Charlotte and Laurel snickered. Amanda’s uncle was Wes Donovan, a sportscaster who had his own Sirius radio show. Amanda name-dropped him so often during morning announcements that Madeline swore they were secret lovers.
“Please join me in warm congratulations to Norah Alvarez, Madison Cates, Jennifer Morrison, Zoe Mitchel , Alicia Young, Tinsley Zimmerman . . .”
Every time a name was cal ed, Madeline, Charlotte, and Laurel pantomimed a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down.
“. . . and Gabriel a and Lilianna Fiorel o, our first Homecoming Court twins ever!” Amanda concluded. “A warm congratulations, ladies!”
Madeline blinked several times as if waking up from a dream. “The Twitter Twins? On the court?”
Charlotte sniffed. “Who would vote for them?”
Emma looked back and forth between them, trying to keep up. Gabby and Lili Fiorel o, the Twitter Twins, were fraternal twins in their grade. They both had big blue eyes and honey-blonde hair, but each girl also had other features al her own, like the mole by Lili’s chin or Gabby’s Angelina Jolie lips. Emma stil was unclear whether Gabby and Lili were in or out of the clique; they’d attended Charlotte’s sleepover two weekends ago, when the anonymous attacker nearly strangled Emma to death, but they weren’t members of the Lying Game. With their dopey expressions, twin-brain mentality, and iPhone addictions, they struck Emma as al fluff and no substance, the girl equivalent of low-calorie Cool Whip.
I wasn’t sure about that, though. If there was one thing I was learning, it was that looks could be deceiving. . . . As if on cue, four sharp ringtones fil ed the room. Charlotte, Madeline, Laurel, and Emma al fumbled for their phones. On Emma’s screen were two new texts, one from Gabby, one from Lili. WE KNOW WE’RE GORGEOUS! Gabby’s said. CAN’T WAIT TO WEAR OUR CROWNS! Lili wrote.
“Divas,” Madeline said next to her. Emma glanced at her screen. Madeline had received the same texts. Charlotte snorted, staring at her phone, too. “They should go as twin Carries. Then we’d get to dump pig’s blood on their heads.”
Emma’s phone chimed once more. Lili had sent her an additional missive. WHO’S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL? TAKE THAT, QUEEN BEE-OTCH!
“Wel , now they’re official y not coming camping with us after the dance,” Charlotte declared.
“We’re doing that again?” Laurel said, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s tradition,” Charlotte said sharply. She looked at Emma. “Right, Sutton?”
Camping? Emma raised an eyebrow. These girls didn’t seem the outdoorsy types. But she nodded along. “Right.”
“Maybe we could try those awesome hot springs on Mount Lemmon,” Madeline said, twisting her dark hair into a bun. “Gabby and Lili say they’re fil ed with natural salts that make your skin feel amazing.”
“Enough talk about Gabby and Lili,” Charlotte groaned, adjusting the the cornflower-blue headband in her hair. “I can’t believe we have to plan a party for them. They’re going to be impossible.”
Emma frowned. “Why would we have to plan a party?”
For a moment, everyone just stared at her. Charlotte clucked her tongue. “Remember a little organization cal ed Homecoming Committee? The only activity you’ve been doing since freshman year?”
Emma felt her pulse quicken. She forced a fake heh-heh laugh. “I was being ironic. Ever heard of it?”
Charlotte rol ed her eyes. “Wel , unfortunately, the court party can’t be ironic. We have to beat last year’s.”
Emma shut her eyes. Sutton . . . on a dance committee?
Seriously? When Emma attended school at Henderson High, she and her best friend Alex used to make fun of the dorky dance committee girls. They were al Martha Stewarts–in-training, obsessed with cupcake baking, streamer hanging, and picking the most perfect slow-dance mixes.
But from what I remembered, it was an honor to be on the Homecoming Committee at Hol ier. The school also had a strict policy that those planning Homecoming couldn’t be members of the court, which was why Amanda hadn’t cal ed my name just now. If my spotty memory served me correctly, though, last prom I’d paraded into the bal room with a court sash across my torso.
I wondered: Would Emma stil be here to take my place at this year’s prom? Could my murder real y go unsolved for that long? Could Emma stil be living a lie in the spring?
The thought of al of it fil ed me with dread. It also fil ed me with the now-familiar ache of sadness: There would be no more proms for me. No more cheesy wrist corsages or stretch limos or after parties. I even missed the bad prom music, the goofy DJs who thought they were the next Girl Talk. When I was alive, I’d let it al pass by so fast, barely registering any of the moments, unaware of how good I had it.
The bel rang, and the girls rose from their wheels. Emma stood at the sink and let cool water wash over her claygunked hands. As she dried them on a paper towel, Sutton’s cel phone chimed in her bag once more. Groaning, Emma pul ed it out. Had Gabby and Lili sent another text?
