Playing Keira Read online

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Excerpt from You Look Different in Real Life

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Also by Jennifer Castle

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BEGIN READING

  I slide forty dollars in cash that is not mine through the hole in the ticket window and say, “One way to New York City, please.”

  My hand steady, my voice not wavering one bit. I am doing this. I actually am.

  If the woman behind the window checks me out and asks, “Just one way?” or seems suspicious of a teenage girl alone, buying a Trailways bus ticket at six a.m. on a Saturday morning, I’ve got a story prepared. A fake name, too, should I need it. I think I want to need it. Because it shouldn’t be this easy to put your body through the movements of something you’ve fantasized about doing for so long. Should it?

  But the ticket-window lady doesn’t ask. She simply takes the money that is not mine and prints out a ticket, which I guess is technically mine now. To her, I’m just another person with somewhere to go, and none of her concern. I’m nobody. You have no idea how exhilarating this is. The rush of it prickles the back of my neck beneath my travel-efficient ponytail.

  I take the ticket from her, along with the change that is not mine, and slide both into the wallet that is not mine behind the driver’s license with a face that is not mine. I realize it’s annoying for me to keep saying the “not mine” part, but it makes me feel more like I’m just borrowing these things. Not stealing or cheating.

  Outside the station, I find a spot on the bench next to a couple sitting with their bodies intertwined so that at first, I can’t tell which are her legs and which are his. (They’re both wearing pajama bottoms. So classy.) The bench has a good view of the street, and if someone’s come looking, I can probably spot them before they spot me. What if they have? Let me think. I will dash around the corner of the building and hide somewhere. I will face them down and demand they let me go. Or maybe I’ll fold, let them take me back where I’m supposed to be. Honestly, any of these things could happen. I almost wish for the chance to find out.

  I scan the waiting passengers. Not a single familiar face, luckily, and oof, there’s that rush again. Because it doesn’t happen too often, being surrounded by people who don’t know me. I could levitate from how weightless it makes me feel. Is this what it was like for my mother that day? She went east on a train instead of south on a bus, but still. I can nearly imagine that first taste of what life would be like somewhere else, as someone starting from scratch. Without us. I wonder what she would do right now, if she knew I was on my way to her. I like to think she’d be excited and giddy, jittery. Maybe she’d rush to the bathroom because she thought she might puke from the good kind of nervousness. Which would be completely understandable, because I just did that myself.

  Here comes the bus now, and the sight of it brings on a rather specific thank God/oh shit combination of emotions. It’s not too late to change your mind, I think. But before I can even consider that further, the bus clanks to a halt in front of me. Now the door is opening and it feels like going through it is the only way to keep breathing.

  I hand my ticket to the driver with a smile. Mental note: smiling goes a long way when you’re trying to convince people (and yourself) that you’re not doing anything wrong.

  I find a window seat and settle in, watching the other passengers board and figure out where to sit. Some people really take their time with this, like which seat they choose is some big commitment for the ninety-five minutes of the ride. Still, I’m hoping nobody sits next to me, because I could use the extra personal space after last night. I look out the window and give off a bitchy air. I am crazy good at the bitchy air.

  It seems to be working, until I feel someone slide into the aisle seat next to me. I turn to look.

  The first thing I notice about the guy is that he’s wearing two jackets: a denim jacket with a leather jacket on top of it. He’s young, but older than me. Scruffy. Wet hair. As he leans forward to remove the leather jacket, he nods to me quickly and I nod back, then return to my window gaze.

  I wait. I’m assuming he’s looking at me more thoroughly now. His glance will sweep up and down, taking stock. Because that’s what usually happens. I’m not being egotistical here; it’s the facts. People find me attractive. I call this stock-taking action the Appraisal, usually followed by the Shift. Meaning the shift in someone’s attitude and body language and vibe. Suddenly I’m not merely part of the background. I have come into focus for this individual. The fun part is watching what he or she does next.

