Sara Shepard

The First Lie

1

FACEBOOK HACKING IS SO SOPHOMORE YEAR

It’s a typical Saturday afternoon, and my best friends Charlotte Chamberlain and Madeline Vega and I are sitting outside La Paloma Country Club in Tucson, Arizona, where we all live. It’s the last few weeks of summer before we start our junior year and we’re not losing a second of tanning time. We’re all wearing our brand-new Missoni bikinis that are sort of matchy-matchy but not quite, the air smells like Banana Boat sunscreen and freshly cut limes in the neighboring moms’ cocktails, and the high-pitched squeals from the kiddie pool off to the left carry across the neatly landscaped stone patios. As we sip Perrier through skinny red straws—this place is super-strict about underage drinkers—Char takes a breath. “So I have an idea for the next prank for the Lying Game, Sutton,” she says, turning to me. “We go on Facebook, and—”

“No, no, no,” I cut her off, lowering my copy of Us Weekly to my chest. “We’ve done the Facebook thing to death, Char. It’s too easy. The Lying Game is about originality, remember?”

Charlotte flushes, which just makes her freckles stand out more. “It was a variation on a theme, obviously.” She pushes her Chloe aviators to the top of her head and offers a very well-practiced careless shrug that almost has me convinced she doesn’t care about my opinion. The thing is, though, she does. She and Madeline both … as well as everyone else at Hollier High. Not that I’m trying to boast or anything. That’s just the way it is.

“Variation on a theme … how?” I prompt.

“Such as … changing Nisha Banerjee’s profile picture to Lindsay Lohan’s latest mug shot?” Char suggests, snickering.

From my left, Madeline, whose dark hair is gathered back into a messy knot, adjusts the ties on her crocheted bikini’s halter top. “It’d be an improvement on that tennis team group shot she’s got now. She looks totally deranged in it.”

I cross and uncross my long legs, which are more muscular than Mads’s lithe ballerina ones. “She can’t help it. Nisha is deranged.” Nisha Banerjee is a tightly wound, quasi-popular girl who’s also my biggest tennis rival. I sit up. “It’s too small-time, though. The first Lying Game prank of the year has to be big. No exceptions.”

My best friends reflect on this for a moment, knowing I’m right. Mads, Char, and I started the Lying Game back in sixth grade during a sleepover, wanting to prank all of the cute guys in our class. We were the most popular girls in school and we could do something like that, knowing they’d just fall over us even more. After that first prank—water-ballooning them from the school roof—we pulled other small-time pranks, like gluing Lori Sanchez’s locker shut or slipping a love letter from Darien Holbrook, the biggest heartthrob from that year, into the desk of Miranda Foos, a hopeless dork. The pranks have escalated since then, some of them downright scary and illegal. Still, we get away with most of it. And everyone at school expects us to push the boundaries. Which means we can’t do something lame like switch a Facebook profile picture.

“That reminds me,” Charlotte says, changing the subject. “The Twitter Twins want to know if we’re going to Nisha’s back-to-school party on Thursday.”

I roll my eyes. “Not if they are.” Gabriella and Lilianna Fiorello, and their constant addiction to their phones and all forms of social networking, are annoyance personified. Their desperation to get in on the Lying Game reeks worse than the latest Viktor and Rolf Flowerbomb perfume, which, fittingly, is their signature scent this summer.

Not that I blame them for trying so hard to get in, of course. Everyone wants to be in our clique. But I told the Twitter Twins the same thing I tell everyone: Membership is strictly limited to three, Madeline, Charlotte, and me. No exceptions for anyone.

Now Charlotte sits up to face Madeline and me, adjusting the strap of her one-shoulder swimsuit. I haven’t said anything yet, but since Char started dating Garrett Austin, she’s put on a few happy pounds around her middle, surely from all the ice-cream outings and fancy dinner dates they’ve gone on. Char eats when she’s in love; that I know for sure.

“We kind of have to go to Nisha’s,” Charlotte insists, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “She’s invited the whole tennis team, including the seniors. You know how the team eats that stuff up. If you want to be captain over her, you should at least put in an appearance.”

I sniff. “I don’t have to do anything.” But then I shrug. “Oh, whatever. I’ll go. She’ll definitely have a way better turnout if people know we’re going, and Laurel’s been whining about wanting me there.”

