Imposter

  We park near the Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s a landmark, and a large crowd has gathered before the giant pagoda. Tourists stroll along the Hollywood Walk of Fame, snapping pictures of actors’ and actresses’ hand- and footprints.

  Ryder has saved the interview questions for last. With the theater as backdrop, he tosses softball questions that give us room to say whatever is on our minds.

  Annaleigh waves her thumb at the theater and says she can’t believe her good fortune in being here, part of a real movie. I talk about how unique the project is, and the challenge of making it work. It all feels so wooden, though. If Ryder really wants me to open up, he should let Annaleigh do the interviewing.

  He’s halfway through a question when his phone rings. He raises a hand apologetically and turns away to speak.

  Seeing him leave, a group of girls shuffles toward us. “Are you in that movie with Sabrina Layton?” one of them asks me.

  Annaleigh flashes me a grin, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We both are.”

  “Can we have your autographs?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  It feels strange to give autographs. I don’t get to take it too seriously, though, as Annaleigh keeps nudging my arm. She does it really gently so that no one sees, but my signature changes every time.

  When the first group leaves, another takes its place. Annaleigh surveys the growing crowd with disbelief. “I guess this is what you were talking about at the party the other night, huh? How it feels to be noticed. To matter.”

  This isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but we’re definitely getting noticed.

  “Do you think we’ll get to put our footprints here too?” she whispers, pointing to a concrete slab imprinted with two hands, two feet, and Marilyn Monroe’s autograph.

  “Sure,” I say. “If we screw up this movie, I could definitely see Brian sticking our feet in concrete and tossing us into Long Beach Harbor.”

  Annaleigh frowns. “That’s not the way I want to be remembered. Plus,” she adds, tapping another slab with the toe of her shoe—this time, the tiny hands and feet of Shirley Temple—“teen stars are supposed to mess up, right? It’s part of the stereotype.”

  “Seth!” Ryder holds out his phone. “Brian wants a word.”

  I take the phone from Ryder and walk several yards before speaking. Rita Hayworth’s prints are on a slab to my right, which reminds me of Sabrina: They go to bed with Gilda. They wake up with me.

  “Hi Brian,” I say.

  “I’m sending a picture through,” he replies.

  A photograph appears on the phone—Sabrina and me again, but we’re not on the beach anymore. This time we’re in the darkened surroundings of Machinus Media Enterprises. Her arms are draped over my shoulders. Our lips are pressed tight together.

  If I’m getting autograph requests now, wait till everyone gets a load of this.

  “First you go and tell Maggie about Kris and Tamara,” says Brian. “Now you’re making out with Kris’s ex-girlfriend. I have to tell you, Seth, you’re not making life easy for yourself.”

  That might be true, but as I stare at the photo, Kris is the last thing on my mind. What I’m trying to work out is why Sabrina and I let it happen in the first place. We both knew the curly-haired guy with the cell phone was trying to film us. We knew how it would look if he succeeded in getting an intimate photograph. But we kissed anyway.

  “It won’t happen again,” I say, like that’s going to make any difference.

  Brian sighs. “Just be smart, Seth. Actors are big business. Don’t make yourself a target.”

  He hangs up, and I stand there, staring at Rita Hayworth’s prints.

  “Over here, Seth.” Ryder waves from the most crowded spot on the sidewalk, where Annaleigh is waiting for me, eyes wide, smile wider.

  I take a deep breath and join her. The photographer wants to snap away, but people are getting in the way of the picture. At the junket, Sabrina suggested that this might happen. Encouraged it, even. It’s not random passersby that have me tense, though—it’s Sabrina herself.

  “Closer,” the photographer says, pressing his palms together.

  This time, a whole group of guys steps in front of the camera. They look like they’re college students, a frat on a field trip.

  “What’s the scene?” one of them asks. He’s large and red-cheeked. “You want us to be part of this movie, right?”

  His friends bump fists.

  “Are you two going to make out?” another asks Annaleigh. “You should totally make out.”

  A third steps forward and kneels before her like he’s about to propose. “If you need someone to make out with you on camera,” his says, words slurred, “I’m here for you.”

  Standing, he reaches for her hand. As Annaleigh shrinks back I push the guy away. Off-balance and probably drunk, he topples over. A moment later, he bounces back up, arms outstretched like he’s ready to fight.

  “That’s a wrap,” yells Ryder, stepping between us. He turns to the guy challenging me. “You were awesome,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. He gives appreciative nods to the others too. “All of you were great. Thanks for being part of this.”

  They all wear matching confused expressions, like they’re not sure if he’s serious, or just trying to avoid a bad scene. Ryder points to his crewmen, still shooting from nearby. Then, to reassure the students further, he produces a clipboard and asks each of them to sign a waiver. He’s doing anything, saying anything, in a desperate attempt to defuse the situation.

  As the energized crowd closes in once more, Annaleigh and I hold each other, like anchors restraining rudderless boats. There’s no orderly line for autographs anymore and no respect for our personal space. I look beyond the crowd, hoping for a way to escape.

