“Amber. Amber. AMBER. Doesn’t this guy look like Luke? HEY, DUDE. YEAH, YOU. YOU REMIND ME OF OUR FRIEND LUKE. LIKE SAME FACE. EVERYTHING.”
I am twenty years old, still using the fake ID that my high school boyfriend’s best friend stole from the apartment building his dad owned and he worked in, a girl with an upturned pug nose and a short haircut who looks nothing like me, who looks nothing like my cousins or my cousins’ cousins or anyone remotely within my German/Dutch/Aussie/Brit gene pool. Bouncers laugh at me. Bartenders still serve me. I think this is the very definition of a fake ID. Amber, older and wiser and using an ID that’s actually her own, is snickering into a whisky soda. “Yeah, he totally looks like Luke.”
