Imposter

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 that may sound. It really, actually does. I pull my hand back, hoping he didn’t notice.

“You know me too well,” he says, handing the bottle back to me.

“It’s true.”

Dinner is my favorite—homemade pizza with green peppers on top.

I watch my father and Mattie bow their heads to pray. My sister’s cross necklace, the one that used to be my mother’s, reflects light from the old chandelier hanging above the table. My mother picked out the chandelier, along with most of our other furnishings, at a flea market.

I search for the comforting feeling of the picture of my mother that I stashed in my pocket this morning, but it’s not there. I reach deeper. Nothing. After checking the other pocket with no luck, I start to worry. Did I drop it somewhere?

“So how was the operation?” Mattie asks when they’re finished praying.

To my relief, my father doesn’t go into detail, as he sometimes does when discussing a particularly interesting case. He takes his oath seriously and never tells us the names of his patients, but he usually can’t resist raving about how well a surgery went or ranting about how a nurse nearly botched the whole thing.

“As well as could be expected,” he says. “I just hope the parents made the right decision.” I think about the baby recovering from the surgery. My heart clenches for her.

“How was school?” he asks.

Mattie cuts in before I can even say a word.

“I got terrible cramps during first period,” Mattie moans dramatically. “I had to go to the nurse, and she gave me an Advil and let me lie down for a little bit.”

My father looks a bit like he regrets asking. He turns to me. “How about you, Vee? Did you have a good day?”

I nod, taking a big bite of pizza. Hell if I’m going to tell them about the weird experience I had during English class today. Or about sliding into Scotch. I’m attributing both of those occurrences to caffeine withdrawal. Neither my father nor Mattie knows that, up until a few weeks ago, I was swallowing twenty to thirty caffeine pills a day, trying desperately to stay awake so I wouldn’t slide.

“I learned what motif is,” I offer.

My father bobs his head, looking almost like he’d rather hear about Mattie’s period than about the literary terms I’m studying. “Good, good.” He lifts his slice of pizza and takes a big bite.

“Hey, have either of you guys seen that old picture of Mom, the one where she’s wearing a sombrero?”

Both of them shake their heads.

After that, we eat in silence.

Long after the dishes have been rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, I’m sprawled on my bed. My alarm clock says it’s three minutes past ten. Earlier this afternoon I found a dusty old radio in my father’s study, and now I’m twisting the dial, looking for KRNK. All I hear is static. Spinning it the other way, I finally locate the right channel—and hear a familiar voice.

Rollins.

He’s talking about the ridiculousness of prom—how dumb it is for guys to spend weeks of paychecks to fork out sixty bucks a ticket, not to mention a hundred on a tux and another twenty on a corsage. Some idiots even rent a limo for the occasion. It’s a rant I’ve heard a million times. The corners of my mouth turn up into a smile. I close my eyes and sink into the familiarity of his voice, his words.

“My colleague Anna disagrees with me on this point,” he says.

My eyes fly open. Who is Anna?

Rollins continues. “I mean, I get where she’s coming from. There’s the whole romance aspect of it. You’re supposed to make the girl feel like a princess and sh—crap. But the thing is, if you’re really into someone, you shouldn’t have to spend a ton of money to prove it. Why not just rent a couple of scary movies and make some popcorn?”

I grin. That’s what we do every Friday night—watch horror movies and eat junk food. We call it Friday Night Fright. I can’t help but wonder if there’s some deeper meaning to his words. Is he trying to tell me something, hint that he still has feelings for me? Or is this all hypothetical? Just banter for his radio show?

I grab my pillow and hold it to my chest.

“Anyway, I’m sure you’re all tired of listening to me go on and on. Instead, I’ll play a song that, to me, screams true romance.” I hear him clacking through CD cases, looking for the right one. “Here it is. ‘Everlong’ by Foo Fighters. Okay, all you naughty kids, staying up late on a school night. This is what a rock song should sound like.”

As the opening chords rattle the old radio, I close my eyes. Is this song meant for me? This song about waiting and wishing and wanting someone for so long? Could Rollins still feel the same way about me that he did that night in October? Or has he met someone else, someone who is ready to love him back?

The music rolls over me, and a silly image pops into my head. Rollins, in a vintage tux, and me in a glittery black dress. We sway together to the music, moving too slowly for the fast song.

This dream is not like the others.

Instead of the passenger, I’m the driver. The steering wheel is hard and unwieldy beneath my grasp, and there’s the distinct scent of vanilla in the air—the smell of the air freshener my sister put in my father’s car when he started taking her for practice drives.

