Author: E. Lockhart
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/e-lockhart/page,16,39170-genuine_fraud.html
When Jule had been at the Vineyard house five weeks, Brooke Lannon showed up on Immie’s porch. Jule opened the door.
Brooke walked in and threw her bags down on the couch. Her blue flannel shirt was threadbare and old, and her silky blond hair was up in a topknot. “Immie, you still exist, you witch,” she said as Immie came into the living room. “All of Vassar thinks you’re dead. Nobody believed me when I said you texted me last week.” She turned to look at Forrest. “Is this the guy? Who…?” She left a question mark in the air.
“This is Forrest,” said Immie.
“Forrest!” said Brooke, shaking hands. “Okay, let’s hug.”
Forrest hugged awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”
“It is always nice to meet me,” said Brooke. Then she pointed to Jule. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t be mean,” said Immie.
“I’m being delightful,” said Brooke. “Who are you?” This, to Jule.
Jule forced a smile and introduced herself. She hadn’t known Brooke was coming. And Brooke clearly hadn’t heard about Jule being there, either. “Imogen says you’re her favorite person from Vassar.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite person from Vassar,” said Brooke. “That’s why I had to drop out. It was only two thousand people. I need a bigger audience.”
She dragged her bags upstairs and made herself at home in the second-best guest room.
END OF JUNE, 2016
MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS
Five weeks before Brooke arrived, on her seventh day on Martha’s Vineyard, Jule splurged and took a tourist bus around the island. Most of the people on the bus were the kind who want to check off the sights on a list from a travel website. They were in family groups and couples, talking loudly.
The afternoon brought the tour to the Aquinnah lighthouse, in an area the guide explained was first inhabited by the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head and later, in the 1600s, by English colonists as well. The guide started talking about whaling as everyone poured off the bus to gaze at the lighthouse. From the lookout, they could also see the colored clay cliffs of Moshup Beach, but you couldn’t get down to the water without a hot walk of about half a mile.
Jule wandered away from the lookout to the Aquinnah shops, a cluster of small ventures selling souvenirs, Wampanoag crafts, and snacks. She wandered in and out of the low buildings, idly touching necklaces and postcards.
Maybe she should stay forever on Martha’s Vineyard. She could get a job in a shop or a gym, spend her days by the sea, find a place to live. She could give up trying to do anything with herself, stop being ambitious. She could just accept the life that was on offer right now and be grateful for it. No one would mess with her. She didn’t have to look for Imogen Sokoloff at all, if she didn’t want to.
As Jule exited one shop, a young man stepped out of the place opposite. He was carrying a large canvas tote bag. He was about Jule’s age. No, a little older. He was lean and narrow-waisted, not muscular at all, but graceful and loose-limbed, with a slightly curved nose and nice bone structure. His brown hair was tied up in a bun. He wore black cotton pants that were so long as to be shredded at the bottoms, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that read LARSEN’S FISH MARKET.
“I don’t know why you want to go in there,” he called to his companion, who was presumably still inside the shop. “There’s not any point in buying things that have no use.”
There was no reply.
“Immie! Come on. Let’s go to the beach,” the boy called.
And there she was.
Imogen Sokoloff. Her hair was cut short and pixie-ish now, blonder than in the pictures, but there was no question of her identity. She looked exactly like herself.
She walked out of the shop like it was nothing, like Jule hadn’t been waiting for her and looking for her for days and days. She was lovely, but more than that, she was at ease. As if loveliness were effortless.
Jule half expected Imogen to recognize her, but that didn’t happen.
“You’re so fussy today,” Immie said to the guy. “It’s boring when you’re fussy.”
“You didn’t even buy anything,” he said. “I want to get to the beach.”
“The beach isn’t going anywhere,” said Imogen, digging in her bag. “And I did buy something.”
The guy sighed. “What?”
“It’s for you,” she said. She pulled out a small paper parcel and gave it to him. He pulled the tape off and lifted out a woven bracelet.
