking that crowd was worth my time. But Rollins has been by my side through it all. Just as he is now.

“Look, Vee! It’s that time again!” Rollins says, grabbing my arm in mock excitement.

“Oh, joy,” I say, my face twisting into a grimace.

The long line of students clamoring to buy prom tickets is kind of surprising, really. I thought more people would be scrambling for dates at the last minute. But the way the guys are digging out their wallets and making small talk with one another while they wait makes me think that people have been obsessing about this stupid dance for weeks, if not months.

Prom.

Bah.

I’m about to push past the table and head to my locker when a familiar voice makes me freeze.

Scotch Becker.

He leans over the table, winking at Samantha, my ex–best friend, who is presiding over the money box. “Hey, Sam. What are you doing tonight? Want to go to the bonfire with me?”

Samantha bats her eyelashes. “I might be persuaded.”

“Awesome. I’ll talk to you at lunch,” Scotch says, spinning away from the table and running smack into me. His breath stinks, like he ate an onion bagel for breakfast. Or maybe he just forgot to brush his teeth. It makes my stomach turn.

“Get off me, Vee,” he says, leering. “You had your chance.”

“Screw you,” I spit.

“You wish,” Scotch says.

I feel Rollins’s hand on the small of my back. He leans down and whispers in my ear. “Come on, Vee. Let’s go.”

As we walk away, Rollins mutters, “Asshole.”

omething strange happens during English class.

One minute, Mrs. Winger is at the board, scribbling the definition of motif onto the whiteboard, and the next . . . she isn’t.

There’s just nothing. It’s not like I fell asleep. I can still feel myself there, but somehow I’m not anymore. I’m floating in a big sea of black. There are muffled noises, and every now and then I can make out a word or two. Time seems to speed up or slow down. Minutes pass, or an hour. I don’t know. And then I’m back again, in the same chair, my notebook with a half-finished definition of motif written down in purple ink.

I look around me, wondering if anyone noticed anything odd. Across the room, Samantha is staring at me. Out of everyone, she would know if I was acting strangely. Before the Homecoming Debacle of Sophomore Year, we did everything together, from painting each other’s toenails with zebra stripes to dancing to Lady Gaga on my bed.

She hasn’t spoken to me since the fire during a party at her house last fall. Not even to thank me for trying to pull her out before she was consumed by the flames. Unable to drag her by myself, I fainted. Rollins was the one to save us both.

Now Samantha sits there staring at me, like she knows something weird happened but she can’t quite put her finger on it. She takes a lock of her red hair and wraps it around her index finger again and again. Finally, she shrugs and goes back to her notes.

I look down at my hands.

They’re shaking uncontrollably.

Attributing the whole incident to a lack of caffeine, I pick up my pen and finish copying down the notes on the board.

By third-period study hall, I am feeling positively drained. Caffeine withdrawal is no joke. My head is pounding, and I want a cup of coffee so badly I feel like every vein in my body is crying out.

I tuck myself into the back of the library and lay my head on the desk, shutting my eyes. I’m even able to get a few seconds of sweet rest before the librarian rudely awakens me, tapping her garish red fingernails on the desk.

“The library is not your bedroom,” she says. “You need to keep your head up. If you don’t have any work to do, find something to read.”

I bite my tongue before saying something that would probably land me in detention, and watch her walk back to the front desk. Sighing, I stand, wander over to the magazine rack, and grab a Sports Illustrated. I paint a fake smile on my face for the librarian’s benefit and head back to my desk.

For a few minutes, I turn the pages, not really seeing the pictures. The tiny black type swims in front of me. Before long, I feel my head bowing again. But this time I’m not falling asleep. This is different. I can feel something on the pages of the magazine, a force compelling me to give in. I am about to slide.

The walls of the gymnasium pop up around me. I’m slowly jogging beside Randall Fritz, a junior on the football team. Air pumps steadily in and out of my lungs. The person I’ve slid into opens his mouth: “Tonight is going to be insane.”

Scotch again.

Ugh, only he would leave an emotional imprint on a tattered copy of a sports magazine. I briefly wonder what I did to piss off the universe so much that I’m forced to encounter this Neanderthal twice in one day. Though when I’m inside him, it’s hard to smell his stink breath, so that’s something.

I’m guessing Scotch is talking to Randall about the bonfire I overheard him mention this morning, the one he asked Samantha to attend with him. It’s all anyone’s been discussing this week. Not that I’m going.

“I know, dude. I’m stoked.”

Before I can hear any more of their conversation, I am swiftly transported back into my own mind, which is kind of a relief. I don’t need to hear Scotch and Randall talking about how wasted they’re going to get tonight.

At lunchtime, I lie on the ground underneath the bleachers, waiting for Rollins. This is our private space, among the trash and the leaves that have blown under here since fall. It’s not much, but it’s better than sitting in the cafeteria that mysteriously always smells like cabbage, watching the jocks compete to see who can eat the most slices of greasy pepperoni pizza.

I hear footsteps and open one eye.

“I brought you something,” Rollins says. He holds out a Mountain Dew.

“You’re so evil,” I say.

After a long internal debate, I rationalize that Mountain Dew isn’t as bad as coffee, and I might just need the drink to get through the day. I unscrew the cap and take a long swig.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I say, “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “Thought you might need it, the way you looked this morning.”