I’m not on the interstate like I usually am in my dreams. I’m on some strange country road I don’t recognize. The gravel crunches beneath the tires. Cornfields race by, a blur of shadows in the night. For some reason, the car is going faster and faster. It takes me a minute to realize my foot is pressing hard on the accelerator.

The moonlight shining down, the detail on the wooden fence that pops up on the left, the sweet smell in the air—everything is too real. I try an experiment and yank the wheel to the right.

The car veers, and I feel my stomach lurch as inertia claims me. The car rolls into the ditch, but it doesn’t stop there. I see a telephone pole in my peripheral vision, and when it slams into the side of the car, pain shoots through my arm and chest where the seat belt tightens. My head slams against the window, and everything goes black.

When I wake up, I search for the comfort of my room, my telescope, the old rocking chair that used to belong to my mother. Instead, all I see is the vanilla air freshener, dangling inches away from my face, spattered with blood.

I sit up, wincing at the pain that sears through my head. Shaking, I reach for the rearview mirror and adjust it so I can see myself. My face is pale in the moonlight, with rivulets of black-red blood snaking down.

It wasn’t a dream.

This is really happening.

How the hell did I end up here? The last thing I remember is falling asleep, listening to Rollins’s voice on the radio. How could I possibly have risen, unaware, snuck down the stairs and out the door, and climbed into my father’s car?

It just doesn’t make any sense.

Scrambling, I look around for my phone. If I was able to somehow get into the car and drive myself into the middle of nowhere, maybe I had the sense to grab it. But there’s nothing in the center console or on the floor. I open the glove compartment and shuffle through my father’s registration and insurance papers. Nothing.

I push open the door and stumble out into the chill that is Iowa on an April evening. The wind slices through my thin T-shirt. I duck my head into the car and grab a University of Iowa sweatshirt that my father tossed in the backseat at some point. It does little to warm me up, but it’s better than nothing.

Where am I?

The gravel road seems to stretch on forever in both directions. In the sky, Ursa Minor shines brightly. The mama bear constellation. It makes me feel a little less alone. I turn around and see the glow of the city. I start walking down the road, heading toward the light. My mind races as I try to make sense of it all.

Strange occurrences certainly aren’t new to me. I’m used to sliding into people unexpectedly and having to figure out who the hell I am and what I’m doing. But this is something else. This isn’t sliding. I’m not in someone else’s body. I’m in my own. It’s almost like . . . someone else took over my body and forced me to steal my father’s car and drive out into the country.

It’s like someone else slid into me.

ventually, the gravel road turns into a paved one, and a sign looms ahead.

Highway 6.

I seem to be a few miles south of town.

My vision goes fuzzy for a moment, and I have to hold out my hands to steady myself. Perhaps I lost too much blood in the accident. I take a few deep breaths and then, feeling better, I carry on. My bare feet, not up to the task of trudging mile after mile, have become numb. I wince, imagining what they’ll feel like tomorrow.

I keep racking my brain, trying to figure out who could have slid into me—and why. Ever since I learned to steer people’s actions during a slide, I’ve been wondering what happens to the original inhabitant of the bodies. Do they go somewhere else? Do they just kind of black out?

I remember this time I slid into my father when he was jogging. I was so surprised to find myself in his body that I lost my balance and caused him to trip and fall. He landed on the pavement hard. And then I slid back into my own body.

I ran downstairs to find my father limping in the front door, looking dazed. He pointed to his ankle and said he must have fainted during his run. One second he’d been finishing his lap around the block, and the next he collapsed on the street. Now I wonder if there was a point in between, when everything turned murky and strange. Like how I was in English today.

Is it possible that someone slid into me while I was asleep and brought me here? How could it be possible? I’ve never heard of anyone else with the ability to slide—and, trust me, I’ve spent plenty of time Googling. What’s the likelihood of there being another slider out there? One with access to something I touched and left an imprint on? Because that’s what it would take for someone to slide into me.

No. It’s not possible. It has to be something else.

Something up ahead shines into my eyes. Headlights! I wave my hands over my head, praying that the yellow sweatshirt I’m wearing is bright enough to make me visible to the driver.

“Hey,” I shout. “Help!”

The car slows down beside me, and I see that it’s a cherry-red, vintage Mustang. The sight of it brings back sickening memories. I’ve ridden in a car just like this before—the night of the homecoming dance last year, to be precise.

