Impostor Read Free

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.”

Chapter Two
    S 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