Final y, Ethan exhaled loudly. A frown marred his lips.
“Are you saying that if we got into a fight, if we broke up, I’d abandon you? Do you real y think I’d do that?”
Emma raised her palms to the air. “Breakups can be ugly.” Then she sighed. “I like you so much. But there are so few people I can trust—and you’re the only one I can rely on. I can’t jeopardize that. Not now.”
Ethan turned away, saying nothing. Emma stared at the parked cars across the street. A cleaning service cal ed Clean Machine had stuck flyers under each of the windshields. A convertible cruised by with its radio blasting hip-hop.
“I think we need to keep it as friends,” Emma whispered into the darkness, afraid to look at Ethan head-on. “At least until I can figure out this mess and live my own life again.”
Next to her, Emma felt Ethan’s body slump from the weight of her words. “If you think that’s best,” he said slowly.
“I do,” Emma insisted in the strongest voice she could manage.
Without answering, Ethan rose and reached into his pocket for his car keys. Emma fol owed behind him to the Honda, feeling like someone had scooped out her insides with a big ladle. Had she just ruined everything?
As she swung into the passenger seat, a crackling sound made her turn. Her eyes scanned the dark road. Then, she spied something moving in the bushes across the street near the bench where they’d been sitting. The cherry-red tip of a lit cigarette glowed in the darkness. It dangled, disembodied, as though held by a ghost.
“Ethan,” she whispered, grabbing his arm. But as soon as Ethan twisted around to look, the spooky burning cigarette vanished.
Chapter 16
An A for Effort
After tennis practice the fol owing day, Emma threw her gear into the hatchback of Laurel’s VW. “Ahem,” Laurel whispered, nudging Emma’s side. “Looks like you have an anti–fan club.”
Emma swung around, and her stomach dropped. Two figures stared from the gym doorway, their mouths angry red slashes. It was Nisha . . . and Garrett.
“Do you think she’s stil pissed about you sneaking into her room?” Laurel asked.
“I doubt it,” Emma said slowly. It more likely had to do with Nisha seeing Emma and Ethan at the art opening last night. Thankful y, Nisha hadn’t cal ed up the Mercer parents to rat her out, but it seemed she’d just spil ed the beans to Garrett. Why else would he look at Emma with such fury?
“Let’s get out of here,” Emma mumbled, slamming the car door.
As Laurel plopped into the driver’s seat, her phone screen flashed. “It’s Mads,” she said, checking the message. “Looks like Operation Titanic is good to go. I told the other girls on the court about the real outfits. I also told them not to discuss their outfits with anyone—that we were planning to prank two of the court members.”
Emma’s stomach turned, thinking about her discussion with Ethan last night. “Are you sure this is a good idea?
Maybe we should lay off the Twitter Twins for a while.”
Laurel’s eyebrows made a V. “Of course it’s a good idea. We can’t back out now. Besides,” Laurel went on, “I can guarantee you no one’s gonna talk. They’re al eager to see someone else go down. Everyone loves a big embarrassing social disaster.”
Way to go, court girls, banding together in solidarity, Emma thought. An itchy feeling reminded her that she was once the girl on the receiving end of the prank. When this was al over, she would extricate herself from the Lying Game as fast as she could.
The car jostled over the hump of the curb into the Mercers’ driveway. “Is that . . . Dad?” Laurel asked, frowning at the open garage door.
Sure enough, Mr. Mercer stood next to the motorcycle. He waved as they pul ed in.
“What’s he doing home?” Emma murmured. Typical y, Mr. Mercer didn’t return from the hospital until early evening
—unless he was on cal , and then sometimes he didn’t get home until the middle of the night.
Laurel cut the engine, and the girls got out of the car.
“Sutton, I have to talk to you,” Mr. Mercer said, wiping his hands on a dingy green towel.
Immediately, Emma tensed. Maybe Nisha had told the Mercers after al . “I’m sorry,” she said preemptively.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.” Mr. Mercer chuckled. “Your mom got a cal from Josephine Fenstermacher. She said you got a ninety-nine on your German test last week. The highest grade in the class.”
Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. Laurel swung around and stared at her in disbelief. “You?”
Mr. Mercer grinned. “She said you’ve improved dramatical y since last year. I know German is a tough subject for you. Mom and I are so proud.”
Emma ran a hand over her hair. Truthful y, the chapter test had been fairly easy, but she forced a humble look on her face. “Thank you.”
Mr. Mercer leaned against the back bumper of Laurel’s VW. “I convinced your mom to make you a deal: As a reward for doing so wel , we’re going to break your grounding for Homecoming night and let you go to the dance. And we’re giving you phone privileges back,” he said, handing over Sutton’s iPhone.
“Seriously?” Laurel’s eyes lit up. “Dad, that’s amazing!”
Emma squeezed Laurel’s arm and let out a squeal, too, knowing it was the right reaction for Sutton. But Homecoming was the last thing that mattered to her right now.