My fears are confirmed when the driver rolls down the passenger-side window. Scotch Becker leans toward me. “What the hell are you doing out here, Vee?” He’s not alone. In the backseat, Samantha Phillips is sprawled drunkenly singing the school fight song, her eyes half-closed. The pungent scent of alcohol wafts from the car.

“Need a ride?” Scotch asks, smirking.

All of a sudden, I flash back to last year’s homecoming dance. Scotch has the same look on his face that he did when I awoke with my skirt around my waist—at least, until Rollins punched him.

I back away from the car, feeling like I’m going to puke. I turn and stumble into the ditch. Little spots swim before my eyes. I hear a car door open, and I panic. On instinct, I start to run, slipping into the maze of corn. I’m only vaguely aware of the husks slicing into my bare feet. I don’t slow down.

“Vee!” Scotch calls. “Vee, are you insane? I’m not going to hurt you!”

I ignore the voice and keep going. All I know is that I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere with a boy who may or may not have tried to molest me last year. I’m bleeding and confused. I just want Scotch to go away.

“Stop!” I hear Scotch panting. His footsteps slow, and then cease. “I won’t chase you. If you want to stay out here all night, fine. It’s your choice.”

My feet are killing me. I quit running and listen to myself breathe. Long, jagged mouthfuls of air. I look up at the sky and wish on the North Star that he will just leave.

“Crazy bitch,” I hear him mutter, and then more footsteps, moving farther away. Before long, his car starts up. Scotch revs his engine a few times and then takes off. Relieved, I sigh and head back toward the road. His taillights become smaller and eventually disappear.

I start to walk toward town, forcing my feet to keep moving, even though each step is agony. I fix my gaze on the city lights ahead. My destination seems a million miles away, even though I know it can’t be more than five. Still, that’s an awfully long way to walk on bare feet in the middle of the night.

A few minutes pass, and I hear a car somewhere behind me. I turn and watch the headlights come closer. Shielding my eyes, I try to decide whether I should try to flag the person down. Scotch was bad enough. What if the next driver is a serial killer?

In the end, my feet win out, and I wave my arms to get the driver’s attention. The car slows and stops beside me. It’s a blue station wagon. There’s a woman with a bun and kind eyes behind the steering wheel. She reaches for a button, and the window goes down.

“Do you need some help, sweetheart?” she asks.

I hesitate.

It seems like a terrible idea to get in a car with a stranger, but I’m pretty sure I could take this woman if it came down to it. She’s at least sixty years old and looks like she’d weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet. And there’s just something about her that seems reassuring.

“I was in an accident,” I explain. “Could you give me a ride into town?”

“Of course,” she says, pressing another button. The doors unlock.

I pull open the door and sit in the passenger seat. Warm air from the heater blasts my face and legs, and all of a sudden I feel sleepy. I raise my fingers to my face, which is all sticky. Gross.

“Oh no. You’re bleeding,” the woman says. She reaches out hesitantly, as if to touch my forehead, but she stops before making contact.

“It’s okay,” I say. “My father’s a doctor. He’ll be able to fix me up. Besides, I think it’s stopped bleeding.”

She opens the glove compartment and takes out a package of Kleenex. “Why don’t you press some of these on your cut, just to be sure?”

I grab a few tissues and hold them to my wound. “Thanks. I really appreciate you giving me a ride. What’s your name?”

“Diane,” she says, returning the package to the glove compartment. After looking over her shoulder, she pulls the car back onto the road.

“I’m Sylvia,” I say.

She nods, keeping her eyes on the road.

We ride in silence for a bit. I start to doze.

Before long, we pull into my driveway. Every light in my house is blazing. As I get out of the car, the door opens and my father’s silhouette appears. He steps onto the porch in his slippers and robe. I know that I’m in deep trouble.

“Thanks again,” I tell Diane.

“Anytime,” she says.

I shut the door, and she pulls out of the driveway.

It is only then that I realize I never gave her directions to my house.

ithout a word, my father holds the door open for me.

“Where the hell have you been?”

I stop and turn to face him. I haven’t seen him this angry since the time he found out Mattie went to an all-night kegger instead of going to a movie.

“Do you know how worried I was? I called the police. They asked whether I wanted to report my car stolen. But—they wouldn’t go out and look for you until you’d been gone for twenty-four hours.”

I think of how mangled my father’s car is and wince. “I’m sorry.”

He crosses his arms. “I can’t wait until you have kids of your own and you wake up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and realize one of your kids has snuck out of the house. And taken your car. Jesus, Vee, you don’t even drive.”

“Dad. I didn’t sneak out.”

