Sara Shepard - Never Have I Ever

She sat on the bottom step of the Mercers’ staircase, the house quiet around her. Laurel was out with a friend at Les Misérables —since Emma was grounded, she couldn’t use the ticket Laurel had given her for her birthday. Only Drake watched her from his sprawled-out post on the living room floor, and he was too lazy to get up.

Bright headlights shone in the driveway. Emma rose, carefully opened the front door, and looked both ways as she stepped off the porch. Some of the windows in the houses next door were lit; she hoped no nosy neighbors would mention this to the Mercers. Your daughter looked lovely all dressed up! And who was that dashing young man escorting her?

Ethan had gotten out of the car to open the passenger door for her. He wore a dark suit jacket, khaki pants, and shiny black shoes, a huge change from his usual disheveled shorts and tees.

“Wow.” Emma paused for a moment before getting into the car. “You look so . . . handsome .”

“Handsome, huh?” Ethan grinned.

Emma blushed. “Yeah, handsome like a Ken doll.”

Ethan’s eyes traveled along her body. “And you look really pretty,” he said, his words spilling out awkwardly. “But not like a Barbie.”

Emma pressed her lips together in a bashful smile. After a moment, she swung into the passenger seat. Ethan jogged to the driver’s door and revved the engine. Emma rested her hand on the console between them, wondering for just a moment whether Ethan would try to link his fingers through hers. Instead, he took out a plaid handkerchief from the inside of his coat and turned to face her.

“You’re going to have to wear this,” he said, a mischievous grin crawling across his face. “Our destination is a secret.”

She burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack.” He motioned for her to twist and tied the scarf around her head. In moments, Emma was enveloped in darkness. She felt the car lurch into reverse and then pivot to the right, onto the street. With anyone else, she probably would’ve been freaked out by such a gesture—Madeline and the Twitter Twins had kidnapped her at Sabino Canyon in a similar fashion, after all. But with Ethan, she felt safe. Excited.

“It won’t be too long,” he assured her. Emma heard the soft tick-tick-tick of the turn signal. “No peeking!”

A new song by the Strokes played softly on the stereo. Emma sat back and shut her eyes, wondering where they were going. Yesterday in school, she’d told him about Madeline’s, Charlotte’s, and Laurel’s alibis, and Ethan had nodded, businesslike—he’d been cordial but distant since the almost-kiss. The bell had rung before she could tell him about her new suspects, the Twitter Twins. There had been no mention of anything personal. There had been no mention of what had happened at the pool. Maybe Ethan just wanted to forget it had happened. But then again, this seemed a lot like a date.

She felt a slight jerk as the car stopped for a light. Close by, a car stereo thudded.

I tried to look at where they were going, but ran up against one of the weird side effects about my dead life with Emma—whenever her eyes were closed or covered, mine were, too. It made me wonder who or what was behind all this—not my murder, but me , here, trailing Emma from beyond the grave. Believe me, I hadn’t been a what-does-it-all-mean kind of girl when I was alive, reading philosophy and praying to Buddha or whatever. But this opportunity with Emma, as scary as it was, made me feel kind of . . . blessed. Undeserving, too. I’d clearly been a bitch in life; why was I given this special gift? Or was this what happened to everyone after they died, or at least those with unfinished business?

Finally, Emma sensed the car easing to a stop and heard Ethan shift it into PARK. “Okay,” he said softly. “You can look now.”

Emma lowered the scarf and blinked. They were downtown, near the college. A large, sand-colored building stretched across the horizon. Sweet-smelling lemon trees lined a stone walkway. Golden lights illuminated the grand front steps. Across the front of the building was a black banner that read TUCSON PHOTOGRAPHY INSTITUTE.

“Oh!” Emma cried, feeling more confused than ever.

“There’s an exhibit for three London-based photographers starting tonight,” Ethan explained. “I know you like photography, so . . .”

“This is great!” Emma breathed. Then she looked down at her dress. “But why are we dressed up?”

“Because tonight’s the opening party.”

“And we’re . . . invited?”

Ethan shot her a devious smile. “Nope. We’re going to crash.”

Emma’s hands went slack in her lap. “Ethan—I can’t get in trouble again. The Mercers will kill me if they know I’m out. I’m supposed to be in Sutton’s bedroom right now, repenting my life as a criminal.”

Ethan gestured to two party guests climbing the grand stairs. A tuxedoed man at the top smiled at them and politely opened the doors without checking for credentials. “Live a little. I promise you we won’t get caught.”

“But what does this have to do with Sutton?”

Ethan sat back against his seat, looking a little surprised by the question. “Well, nothing. I just thought it would be fun.”

Emma gazed from the photo institute’s elegant columns back to Ethan’s face. A fancy party with Ethan? That would be fun. Maybe she deserved some time to relax and just be herself.

“Okay.” She pushed open the door, casting a grin over her shoulder. “But at the first sign of trouble, we’re leaving.”

Good girl , I thought. For a second, I had been sure Emma was going to demand that Ethan take her home. The problem with Emma being grounded was that I’d been cooped up for days, watching her pace in my bedroom. Crashing a party is just what the boredom doctor ordered.

They ascended the stone staircase. The punishing heat of the day had broken, and a cool breeze tickled their cheeks. The scent of lemon trees and a musky mix of women’s and men’s colognes hung in the air. The tuxedoed man eyed them as they approached, and Emma sucked in her stomach. Was he ticking off his mental list of invitees? Could he tell they were high school students?

“Act naturally,” Ethan murmured to Emma, apparently noticing how stiff she’d become. “The opposite of how you acted when you stole that handbag.”

“Very funny.” When Emma reached Mr. Tuxedo, she shot him the most carefree smile she could muster. “Good evening,” the man said, opening the door for them.

“See?” she whispered when they were safely in the lobby. “I totally played it cool. I’m not as big a loser as you think I am.”

Ethan looked at her sideways. “I most definitely don’t think you’re a loser.” Then he touched the back of Emma’s arm to guide her inside the exhibit. For a moment, all sounds and sights dulled, and Emma felt like she and Ethan were the only ones in the universe. When he let go at the end of the lobby, she adjusted the strap of Sutton’s silky dress and tried to breathe normally.

The museum was dark and smelled like fresh flowers. Guests mingled around the wide, terra-cotta-tiled space, some gazing at the black-and-white photos on the walls, some chatting with one another, others scoping out the crowd. Everyone wore sleek gowns, chic party dresses, and dapper suits. There were clusters of people surrounding three awestruck guys who looked like they were in their twenties, probably the artists. A jazz band played an Ella Fitzgerald song, and waitresses in simple black sheaths swirled around with trays of canapés and drinks. A couple of guests glanced at Emma and Ethan curiously, but Emma tried to stand as straight and confidently as she could.