But it was an email message from Emma’s own account, which she’d loaded onto Sutton’s phone. FROM ALEX, it said. THINKING OF YOU! CALL WHEN YOU CAN. CAN’T WAIT TO TALK! XX. Emma clutched the sides of the iPhone, contemplating how to reply. It had been days since she’d written to Alex, the only person besides Ethan who knew about her trek to Arizona. But unlike with Ethan, Emma had fudged the truth: Alex stil thought Sutton was alive and had taken Emma in. Sometimes, when Emma woke up in the morning, she tried to pretend like that was what real y happened, and that the previous events and threats had al been a dream. She’d even started a section of her journal cal ed Stuff Sutton and I Would Do Together if She Were Here. She would teach Sutton how to make French cream puffs, something she’d learned at an after-school catering job. Sutton would show her how to curl her eyelashes, which Emma had never been able to properly master. And maybe, at school, they’d switch places for the day, going to each other’s classes and answering to each other’s names. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to.
Suddenly, Emma had the distinct feeling someone was watching her. She whirled around to find the ceramics room was now mostly empty. But out in the hal , two pairs of eyes stared at her. It was Gabby and Lili, the Twitter Twins. When they noticed that Emma had spotted them, they smirked, leaned their heads close, and whispered. Emma flinched.
A hand touched Emma’s arm, and she jumped once more. Laurel stood behind her, leaning against the big gray trash barrel of wet clay next to the sink.
“Oh, hey.” Emma’s heart pounded in her ears.
“Just waiting for you.” Laurel brushed a lock of highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder and stared at the iPhone in Emma’s hands. “Writing to anyone interesting?”
Emma dropped Sutton’s phone into her bag. “Uh, not real y.” The spot where the Twitter Twins had stood was now empty.
Laurel caught her arm. “Why did you bring up the train prank?” she asked, her voice hushed and hard. “No one finds it funny.”
Sweat prickled on the back of Emma’s neck. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Laurel’s words echoed the note she’d gotten: The others might not want to remember the train prank, but I’ll be seized by the memory always. Something had happened that night. Something horrible.
Emma took a deep breath, rol ed back her shoulders, and slung her arm around Laurel’s waist. “Don’t be so sensitive. Now let’s go. It smel s like ass in here.” She hoped she sounded breezier than she felt.
Laurel glared at Emma for a moment, but then fol owed her into the crowded hal . Emma let out a sigh of relief when Laurel headed in the opposite direction. She felt like she’d dodged a huge bul et.
Or maybe, I thought, opened up a huge can of worms.
Chapter 4
Paper Trail
After tennis practice, Laurel steered her black VW Jetta onto the Mercers’ street, a development in the Catalina foothil s with sand-colored stucco houses and front yards ful of flowering desert succulents. The only sound in the car was Laurel’s jaw working the piece of gum she’d shoved into her mouth.
“So . . . thanks for the ride home,” Emma offered, breaking the awkward silence.
Laurel shot Emma a frosty glare. “Are you ever going to get your car out of the impound lot, or am I going to have to chauffeur you forever? You can’t keep lying about it being at Madeline’s, you know. Mom and Dad aren’t that stupid.”
Emma slumped down in the seat. Sutton’s car had been impounded since before Emma arrived in Tucson. It looked like she’d have to retrieve it if Laurel wouldn’t drive her around anymore.
Then Laurel fel into silence again. She’d been frosty with Emma ever since ceramics, turning away when Emma asked to partner with her for tennis vol eying and shrugging off Emma’s suggestion that they hit Jamba Juice on the drive home. Emma wished she knew the magic words to get Laurel to open up, but navigating the world of sibling relationships was something with which she had no real experience. She’d had foster siblings, sure, but those relationships rarely ended wel .
Not that mine and Laurel’s had either. We hadn’t been close for years. I saw flashes of us when we were much younger, holding hands on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair and spying on our parents’ dinner party when we were little, but something had happened between now and then. After passing by three large homes—two of which had gardeners out front, watering the mesquite trees—Laurel pul ed into the Mercers’ driveway. “Shit,” she said under her breath.
Emma fol owed Laurel’s gaze. Sitting on the wrought-iron bench on the Mercers’ front porch was Garrett. He was stil in his soccer cleats and practice shirt. Two muddy pads covered his knees, and he cradled a bike helmet in his arms.
Emma exited the car and slammed the door. “H-hey,”
she said tentatively, her gaze on Garrett’s face. The corners of his pink mouth curved into a scowl. His soft brown eyes blazed. His blond hair was sweaty from practice. He sat at the very edge of the porch seat like a cat ready to pounce. Laurel fol owed her up the driveway, waved at Garrett, and headed inside.
Slowly, Emma walked up the porch steps, standing a safe distance away from Garrett. “How are you?” she asked in a smal voice.
Garrett made an ugly noise at the back of his throat.
“How do you think I am?”
The automatic sprinklers hissed on in the front yard, misting the plants. In the distance, a weed whacker growled to life. Emma sighed. “I’m real y sorry.”
“Are you?” Garrett palmed his helmet with his large hands. “So sorry you didn’t return my cal s? So sorry you won’t even look at me right now?”
Emma took in his strong chest, toned legs, and just a hint of stubble on his chin. She understood what Sutton had seen in him, and her heart panged that he didn’t know the truth.
“I’m sorry.” The words lodged in Emma’s throat. “It’s been a weird summer,” she said. That was an understatement.