At that, I glance toward the snack bar. Laurel, my adoptive sister, is leaning against the window, repeating the order we gave her, her brow furrowed in concentration. We’d given her a ton of stuff to remember—the bread had to be the club’s signature gluten-free variety and the fruit salad could contain only grapes, pineapple, and star fruit—no melon or strawberries. I’m sure she sees it as a test, but I just wanted a few extra minutes of privacy so we could talk Lying Game pranks. Laurel practically invented the phrase hanger-on. She was so thrilled that I’d begrudgingly said she could join us at the pool today that she immediately posted it as her status on Facebook. I suppose a lot of girls would be thrilled that their little sisters admired them so much, but for me, it’s a little suffocating.

Madeline’s cheery voice interrupts my thoughts. “So it’s settled. We’ll go. Nisha’s lame, but we’ll make it fun.”

“Fine, great.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “We’ll go to Nisha’s. It’ll be like community service. But way more important than that is the inaugural Lying Game prank.” I drum my watermelon-tipped fingernails against the iron arm of my chaise. “Who should the target be?” I grin wickedly in Charlotte’s direction. “Garrett?”

Charlotte sets her mouth in a line, her cheeks turning as red as her hair. “Don’t you dare, Sutton.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, deciding to go easy on her. Garrett is, after all, Char’s first Big Boyfriend.

“What about boys of the non-boyfriend variety?” Madeline suggests. “Boys of the dirty, evil-scumbag-douche-lord variety?”

I raise my eyebrow. “Are we talking about a certain lifeguard, Mads?” I glance over at Finn Hadley, the tanned, muscled, blond-from-the-sun boy who sits atop the lifeguard stand near the diving well. Finn was Mads’s intended summer fling, and he seemed to be into her, too, texting her regularly, putting his arm around her whenever he saw her, even bringing her treats from the snack bar. But then we caught him in a … private lesson with an off-duty au pair on the tennis courts after hours a week ago. Enough said.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say, narrowing my eyes on Finn. I can’t let guys go around thinking they can screw with my friends. Especially not for nannies whose idea of personal style is faux-hipster Keds.

“But I still don’t think he’s a big enough target,” I say after a moment. I pat Mads’s leg. “How about this—we report him to the management for smoking pot on duty?”

Mads cocks her head. “A joint in his locker?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I say, giving her a high five.

Char makes a face. “But guys, that’s a repeat. We did that to Dave Jaffrey last spring.”

“Yeah, but …” I trail off, my gaze on someone across the pool. He’s tall, with dark hair, Beckham-esque shoulders, and an Ian Somerhalder brooding thing going on. His lean torso is tanned and rippled with muscles, and his easy lope is completely un-ignorable—every girl he passes gives him an appreciative stare, and he takes the time to greet quite a few of them. My competitive streak awakens inside me. This guy could be a contender for a summer fling of my own, even though summer’s almost over—I’ve been weighing my options for a while now. There was a half second last week when Aidan Grove, a lacrosse player who’s been into me since seventh grade, looked like a front-runner since I’m a sucker for calf muscles. But now, I’m not so sure. Mr. Vampire Diaries might just have taken the lead.

I flick my low, shiny ponytail over one shoulder as casually as I can and push my sunglasses up my nose for maximum intimidation factor. To my delight, he’s walking over. I tilt my body and put my hand on a tanned, bare hip. He’s coming right toward me. And now he’s stopping. Who knew this could be so easy?

“Hey, Sutton. How’s it going?” the boy says, offering an easy smile. Then he glances to the left. “Hey, Char. Hey, Mads,” he says, almost as an afterthought.

“Hey,” Char says, sounding bored. But I’m confused. How does this guy know my name, all of our names? And then, as I look at him, something clicks. My jaw nearly drops. But … wait. There’s no way. This can’t be—

“Hey, Thayer,” Mads says, as if answering my thoughts.

It’s Madeline’s younger brother.

I fiddle with my sunglasses to disguise my utter shock. I’d forgotten that Mads’s baby brother, whom I’d never given the time of day before, had returned from soccer camp last night. What the hell were they feeding them there? Is this seriously the same skinny kid who never spoke?

Thayer is still staring at me. “Finding out a lot of good stuff about Will and Kate, Sutton?”