  Instead I see other passersby stopping, drawn by the crowd and the noise. Some of them clearly recognize Annaleigh and me, while others behave as if they’re trying to remember where they’ve seen us before. Plenty more turn quickly away like we’re a nuisance. Or just invisible.

  Maybe we are a nuisance, but we’re not invisible anymore.

  Not by a long shot.

  21

  AN HOUR LATER, I ARRIVE BACK in my room. Gant’s working on my laptop. Dad is on his too, trawling through job listings while he listens to a piece of soothing classical music. When he realizes that I’m watching, he hides the browser window.

  “How d-did it go?” he asks.

  Images run through my mind, of leering students, an intrusive crowd, and a scandalous photo of Sabrina and me.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Who were you w-with this time?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which girl?”

  His left eye is twitching even more than usual. I don’t ask if he has seen the new photo—it’s obvious he has.

  “Annaleigh,” I say.

  He purses his lips, but they continue to twitch. “Be a . . . a good man, Seth.”

  Before I can reply, he resumes his online job hunting. Maybe it’s just as well. After the scene at the Chinese Theatre, I don’t know what a good man is supposed to do.

  Over at the desk, Gant is taking in the newest photo of Sabrina and me. I join him there.

  “Looks like someone hit the jackpot,” he says.

  “Not you as well. I already told Dad—”

  “I’m not talking about you, Seth. I’m talking about whoever took it.”

  “Oh.” I crouch next to him. The photo is clearer on my computer screen: Sabrina and me framed perfectly, her lips parted against mine. “It was only a couple seconds.”

  “Well, kudos to the photographer, then. This is much higher quality than the beach photo. When was it taken?”

  “At the Machinus party a few days ago.”

  “A f
ew days ago?” He studies the image again. It feels skeevy the way he’s staring at me, mid-kiss, but something’s clearly bothering him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know those photos I took of Romeo and Juliet? Even though I worked on them the first chance I got, someone uploaded footage to YouTube before I was done.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Lesson is: If you have something valuable, don’t sit on it. Most paparazzi would want to sell quickly, while you two are big news.”

  “Paparazzi are freaking parasites.”

  Gant bristles. “No way. They’re artists, producing stuff on the fly.”

  “Not this one. It was just a guy with a cell phone. Left the party straight after he took this shot. He’s been stalking me ever since I got here.”

  Gant’s mouth hangs open. “Someone’s been stalking you?”

  I check that Dad didn’t hear, and shoot Gant a warning look. “Not just me. Sabrina too. She says it comes with the territory.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “When we were on the beach. There was a guy with a camera there too. Really long lens.”

  “And she stuck around and let him shoot anyway? That’s pretty weird behavior for a celebrity. Normally they’re fighting paparazzi off like flies.” He resumes looking at the party photo—Sabrina and me, lip-locked. “Something’s not right here.”

  “Apart from the invasion of privacy, you mean.”

  “No. The shot . . . the way it’s framed, the lighting, the resolution—you don’t get that by holding a cell phone in the air and crossing your fingers.”

  “Well, no one else was around. I would’ve noticed if there was another photographer.”

  He taps the screen at the exact place that our lips are joined. “You sure about that? You look kind of busy.” He chews the inside of his cheek methodically. “All I’m saying is, your stalker guy didn’t take this photo with a cell phone. So who did?”

  I don’t have an answer for that. “Seems like you know a lot about this stuff.”

  “Photography’s my thing.”

  He leans back like a self-satisfied attorney, evidence presented, reasonable doubt established. But if he’s right, he’s missing an even bigger point: If our stalker isn’t in the business of selling photos, why is he following Sabrina and me at all?

  22

  RYDER CALLS JUST BEFORE LUNCH THE next day. “Good news,” he says. “I’ve got tickets for the Lakers-Clippers game this evening.” I wait for him to mention the new photo of Sabrina and me—he must have an opinion about it—but he doesn’t. “They’re prime seats. I was going to offer one to Sabrina, but she’s not answering her phone.”

  “I’d prefer to go with Annaleigh.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Do you think Annaleigh wants to go?”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he says.

  Apparently Annaleigh wants to go. It’s just her and me, a private chauffeur, and a too-large limo. Ryder’s all in favor of the grand gesture, but sometimes I wish he’d stick to a taxi.

  I wear black jeans and a plain white shirt so I can blend in. Annaleigh counters with a flower-print halter top and beret combo that’s so cute I figure she’ll own every eye in the arena.

  The seats aren’t courtside, but are close enough to get an awesome view of the action, the sweat, the dunks, and the floor burns. Close enough to notice every time the TV cameras turn to us for a reaction shot.

  “Look,” I say, “about that photo.”

  Annaleigh tilts her head and watches me closely. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, her blue eyes accented with liner and mascara, as if she’s veering toward Sabrina territory. “Hooking up with a movie star doesn’t make you a player, Seth.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It was before you found out about Kris getting back in the movie. You never would’ve kissed her if you knew what Sabrina was up to.” Having provided me with an excuse, she smiles.

  She’s wrong—the photo was taken after I knew about Kris—but I smile too. Annaleigh wants to move on, and that’s fine by me.

