Free Impostor by Jill Hathaway

open.
    I hear the unmistakable sound of Samantha sobbing in one of the stalls. She gasps and stops crying, though, as soon as I walk in. Same old Samantha. She could never let anyone see her wounded.
    “Samantha? It’s me, Vee.”
    I hear her blow her nose, and then the toilet flushes.
    “Sam? You okay?”
    She opens the door and steps into the harsh fluorescent light, straightening her skirt. Her eyes are dry, but her cheeks are all splotchy and red. She takes a few steps to the nearest sink and starts to wash her hands.
    “What do you want?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.
    “I—I saw you run in here, and I thought you were upset.”
    After drying her hands, she turns around and leans against the sink. “Why would you care? Of all people, why you?” The question cuts me to the bone. Sure, we haven’t been friendly in a while, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter to me, even after the terrible rumors she spread when I went out with Scotch.
    “Why wouldn’t I care?” I ask gently.
    “Um, because I’ve been a major bitch to you this last year? If I were you, I wouldn’t even speak to me.” Samantha’s voice breaks, and her façade begins crumbling before my eyes. It’s not that Samantha hates me, I realize. She just doesn’t want to face her own despicable behavior.
    “Look, Sam. I was pissed at you for a long time. Really pissed. But I have the feeling you’re going through a hard time. I know you were out with Scotch last week. Did something happen? It might help to talk to someone who’s dealt with him before.”
    Samantha looks up at the ceiling and fans her face like she does when she’s trying not to cry. I duck into one of the stalls and grab a bit of toilet paper. Wordlessly, I hold it out to her, like a peace treaty.
    She accepts it.
    Turning toward the sink, she blows her nose. Then she leans forward and stares at herself while she speaks. “There was a bonfire Thursday night. Everybody was there.” Her eyes flicker toward me. “Well, you know what I mean.”
    I shrug. A bonfire with a bunch of cheerleaders and football players sounds kind of like the ninth circle of hell to me.
    “Scotch asked me to go with him. I don’t know why I said yes—I guess I was still a little mad about you going to the dance with him last year. It’s like I had to prove something to myself—that he wanted me. Or something. It was dumb. Anyway, I chugged, like, four beers. And then I started to feel sick. I puked in the weeds, and Scotch held my hair. He was being really sweet. I remember getting in the car with him to go home, but nothing after that. When I woke up, I was propped against my front door. He just left me there, I guess . . .”
    Sam stops for a moment and then looks at me in the mirror. “Vee, I didn’t have any underwear on.” She crosses her arms over her chest and starts to cry. “I looked everywhere and couldn’t find them. On Friday morning, I heard some guys talking about how Scotch was saying I slept with him. And that he had proof.”
    I stand for a moment, not really knowing what to do. I can count the number of times I’ve seen Samantha cry on one hand. Even when we were best friends, she liked to pretend that she was invincible. I remember when her older brother had an emergency appendectomy, I went to visit Sam at the hospital. Her eyes remained dry the whole time I was there. I kind of wanted her protective shell to break, so I could be there for her and comfort her. But now that I have the chance, I feel totally lost.
    “Holy shit, Samantha,” I say. My words feel stupid and worthless, but they seem to break through to her, just the same. She holds her arms out to me, and I bridge the gap between us to give her a long hug.
    “I just wish I knew what happened,” she whispers.
    “I know the feeling,” I say, thinking back to my own encounter with Scotch. To this day, it sickens me to know that he was alone with my unconscious body. He could have done