Jule expected the boyfriend would be irritated, but instead he grinned. He put the bracelet on and buried his face in Imogen’s neck. “I love it,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s a trinket,” she said. “You hate trinkets.”
“But I like presents,” he said.
“I know you do.”
“Come on,” he said. “The water should be warm.” They walked down through the parking lot toward the path to the beach.
Jule looked back. The tour guide was waving at the crowd, gesturing for people to get back on the bus. It was scheduled to leave in five minutes.
She had no way to return to the hotel. Her phone was nearly out of battery and she didn’t know if she could call a cab from this part of the island.
It didn’t matter. She had found Imogen Sokoloff.
Jule let the bus leave without her.
THIRD WEEK OF JUNE, 2016
MARTHA’S VINEYARD
One week earlier, a guard stopped Jule at airport security. “If you want to carry this bag on, miss, you have to put the toiletries in a clear plastic bag,” the man told her. He had a flabby neck and wore a blue uniform. “Didn’t you see the sign? Everything has to be three point four ounces.”
The guard was going through Jule’s suitcase wearing a pair of blue latex gloves. He took her shampoo, her conditioner, her sunblock, her body lotion. He threw them all in the trash.
“I’ll send it through again now,” he said, zipping the bag shut. “Should be okay. You wait here.”
She waited. She tried to look as if she’d known how to pack liquids for air travel and had simply forgotten, but her ears grew hot. She was angry at the waste. She felt small and inexperienced.
The plane was cramped, with plasticky seats worn down by years of use, but Jule enjoyed the flight. The view was exciting. It was a cloudless day. The shoreline curved down the coast, brown and green.
Her hotel was opposite the harbor in Oak Bluffs. It was a Victorian building with white trim. Jule left her suitcase in the room and walked a few blocks to Circuit Avenue. The town was filled with vacationers. There were a couple of shops with nice clothing. Jule needed clothes; she had the Visa gift cards, and she knew what looked good on her, but she hesitated.
She watched the women as they walked by. They wore jeans or short cotton skirts and open-toe sandals. Faded colors and navy blue. Their bags were fabric, not leather. Their lipstick was nude and pink, never red. Some wore white pants and espadrilles. Their bras didn’t show. They wore only the smallest earrings.
Jule took out her hoops and tucked them in her bag. She returned to the shops, where she bought a pair of boyfriend jeans, three cotton tank tops, a long flowing cardigan, espadrilles, and a white sundress. Then a shoulder bag made of canvas printed with gray flowers. She paid with the card and got cash from a machine.
Standing on the street corner, Jule transferred her ID and money, makeup and phone to the new bag. She called her phone’s billing service and arranged payment with the Visa number. She called her roommate, Lita, and left a voice mail saying she was sorry.
At the hotel, Jule worked out, showered, and put on the white dress. She blew her hair out in loose waves. She needed to find Imogen, but it could wait until the next day.
She walked to an oyster bar that looked onto the harbor and asked for a lobster roll. When it arrived, it wasn’t what she expected. It was nothing but lobster chunks in mayonnaise on a toasted hot dog bun. She had imagined it would be something more elegant.<
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She asked for a plate of french fries and ate those instead.
It was strange to walk through town with nothing she needed to do. Jule ended up at the carousel. It was indoors, in a dark old building that smelled of popcorn. A sign claimed that Flying Horses was “America’s Oldest Carousel.”
She bought a ticket. It wasn’t crowded, just a few kids and their older siblings. Parents were looking at their phones in the waiting area. The music was old-fashioned. Jule chose an outside horse.
As the ride started, she noticed the guy sitting on the pony next to her. He was wiry, with developed deltoids and lats: possibly a rock climber, definitely not a weight-room guy. Some white and some Asian heritage, Jule guessed. He had thick black hair, a little too long. He looked like he had been out in the sun. “I’m feeling like a loser right now,” he told her as the carousel started moving. “Like this was a crazy bad idea.” His accent was general American.
