Sara Shepard - The Lying Game

Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. “Um . . . do we have something a little bigger?”

Nisha tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “I already assigned the rest, Sutton. That’s what you get for not helping me do uniforms yesterday afternoon!”

“But . . . I wasn’t here yesterday!” Emma protested. Technically, she’d been on the smelly bus to Tucson.

Nisha let out a sharp sniff. “So I suppose that was someone else who looked exactly like you at my party then?” She pointed at the Mini-Me uniform. “Hurry up and get dressed, co-captain! You want to show your team spirit, don’t you?” With a roll of her hips, she sauntered out of the gym toward the tennis courts, several younger players in her wake. The giggling grew louder and louder, bouncing off the gym’s high walls.

Emma balled up the uniform in her hands. No one had ever been so blatantly mean to her before. Nisha really had it out for Sutton.

I was thinking the same thing, too. And it actually kind of made me nervous.

Charlotte approached Emma, her mouth a tight line. “We can’t let her do this to you,” she hissed in Emma’s ear. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Emma stared at her blankly.

“Let’s get her,” Charlotte finished. “Soon.”

Get her? An uncertain shudder rumbled deep within Emma’s core. But before she could say a word, Charlotte pulled her toward the doorway, leading her into the punishing Arizona sunshine, and leaving us both to wonder what she meant.

As soon as Emma stepped through the door from tennis practice, the smell of steak, baked potatoes, and crescent rolls swarmed her nostrils. Mrs. Mercer stuck her head through the kitchen doorway. “There you are. Dinner’s ready.”

Emma pulled a hand through her wet hair. Right now? She’d hoped she’d get a couple minutes to herself before dinner. Maybe go upstairs, curl up in a ball, mourn the dead sister she’d never met, figure out what to do next . . .

She dropped Sutton’s tennis bag in the foyer and stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mercer carried tumblers of water to the table while Mr. Mercer uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Laurel was already sitting down, fiddling with her fork. She’d taken off after tennis practice without offering Emma a ride.

Emma slid in next to Laurel. There was a tiny folded paper crane near her water glass. Laurel cleared her throat and nudged her chin toward it. “You should open that.”

Emma stared at the crane, and then looked cautiously around the room. She’d rather not open it, thanks, especially if it was going to be another creepy note. But Laurel kept staring. The shiny origami paper crinkled as Emma slowly deconstructed the bird. On the plain white underside it read: I FORGIVE YOU. –L

“I heard Nisha’s party sucked.” Laurel twisted a cloth napkin in her hands. “And I finally asked Char after tennis. She told me they kidnapped you.”

Emma folded the origami paper back into a bird and touched Laurel’s arm. “Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but at least someone finally believed something she’d said.

“You’re welcome,” Laurel said, shooting Emma a tiny hopeful look.

Suddenly, a blurry flash about Laurel appeared before my eyes. I saw the two of us standing at a gate with a sign on it that said LA PALOMA SPA POOL—GUESTS ONLY! We both wore terry-cloth shorts and oversized sunglasses. “Just pretend like you belong here,” I instructed, taking Laurel’s hand. She gave me that same eager, loyal, you’re-the-big-sister-and-I-want-to-be-just-like-you look as she was giving to Emma now.

So we’d been friends . . . once upon a time, anyway. It certainly hadn’t seemed that way from my memory of the hot springs.

“Still, maybe you can make it up to me,” Laurel said to Emma, crossing her arms over her chest. “Manicures at Mr. Pinky next week before your birthday party? Maybe Thursday?”

“Okay,” Emma said, although Thursday might as well have been in the next millennium. Would she even be here next week?

Mrs. Mercer pulled a dish out of the oven with a loud clang. Mr. Mercer gathered shiny steak knives out of the drawer. Laurel leaned forward. The front of her blouse gaped so that Emma could see the top of her pink scalloped-edge bra. “Why did you run off this morning?” she whispered. “Mads told me she saw you getting out of a cop car during homeroom.”

Emma stiffened. “I was trying to ditch,” she whispered back. “A cop driving by saw me. He said if I didn’t go back to school with him, he’d raise the impound fee on my car.”

“That sucks.” A honey-blond lock of hair fell into Laurel’s eyes.

They were interrupted by Mrs. Mercer rushing to the table with steaming plates. She dished out portions of steak, spinach, and baked potatoes to everyone. Mr. Mercer sneaked Drake a piece of roll, which the dog swallowed without chewing. When everyone had been served, Mrs. Mercer sat and unfolded a napkin on her lap. “I just got a call from Coach Maggie, Sutton. She said you were off your game today.”

“Oh.” Emma sliced the baked potato with her fork. Tennis hadn’t exactly been successful, though at least she hadn’t had to wear the Smurf Dress—Maggie had told Emma they’d straighten out the uniform problem tomorrow. During practice, she’d returned a few shots—thanks, Wii!—but serves whipped past her head, and when she was playing doubles with Charlotte, she ran for a shot and slammed right into Charlotte’s side. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little rusty,” she said. Not to mention she was slightly distracted the whole time.

Mr. Mercer clucked his tongue. “It’s probably because you didn’t practice all summer.”

“You should put in some time at the courts tonight.” Mrs. Mercer wiped her mouth with a pineapple-printed napkin.

“Maybe Sutton was off her game because Nisha Banerjee was a total bully today,” Laurel jumped in. Emma shot Laurel a grateful look. It was nice that she was sticking up for her.

Sticking up for me , Emma meant. But I agreed with her. It was nice that Laurel had my back.

A softened, wistful look appeared on Mrs. Mercer’s face. “How is Nisha? I ran into her dad at the club this weekend. Apparently she went to tennis camp this summer. And did a precollege program at Stanford. She’s been so strong, especially after what happened with her mom.”

Emma sniffed. If strong was a synonym for bitchy , then Mrs. Mercer was exactly right. “Nisha’s kind of diabolical.”

“Totally,” Laurel added.

“And Madeline and Charlotte aren’t?” Mrs. Mercer bit into a piece of steak.

“Madeline and Charlotte are awesome,” Laurel piped up. “ And nice.”

Mrs. Mercer sipped her wine. “You know how I feel about you girls hanging out with them. They’re always getting in so much trouble.”

Emma swallowed a mouthful of steak, thinking about the manila file Detective Quinlan had trotted out at the police station today. Madeline and Charlotte weren’t the only ones getting in trouble.

“Even their parents are . . . odd,” Mrs. Mercer continued, chewing a bite of spinach. When she swallowed, she added, “I’ve always found Mrs. Vega too pushy. The way she’s always so crazed about Madeline and dance. And Mr. Vega is so . . . intense. Those fights he used to have with Thayer, right out in public . . .” She trailed off and glanced shiftily at Laurel. Laurel slathered an even coat of butter on a roll.

Emma leaned forward, hoping she would elaborate on Thayer Vega. “And what’s with Charlotte’s mother?” Mrs. Mercer said instead, wrinkling her nose. “Every time I open the paper, she’s in another dress, christening a boat on Lake Havasu with a bottle of champagne.”