  Sometimes they say, “You look familiar. Do we know each other?”

  Yes, I know it’s a legitimate question when you live in a small town. It’s not unreasonable to ask, but I’ve gotten good at recognizing when it’s purely a line.

  Double Jacket Guy doesn’t say anything, though. When the bus starts moving, I glance over to see him leaning back, his eyes closed. Okay, good. It’ll be like this. I stuff my purse at my feet.

  Just so you don’t think I’m a complete criminal, I should say for the record that the purse is mine, even if several things inside it are not. As in, the two cell phones, wallet, and a set of car keys. I only took the car keys because I couldn’t figure out a safe place to leave them with the car parked back at the bus station, and because I know there’s a spare set. I’m responsible that way. When you’re lying awake all night figuring out how you’re going to do this, you think of everything. The only item that was on my mental checklist but I didn’t have time for was writing a note. I thought I didn’t want anyone to worry. But now that they’re most definitely worrying, I have to admit I like the thought of it.

  Worry about me. For once. Please, please, worry about me.

  I don’t know if I’m going to find what I’m looking for today, but the simple fact that I’m trying is more than good enough. The bus moves up Main Street on its way to the Thruway, where it will turn south to New York City. I take one more look out the window, but see nobody running after us. Nobody pulling into the lot mere seconds too late to catch me.

  The sign for the Thruway entrance is just up ahead now.

  I’m officially gone.

  Double Jacket Guy has been clutching his leather jacket on his lap for the last ten minutes, and now that the bus is moving more smoothly on the highway, he opens his eyes, stands up to remove the denim jacket and put it in the overhead bin, then puts the leather jacket back on.

  I’m trying to calculate why this would make sense. He sits down and notices my puzzled look.

  “Too hot with both of them on,” he says, but doesn’t explain why he chose the leather jacket to keep wearing.

  “Ah,” I say. “Yes.”

  “I’m Garrett,” he says. So much for the silent bus trip. And why do people assume you want to know their names?

  Of course, I’m expected to say my name too now. I almost do. But then I remember that I’m sort of committing a crime at the moment. I shouldn’t be me. I should be that nobody-girl buying a one-way bus ticket for some reason that’s none of your business.

  “Rayanne,” I say. The name I had picked out last night as I listened to the other girls sleep-breathing, the pillowcase of an unfamiliar bed scratchy on my cheek. I’m not even sure where this name comes from. I don’t think I even look like a Rayanne, but I’m committed now.

  Garrett shifts his eyes to the window for a second, brows raised, like he’s thinking hard about what to say next. Finally, he looks back at me.

  “Nice day for the city,” he says. For God’s sake. Really? The weather?

  “Hopefully
,” I reply, and turn away, hoping that’ll do the trick.

  “I’m meeting my girlfriend,” adds Garrett. “I think we’re going to wander around Central Park, maybe go to the zoo.”

  I turn back to him now. The fact that he’s mentioned a girlfriend right off the bat can mean a few things. Either he wants to reassure me that he’s not flirting, but just being friendly. Or he wants to impress me that he’s capable of retaining a female who enjoys his romantic companionship. Or he’s just a dude who thinks his life is as fascinating to complete strangers as it is to him.

  I could give an icy, emphatic “uh-huh” and finish it off with a bitchy-air/window-gaze combo. But I realize that in talking to him, if you can even call it that, I’ve momentarily forgotten about the paralyzing anxiety of my situation. I’m stuck on this bus and next to this guy for another eighty minutes, at least. One of the things they say about me is that I know how to make situations work.

  “Go find the Shakespeare Garden,” I tell him. “It’s probably gorgeous this time of year.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “I’ve heard about it but I’ve never been. Mary-Kate will love that.”

  “She lives in the city?” This is another strategy I’ve found, to avoid talking about myself. Ask questions. Seem interested. People will be so happy for that interest, they won’t realize they’re in a one-way conversation.

  “In SoHo,” says Garrett. “She’s studying design at Parsons. We met last summer at a magazine internship.”