Jule matched it. “How come?”
“Nausea. It hit me right away, as soon as we started moving. Blech. Also I’m the only person on this thing who’s over the age of ten.”
“Besides me.”
“Besides you. I rode this carousel once when I was a kid. My family came here on a vacation. Today I was waiting for the ferry and I had an hour to kill, so I thought—why not? For old times’ sake.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Why are you on here? Do you have a little brother or sister somewhere?”
Jule shook her head. “I like rides.”
He reached across the space between them and held out his hand. “I’m Paolo Santos. You?”
She shook awkwardly, since both their horses were moving.
This guy was leaving the island. Jule was only talking to him for a minute or two; then she’d never see him again. It didn’t make much sense; it was an impulse—but she lied. “Imogen Sokoloff.”
The name felt good to say. It would be nice, after all, to be Imogen.
“Oh, you’re Imogen Sokoloff?” Paolo threw his head back, laughing and raising his soft eyebrows. “I should have guessed. I heard you might be on the Vineyard.”
“You knew I was here?”
“I should explain. I gave you a fake name. I’m really sorry, that probably seems crazy. Just a fake last name. It’s really Paolo. But not really Santos.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.” He rubbed his forehead again. “It was a strange thing to do, but I figured we were only talking to each other for the next couple minutes. Sometimes when I’m traveling I like to be someone else.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’m Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone. My dad, Stuart, went to school with your father. I’m sure you’ve met him.”
Jule raised her eyebrows. She had heard of Stuart Bellstone. He was a big financial guy recently sent to prison for what the news sites called “the D and G trading scandal.” His picture had been all over the news two months ago when the trial ended.
“I’ve played golf with your father and my dad a number of times,” Paolo went on. “Before Gil got sick. He always talked about you. You went to Greenbriar and then you started at—Vassar, was it?”
“Yes, but I dropped out after fall term,” said Jule.
“How come?”
“That’s a long and boring story.”
“Come on. You’ll distract me from my nausea and then I won’t be sick on you. It’ll be a win all around.”
“My dad would say I got in with party people and didn’t work up to my potential in my first semester,” said Jule.
Paolo laughed. “Sounds like him. What would you say?”
“I would say…that I wanted a different life than the one that was supposed to be my lot,” said Jule slowly. “Coming here was a way to get it.”
The carousel slowed to a stop. They got off their horses and walked out. Paolo grabbed a large backpack from a corner where he’d stashed it. “You wanna go get ice cream?” he asked. “I know the best ice cream place on the island.”
They walked along to a little shop. They argued about hot fudge versus butterscotch topping and then agreed that both at once would solve everything. Paolo said, “It’s so funny, your being here right now. I feel like we nearly met a million times.”
“How did you know I was on Martha’s Vineyard?”
Paolo ate a spoonful of ice cream. “You’re a little bit famous, Imogen, leaving school and going missing—then turning up here. Your dad asked me to call you when I was on the island, to be honest.”
“He did not.”
“Yeah. He emailed me. See? I called your number six days ago.” He pulled out an iPhone and showed her the recent calls.
“That’s a little creepy.”
“No, it’s not,” said Paolo. “Gil wants to know how you are, is all. He said you haven’t been picking up your phone, you’d left school, and you were out on the Vineyard. If I saw you, I should report back that you’re okay. He wanted me to tell you he’s having an operation.”
“I know he’s having an operation. I was just in the city with him.”
“So my efforts were wasted,” said Paolo, shrugging. “Won’t be the first time.”
They walked back to the harbor and looked at boats. Paolo talked about traveling to escape his father’s shattered reputation and the family fallout. He had graduated from college in May and was thinking about going to medical school, but he wanted to see the world before committing. He was going now to spend a night in Boston before getting on a plane to Madrid. He and a friend would be backpacking for a year or more—Europe first, then Asia, ending up in the Philippines.
