Imposter by Antony John

acting.”
    â€œYeah. When I’m onstage, everyone watches. They don’t even see Seth Crane. They see whatever character I’m playing, and the character
matters
to them, you know? I want to feel like everything I do and say—every single moment—really matters.”
    The limo slows down. Cameras flash through the closed tinted windows.
    â€œYou’re not in character now,” she says, “and the cameras are waiting for you anyway.”
    I get out and wrap an arm around Annaleigh protectively. I try to carve a swath through the hustling photographers, but they’re reluctant to move aside. Their flashes burn white spots at the center of my eyes.
    No wonder Sabrina told me to divide myself in three. If this is what it feels like to
matter,
it’s not what I expected. Onstage I’m in control no matter how bright and hot the spotlights, but here I’m a patient on a gurney as a team of surgeons examine every part of me. They’re invasive and unapologetic. I belong to them now.
    Annaleigh startles me by putting her hand in mine. “This way,” she says, taking charge.
    Machinus Media Enterprises is housed in a large open-space industrial building. A cacophony of modern art hangs over concrete walls. The music is loud and the mood lighting is low, as if everyone prefers to exist in a state of perpetual twilight. I recognize their faces anyway, though, because there are celebrities here—teens and adults, actors and musicians. They linger at the bar in the center of the room, and huddle in the nooks and crannies that fan out from the corners.
    I remind myself what Ryder said about getting people to notice me, but I’m not about to introduce myself to strangers. Maybe I should follow Gant’s advice instead:
Celebrity autographs sell great on eBay!
    â€œWhat are you smiling about?” asks Annaleigh.
    â€œI was just thinking, I’m so out of my league.”
    â€œWe,” she corrects. “
We
are so out of our league.”
    My cell phone chimes. I hope it’s Ryder, our personal choreographer, offering directions for how to behave, but the text message is anonymous:
Get a drink, imposter.
    I tense up. I don’t like that word—
imposter
—and I especially don’t like that it’s anonymous. Only a few people know this number.
    I look around the room, but the only person I recognize is Curt Barrett, our financier, and he’s too busy schmoozing to send a text. As our eyes meet, he peels away from his entourage and joins us.
    Like a busy maitre d’ Curt introduces us to people whose names I instantly forget, and some whose names I’ve known for years—a reality TV host, an award-winning character actor, aformer child star. An official-looking photographer records every introduction.
    Curt steers us toward a tall guy with long hair. “You’ve already met Kris Ellis, haven’t you?”
    Kris tilts his head. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks me.
    He’s flanked by at least half a dozen guys, all of them watching me. I recognize a few from TV shows, but not the others. They shadow him as closely as bodyguards.
    As I gawk at the entourage, Annaleigh steps forward. “We haven’t met,” she says. “I’m Annaleigh.”
    â€œI know who you are.” A smile pulls at the corner of Kris’s mouth. “Interesting junket this afternoon. I kept thinking: I wish I could see more of the female lead.”
    Annaleigh blushes. “You would’ve seen plenty of her if you and Sabrina hadn’t dropped out.”
    â€œI’m just saying, when it comes to junkets, people often say too much. Sometimes less is more.”
    â€œAnd more is less, yeah. Which one am I, by the way? More, or less.”
    Kris knows she’s teasing him, but he laughs anyway. And once he laughs, his posse laughs too. Difference is, they’re all still looking at me, not