Impostor Read Free Page A

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.”
    “You know me too well. I actually slid into Scotch Becker during third period. Today has been made of suck.”
    Rollins looks at me with concern. He is the only person who knows that I can slide. When he found out, he was definitely freaked, especially when he learned that I’d slid into him while he was giving his wheelchair-bound mother a bath, but since he got over that he’s been amazingly supportive. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah,” I say. “I just overheard him talking to Randall Fritz. They were making plans for that bonfire tonight.”
    “How fascinating,” Rollins says.
    “Exactly,” I reply. “So are you nervous for tonight?”
    Rollins chews on his lip ring. “No.”
    “Bullshit,” I say.
    He sighs. “It’s not that I’m nervous , per se. It’s more that I’m apprehensive. What if no one calls in? What if I spend the whole night just talking to myself? What if I suck ?”
    I offer him a drink from my Mountain Dew. His fingers brush against mine as he takes it from me, and a shiver goes up my spine, as cliché as