Mr. Mercer raised an eyebrow. “You can go, but the very next day it’s back to being grounded. Got it?”
“What about the post-dance camping trip?” Laurel chirped. “Can Sutton come to that, too?”
A conflicted look passed over Mr. Mercer’s face. “Wel , I suppose so.”
“Yes!” Laurel cried. She looked at Emma. “Maybe you’l let me borrow your Miu Miu heels for the dance as a thankyou.” Then she turned and skipped toward the house. Emma moved to fol ow her inside, but Mr. Mercer cleared his throat. “Sutton, wil you help me for a moment?”
He turned toward the motorcycle. “Can you hold this steady while I look at the tires?”
“Of course.” Emma fol owed him into the garage and gripped the handlebars.
Mr. Mercer leaned down and examined the fine tread on the front wheel. “So. Happy about Homecoming?”
“Uh, definitely,” Emma answered, trying to sound enthused. “Thank you so much. But . . . I don’t real y deserve it.” She mental y ticked off the number of times she’d snuck out while she was grounded.
“You earned it, Sutton. Thank yourself for your test score
—and thank your sister, for begging us to let you go.” Mr. Mercer stood from the tire and crossed his arms over his chest. “You should cal Garrett and tel him the good news.”
Emma let out a short, sarcastic laugh, staring at her warped reflection in the bike’s shiny frame. “I don’t think Garrett wil care.”
Mr. Mercer frowned. “Why not?”
Emma turned toward the shelves of rags, T-shirts, and bottles of motor oil and brake fluid. “We broke up,” she admitted softly. “And I sort of like someone else,” she added, surprised by her own words. She thought this would be another thing to add to the Things That Are Awkward list, but she actual y felt almost relieved to admit the truth aloud. Opening up to adults wasn’t something she’d ever done before, and by the cautious look on Mr. Mercer’s face, it wasn’t usual for Sutton either.
“Does this someone else know?” Mr. Mercer sounded intrigued.
“Sort of.” Emma’s voice cracked, wincing at the memory of the art museum date. It had been so . . . perfect. But then she remembered the look on Ethan’s face when he told her how he felt about her, and the utter disappointment in his eyes when she said they should just be friends. The tight feeling that had formed in her chest the moment those words had spil ed out of her mouth stil hadn’t gone away.
“Are you and this new guy . . . going out?” Mr. Mercer used the term tentatively, as though he wasn’t sure if it was the right lingo.
Emma reached for a clean rag from the metal garage shelves and twisted it into a knot. When she untied it and spread it out, she saw a faded silkscreened image of a crab and a clam dancing the tango. It advertised either a restaurant or a fish market; the lettering was too worn away to tel which.
“No,” Emma answered in a tired voice. “Things are . . . complicated.”
“Why is that?”
She shut her eyes. “I’m having a hard time trusting people, I guess.”
A pained look Emma couldn’t quite gauge crossed Mr. Mercer’s face. “You should trust people, Sutton. You shouldn’t let . . .”
Emma waited for him to finish, but Mr. Mercer just twisted his mouth and looked away. “Let what?” she final y asked.
“I just mean . . .” He fumbled through his tools. They made loud clanging noises as they banged together. “I only want what’s best for you. If it’s meant to be, honey, it’s meant to be.”
“Maybe,” Emma said thoughtful y. His wording made her think of the Boyfriend Star, burning brightly in the sky. Fate. Then, placing the rag back on the shelf, she padded over to Mr. Mercer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Mr. Mercer held her tentatively for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure the gesture was genuine. But then, slowly, he squeezed her hard. He smel ed like cologne, black pepper, and motor oil.
It was a smel I knew so, so wel . A wave of grief pounded my body until I felt like I would wash away. What I wouldn’t give to hug my dad one more time. As I watched their embrace, a dark image surfaced in my mind. My dad’s eyes widening when he turned and spotted me. Betrayal surging through me like he’d driven a stake through my heart. But before I could delve deeper into the memory, it submerged once more.
Chapter 17
X Marks the Spot
Thursday afternoon, during the last period of the school day, Emma, Charlotte, and Madeline stood backstage in the auditorium, dressed in black cocktail dresses and high heels. Old play props and sets, abandoned scripts from last year’s production of Oklahoma!, and several ful -length mirrors were littered in the otherwise barren space, but the situation on the other side of the curtain was another story. That morning, with the help of the committee’s party planners, the girls had transformed the stage into an elegant, ghostly replica of the Titanic, complete with chandeliers, a sweeping faux-staircase, gilded fixtures, and tables set with fine china.
Emma shook her head in awe. “This is real y beautiful.” It was too bad this couldn’t be the décor for the dance Friday night. But that would be held in the gym, not the auditorium. Charlotte paced back and forth, tapping a clipboard. Her type-A personality made her the perfect detail-organizer.
“Okay,” she said. “So after everyone files into the auditorium, we’l announce the court nominees’ names. They’l walk in and waltz with their escorts. The party wil last until the late bus is cal ed.”
