Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

I nodded. And yet, there still hadn’t been a black president or vice-president.

And yet, the standard of living of African-Americans was still lower than that of whites—not only meaning a shorter natural life expectancy, but also that far fewer of them could afford the array of treatments available to the rich.

And yet, just last week, they’d picked the person who would be the first to set foot on Mars. Of course it was a man, I’d thought bitterly when the announcement was made. Perhaps Devon had greeted the news with equal dismay, thinking, Of course he’s white.

Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around, and there was Madeline Green. She was easy to recognize; she’d clearly had all sorts of treatments. Her face was smooth, her hair the same reddish-brown I remembered from her genuine youth. How she’d recognized me, though, I didn’t know. Perhaps she’d overheard me talking to Devon, and had identified me by my voice, or perhaps just the fact that I was talking to Devon had been clue enough.

“Why, Madeline!” I said, forcing a smile. “How good to see you!” I turned to Devon. “You remember Devon Smith?”

“How could I forget?” said Madeline. He was proffering his hand, and, after a moment, she took it.

“Hello, Madeline,” said Devon. “You look fabulous.”

It had been what Madeline had wanted to hear, but I’d been too niggardly to offer up.

Niggardly. A perfectly legitimate word—from the Scandinavian for “stingy,” if I remembered correctly. But also a word I never normally used, even in my thoughts. And yet it had come to mind just now, recalling, I supposed, what Madeline had called Devon behind his back all those years ago.

Devon lifted his wineglass. “I need a refill,” he said.

The last time I’d looked, he’d still had half a glass; I wondered if he’d quickly drained it when he saw Madeline approaching, giving him a way to exit gracefully, although whether it was me or Madeline he wanted to escape, I couldn’t say. In any event, Devon was now moving off, heading toward the cafeteria table that had been set up as a makeshift bar.

“I bought your albums,” said Madeline, now squeezing my hand. “Of course, they were all on vinyl. I don’t have a record player anymore.”

“They’re available on CD,” I said. “And for download.”

“Are they now?” replied Madeline, sounding surprised. I guess she thought of my songs as artifacts of the distant past.

And perhaps they were—although, as I looked over at Devon’s broad back, it sure didn’t feel that way.

* * *

“Welcome back, class of Nineteen Sixty-Three!”

We were all facing the podium, next to the table with the portable stereo. Behind the podium, of course, was Pinky Spenser—although I doubt anyone had called him “Pinky” for half a century. He’d been student-council president, and editor of the school paper, and valedictorian, and on and on, so he was the natural MC for the evening. Still, I was glad to see that for all his early success, he, too, looked old.

There were now perhaps seventy-five people present, including twenty like Madeline who had been able to afford rejuvenation treatments. Id had a chance to chat briefly with many of them. They’d all greeted me like an old friend, although I couldn’t remember ever being invited to their parties or along on their group outings. But now, because I’d once been famous, they all wanted to say hello. They hadn’t had the time of day for me back when we’d been teenagers, but doubtless, years later, had gone around saying to people, “You’ll never guess who I went to school with!”

“We have a bunch of prizes to give away,” said Pinky, leaning into the mike, distorting his own voice; part of me wanted to show him how to use it properly. “First, for the person who has come the farthest …”

Pinky presented a half-dozen little trophies. I’d had awards enough in my life, and didn’t expect to get one tonight—nor did I. Neither did Devon.

“And now” said Pinky, “although it’s not from 1963, I think you’ll all agree that this is appropriate …”

He leaned over and put a new disk in the portable stereo. I could see it from here; it was a CD-ROM that someone had burned at home. Pinky pushed the play button, and …

And one of my songs started coming from the speakers. I recognized it by the second note, of course, but the others didn’t until the recorded version of me started singing, and then Madeline Green clapped her hands together. “Oh, listen!” she said, turning toward me. “It’s you!”

And it was—from half a century ago, with my song that had become the anthem for a generation of ugly-ducking girls like me. How could Pinky possibly think I wanted to hear that now, here, at the place where all the heartbreak the song chronicled had been experienced?