“Then what happened?” he demands.

“Maybe we should sit down so I can explain,” I say. Sitting down might be a very good idea for this conversation.

He eyes me warily, then follows me into the living room. I fall onto the comfy plaid couch, and he perches at the edge of his recliner.

“Now. Tell me.”

I take a deep breath, knowing how crazy my story is going to sound, even if I leave out any references to sliding.

“I fell asleep in my room, listening to the radio. When I woke up, I was driving. I thought it was a dream. But then I realized it was your car, and it was all real. That’s when I . . . sort of lost control and crashed into a telephone pole.”

“Oh. My. God.” My father lifts his hand to his mouth.

“I’m really sorry, Dad. About the car, I mean. I don’t know what—”

I stop talking when he rushes over and sweeps me into a hug.

“Vee. My baby. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Let me see you.” He holds me at arm’s length and looks me over. “Your head.” He brushes my hair away from the gash and inspects it carefully. “You might need a stitch.”

I wiggle out of his grasp. “It’s okay, really. It’s stopped bleeding.”

My father stares. “So who drove you home?”

“This woman who happened to be driving by.” I neglect to tell him the creepiest part, that she knew where I lived without any directions. He’s already freaked out enough as it is. Besides, I was so out of it on the car ride home, it’s possible I told her my address and don’t remember.

“Sylvia,” my dad says firmly. “You shouldn’t have gotten into a car with a stranger. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t have my phone,” I say weakly. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“My God. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had been . . .” His voice trails off, and we avoid eye contact, each of us thinking about what could have happened.

“You’re my heart,” he whispers, and I’m startled to see that he’s crying. I reach over and wipe away a tear that’s trickled down by the side of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m okay.”

He manages a shaky smile.

“Is it okay if I go up to bed now? I’m exhausted.”

He kisses my forehead. “Of course, honey. Go get some rest.”

I leave him alone on the couch. He doesn’t follow me up to bed. That’s good because I have no intention of resting right now. Not after the night I’ve had.

Upstairs, my phone is right where I left it, on my nightstand. I grab it and punch in Rollins’s number. He answers before the phone even finishes its first ring. He sounds frenzied. “Vee! So glad you called. The show was so amazing. You listened, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, you were really great. But I’m actually calling about something else . . .”

Rollins is suddenly all business. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I suppose I can’t blame him for assuming the worst after the craziness I put him through six months ago. I called him one night, begging him to help me save my sister from the killer who’d already murdered one of her friends.

“I’m okay,” I say, making my voice calm, trying to reassure him. “I just . . . kind of . . . crashed my father’s car.”

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING DRIVING YOUR DAD’S CAR?” Rollins bellows into the phone. I have to hold it a few inches away from my ear.

“I don’t know how to explain it. I fell asleep listening to your show. And then I thought I was having that dream again . . .” I swallow. “But it wasn’t a dream.”

“What are you saying, Vee?”

“I thought I was dreaming about riding in a car, but this time I was driving . . .” My breathing becomes labored as I find myself living through it all again. “I pulled the wheel to the right and went off the road. Right into a telephone pole. Slammed my head into the window.”

“Wait. So you woke up driving your father’s car?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think this is a symptom of your condition? Like sleepwalking or something? Sleepdriving?”

“It’s never happened to me before,” I say, pulling at the hem of my sweatshirt. “It was so strange, how I blacked out and found myself in the car. It was almost like—”

“Like what?”

I shut my eyes tight, knowing how crazy I sound.

“Like someone slid into me. Like someone forced me to get into that car.”

I can almost see Rollins frowning. He only recently learned about my sliding. I suppose it’s a little much to expect him to believe there are others like me out there, much less those who live in Iowa City.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “Don’t you have to be touching a physical object that someone’s imprinted on in order to slide into them? If what you’re saying is true, someone in this town with the same power as you would have had to touch something of yours to force you to take your dad’s car. And they’d need a motive to do such a thing. It just seems a little far-fetched to me.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s just a feeling I had.”

He rushes to say, “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I do. I’m just wondering if you’re misinterpreting exactly what happened tonight. I know you haven’t been sleeping well. Maybe you started to have that nightmare about Zane dying, but this time you acted it out. In your sleep.”

I think about it. Rollins’s explanation seems plausible, but I just know that’s not what happened. Something deep down inside me keeps insisting that I was manipulated somehow tonight.

“So how did you end up getting home?”

“That’s another weird thing. This woman . . . Diane, she said her name was. She happened to be driving by and she gave me a ride home. But . . .”