what’s this evidence you found?” He pressed back against the cushion and waited for her to fess up.
With a resigned sigh, she sank a hand into her bag, retrieved a package, and pushed it across the table toward him.
Tommy glanced between Layla and the heart-shaped box, then settled in to read.
March 14, 2012
Today at school I almost gave myself away. Or, actually, I did give myself away, but since it was only in front of Dalton, it’s not exactly the emergency it could’ve been, since everyone knows that Dalton doesn’t really count as a person who matters enough for other people to actually listen to.
Still, I can hardly believe that after all the hard work I’ve done to successfully erase any and all traces of my former hillbilly accent, watching countless old movies so I’d sound sorta British, or, at the very least, like I could be from just about anywhere but WV, I was stupid careless enough to totally out myself for the hick that I am.
Anyway, it all started when I spilled a can of paint all over my smock during art class and let out a stream of curses that normally wouldn’t be any big thing unless a teacher overheard (which luckily didn’t happen, since Mr. Castillo was too busy updating his Tinder profile to pay attention to me), but quickly became a VERY BIG DEAL when Dalton overheard and I realized I’d ACCIDENTALLY USED MY OLD ACCENT!!!!!
Ugh.
I can’t even. ☹
The second I realized what I’d done, well, I just stood there like an idiot. I swear, I could hardly even breathe!! And when Dalton’s eyes met mine, I sincerely thought I would die right then and there. It felt like my whole life was rewinding—flashing right before my eyes. It was like I was literally watching all my dreams—everything I’ve been working toward—vanish in one horrible moment.
Or at least that’s how it seemed at first.
But after a few seconds ticked past, I pulled it together enough to realize that if I wanted to undo the damage, then I needed to own what I did.
So, while Dalton was busy standing there gawking as though he was trying to process how best to handle this juicy bit of intel, I looked right at him and forced myself to smile as I said, “Tell me the truth—did that sound authentic?”
Dalton just stood there, mouth gaping like a fish at feedin’ time.
So I smiled wider and said, “I’m auditioning for a TV commercial this weekend, and I’m working on my accent.”
He stared at me for so long I actually started to sweat. It was like I could see his mind processing the quickest way to use my mistake to leapfrog his way to instant popularity.
“There’s a kissing part too,” I added, before I could fully think it through. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that. . . .
I inched closer, so close we were nearly touching, and said, “And I should probably work on that too. Maybe you can help me rehearse after school?”
Whatever he’d been thinking of doing to me before, well, he was now thinking of doing something entirely different. And even though I was reluctant to go through with it, now that I’d put it out there, I had no choice but to commit.
He waited for me after school, and I let him walk me home. Luckily, the parents were at work, so we had the whole house to ourselves. And even though I only planned to let him kiss me for no more than ten minutes max, surprisingly, kissing Dalton wasn’t so bad, so I decided to bring him up to my room and go a little longer (and a little further!) than planned.
By this time tomorrow, Dalton will be popular (I’ll make sure of it) and my secret will be safe. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to be his girlfriend or anything, because while he may be a decent kisser, I can’t risk getting close to him.
Can’t risk getting close to anyone, ever.
I was just lucky it was Dalton and not Emma or Jessa or someone who wouldn’t be quite so easy to manipulate distract.
In the end, I guess it wasn’t too bad. If nothing else, it served as an important reminder of how I can’t afford to let my guard down.
How I can never stop acting like the shiny new version of myself.
How I can never stop acting, period.
The diary entry was so full of contradictions it was hard to process. The proliferation of hearts, flowers, and stars was definitely the mark of a romantic, dreamy-eyed teen. But the actual content displayed the kind of ambition, maturity, and determination rarely found in someone that age. Tommy studied the xeroxed copy, having no doubt Madison had written it. And judging by the date at the top, she’d been around fourteen at the time.
He studied the picture again. Only one person had eyes like that, and the eyes never lied.
While Tommy had no idea what it might mean, one thing was sure: Madison Brooks was not at all the person she pretended to be.
The posh East Coast accent was a fake. And while the childhood she recounted in interviews might have been true for the latter part of her life, if the pic and diary entry were anything to go by, Madison’s earlier years were markedly different from the story she told. Her life as she’d described it was no more than an ingenious work of fiction.
Clearly Madison had worked hard to bury her secrets, leaving Tommy to wonder if those same secrets were somehow responsible for what happened to her.
Had the truth of her past come back to haunt her?
“So . . . what do you think?” Layla leaned toward him. “It’s Madison, right?”
Tommy swallowed. Not trusting his voice, he cleared his throat before he attempted to speak. “It’s definitely her.” He shook his head. It seemed so improbable, so unlikely, and yet, it made perfect sense. Their time together had been brief, but it left a lasting impression. And one thing was sure, the way she drank a beer, the way she kissed, and the way she’d let her accent slip left no doubt in his mind that there was more to Madison Brooks than there seemed. “Kind of creepy, though.” He glanced at Layla, who nodded in a way that encouraged him to go on. “I mean, she’s so cold and calculating the way she manipulated that Dalton kid into keeping her secret.” He shook his head and swiped a hand through his hair. “I mean, she was only fourteen and she was already trading sex for favors—or implied sex anyway.”
“Never mind that part about how she’s always acting—can never stop acting.” Layla frowned. “I mean, if her whole life is make-believe, does that mean her disappearance is fake too?”
Tommy took a moment to consider the question, though he had no good way to respond. “Who sent this?” He forced his gaze away from the pic and back on Layla.
She shrugged. “My guardian angel, I guess.”
Tommy held Layla’s gaze. “What about Ira?” He’d warned her about Ira before, or more accurately, his suspicions regarding Ira. Ira had played Layla all through the contest, always pretending to be this close to firing her and yet never quite managing to go through with it. Tommy was convinced it was all an act. Layla was never really in danger of being fired, not until the very end anyway, and for that, she had her blog to thank. The sensationalistic, gossip-fueled stories
