Sara Shepard - The Lying Game

“Oops!” he cried gleefully.

Emma watched helplessly as her tattered copy of The Sun Also Rises landed on a dusty anthill. A crumpled ticket for a free all-you-can-eat BBQ buffet at MGM Grand got caught in the breeze and drifted toward Travis’s free weights. Her BlackBerry and a tube of cherry-flavored ChapStick skittered to a stop next to a terra-cotta turtle. Last but not least, there was a suspicious-looking wad of bills held together with a thick purple rubber band. The wad thudded to the patio, bounced once, and landed in front of Clarice’s chunky heels.

Emma was too stunned to speak. Clarice snatched the money and licked her pointer finger to count it. “Two hundred,” she said when she was finished. She held up a twenty with blue scribble in the upper left-hand corner. Even in the fading light, Emma could see a big looped B , presumably for Bruce Willis . “What did you do with the other fifty?”

A neighbor’s wind chimes tinkled in the distance. Emma’s insides were frozen. “I-I have no idea how that got in my bag.”

Behind her, Travis snickered. “Busted.” He was leaning casually against the stucco wall, just to the left of the big round thermometer. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his top lip was curled in a sneer.

The hair on the back of Emma’s neck rose. All at once, she understood what was going on. Her lips started to twitch, just like they always did when she was about to lose it. “ You did this!” She pointed a finger at Travis. “You set me up!”

Travis smirked. Something inside Emma broke loose. Screw keeping the peace. Screw adapting to whatever the foster family needed her to be. She shot for him, grabbing Travis by his meaty neck.

“Emma!” Clarice shrieked, pulling her off her son. Emma staggered backward, bumping against one of the patio chairs.

Clarice spun Emma around so that they were face-to-face. “What’s gotten into you?”

Emma didn’t answer. She glowered at Travis again. He had flattened himself against the wall, his arms in front of him protectively, but there was a thrilled glow in his eyes.

Clarice turned away from Emma, sank down in the chair, and rubbed her eyes. Mascara smudged on her fingertips. “This isn’t working,” she said softly after a moment. She raised her head and gazed soberly at Emma. “I thought you were a sweet, nice girl who wouldn’t cause any trouble, Emma, but this is too much for us.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Emma whispered. “I swear.”

Clarice pulled out a nail file and started nervously sawing on her pinkie. “You can stay until your birthday, but after that you’re on your own.”

Emma blinked. “You’re kicking me out ?”

Clarice stopped filing. Her face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But this is the best choice for all of us.”

Emma turned away and stared hard at the ugly block wall at the back of the property.

“I wish things were different.” Clarice pulled the sliding door open and padded back into the house. As soon as she was out of view, Travis peeled himself off the wall and straightened up to full height.

He sauntered casually around Emma, scooped up the tiny nub of the joint that was still under the chair, blew off the bits of dried grass that had stuck to the tip, and dropped it into his enormous pants pocket. “You’re lucky she didn’t press charges,” he said in a slimy voice.

Emma said nothing as he swaggered back into the house. She wanted to leap up and claw his eyes out, but her legs felt like they had been filled with heavy wet clay. Her eyes blurred with tears. This again. Every time a foster family told Emma she had to move on, she invariably thought back to the cold, lonely moment when she’d realized Becky had ditched her for good. Emma had stayed a week at Sasha Morgan’s house while the police tried to track down her mom. She’d put on a brave face, playing Candy Land, watching Dora the Explorer , and making scavenger hunts for Sasha like the ones Becky had masterminded for her. But every night in the glow of Sasha’s Cinderella night-light, Emma struggled to read the parts of Harry Potter she could understand—which weren’t many. She’d barely mastered The Cat in the Hat . She needed her mom to read the big words. She needed her mom to do the voices. Even now, it still hurt.

The patio was silent. The wind blew the hanging spider plants and palm trees sideways. Emma stared blankly at the terra-cotta sculpture of a shapely woman that Travis and his friends liked to dry-hump. So that was that. No more staying here until the end of high school. No more applying to a photojournalism program at USC . . . or even community college. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Unless . . .

Suddenly, the image from the video fluttered through her mind once more. A long-lost sister. Her heart lifted. She had to find her.

If only I could have told her it was too late.

An hour later, Emma stood in her little bedroom, her Army-Navy bags splayed open on the floor. Why wait to pack? She also held her phone to her ear, talking to Alexandra Stokes, her best friend from back in Henderson.

“You could always stay with me,” Alex offered after Emma finished telling her that Clarice had just kicked her out. “I can talk to my mom. She might be cool with it.”

Emma shut her eyes. She and Alex had been on the cross-country team together last year. They’d both wiped out on a downhill part of a trail run on the first day of practice, and they’d become fast friends while the nurse cleaned their wounds with ultra-stingy hydrogen peroxide. She and Emma had spent their entire junior year sneaking into the casinos and taking pictures of celebrities and lookalikes with Alex’s Canon SLR, trolling the pawn shops but never buying anything, and sunning themselves at Lake Mead on weekends.

“That’s a lot to ask of your family.” Emma removed a pile of vintage T-shirts from her top drawer and plopped them into the duffel. She’d stayed with the Stokeses for a couple of weeks after Ursula and Steve relocated to the Florida Keys. Emma had had a great time, but Ms. Stokes was a single mom with enough to manage already.

“It’s crazy for Clarice to kick you out,” Alex said. Soft smacking sounds filled the receiver; she was probably chomping on a piece of chocolate Twizzlers, her favorite candy. “She can’t honestly think you stole that money.”

“Actually, it wasn’t just that.” Emma scooped up a stack of jeans and tossed them in the bag, too.

“Was there something else?” Alex asked.

Emma picked at a loose military patch on the old duffel. “I can’t get into it right now.” She didn’t want to tell Alex about the video she’d seen. She wanted to keep it to herself for a little while longer, just in case it wasn’t real. “But I’ll explain soon, okay? I promise.”

After Emma hung up, she sat on the carpet and looked around. She’d pulled all her photography prints by Margaret Bourke-White and Annie Leibovitz off the walls and her collection of classic novels and sci-fi thrillers off the shelves; the place now looked like a pay-by-the-hour motel room. She stared into the open bureau drawer, which contained her favorite things, the stuff she carried to every foster home. There was the hand-knitted monster toy Mrs. Hewes, a piano teacher, had given her the day she’d mastered “Für Elise” despite not actually having a piano at home to practice on. She’d saved a couple of scavenger hunt clues from Becky, the creases soft and the paper nearly disintegrating. And there was Socktopus, the threadbare stuffed octopus Becky had bought for Emma during a road trip to Four Corners. Nestled at the bottom of the drawer were her five cloth-bound journals, stuffed with poetry, the Comebacks I Should’ve Said list, the Ways to Flirt (WTF) list, the Stuff I Love and Hate list, and a thorough review of every secondhand store in the area. Emma had mastered the thrift store circuit. She knew exactly which days new shipments hit the floor, how to haggle for better prices, and to always paw through the bottom of the shoe bin—she’d once scored a barely scuffed pair of Kate Spade flats that way.