Sara Shepard - Never Have I Ever

“Stuffed shrimp?” a waitress asked as she floated past. Emma and Ethan each took a treat.

A second waitress materialized, offering them flutes of champagne. “Of course,” Ethan said, taking two glasses and handing one to Emma. The crystal sparkled, and the bubbles rose to the top of the glass.

Champagne. How I wished I could have one tiny, beyond-the-grave sip.

“Cheers,” Ethan said, offering his glass in a toast.

Emma clinked her champagne flute to his. “How did you know about this?”

A slight flush crawled up Ethan’s neck. “Oh, I just came across it online.”

Warmth spread through Emma’s chest as she imagined Ethan sitting at his computer, scrolling through events they could attend together.

They walked toward the artwork. Around each photograph was a large black square frame. Small beams of light from the ceiling illuminated each image. The first photo was of a long, straight road as seen from the inside of a car. It was printed in black archival pigment ink on cotton paper, and there was something haunting about the dark trees and eerily lit sky. Emma glanced at the small placard off to the side. Besides listing the artist’s name, it also showed the price. Three thousand dollars. Whoa.

“So I haven’t told you the latest,” Emma whispered as they moved to the next photo, a triptych of desert vistas. The champagne tickled her throat, and she felt increasingly aware of how close Ethan stood to her as he examined each photo. To outsiders, they probably looked like boyfriend and girlfriend. She took another sip of champagne. “I’m almost positive Sutton was with the Twitter Twins at Clique on the night she died.”

Ethan lowered his glass from his lips. “What makes you say that?”

Emma explained the conversation she’d had at Madeline’s house on Saturday. “It’s too much of a coincidence. They had to be the friends Sutton was with when she shoplifted. And what if they . . .” She looked away, fixating on a fire extinguisher mounted to the wall across the room.

“Gabby and Lili, killers?” Ethan tilted his head and squinted as if trying to picture it. “Those two are definitely off-kilter, that’s for sure. They have been for years.”

Emma skirted around an enormous potted plant with spidery leaves to get to the next photo. “Part of me thinks they’re too vapid to pull it off.”

“They’re the poster girls for vapid,” Ethan agreed. “But whatever happened to Gabby on the night of the train prank gives them motive.”

“And maybe that ditzy-girl act is just that—an act,” Emma said. She’d certainly known fake ditzes before, like her foster sister, Sela, who acted like the quintessential dumb blonde in front of their foster parents but sold pot out of an abandoned split-level at the back of the neighborhood.

“They’re good actresses, then.” Ethan walked to another photograph. “Did anyone tell you that Gabby ran over Lili’s foot last year with their dad’s Beemer?”

“No . . .”

“And then when Lili came home with a cast on, apparently Gabby was like, ‘Oh my God ! What happened to you?’”

Emma giggled. “She did not!”

“There’s another story about Gabby somehow locking herself inside her gym locker in ninth grade.” Ethan paused to take another canapé from the tray. “I didn’t even know someone could fit inside one of those. And when we were in junior high? Someone caught Lili and Gabby talking in British voices on the playground, calling each other ‘Miss Lili Tallywacker’ and ‘Gabby Pony Baloney.’ They had no idea the terms were slang for penis; they just thought they sounded funny. They didn’t live that down for a long time.”

Emma almost coughed up a mouthful of champagne. “Oh my God.”

“But despite all that, something tells me you shouldn’t write them off so easily,” Ethan said. “You should be careful around them, figure out what they know.”

Emma nodded. “Madeline and the others want to prank them. But I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“I’d stay away from that plan. If they are the killers, the last thing you want to do is piss them off more.”

The AC clicked on, and the air suddenly felt chilly. The band played something more appropriate for a 1920s speakeasy, and a couple of the drunker attendees started to dance. Ethan waved his hands around his face to dispel a cloud of cigar smoke.

They were quiet as they moved to the next set of photographs. It was a collage of Polaroids, each depicting different body parts: eyes, noses, feet, ears. “I love Polaroids,” Ethan said.

“Me, too,” Emma answered, relieved at the change in subject. “My mom gave me a Polaroid camera when I was little, before she took off.”

“Do you miss her?” Ethan asked.

Emma fingered the stem of her champagne glass. “It’s been so long,” she said vaguely. “I hardly remember what there is to miss.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Emma sighed and moved past a clump of patrons talking loudly about how they’d all been friends with Andy Warhol back in the glory days of the art scene. “A long time ago, I used to think she was still nearby, watching me. Following me from home to home, staying close to make sure I was okay. But I know now how stupid that was.”

“It’s not stupid.”

Emma stared intently at the price list on the wall as though she were thinking of making a purchase. “No, it is. Becky left me. She made a choice; I can’t change that.”

“Hey.” Ethan turned Emma to face him. For a moment, he just stared at her, which sent a thousand butterflies flapping through Emma’s stomach. Then, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “She made the wrong choice. You know that, right?”

A swell of emotions washed over Emma. “Thank you,” she said quietly, staring into his round blue eyes.

“ Kiss him ,” I whispered, feeling like the singing hermit crab in The Little Mermaid . I was all out of my own first kisses, so I had to root for Emma now.

A woman in a magenta dress bumped into Emma. “Sorry,” she slurred, her eyes glazed and her cheeks a boozy red. And Emma pulled away, giggling.

“So how do you know so much about crashing art openings?” Emma said, smoothing the front of Sutton’s dress. “I thought you were anti-party.”

Ethan strolled to a bank of windows at the back of the gallery that overlooked a stone terrace festooned with Christmas lights. “I’m not. I’m just against the kind of party with spiked punch and body shots. It’s so . . .”

“Juvenile?” Emma filled in for him. “But sometimes that’s a part of having a social life. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it to have friends.”

Ethan drained his glass of champagne and set it on a side table. “If that’s the price I have to pay, then I’d rather be alone.”

“What about girlfriends?” she asked nervously. She’d wracked her brain for days, thinking of how to ask him this.

A tiny smile danced across Ethan’s lips. “Yeah, I’ve had a few of those.”

“Anyone I know?”

Ethan just shrugged and sank into one of the angular leather chairs that could’ve been an art exhibit themselves.

“Were any of them serious?” Emma pressed as she settled next to him and cradled a soft, overstuffed pillow.

“One was. But it’s over now. What about you?” His gaze canvassed her face. “Did you leave anyone behind in Vegas?”

“Not exactly.” Emma stared at her lap. “I had some boyfriends, but nothing was too serious. And then there was this one guy, but . . .”

“But what?”

Emma’s throat tightened. “It ended up being nothing.”