Sara Shepard - Two Truths and a Lie

“Yeah, maybe,” Emma said, realizing that she barely ever hung out with any of Sutton’s friends one-on-one.

Drake let out a low bark downstairs, and Emma heard Mrs. Mercer shush him. “Listen, I should go—I promised Sutton I’d help her with homework before classes start.”

She disconnected the call after promising she’d keep in better touch, then wandered out of Sutton’s closet and flopped back on her bed, her head suddenly throbbing. It was awful to lie to Alex. She thought of all the afternoons she’d spent in Alex’s bedroom, finding new music on Pandora and predicting each other’s futures. They’d shared a mauve-colored journal, taking turns updating it with new entries every few days. They’d stashed it in a trapdoor cut into the carpet below Alex’s bed so no one would find it. They had secrets they kept from the world, but not from each other—until now.

Emma sat up. If Thayer had kept Sutton’s notes, maybe she’d kept his, too. But where did she hide them?

Emma swung her legs over the side of Sutton’s bed and ducked beneath the folds of the comforter. Two shoeboxes were shoved up against the wall, but she’d already gone through them weeks ago. She pulled them out anyway, dumping the contents onto the bed, in case she’d missed something. Old tests and graded papers scattered across the sheets along with a neon green rubber band and concert ticket stubs for Lady Gaga. A Barbie doll with vacant blue eyes stared back at Emma, her tangled blonde hair cascading over an elaborate silk prom dress. This wasn’t E, the doll Sutton had perhaps named after Emma—she was in a hope chest in the Mercers’ bedroom. But Emma had seen all this stuff before.

Emma moved to Sutton’s dresser and yanked each drawer open one by one, tossing the contents onto the floor. There had to be something she was missing. She rifled through T-shirts and shorts and stuck her hands into tennis socks. She skimmed every page of three worn notebooks filled with history notes and algebra equations, and sorted through tubes of lip gloss, half a dozen chandelier earrings, and a small pot of moisturizer whose label promised to revitalize tired skin.

After she’d searched the drawers of Sutton’s desk as well, she slumped against the wall, scanning old photos to make sure there wasn’t something she had missed the first dozen times. But what would that be? A figure lurking in the background at a tennis match? Someone holding a sign saying I KILLED YOUR SISTER at her birthday party? Someone holding a knife to her back at prom?

Emma’s spine straightened and her head snapped up. Prom Queen Barbie. She didn’t fit with everything else Sutton had stashed under the bed and inside the drawers. Emma yanked the doll from where she’d dropped her in a tangle of light blue blankets and flipped her upside down. The folds of fabric fell away, exposing a tiny pouch sewn into the innermost layer of the ball gown. Bingo.

Nice work. Even I wouldn’t have thought to check the doll—and presumably I was the one who’d put that pouch there.

Emma plunged her index finger inside the pouch and touched cold metal. It was a tiny, tarnished silver key. She held it up to the light. It looked like the kind of key that could open a journal or a jewelry box.

A knock sounded and Sutton’s door swung open. Laurel stood in the doorway in a cloud of tuberose perfume, her hands on her hips. There was a sour look on her face. “Mom wants you downstairs for breakfast.” Then she glanced around at the clutter strewn across the floor. “What in the world are you doing in here?”

Emma looked around at the mess. “Um, nothing. Just looking for an earring.” She held up a silver star stud she’d just found under the bed. “Found it.”

“What’s that?” Laurel pointed accusingly at the key in Emma’s palm.

Emma stared at it, too, cursing herself. If only she’d thought to hide it before Laurel saw it. “Oh, just some old thing,” she said vaguely, dropping the key on Sutton’s bedside table like she didn’t have a care in the world. Only when Laurel turned away did she scoop it back up again and shove it into the pocket of Sutton’s jeans. If the key had been important enough to hide, maybe it led to some huge secret. And Emma wasn’t going to rest until she found out what it was.

Which meant, no doubt, that I wouldn’t rest either.

Thursday afternoon, Emma sat in Fashion Design, Sutton’s last class of the day. Headless mannequins covered in draped muslin bordered the room. A makeshift runway shot through the center. Students sat at worktables, fabric, scissors, buttons, zippers, and thread strewn around them. Hollier’s one and only fashion design teacher, Mr. Salinas, paced the room, wearing slim-cut trousers and a pale blue scarf tied around his neck. He looked like Tim Gunn’s younger brother.

“Today’s presentation will push the boundaries of form versus function,” he announced in a pinched voice. He tapped a long, skinny finger on the glossy cover of French Vogue, which he had more than once called his “Bible.” “It’s the question on the tip of every editor’s tongue,” he mused. “How does fashion translate from the runway to real life?”

Emma glanced at her mannequin. Her creation wasn’t exactly translating, per se. Plaid flannel crossed the midsection, pinned awkwardly at the waist where Emma had attempted to make the outfit A-line. A black chiffon top hung crookedly with ruffles that sagged at the collar. The worst part was the pin: Emma had tried to make a flower-shaped brooch out of the excess plaid fabric. Add that to the red pen marks that dotted the mannequin’s bare arms, and the whole thing looked like a drunken schoolgirl-gone-goth with a bad case of the chicken pox. Although Emma loved fashion—she scoured thrift stores and made a lot of on-the-cheap outfits look expensive—sewing clothes wasn’t really her thing. She suspected Sutton took this class for the same reason she took a lot of the electives in her schedule—because they were fairly easy As and didn’t require much reading.

“What does the artist within have to say?” Mr. Salinas blathered on. “This is what we must ask ourselves.”

Emma ducked down, hoping Mr. Salinas didn’t call on her—she hadn’t exactly been trying to say anything. She had bigger things to worry about than pushing the boundaries of form versus function , like figuring out if Thayer had killed her sister before he got out of jail and came after her again.

“ Ma deline?” Mr. Salinas called out, dramatically emphasizing the first syllable of her name. “Tell us what you’ve created here with your avant-garde ballerina.”

Madeline stood and smoothed down her black leather miniskirt. She was the best in the class and she knew it. “Well, Edgar,” she started. She was also the only student who called Mr. Salinas by his first name. “The look I’ve created is called the Dark Dance. It’s sort of ballet-meets-street. It’s the dancer after hours. Where does she go? What does she do?” She gestured toward her mannequin, which wore a blazer over a black dress and tights. “It’s the dark, deviant part of all of us that lies under the façade of perfection.”

Mr. Salinas clapped his hands together. “Brilliant! Absolutely divine. Everyone, this is the kind of work I expect you all to be doing.”

Madeline sat back down, looking satisfied with herself. Emma tapped her knee. “Your dress looks amazing. I’m super-impressed.”