  “Are you a designer too?”

  “No, I’m a writer. Or at least, I want to be. Got another year and a half until my journalism degree at SUNY.”

  Of course, it had to be journalism. Which means there’s a good chance he’s had my dad as a professor for some English-department prerequisite course, or at least knows who my dad is, because in the microuniverse of the college, it’s hard not to know who my dad is. But he does not know my dad is my dad. He does not know anything about me. All he knows is Rayanne, who is not me. Suddenly, the possibilities are heady and I take a flying leap away from myself.

  “I think I’ve seen you on campus,” I say.

  “Yeah, you look familiar. You a junior?”

  “Sophomore.” This is true, in fact. I am a sophomore. At Mountain Ridge High School.

  “What are you studying?” he asks.

  “Mathematics.” Also true. Except of course, instead of a college-level course with a fancy name like Foundations of Analysis, I take Mrs. Modeski’s saggy, standard trigonometry. In fact, I’m the top student in that class. Some of the time.

  The other some of the time, I score a few points below a girl named Rory Gold. There are days when I am deeply annoyed with Rory Gold for that and don’t feel guilty about it. Other people have gotten in trouble for being shitty to Rory Gold, because she’s one of those autism-spectrum kids. But if I forced myself not to resent her because she has a disability, isn’t that prejudiced too? I actually see it as a kindness. Wouldn’t she rather I dislike her on her own merits, for who she is and not what she “has,” the same way I would with anyone else?

  Being first in that class—and by first, I mean first as calculated by a multifactor formula only I know and care about—is the one thing that seems to please my father about my math obsession. He doesn’t get it. He’s taught literature since a million years before I was born. He’s preoccupied with theory and interpretation, life in the abstract. For him, it’s all about the “bigger picture” and “reality as a whole,” but I don’t see it that way. I need to break life down into its smallest possible units, which is why math rocks my world.

  To me, math is how everything in life can be measured. I can understand it that way. And control it.

  Also, math is my mother.

  She was a professor of mathematics education, which means she taught future teachers how to teach math. I say was because I have no idea if she’s still doing that. So I can see my dad’s inner conflict: dismayed that I’m following my mother’s interests, but proud that at least I’m fantastic at them. It’s really satisfying to watch the struggle.

  “Great boots,” says Garrett now. I guess it’s taken him this long to find another conversation subject.

  I lift one foot and look at my boot, as if I can’t remember which ones I’m wearing, but of course I know which ones I’m wearing—I’m not an idiot. They’re hiking boots, which are not something I usually wear but had to buy for this weekend. I wanted to see if I could find the least-dorky ones out there, and if I could get them for cheap. Nobody knows this, but I’m excellent at orchestrating the sales and coupons at certain chain stores to buy shoddily manufactured stuff I can make look great. I’ll change the buttons on a blouse, or put clear nail polish on the seams of a dress so the threads don’t fray. For these boots, I cut the buckles off a pair of my father’s old dress shoes and glued them on.

  I’m not some budding fashion designer. I’m not sure I even enjoy all the tweaking. But when you’re voted Best Dressed in your class two years in a row, you’ve got shoes to fill. Literally.

  “Thanks,” I say, then add, “Nice jacket.”

  “It’s actually Mary-Kate’s, swiped from her biker brother. She left it the last time she visited.” Garrett fingers the leather, maybe remembering a moment when she took the jacket off so he could run his hands under her shirt. Yes, my mind goes there.

  “So, Rayanne,” he says, shifting in his seat now, toward me. “What are your big plans for Saturday in the city?”

  He had to ask. Most people wouldn’t. They’d think it rude or nosy, and if it weren’t for the girlfriend, I’d assume he was hinting at something. But I look at him, something in his brown eyes fresh, unspoiled. Here is a person who knows nothing about me, and suddenly there is nothing more intoxicating.

  “I’m going to visit my mom,” I say. There’s at least one reality where this statement is true.