  A cheer goes up from the crowd. “So which team are we supporting?” Annaleigh shouts.

  “The one from L.A.”

  “Aren’t they both from L.A.?”

  “Yeah. I think our team is going to win tonight.”

  She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. “Oh, we’re up.” She elbows me in the ribs.

  As the players leave the court for a time-out, she points at the jumbotron. An image of us fills the screen, along with the words kiss cam. It takes me a moment to catch up with what’s happening, but only a split second more to turn bright red.

  Annaleigh bites her lip and shrinks down like a turtle hiding in its shell. Then, fixing her eyes on me, she reaches behind my head and pulls me toward her. Gives me a full-on movie kiss—lots of lips on lips, and hands gliding over skin, and mouths slightly open so that I can feel her short breaths punching the air.

  The crowd grows louder, crazier than at any point during the game, but I shut them out. With Sabrina, I had no idea what our kiss meant. With Annaleigh, I know exactly where things stand—we’re acting, and we have an audience of eighteen thousand. It ought to feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. It feels good.

  When we stop, people continue to whoop and shout. One section gives us a standing ovation. Annaleigh doesn’t miss a beat. She drags me off my seat and leads me in a low bow as every remaining TV camera turns toward us. By the time we sit down, several hundred cell phones are turned in our direction. People who aren’t taking photos are texting friends. For a few minutes after play resumes, the game is an afterthought.

  Kris told me that news travels fast. Seeing that wall of cameras, I finally grasp how a situation can take on a life of its own. The sum of my achievements—acted in a couple commercials and a bunch of plays—cannot explain what I’m seeing. I’m just a creation, an unproven actor in a movie with no director and a fluctuating cast. It’s like I’ve reversed the natural order of celebrity.

  Or maybe I’m missing the point. The crowd isn’t seeing Seth Crane. They’re watching the boy who appeared as Sabrina’s sidekick in two now-famous photos. And who, a few days later, is making out with Annaleigh on a kiss cam.

  I’m so distracted it takes me a moment to realize that Annaleigh’s hand is resting on my leg. Probably has been ever since we sat down. There’s something comforting about it, kind of like the way she gazes at me. There’s nothing unfocused about that look, and nothing mercurial about her behavior. Annaleigh is my partner in a way that Sabrina can never be, because I trust her.

  “This is pretty freaking crazy, huh?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I think I could kind of get used to it.”

  “What? Seats to Lakers games?”

  She shakes her head. “Going out with you.”

  People shove cell phones in our faces as we leave our row and head for the exit. It’s like a receiving line, and no one is respecting our personal space.

  “Seth! Seth!” A heavyset guy with a cue-ball head yells my name as he takes photo after photo. His camera is expensive, his attitude confrontational. “Is it over between you and Sabrina?”

  I take Annaleigh’s hand and move faster.

  “Annaleigh!” Another photographer barrels through the crowd. His momentum carries him straight into her, and for a moment, she loses her balance and our hands disconnect.

  It’s like we’re fighting a riptide. I need to get back to her. I don’t even push the guy hard, but one moment he’s standing, the next he’s on his butt, asking for witnesses.

  Witnesses. It’s a joke, but like the incident at the Chinese Theatre, there’s nothing funny about this situation. I grasp Annaleigh’s hand and we run. Photographers hound us, but I’m with a natural-
born runner. The fight-or-flight instinct carries us all the way to the waiting limo.

  I slam the door behind us. “Go!” I shout.

  The driver throws us into heavy traffic. Two cars tail us.

  On the Santa Monica Freeway, one of the vehicles draws alongside us on the outside lane, perfectly matching our speed. When I peer over, a camera flashes.

  There’s no way anyone can get a decent picture through tinted glass. This is harassment.

  I scoot away from the window and bump into Annaleigh. “Why are they doing this?” she asks.

  The limo driver growls something unintelligible and leans on the gas. Horns sound, but the noise is muted by the car’s plush interior.

  My cell phone chimes—an incoming text from Ryder. He must know we’re busy, so I figure it’s important. I click on the link.

  Now I know why we’re being pursued.

  An entertainment website has published a gallery of photos of Sabrina and me, all of them from the Machinus party. It’s like looking at the individual frames of a movie, as Sabrina coils her leg around me, and we come together, and kiss. I shut it down, but not before Annaleigh sees it too.

  As enthusiastically as he used the gas, now the driver brakes. We careen across lanes as the pursuing cars fly by, and peel off at La Cienega.

  The first traffic signal is red. No one is following us. Annaleigh stares straight ahead, fingertips teasing her hair into sweaty spikes.

  “I lost my beret,” she murmurs.

  We hang a left on Wilshire. At the hotel, we thank the driver and head inside. Don’t stop until the main doors close behind us.

  We ride the elevator to Annaleigh’s floor in silence. I walk her to her room. Earlier, I felt like we’d reached a kind of quiet understanding. Now everything is messed up again.

  “Can we talk, Annaleigh?”

  “Okay.”

  She opens the door and kicks off her platform shoes. Sits on the bed and rubs her feet.

  “You were running in those?” I ask.