For a moment, my mind is blank—I have no idea what he’s talking about. Then I look at the Us Weekly still overturned on my lap. On the cover is the royal couple at a ball. “O-oh,” I say haltingly, like I’ve never spoken to a boy in my life. I can feel the blush rising to my cheeks. “Um …”

Thayer grins, perhaps knowing that he’s made me tongue-tied. Before soccer camp, he would never do something like this. But then again, that was back when he had regular, freshman-sized shoulders, eyes I never bothered to really look into, and, well, no voice. I can’t even recall our last conversation. It was probably when he’d come over to see Laurel, who’s been his best friend for eons. Every time I answered the door instead of her, his face would turn violet, and he’d trip over his words just like I’m doing now.

Get it together, Sutton, I tell myself, and I straighten up. Boys fall over me, not the other way around.

I peel the magazine from my midriff and offer it to Thayer. “You want it? I remember how crazy you used to be for Mads’s old issues of People.”

Thayer blushes. “It was just that issue about the Olympic swimmers.”

I giggle and poke his calf—which, I might add, is even sexier than Aidan’s. “Just admit it. You totally love the celeb gossip.”

Thayer grins and pokes me back. “Do not.”

“Do too!” I say, nudging him with my foot. Thayer’s legs are rock-hard. This is starting to get fun.

“You guys,” a voice says from a few yards away. When I look up, Laurel stands there with a cardboard box from the snack bar in her hands. It’s filled with only sodas, though, none of the weird items we requested. “They don’t have gluten-free bread. They’ve never had gluten-free bread.”

“Really?” I blink innocently. “I swear I had some last time I was here.”

“Yep,” Char joins in. “It was totally delish.”

“And star fruit?” Laurel sticks out her lip in a pout. “They just laughed at me when I asked for that. They didn’t even know what I was talking about!”

I can’t help but explode into laughter. Char follows suit, and then Mads, and the three of us are suddenly a giggling mess. Laurel stands above us looking forlorn. She turns to Thayer with that doe-eyed expression she always has for him. Laurel has had a crush on Thayer forever. “They tricked me,” she whines.

Thayer’s playful, flirty expression shifts into one of annoyance. He shakes his head. “You guys are horrible. When are you going to grow up?”

He says it loudly, so that the whole pool can hear. A gasp doesn’t rise up in the crowd, but there might as well be one. Everyone turns and stares. Mads blinks as if he’s slapped her. Charlotte raises her eyebrows. I try my hardest not to alter my expression, but it’s almost impossible. Before any of us can say anything, Thayer waves his hand dismissively, links his arm through Laurel’s, and stalks off toward the diving board.

After a moment, everyone at the pool goes back to what they were doing. But neither I nor my friends can speak. It’s one thing for me to put the other two down, and occasionally, when she’s feeling feisty, Char has even gotten some good jabs in at me that I’ve let slide. But someone’s little brother dissing us? Not cool.

Finally, Charlotte sets down her glass. “What is up with your brother, Mads?”

Madeline shakes her head. “He was voted MVP at soccer camp. I guess he thinks he’s something now.” She makes a face.

“He is something else, all right,” I murmur. I try to sound annoyed—which I am, of course. But I feel some other things, too. Things I don’t want to admit to myself. It’s probably the sun. Maybe someone spiked my drink. But as I watch Thayer sauntering off with Laurel, grinning lazily at every girl in his path, I feel the distinct rumblings of an emotion that hasn’t hit me in a long, long time.

Jealousy.

2

UP FOR A CHALLENGE, DOWN FOR THE DEED

Here’s the thing about me and parties: Even the ones I don’t want to go to I have to look smoking hot for. As in, the hottest girl there—that’s how I keep my status, after all. But on Sunday, as Mads and I scour the racks at Jolie, our favorite boutique, the pickings are so slim I’m considering shoplifting a Missoni scarf or two in protest.

The place is packed, too, so maybe that has something to do with it. All three of us are frustrated—Madeline’s on her second walk-through of the floor, and Charlotte’s stuck in the dressing room wrestling with the slit sleeves on a yellow silk Elizabeth and James minidress. I eye a row of candy-colored Butter nail polish bottles on the glass-top display table. The turquoise has possibilities. A gawky brunette in a lime-green sundress and gladiator sandals looks like she’s considering approaching the display, but a glare from me sends her back toward the wall of belts instead.

