I back out of his bedroom and retrace my steps toward the kitchen, taking care not to make any noise. Forget the sleepover. Forget my friends. I have to find Thayer. I have to talk to him, to apologize, to explain, to make him understand....
As quietly as I can manage, I unlock the latch on the back door and slip out into the night. The chirping of crickets and the rush of the wind in the leaves spur me on. Before I can take another step, I hear a voice.
“Sutton.”
My name sounds low and throaty, slightly choked. And I’d recognize the voice blindfolded. I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to. I’ve been thinking about it all night.
It’s Thayer.
14
JUST BETWEEN US
At the sight of Thayer standing there, bathed in moonlight, my legs go weak and wobbly. The air is fragrant and thick with the scent of acacia blooms, and a light breeze rustles the cool night air. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls mournfully.
“Thayer!” I cry. Before I can stop myself, I rush toward him, arms outstretched for an embrace. But as I reach for him, he steps back, his eyes cold and flat. His face is devoid of emotion, which is almost worse than if he looked at me with hatred or disgust.
“I’m sorry,” I insist. “The prank wasn’t my idea. And it isn’t what you think.” It’s cold out here in the wind, and goose bumps break out across my bare arms. I rub my hands over my forearms, trying to warm myself. But I can’t reach that cold pit in the base of my stomach. I blink, feeling my eyes well with emotion.
Thayer’s eyes flicker across my body, making me shiver even harder. His jaw is set and his posture is rigid. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess,” he snaps, raising his head and gazing over my shoulder into the distance. “You guys are the Lying Game. I was just the idiot who acted like a sucker.” He laughs once, a short, bitter chuckle. “I can’t believe how gullible I was.”
“Thayer, no,” I plead. “You don’t understand. I didn’t want to prank you, I swear. I was lying to my friends,” I admit, winding a strand of hair around my index finger. “That kiss … that was real for me. Honest.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you now?”
I bite my lip. “I don’t blame you if you don’t. But … hear me out, okay? I’m the most popular girl at Hollier. I have best friends who think I’m awesome. And compared to how I’m treated at home, it’s kind of an amazing feeling.”
He sniffs. “How are you treated at home?”
“Sort of … second best, I guess. Like I don’t belong there.”
Thayer lowers his chin. “I’ve never seen any evidence of that.”
“Well, real or not, it’s how I feel,” I say. “Maybe it’s just my paranoia about being adopted getting the best of me. But Thayer, it’s why I’m so afraid of losing my friends. That’s all I was worried about, that’s why I didn’t stop the prank and why I didn’t tell the truth when they caught us. I didn’t want them laughing at me. But then I realized how stupid that was. Like, unbelievably stupid. I should get to decide who I like.” I swallow hard, then raise my eyes to his. “And I like you.”
There. I said it. There’s no going back now. But I’m still too terrified to really look at Thayer. “You don’t have to forgive me or like me back. I understand if you want someone who’s always been good to you, like Laurel. But I thought I’d let you know how I really felt. You asked me if I’ve ever been honest a day in my life, and with you, I do feel honest. And I’m telling you something honest now.”
Then I turn away, embarrassed by my little speech. I’ve made it almost the whole way around before I feel Thayer’s hand on my shoulder. He spins me back toward him. There’s a serious look on his face, and for a moment, I can’t tell if he’s angry or not. He takes my hands and squeezes them hard.
“I like you, too, Sutton,” he says.
My heart skips a happy beat, but quickly lurches to a stop when I see his pained expression. Something is very, very wrong.
He untangles his fingers from my own. “I’m just not sure it’s such a good idea for us to date publicly.”
“Why not?” I blurt.
Thayer sighs, running his fingers through his hair so that it stands up like an exclamation point on top of his head. “It’s complicated,” he says finally.
I feel like I’ve just been slipped some sort of mind-altering drug. “Well, of course it’s complicated,” I say. “It’s complicated for me, too. But why for you, exactly? Because you’re Mads’s brother? Because of Laurel?”
Thayer meets my eyes, unblinking. “That’s part of it, I guess. There are a lot of factors involved.” He looks away. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Sutton. But you also kind of scare me.”
“What do you mean?” My voice quavers.
He pauses to think. “It’s like you’re two different Suttons,” he says, his speech slow, deliberate. Off in the distance, a car alarm shrieks. “The Sutton I saw the other night, in your kitchen, was incredible: funny, and warm, and honest.” He emphasizes the word, making me cringe. “I feel like that Sutton just … gets me. Believe it or not, I don’t go around telling people about my sleepwalking.”
“I don’t ever tell anybody about my dreams,” I respond, my voice soft.
“Right,” he agrees. “That Sutton and I have a connection. And it’s amazing.”
I cast my eyes downward, taking in the uneven stones that line the Vegas’ yard. “But …”
“But the other Sutton, the public you—she’s not so nice. And I’m not sure I want to be part of that world.”