His ferry was boarding. Paolo kissed Jule quickly on the lips before he left. He was gentle and confident, not pushy. His lips were a little sticky from the butterscotch sauce.
Jule was surprised at the kiss. She didn’t want him to touch her. She didn’t want anyone to touch her, ever. But when Paolo’s full, soft lips brushed hers, she liked it.
She reached her hand to his neck, pulled him toward her, and kissed him again. He was a beautiful guy, she thought. Not all dominant and sweaty. Not all grabby and violent. Not condescending. Not all flattery and gold chains, either. His kiss was so gentle she had to lean in to feel it all the way.
She wished she had told him her real name.
“Can I call you?” he asked. “Again, I mean? Not for your father’s sake.”
No, no.
Paolo couldn’t call Imogen’s phone again. If he did, he’d realize it wasn’t Imogen he’d met. “You’d better not,” said Jule.
“Why not? I’ll be in Madrid, and then wherever, but we could—we could just talk, now and then. About hot fudge and butterscotch, maybe. Or your new life.”
“I’m attached,” Jule said, to make him be quiet.
Paolo’s face fell. “Oh, you are. Of course you are. Well, you have my number anyhow,” he said. “I left a message a while back. It’s a 646 number. So you can ping me if you detach—unattach, whatever it is. Okay?”
“I’m not going to call you,” said Jule. “But thank you for the ice cream.”
He looked hurt, briefly. But then he smiled. “Anytime, Imogen.”
He shouldered his backpack, and was gone.
Jule watched his ferry pull away from the dock. Then she took off her espadrilles and walked down onto the sand. She stood with her feet in the water. She felt Imogen Sokoloff would have done that, would have savored the slight feeling of sadness and the beauty of the harbor view while holding the skirt of her pretty white dress above her knees.
SECOND WEEK OF JUNE, 2016
NEW YORK CITY
A week before going to Martha’s Vineyard, Jule stood with Patti Sokoloff on a deck overlooking Central Park. The sun had set. The park stretched out, a dark rectangle ringed by the city lights.
“I feel like Spider-Man,” Jule blurted. “He looks out over the city at night.”
Patti nodded. Her hair fell in big, professional curls on her shoulders, and s
he wore a long cardigan over a cream-colored dress and pretty, flat sandals. Her feet looked old and had Band-Aids on the heels and toes. “Immie had a boyfriend who came over here for a party once,” she told Jule. “He said the same thing about the view. Well, Batman, he said. But it’s the same idea.”
“They’re not the same.”
“Okay, but they’re both orphans,” said Patti. “Batman lost his parents very early. And so did Spider-Man. He lives with his aunt.”
“You read comics?”
“Never. But I proofread Immie’s college essay about six times. She said Spider-Man and Batman are descended from all the orphans in these Victorian novels she likes. Immie’s really into Victorian novels, did you know that? It’s a thing she hangs her identity on. You know, some people define themselves as athletes, social justice warriors, theater kids. Immie defines herself as a Victorian novel reader.
“She isn’t the best student,” Patti went on, “but she’s into literature. For the college essay, she wrote that in these stories, being orphaned is a precondition for the making of a hero. She also said those comic book heroes aren’t simple heroes, but ‘complicated ones who make moral compromises in the same tradition as the orphans in Victorian narratives.’ I think those might be the exact words from her paper.”
“I used to read comics in high school,” said Jule. “But there was no time at Stanford.”
“Gil grew up with comic books, but I didn’t, and neither did Immie, really. The superheroes were just her introduction, to point out why the older books were important for today’s readers. She got most of the Batman stuff from that boyfriend I mentioned.”
They turned to go inside. The Sokoloff penthouse was dramatic and modern but cluttered with piles of books, magazines, and keepsakes. The floors were white wood, everywhere. A cook was at work in the kitchen, where the breakfast table was piled with junk mail, pill bottles, and tissue packets. The living room was centered on two huge leather couches. Next to one of them was a breathing machine.