I deftly sweep the turquoise polish from the table into my gray Miu Miu satchel. Done and done. No one even looked my way.

“Ugh,” Madeline groans from behind me.

I turn to face her as though nothing is amiss. “What is it?” I ask, scanning the store for something that would go nicely with my new acquisition. Rows of pastel tops sway on hanging racks like wearable meringue.

“Thayer,” Madeline says.

I stiffen slightly. “What’d baby brother do now?” I ask, sifting idly through a bunch of bangle bracelets.

“He just texted to ask if I was going to Nisha’s party,” Madeline says, in a horrified voice that suggests he’d just texted to ask her if she was planning to shave her head. “Can you believe him?”

Char, who has just emerged from the dressing room with the yellow dress slung over her arm, gapes at us. “But he’s only a sophomore!”

“Seriously.” Madeline shakes her head at her phone as if Thayer can see her.

“Wait, he asked if you were going as if you hadn’t already been invited?” I sputter.

Madeline nods. “As if he’s the cool one, not me.” Then she points at a bracelet I’ve picked up from the table. “I love that.”

“It’s yours.” I wink at her, and she widens her eyes back, grinning, knowing what I’m going to do. But my mind isn’t really on the five-finger discount. It’s on Thayer 2.0. Who is this guy? Unbidden, the image of his chiseled abs and defined calves floats in my mind. I force myself to push it away.

“He definitely thinks he’s the man since coming back from soccer camp, huh?” I say. “Like he’s the only guy who’s ever played a sport before.”

Madeline rolls her eyes. “Thayer had some kind of crazy transformation while he was away. Suddenly he thinks he’s a sex god or something. Apparently he had a serious girlfriend while he was there. She was super into him, and now she won’t stop calling. He claims she’s stalking him.”

“Please,” Charlotte says as she sashays toward the register. “I’m sure he doesn’t mind being stalked.”

I smile, but I’m not so sure about that myself. Thayer used to be so quiet—at least, that’s what I thought of him. But it’s starting to seem like I had the wrong idea about Thayer all along.

As Charlotte winds around the racks, she plucks up a La Perla bra-and-panties set and adds it to her pile.

“La Perla?” The corners of my mouth twitch. “Planning a hot night with Garrett?”

Charlotte’s cheeks flare a bright pink, but she doesn’t deny it. As the salesclerk rings up the purchase, I slide the bracelet up my sleeve, easy as that. Then I look at Madeline. “So Thayer isn’t into Stalker Girl, then?” I try to sound nonchalant, like I don’t really care.

Madeline leans against the counter. “I don’t know what their deal was this summer, but I definitely don’t think he’s into her anymore,” she says, eyeing me. “Honestly? I think he might have a crush on you, Sutton.”

I feel an unexpected little zing in my stomach. Then I freeze, trying to suppress my reaction. “Aw, how cute,” I say teasingly. “But Sutton Mercer doesn’t do younger guys. Thayer should know that.”

My friends nod and turn away, but my heart is pounding. Yes, I’ve known Thayer liked me before, but suddenly it feels different. Only, am I insane? Thayer might be hot now, but … he’s still Thayer. Madeline’s younger brother. Laurel’s best friend. Quiet. Sensitive. The opposite of me. Thayer’s the guy who’s spent hours at our house on weekends, playing cards—cards!—with Laurel the Lame, the guy who sneaks over late nights to hang out in our backyard shed that we’d made over into a quasi-clubhouse. He’s a kid. Not in my league.

Still, a hazy memory flits through my mind: last summer, Thayer and Laurel passed through the kitchen while I sat at our round oak table, thumbing my iPad. I barely glanced up at them as Laurel opened the refrigerator and pulled out a tall glass pitcher of iced tea. But that didn’t stop her from approaching me brightly. Her ponytail swung like the pendulum of a clock.

“Want some?” she offered, hopeful and perky. I barely mumbled an acknowledgment, ignoring her hurt expression. I felt Thayer watching me, but it just annoyed me back then. When I looked up, his hazel eyes were trained on me, as though he could see what I was thinking and was disappointed.

“What?” I snapped.