I stare at him. “But you love all the attention you’re getting now. I know it!”
He stops me with a raised palm. “I like having friends, sure. But I don’t want to be part of the backstabbing, fast-moving, game-playing crowd of yours. It’s not my style.”
I swallow hard. “I’m sorry about the prank we pulled on you. But I can be nicer—I will be nicer. I can even end the Lying Game if you want. Things can change.”
He places a firm palm on each of my shoulders, leaning so close to me that his eyelashes almost skim my forehead. “You just told me how badly you need your world. I’m not going to ask you to change that.” He reaches out and brushes my cheek lightly. “I want to be with you, too. But I’d rather keep it kind of quiet for the time being.” He looks at me imploringly. “Can you do that?”
I blink, totally thrown. Never has someone told me that they don’t want to be with me because of who I am—usually that’s what pulls a guy toward me. But Thayer also has a point. Deep down, I’ve known for a long time that what the Lying Game does isn’t exactly nice. We’ve gotten caught up in it, though, fueled by it, and it would be hard to stop now. I picture trying to tell Madeline and Char that the club is ending. Will there be enough to hold us together? Will they move on to someone else and leave me hanging? What if they blame this change on Thayer; what if it causes a rift between him and Madeline?
Should I care that he wants this to be a secret? Or should I just throw caution to the wind? What if I never find something like this again?
I tilt my head up, winding my hands around his lower back and pulling him toward me. “Let’s try it,” I whisper, smiling. Because whatever is happening between us, whatever this is, I want more of it. Lots more.
A cautious smile spreads across Thayer’s face, and his lips find mine. He kisses me softly, then leans so his lips brush against my ear. “Okay.”
He runs his fingers down my spine and I melt, kissing him again with more urgency, more emotion. There’s nothing more to talk about now.
Having a secret boyfriend could actually be kind of hot. Of course, it’ll just be another secret to keep, another lie to tell.
I have a feeling it will be the first of many. But if it means being with Thayer, they’ll all be worth it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, readers, for making such a fun novella possible! I had a great time writing about the beginning of Sutton and Thayer’s relationshi
p, and I hope you enjoyed reading it, too. Huge thanks to Micol Ostow—you rock—and to Lanie Davis, Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, Les Morgenstein, Kristin Marang, Katie McGee, and the rest of the fantastic Alloy team. A big yay to Kari Sutherland and Farrin Jacobs as well. And here’s a hug to Volvo, my trusty dog who spent every minute I worked on this book on my bed right next to me. An extra bone for you, big guy.
EXCERPT FROM THE LYING GAME
Read on for more secrets, lies, and killer consequences in
THE LYING GAME
PROLOGUE
I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxims sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someone’s apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. I had no idea where my purse was, and I didn’t have a clue where I’d parked my car. Actually, what kind of car did I drive? Had someone slipped me something?
“Emma?” a guy’s voice called from another room. “You home?”
“I’m busy!” called a voice close by.
A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. “Hey!” I leapt to my feet. “Someone’s in here already!” My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.
The girl didn’t seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.
“Hello?” I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didn’t look over. “Are you deaf?” Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.
The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. “Oh.” His gaze flew to the girl’s tight-fitting T-shirt, which said NEW YORK NEW YORK ROLLER COASTER on the front. “I didn’t know you were in here, Emma.”
“That’s maybe why the door was closed?” Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. “Hey!” I cried again.
Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.
Because Emma looked exactly like me.
And I wasn’t there.
Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldn’t I remember, well, anything? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focus—the glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if I’d lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I couldn’t remember what I’d done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What was my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.
Like I was disappearing.
But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewhere else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
No wonder Emma didn’t see me. No wonder I wasn’t in the mirror. I wasn’t really here.
I was dead.
1
THE DEAD RINGER
Emma Paxton carried her canvas tote and a glass of iced tea out the back door of her new foster family’s home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Cars swished and grumbled on the nearby expressway, and the air smelled heavily of exhaust and the local water treatment plant. The only decorations in the backyard were dusty free weights, a rusted bug zapper, and kitschy terra-cotta statues.
It was a far cry from my backyard in Tucson, which was desert-landscaped to perfection and had a wooden swing set I used to pretend was a castle. Like I said, it was weird and random which details I still remembered and which ones had evaporated away. For the last hour, I’d been following Emma trying to make sense of her life and willing myself to remember my own. Not like I had a choice. Everywhere she went, I went. I wasn’t entirely sure how I knew these things about Emma, either—they just appeared in my head as I watched her, like a text message popping up in an inbox. I knew the details of her life better than I did my own.
