Sara Shepard - 4.5 The First Lie

On Monday afternoon, the Lying Game holds an official IM chat to check in about all current works in progress. We take our pranking very seriously. I lean back against the ornate sleigh headboard of my bed, the laptop warm against my legs.

Charlotte, whose IM handle is SexxyRed, types, Are we sure a Thayer prank is enough for our annual kickoff prank?

SwanLakeMafia, aka Mads, replies: I was thinking the same thing.

But now that I’ve started this flirtation with Thayer, I don’t know if I want to stop. We’ve got to do it, I, SuttoninAZ, answer. But only as a favor to the best BFF ever. I can tell Thayer’s bugging you, Mads. We’ll think of something else for the big back-to-school prank.

SwanLakeMafia: Thanks, Sutton. You’re right. And nice job on the Scooby score last night!

Watch and learn, ladies, I say nonchalantly. But I’m glad my webcam isn’t on right now, because I’m blushing—and snuggled up next to Scooby. I wouldn’t want my friends to see him there and get any ideas that I really like Thayer or something. It’s just that he’s so cozy to sleep with. And he barely smells like funnel cake and corn dog at all.

We still need to come up with our REAL prank then , I type, manicured fingers flying across the keyboard. Thinking caps on!

After a moment, an image loads into the chat screen: Charlotte, winking, a Eugenia Kim straw fedora perched at an angle across her forehead. Cute. It’s her take on a thinking cap. She looks a little like Britney Spears pre–Breakdown #1.

Adorbs , I tap. But keep the ideas coming. We have a reputation to uphold.

Off to ballet, bitches. I declare this Lying Game meeting officially dismissed , Mads types before signing off.

Later, Char , I type, flipping my laptop shut and sliding off my bed. Even with the windows shut and the central AC blasting, I can still hear the angry, insistent throttle of a leaf blower buzzing like a chain saw outside.

Gritting my teeth, I wander toward the window and thrust aside the curtains. Sure enough, across the street, a diligent gardener in a blue baseball cap walks the perimeter of the Donovans’ front lawn in increasingly wider circles. Their yard isn’t that big, but he doesn’t look remotely close to being done. I sigh in frustration, considering a long, hot shower with my Fresh lavender scrub, when I spot the leaf blower’s landscaping partner. I’d recognize that thicket of dark, shiny hair anywhere.

Thayer.

He’s at the edge of the front walk, neatly clipping the box hedges that line the flagstone path from the driveway to the entrance of the Donovans’ house. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the strong, defined arms that he debuted at the country club the other day are on full display. From where I stand, it looks like they’re getting a good workout, too.

On the one hand, the Fresh bath scrub is yummy-smelling. On the other hand, it’s not like I’m going to be able to truly relax as long as the leaf blower is making all that noise outside.

On the third hand—and as long as Thayer’s got his shirt off, I decide to give myself as many hands for this argument as I need—Thayer’s out there. Just begging to fall head over heels for me. It’s like fate has handed me an early Christmas present, wrapped in a bright, shiny bow.

Game on.

It only takes me a minute to fluff my hair in the mirror and swipe on some of my favorite NARS lip gloss in a peachy shade. Something tells me Thayer’s the type to appreciate the natural look in a girl. I grin at my reflection and shoot a quick glance at Scooby on the bed. The sight of him there gives me a warm glow—and a double shot of confidence. “Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” I whisper, then smile to myself.

Stepping into the Tucson heat is like crawling into an oven, but I stay focused as I approach Thayer. He’s crouching on the ground now, tugging a particularly stubborn weed.

“Oh my God,” I say, surprise ringing in my voice. “What are you doing here? Do you work for the Donovans?” As if I hadn’t been spying on him through the window.

Thayer turns, sets his shears down, and appraises me coolly. Based on his expression, I can tell he shares my opinion that my cutoffs show just the right amount of long, tanned leg. But even that doesn’t seem to faze him much.

“No,” he replies, smiling easily. “I work for the landscapers. They work for the Donovans.” His eyes are alight with mischief.

I tilt my head down, offering my most coquettish grin. “I guess you had to find some way to keep out of trouble, now that soccer camp is over.” My tone suggests that keeping in trouble is way more fun than the alternative, of course.

“Yeah. And I guess I’ve got a lot of excess energy to burn now that I’m not running drills every morning at five A.M.”

“That sounds horrible,” I say, grimacing as I wrap my hair up into a loose, casual bun at the nape of my neck. I read somewhere that guys love when girls play with their hair. “At tennis camp they let us sleep until six.”

“Spoiled,” he teases.

“I do usually get what I want,” I say.

Thayer locks eyes with me and a small charge passes through me. “So I’ve heard,” he says. “How’s Scooby, by the way?”

“Covered in fleas,” I answer quickly, only a slight hiccup in my voice.

“Too bad,” Thayer answers with mock sadness. We look at each other for a moment, each daring the other to make the next move.

A weed whacker grumbles from the Donovans’ backyard, snapping us out of the staring contest. Thayer clears his throat. “Anyhow, it’s not a bad job, really,” he says, gesturing to the wide, green expanse of the Donovans’ lush lawn. “I like being outside. But I miss California. We got to drive some of the Pacific Coast Highway to get to the camp.”

“We did that, too, a million years ago, on a trip to Disneyland for Laurel’s sixth birthday,” I offer. Unexpectedly, the memory rushes back to me: me, hair in twin pigtails, swinging my short legs against the cool leather of the backseat of our old Audi sedan, Laurel’s nose pressed against her window in search of an r for the license plate game. Even though I saw an r , I pretended not to. I was letting her win. That was back when we liked each other.

I look at Thayer. “My father made us stop in Gilroy, the—”

“—Garlic Capital of the World!” Thayer chimes in, laughing. He runs his hand through his hair, brushing it back from his perspiration-beaded forehead. “We stopped there, too. Totally worth the delay.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s actually serious. “We were ready to kill my father,” I say. “Laurel and I were so hyped to see Princess Jasmine in the flesh, and he wants to stop for some stinky garlic?” I make a face. “Ugh, and did you try the garlic ice cream?”

“Obviously,” he says, shrugging like I’m the weird one in this conversation. “How can you not?”

“Easily,” I say, “really, really easily,” and we laugh.

Thayer crosses his arms over his chest. “You know, Sutton, I’ll bet you’re not half as high maintenance as you pretend to be.” He frowns, as though considering, then nods. “I’ll bet that under the right circumstances, you’re the kind of adventurous girl who thinks garlic ice cream is for wimps.”

I know he means it as a compliment, but I shiver. The thing is, ever since I was little, I’ve had a secret, deep-down fear that being adopted means I’m second best, and sometimes I just demand things to see how far I can push people—to see how much they actually care about me. It’s weird that Thayer seems to just get that, intrinsically. No one has ever guessed at it.