  “Cool,” says Garrett, and why wouldn’t he? It really is that simple for some people.

  I’m not sure why I feel the need to add something here, but I do. “I see her every other weekend.” Just like that, Rayanne’s story is taking shape. She’s waiting to bust out. “This time we’re going to a show, I think. She said she got tickets for something.”

  It solidifies quickly in my head: Rayanne’s mother doesn’t take her to operas and ballets the way my father does. She buys tickets for every trashy, flashy Broadway show that opens. Before the performance, they eat at a theme restaurant in Times Square and drink neon-blue mocktails. Afterward, they get coffee and talk about which songs they liked best.

  The way Rory Gold and her mother probably do. I’m fully aware that the reason why Rory Gold bugs me has less to do with her mad math skills and more to do with her mom.

  One Friday night two months ago, my friends Izzy and Claire and I went to a movie. We were waiting for it to start when Izzy nudged me and pointed to a spot a few rows in front of us, where Rory and her mother were sitting. Izzy and Claire said a bunch of catty things, all variations on the already-lame joke of Rory and her mom being on a “hot date” together, and I joined in because that’s what they expected me to do. After the movie was over, I found myself standing in line for the ladies’ room two people behind the Golds. They were talking about the movie—which scenes they liked, the strong points and weaknesses, the performances. The kind of intelligent and thoughtful conversation I would never have with my friends. The kind I do remember having with my mom, when she still seemed to care what I had to say.

  The memory of it climbed onto me from somewhere below, grabbing my knees and making them buckle, nearly pulling me to the floor.

  Later that night, I made my plan: to find out where she might be. To go to her. Or at least to try. I did not tell a soul.

  I thought about confiding in my friend Nate, the only person on the planet who could possibly understand. But he wouldn’t have approved of some parts of the plan, and I couldn’t risk him spilling the beans.

&nb
sp; I’ve been keeping so many secrets lately that now, here with this stranger named Garrett, it feels terrific to spill. Even if they’re not real secrets, just made-up ones.

  As the bus travels closer to Manhattan and the address I have scribbled on a used gum wrapper in my purse, I tell Garrett more about Rayanne. Rayanne is from Rhode Island—I picked a place I know a little about, because every summer we visit my dad’s family in Providence. Rayanne likes sushi but not meat. Rayanne lives in a dorm now but next semester, she plans to rent an apartment near Main Street with her three very best friends.

  As Rayanne takes on flesh and bone, dimension and complexity, it feels good. I think of my mother again. The screaming freedom of leaving behind the person you were, or imagined you were, or others thought you were—what are the differences, anyway?—simply by changing your surroundings. Choosing to be someone new.

  I thought about giving Rayanne a boyfriend, but the window on that closed. I can’t give her a boyfriend now, after telling him all these other unimportant things first. It will sound made-up. I know: the irony.

  Garrett and I are silent for a while. We’re driving through a nondescript stretch of the Thruway, trees and hills and houses in repeating rotations. The kind of scenery that makes a trip feel long and aimless.

  Finally, I ask Garrett what courses he’s taking, too curious about whether or not he has my dad.

  “Victorian lit,” he says, and digs a tattered book out of his briefcase. He flips through the pages, many of which are dog-eared. For a second I think he’s going to read something to me, but then he just gives the book an affectionate glance and puts it away. Maybe he changed his mind about something. Maybe he’s realizing that chatting me up like this might seem like flirting, and Mary-Kate would be pissed if she knew. Garrett stuffs his briefcase near his feet and runs his hands through his hair, which is noticeably less wet than it was when he first got on the bus.

  I watch his hands as he does all this. He doesn’t realize how sensual the movement is, or that I’m a little obsessed with this particular body part. Garrett’s hands are good sized and his nails are trimmed, clean. They are not hairy. They’re not dry and cracked, so maybe he moisturizes. I imagine what it would be like to stroke the backs of them, and how soft the skin might feel.