Genuine Fraud(41)
“You shouldn’t go back to the Vineyard because you feel obligated to Forrest, of all people,” said Jule.
“I love Forrest.”
“Then why are you lying to him all the time?” snapped Jule. “Why are you here with me? Why are you still thinking about Isaac Tupperman? That’s not how you act when you’re in love. You don’t leave a person in the middle of the night and expect they’ll be glad when you turn up again. You don’t get to leave them like that.”
“You’re jealous of Forrest. I get that. But I’m not some doll you can play with and not share.” Immie spoke harshly. “I used to think you liked me for myself—without my money, without anything. I thought we were alike and that you understood me. It was easy to tell you things. But more and more, I feel like you have this idea of me, Imogen Sokoloff”—she said her name as if it were in italics—“and it’s not who I am. You have this idea of a person you like. But it’s not me. You just want to wear my clothes and read my books and play pretend with my money. It’s not a real friendship, Jule. It’s not a real friendship when I pay for everything and you borrow everything and it’s still not enough. You want all my secrets, and then you hold them over me. I feel sorry for you, I do. I like you—but you’ve become, like, an imitation of me half the time. I’m sorry beyond sorry to have to say this, but you—”
“What?”
“You don’t add up. You keep changing the details of the stories you tell, and it’s like you don’t even know it. I should never have asked you to come stay with us in the Vineyard house. It was good for a while, but now I feel used, and even lied to, somehow. I need to get away from you. That’s the truth.”
The sense of dizziness increased.
Immie couldn’t be saying what she was saying.
Jule had been doing whatever Imogen wanted for weeks and weeks. She had left Immie alone when she wanted to be alone, had gone shopping when Immie wanted to go shopping. She had tolerated Brooke, tolerated Forrest. Jule had been a listener when required, a storyteller when required. She had adapted to the environment and learned all the codes of behavior for Immie’s world. She had kept her mouth shut. She had read hundreds of pages of Dickens.
“I’m not my clothes,” Imogen said. “I’m not my money. You want me to be this person—”
“I don’t want you to be anything that’s not yourself,” interrupted Jule. “I don’t.”
“But you do,” said Imogen. “You want me to pay attention to you when I don’t feel like it. You want me to be beautiful and effortless, when some days I feel ugly and things come hard. You set me up on a throne and you want me to always make nice food and read great literature and be golden with everyone, but that isn’t me, and it’s exhausting. I don’t want to dress up and perform this idea you have of me.”
“That isn’t true.”
“The weight of it is enormous, Jule. It smothers me. You’re pushing me to be something to you, and I don’t want to be it.”
“You’re my closest friend.” It was the truth, and it came out of Jule’s chest, loud and plaintive. Jule had always skimmed past people. They weren’t hers; they never made a mark on her, and she would miss no one. Jule had told a hundred lies to make Immie love her. She deserved that love in exchange for them.
Immie shook her head. “After a couple weeks at my place this summer? Your closest friend? Not even possible. I should have asked you to leave after the first weekend.”
Jule stood. Immie was sitting on the edge of the front of the boat.
“What did I do to make you hate me?” Jule asked her. “I don’t understand what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything! I don’t hate you.”
“I want to know what I did wrong.”
“Look. I only asked you to come with me because I wanted you to keep quiet,” said Imogen. “I asked you here to shut you up. There, that’s it.”
They were silent. That sentence stood between them: I asked you here to shut you up.
Imogen went on: “I can’t take this trip anymore. I can’t take you borrowing my clothes and looking at me the way you do, like I’m never enough and you’re threatening me and you want me to care so much for you. I don’t.”
Jule didn’t think, couldn’t think.
She picked up an oar from the bottom of the boat. She swung it, hard.
The paddle end hit Imogen in the skull. Sharp edge first.
Immie crumpled. The vessel rocked wildly. Jule stepped forward and Immie’s face turned up at her. Immie looked surprised, and Jule felt a moment of triumph: the opponent had underestimated her.
She brought the oar down again on that angel face. The nose cracked, and the cheekbones. One of the eyes bulged and gushed. Jule hit a third time and the noise was terrific, loud and somehow final. Imogen’s jaw and the entitlement and beauty and uncaring self-importance, all of it was smashed by the power of Jule’s right arm. Jule was the fucking victor, and for a quick moment it felt glorious.
Immie slid off her perch into the water. The boat tipped as her weight fell off. Jule stumbled back, hitting her hip hard against the side.
Immie splashed twice, struggling. Gasping. Her eyes were filled with blood. It leaked out into the turquoise water. Her white shirt floated out around her.