Chapter 11 #2
I’m sad he won’t let himself take some time off if that’s what he wants, but I’m not entirely surprised. Luke has never been
great at making decisions for himself. He’s always wanted input, on everything—should he deliver his line this way or that
way, should he get the burrito or the tacos. It wouldn’t shock me if he were also letting Cal decide the minutiae of his life
along with his career trajectory.
I leash Thisbe again, and we’re on our way back to my house when he says, “Okay, my turn. So how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Create this whole ruse. Your new identity.”
“It started sort of by accident,” I admit.
“When we moved here, I started school under the name Claire Hopper. The first few days, I kept waiting for someone to realize who I was, for the rumors to start going around school. But they never did. So I asked my mom and Nicky if we could keep it that way. If I could have a fresh start. And they both said yes.”
“Wow. I guess I’m also surprised someone online hasn’t figured out by now who you are,” Luke says. “Like, how has some random
Bricks stan not scoured the internet for details and found you?”
“The secret is to make things appear as predictable and boring as possible.”
The ability to become invisible—uninteresting—is a skill, like anything else. A skill I’ve cultivated. It’s remarkable how
easy it is to fade away.
“Boring how?”
“Here. Look.” I stop walking to get out my phone and Thisbe drops onto her belly, panting, always happy for an excuse to relax.
I open CeCe Lafayette’s Instagram profile. She’s got an arty profile picture where you can’t see her face. She’s got around
twenty thousand followers. I hand my phone to Luke so he can see.
He scrolls through for a minute. “Wait—is this your account?”
“It’s my fake update account. This CeCe is still in LA, trying to make it—unsuccessfully—as an actor. Because of course she is. It’s very believable she would
struggle to find work after Bricks. Sometimes I get DMs asking me to give a comment for those ‘Where are they now?’ kinds of pieces, and I do.
I always give vague answers, say I’m still acting, and that I have a few potential independent projects on the horizon.
People lose interest after that. No one ever checks back in. ”
“Damn.” He hands my phone back to me. “All this time I thought this was some random person.”
“What do you mean?”
“I follow you,” Luke says, pointing at my phone.
“You do?”
To my knowledge, Luke only follows, like, four accounts across all his socials, and CeCe is not one of them.
“Yeah, from my private account,” he says. “I knew you’d moved to Connecticut, so I was confused. I kept following just in
case it was you. And I guess it was.”
“Surprise,” I say.
We’re turning onto my street when Luke says, “It’s not that believable, by the way.”
“What?”
“That you’d be struggling to find work. You were the most talented of all of us.”
At first I think he’s joking. Our showrunner, Brett, made it very clear to me that I was the worst actor on set. I look at
Luke. But from what I can tell, he’s being sincere.
“I—”
“Claire! Hey!”
Evie is in my driveway, hopping out of Big Bird, which is what we call her bright yellow Jeep.
For her birthday last year, she asked her parents for the vanity plate “BIGbrD,” and she even taped a yellow feather boa to the back of the driver’s seat, for fun.
She’s here for her cup of sugar, no doubt.
Thisbe gives a happy woof and pulls on the leash toward her.
“That’s my friend Evie,” I tell Luke in a low voice. “We were on the chess team together, by the way. Me and you. That’s the
cover story.”
“Chess team?”
“Just go with it.”
Evie, to her credit, looks incredible. She’s got this cool, sheer eye shadow on, and her hair is pulled into an effortlessly
chic messy bun that I’m guessing took her forever to get just right. I’m proud to introduce her as my best friend.
“Evie, this is Luke,” I say. “Luke, Evie. Evie is the best person in Glenridge, and Luke is an old friend. Unless—” I turn
to Luke. “I’m sorry I haven’t asked: Do you fully go by Lucas now?”
“No. Friends still call me Luke. And any friend of Claire’s is a friend of mine. It’s great to meet you, Evie.” Evie looks
as though she’s about to buckle at the knees. “But I should head out and let you two get back to work.”
“You can stay,” Evie says quickly. “We don’t mind.”
“Unfortunately, I have a busy night. Some folks are getting into town I should go see.”
I wonder if one of those people is Ana?s Labrie, who I saw listed as one of the actors on the IMDb page. I’m assuming she’s going to be playing his character’s high school girlfriend. She’s in her early twenties, and she is, unsurprisingly, gorgeous.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask.
“Can’t tomorrow. Wednesday?”
“Claire’s coming over to my boyfriend’s house after school on Wednesday,” Evie says. “She always does. It’s a Wednesday tradition.
You’re invited, too.”
It is not a Wednesday tradition, and I’m about to point that out when Luke says, “Sounds great. Claire, want to text me the
address and I’ll meet you there?”
“Sure.” I guess I can give Evie this one thing. All I have to do is make it through one afternoon of hanging out with Eddie,
Evie, and Luke all together, and then I’ll find a way to not do it again.
“All right, it’s a date,” Luke says. “See you later. Bye, Evie.”
As Evie, Thisbe, and I walk back to the house, Evie desperately tries to stay silent. I can see the strain of it on her face.
She grips my arm harder and harder. As soon as we’re inside she collapses onto the floor.
“He is so hot. He’s way hotter in person. I thought up close he was going to be shorter with a huge head, like they always say about
actors, but he’s so tall. And his head is perfect. And have you noticed his hands? He’s got, like, ultimate hot-guy hands. Jesus Christ. How are you still conscious after an entire afternoon with him? You
need to tell me everything.”
“I mean, it’s not that interesting. I showed him my schedule. We did some homework. We took Thisbe for a walk. That’s about
it.”
“And . . . ?” Evie prompts. “I’m going to need about ten thousand more details here, Claire.”
“We did AP English. I made him read an Elizabeth Bishop poem. Then I did my calc problem set while he worked on that.”
Evie eyes me. “You’re being weird. Are you about to get your period or something?”
“No.”
“Then is he a jerk?”
“No. He’s fine. Why?”
“For someone who’s getting paid to hang out with Lucas Cordova, who seems as charming as he is gorgeous, you’re giving . . .
wet blanket.”
I laugh. To satisfy her, I try to tell her about the last few hours in as fun and quirky a way as possible. I tell her how
thirsty Thisbe acted for his attention. (“Thisbe’s always thirsty for attention.”) I show her Luke’s drawing, which he left
behind. (“He has hidden depths!”) Eventually we do have to finish our homework, which we do, begrudgingly, and then she leaves
half an hour before Mom gets home.
I can barely keep my eyes open when it hits eight o’clock, so I get into bed earlier than usual. I’m tired from not sleeping
last night, but more than that, I’m mentally exhausted. It reminds me of the way Thisbe conks out after we give her a new
sensory toy filled with peanut butter. I can’t help but replay the hours I spent with Luke. Objectively, nothing bad happened.
In fact, it was kind of nice.
So why do I feel like I ran a marathon?
I roll onto my side and grab my phone. I don’t want to expend any more energy thinking about Luke tonight. So before I can
second-guess myself, I open my messages, go to Ben Wilson, and send him a text.