Ethan turned away from her to face the large wooden sandbox on the other side of the fence. A couple of shovels and castle molds lay abandoned in the sand. Emma bet the whole thing smelled like pee. “Your crowd isn’t really my thing.”
Emma shrugged. She wasn’t sure if she was into Sutton’s crowd, either. “You wouldn’t have had to talk to them. I was the one who invited you.”
He picked at a scab on his knee. “Honestly? I kind of thought it was a setup. I was afraid I’d go to that party and . . . I don’t know. Someone would drop pig blood on my head or whatever, horror-film style.”
“I wouldn’t set you up!”
Ethan sniffed. “Sutton Mercer wouldn’t set someone up?” He looked at her doubtfully.
Emma stared at the glowing net in the middle of the court. She had no idea what Sutton would or wouldn’t do. All those comments from teachers, the manila file from the police. She was starting to feel personally responsible for all of it, even though she didn’t have the slightest idea what any of it was.
Emma reached into the open bag of M&M’S and grabbed a handful. Absently, she arranged a few on her thigh in the shape of a smiley face: two blue M&M eyes, a green nose, and a red and brown M&M smile.
“You do that, too?” Ethan asked.
Emma looked up. “Do what?”
“Make faces with your food.” Ethan pointed at Emma’s creation.
Emma ducked her head. “I’ve done it since I was little.” She’d sculpted smiley faces in ice cream sundaes with chocolate chips, or with extra ketchup on a plate after she’d eaten all her fries. A counselor once caught her making a happy face with Cheerios during a session and told Emma that she probably did it because she was lonely. But Emma just thought everything she ate deserved some personality.
Ethan popped an M&M into his mouth. “When I was little, my dad made me a Belgian waffle we called Bob. Bob was a regular waffle with two big blueberries for eyes, a whipped cream nose—”
“—and let me guess,” Emma interrupted drolly. “A bacon smile?”
“Wrong.” Ethan pointed at her. “A piece of honeydew!”
“Melon on a waffle?” Emma stuck out her tongue. “Blegh.”
Ethan grinned at her and shook his head. “I can’t imagine Sutton Mercer playing with her food.”
“There are lots of things you don’t know about me,” Emma teased. “I’m a huge mystery.” More than you know, she silently added.
Ethan nodded approvingly. “Mystery is cool.” He leaned toward her a little more, his hand bumping Emma’s shoulder. He didn’t immediately pull away. Emma didn’t either. For a moment, it felt like he was smiling at her, not the girl he thought was Sutton Mercer.
Click. The overhead lights faded, flooding the court in darkness. Emma stiffened and let out a little yelp. “It’s okay,” Ethan said. “The meter for the lights just ran out.”
Ethan helped Emma up, and together they fumbled for the door. After climbing into his car and starting the engine, Ethan poked his head out the window and gave her a long, curious look. “Thanks, Sutton,” he finally said.
“For what?” Emma asked.
He gestured out the window to the court and sky. “This.”
Emma grinned in question, hoping he’d say more. He pulled out of the lot and headed for the exit. “Fireflies” by Owl City wafted from the stereo speakers. The song was one of Emma’s favorites. As he turned toward the street, Emma slid down the chain-link fence to the warm asphalt. At least someone here was normal. Too bad it was the one person who seemed to want nothing to do with Sutton’s life.
But watching from above, I wasn’t so sure about that. There was something about Ethan that made me think he had more to do with my life than he let on.
Chapter 14
VINTAGE EMMA
Ominous thunderclouds opened up on Thursday afternoon, and Coach Maggie made an announcement over the loudspeaker after seventh period that tennis practice was canceled. Emma was so relieved she contemplated throwing her arms around her Arizona History teacher. Her legs ached from practice yesterday and hitting with Ethan last night.
At the end of the day, as Emma entered the combination to Sutton’s locker, a hand slithered around her waist and pulled her tight. Emma whirled around to see Garrett shoving a bouquet of tulips in her face. “Happy first-week-of-school-almost-birthday!” he proclaimed brightly, leaning in for a kiss.
Emma tensed as his lips touched hers. He smelled like turpentine from art class.
“Get your hands off him!” I wailed. But—you guessed it—nobody heard me. I mean, I got it that Emma had to pretend like everything was normal. I really did. But seeing Garrett affectionately touch someone else filled me with both jealousy and sadness. Garrett wasn’t mine anymore. He would never be mine again. I kept waiting for the moment Garrett would stand back, cross his arms over his chest, and say, Oh my God. You’re someone else. I kept hoping for it. But it didn’t come.
“You’ve been such a stranger lately.” Garrett shifted his backpack on his shoulder.
Yes! I thought. Someone noticed!
Emma had the same response, immediately working up a defense. But then Garrett added, “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks. Want to go to Blanco for nachos?”
Emma peered inside the locker. “What, right now?”
Garrett crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, right now. You don’t have tennis, right? I don’t have soccer, either. And don’t freak—one plate of nachos isn’t going to make you gain five pounds. And anyway I’d still love you even if you did gain five pounds.”