Emma dropped the tote on the faux wrought-iron patio table, plopped down in a plastic lawn chair, and craned her neck upward. The only nice thing about this patio was that it faced away from the casinos, offering a large swath of clear, uninterrupted sky. The moon dangled halfway up the horizon, a bloated alabaster wafer. Emma’s gaze drifted to two bright, familiar stars to the east. At nine years old, Emma had wistfully named the star on the right the Mom Star, the star on the left the Dad Star, and the smaller, brightly twinkling spot just below them the Emma Star. She’d made up all kinds of fairy tales about these stars, pretending that they were her real family and that one day they’d all be reunited on earth like they were in the sky.
Emma had been in foster care for most of her life. She’d never met her dad, but she remembered her mother, with whom she had lived until she was five years old. Her mom’s name was Becky. She was a slender woman who loved shouting out the answers to Wheel of Fortune, dancing around the living room to Michael Jackson songs, and reading tabloids that ran stories like BABY BORN FROM PUMPKIN! and BAT BOY LIVES! Becky used to send Emma on scavenger hunts around their apartment complex, the prize always being a tube of used lipstick or a mini Snickers. She bought Emma frilly tutus and lacy dresses from Goodwill for dress-up. She read Emma Harry Potter before bed, making up different voices for every character.
But Becky was like a scratch-off lottery ticket—Emma never quite knew what she was going to get with her. Sometimes Becky spent the whole day crying on the couch, her face contorted and her cheeks streaked with tears. Other times she would drag Emma to the nearest department store and buy her two of everything. “Why do I need two pairs of the same shoes?” Emma would ask. A faraway look would come over Becky’s face. “In case the first pair gets dirty, Emmy.”
Becky could be very forgetful, too—like the time she left Emma at a Circle K. Suddenly unable to breathe, Emma had watched her mother’s car vanish down the shimmering highway. The clerk on duty gave Emma an orange Popsicle and let her sit on the ice freezer at the front of the store while he made some phone calls. When Becky finally returned, she scooped up Emma and gave her a huge hug. For once, she didn’t even complain when Emma dripped sticky orange Popsicle goo on her dress.
One summer night not long after that, Emma slept over with Sasha Morgan, a friend from kindergarten. She woke up in the morning to Mrs. Morgan standing in the doorway, a sick look on her face. Apparently, Becky had left a note under the Morgans’ front door, saying she’d “gone on a little trip.” Some trip that was—it had lasted almost thirteen years and counting.
When no one could track down Becky, Sasha’s parents turned Emma over to an orphanage in Reno. Prospective adopters had no interest in a five-year-old—they all wanted babies they could mold into mini versions of themselves—so Emma lived in group homes, then foster homes. Though Emma would always love her mom, she couldn’t say she missed her—at least not Miserable Becky, Manic Becky, or the Lunatic Becky who’d forgotten her at the Circle K. She did miss the idea of a mom though: someone stable and constant who knew her past, looked forward to her future, and loved her unconditionally. Emma had invented the Mom, Dad, and Emma stars in the sky not based on anything she’d ever known, but instead on what she wished she’d had.
The sliding glass door opened, and Emma wheeled around. Travis, her new foster mom’s eighteen-year-old son, strutted out and settled on top of the patio table. “Sorry about bursting in on you in the bathroom,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Emma muttered bitterly, slowly inching away from Travis’s outstretched legs. She was pretty sure Travis wasn’t sorry. He practically made a sport of trying to see her naked. Today, Travis wore a blue ball cap pulled low over his eyes, a ratty, oversized plaid shirt, and baggy jean shorts with the crotch sagging almost to his knees. There was patchy stubble on his pointy-nosed, thin-lipped, pea-eyed face; he wasn’t man enough to actually grow facial hair. His bloodshot brown eyes narrowed lasciviously. Emma could feel his gaze on her, canvassing her tight-fitting NEW YORK NEW YORK camisole, bare, tanned arms, and long legs.
With a grunt, Travis reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a joint, and lit up. As he blew a plume of smoke in her direction, the bug zapper glowed to life. With a crisp snap and a fizzle of blue light, it annihilated yet another mosquito. If only it could do that to Travis, too.
Back off, pot breath, Emma wanted to say. It’s no wonder no girl will get near you. But she bit her tongue; the comment would have to go into her Comebacks I Should’ve Said file, a list she’d compiled in a black cloth notebook hidden in her top drawer. The Comebacks list, CISS for short, was filled with pithy, snarky remarks Emma had longed to say to foster moms, creepy neighbors, bitchy girls at school, and a whole host of others. For the most part, Emma held her tongue—it was easier to keep quiet, not make trouble, and become whatever type of girl a situation needed her to be. Along the way, Emma had picked up some pretty impressive coping skills: At age ten, she honed her reflexes when Mr. Smythe, a tempestuous foster parent, got into one of his object-throwing moods. When Emma lived in Henderson with Ursula and Steve, the two hippies who grew their own food but were clueless about how to cook it, Emma had begrudgingly taken over kitchen duties, whipping up zucchini bread, veggie gratins, and some awesome stir-fries.
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