Emma scoffed. She wasn’t balking because of that—she’d gotten honorable mention in a hot dog–eating contest in Vegas the year before. A tiny Japanese girl with an apparently hollow leg had edged her out. It was more that she felt strange going out with Garrett . . . alone. I’d still love you, he’d just said. If he really loved Sutton, wouldn’t he have realized Emma wasn’t her?
“I’m kind of busy,” she murmured.
Garrett took Emma’s hands in his. “We really need to talk. I’ve done some thinking about . . .” He trailed off. “You know, what we talked about this summer? I think you’re right.”
“Uh-huh,” Emma said warily, suddenly feeling like the conversation was taking place in a language she didn’t speak. It was exhausting to pretend she understood what everyone was talking about all day.
Last night, after tennis with Ethan, she’d logged onto Facebook on Sutton’s computer, desperate to find out anything she could about Sutton—who she was, what she liked to do . . . who might have wanted to kill her. Thanks to autofill, the site had loaded Sutton’s profile, her screen name, and her password. Emma had read Sutton’s Facebook posts again, trying to glean as much intel as she could about her personality, her past, and her friends, but there hadn’t been much she hadn’t already seen before. The only new thing Emma had learned about Garrett, for instance, was that Sutton cheered him on at his varsity soccer games, hung out with him and his younger sister, Louisa, and made all his fashion decisions for him. Sutton had even written posts like “Love the new shirt I picked out for my BF? He’s like my little doll!”
At first, I felt like I needed to defend myself. Who was she to judge my life? But then I wondered—why did I care so much about what Garrett wore? Was it because I just wanted someone besides myself whom I could dress up . . . or was it because I was actually really controlling?
Emma had also started to use Sutton’s phone—it had rung a zillion times since she’d come into possession of it, and it would probably be weird not to answer it. She’d checked the past texts to see if they shed light on anything about Sutton, but all of them were either vague instructions on where to meet (MI NIDITO AT SEVEN) or timing issues (RUNNING LATE, C U IN 10) or insults shot back and forth—LOSER, she’d written to Charlotte, and Charlotte had shot back with BEE-YOTCH.
As for the night Sutton had written back to Emma’s Facebook note summoning her to Tucson, there was an answered call from Lilianna at 4:23, a missed call from Laurel at 8:39, and then three missed calls from Madeline at 10:32, 10:45, and 10:59. There were no voice mails, though.
And then there was the file cabinet underneath Sutton’s desk, the one that had the big pink padlock on it and the sign that said THE L GAME. Emma had searched everywhere for the key. She’d even taken a shoe to the handle, slamming it down hard on the lock, but all that had done was bring Laurel to her doorway to ask what in the world she was doing. She had to open it—but how?
“What are you two crazy kids up to?” Madeline appeared from around the corner and inserted herself between Emma and Garrett. Emma hadn’t seen her since the day before when they’d eaten lunch together. Today she wore a green dress that was so short it surely broke the school’s dress code, black fishnet stockings, and black boots. The corners of her ruby-red lips spread into a smile.
“I was trying to convince Sutton to grab nachos with me,” Garrett said.
Madeline made a face. “Nachos give you cellulite.” She clamped her hand around Emma’s wrist. “Anyway, she can’t. She’s coming shopping with me. It’s an emergency. I’m badly in need of a new everything.”
“But—” Garrett crossed his muscular arms over his chest.
“Sorry,” Emma said, gratefully taking Madeline’s arm.
“We’re still on for this Saturday though, right?” Garrett called after her. “Dinner?”
“Uh, sure!” Emma yelled back.
She and Madeline turned the corner into the science hall. All the doors stood open, revealing blocky lab tables, cabinets full of shiny glass flasks, and giant posters of the periodic table of elements. “You don’t mind me stealing you away, do you?” Madeline said. “Hos before bros, right?”
“Totally,” Emma agreed. “Garrett is kinda smothering me, anyway.”
“Well, that is his MO.” Madeline bumped her hip. “Race you!” She took off down the hall, and Emma ran after her. They darted out into the rain and through the parking lot until they reached Madeline’s car, an old Acura with a dancing ballerina sticker on the back that said SWAN LAKE MAFIA. “Get in!” Madeline cried, hurtling into the car and slamming the door. Emma followed, giggling.
Rain pelted the windshield and the roof. “Whew!” Madeline threw her studded leather bag in the backseat and jammed her keys into the ignition. “La Encantada?”
“Sure,” Emma answered.
Madeline gunned the engine and whipped out of the parking lot without checking for oncoming cars. A Katy Perry song came on the radio, and she cranked up the volume and belted out the refrain in perfect pitch. Emma’s jaw dropped.
“What?” Madeline asked sharply.
“You have such a nice voice, that’s all,” Emma blurted. And then, in case that wasn’t a very Sutton-like thing to say, she added: “Sing, bitch!”