His lips twitched, and he turned away silently. I’d glared at him as he and Laurel went outside toward the clubhouse, wondering what that look had been for. Did he think I needed to be nicer or something? Who was he to tell me what to do? And why, most of all, did I care what he thought of me? But the look stuck with me for days. Maybe Thayer had been challenging my authority for a while now.

The sound of the register opening brings me back to Jolie. I shrug, brushing the moment off me like a used towel. The salesclerk hands Charlotte her shopping bag, crisp and sharply edged. Charlotte smiles and we make our way toward the exit. Suddenly, she stops in her tracks, a slow grin spreading across her face.

“You guys, I have the best idea,” she says.

Madeline and I look at her, and she leans in conspiratorially.

“What if we prank Thayer?” Her eyes gleam. “For the Lying Game.”

Madeline’s mouth turns up at the corners, amused. “How?” she asks, waving her hand in an I’m listening gesture.

Charlotte runs her free hand through her auburn waves. “So, Sutton would never go for Thayer in a million years, right?”

“Right,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Well, what if we make it seem like she likes him? Sutton pretends that she’s totally into him, and then when he falls on his knees professing undying love—preferably in a highly public place—we all pop out and surprise him, telling him it was a huge joke!” She practically bounces on her heels from excitement.

Madeline bites her lip, contemplating. “It would definitely take him down a few pegs,” she agrees. “Which he deserves, especially after calling us out like that at the pool.” Her eyes light up as she warms to the plan. “I like it. But what about you, Sutton? Do you want to do it? Do you think you could reel Thayer in?”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” It’s a silly question. Reeling unsuspecting guys in is Lying Game 101. And I’m the best at it. “But, I mean, he is your brother,” I continue, considering. “Are you sure you want to crush him so badly?”

Madeline puts her hands on her narrow hips. “Look, you don’t need to demolish him two hundred percent or anything like that, but … yeah. He has it coming. You saw how cocky he’s gotten lately. And it’s not just annoying me—it’s driving my father crazy, too.”

Her eyes darken, and she turns away. Char and I exchange a look. We all know about Mr. Vega’s temper, which seems to flare up for the stupidest reasons. I wouldn’t want to get on that man’s bad side.

We step through the exit of the shop into the blazing heat of August in Tucson. I raise my arm and offer the salesclerk a wave, bangle falling down my sleeve and dancing on my wrist. She smiles back, preoccupied, her dirty blond hair falling in a shiny curtain over her shoulders.

Feeling triumphant, I turn to the girls. “I’m in,” I decide. “I’m always down for a challenge.”

3

FAIR PLAY

That night, my two friends and I walk the grounds of the annual Pima County Summer Fair on the west side of town. Mosquitoes, plentiful because of this summer’s particularly wet monsoon season, flit around us, and fire-flies flicker. The greasy smell of funnel cake clings to our clothes and makes our mouths water, even though we wouldn’t dare order one. As the pirate-ship ride to our left gets going, the passengers start to scream excitedly. You’d never get me on that thing. My mom always says county fair rides are held together by bubble gum and duct tape and little else.

Charlotte traipses back from the cotton candy booth, a truffula tree of spun pink sugar in her hand. “Oh my God, did you see the guy running the cotton candy stand? I think he had, like, three teeth.”

I give the scrawny-looking guy a wink, and Charlotte practically spurts cotton candy out her nose.

“Gross,” Madeline says, more to Char than Cotton Candy Guy. She giggles and hands Charlotte a napkin. But her chin’s all sticky, and little flecks of paper get stuck there, making her look even more ridiculous. We collapse into laughter, giggling so hard we have to hold on to each other to stay upright. The crowd streams around us, giving us weird looks, but we don’t care.

“What’s next on our agenda?” I ask, finally straightening up and tugging at the hem of my Ella Moss tissue tee.

Mads looks around. “Gabby and Lili want us to meet them by Skee-Ball. Apparently Gabby’s smoking it.”

She holds her iPhone screen up to my face so I can see their latest Twitpic.

“That could be a picture of anything,” I scoff. “I need a visual confirmation.”

“Then let’s go.” Mads links arms with each of us, beaming with contentment, and we head back into the fray.

The fair is swarming with people. We’ve only moved about three feet, back to the ragged, dusty path between booths, when we bump directly into Laurel.

“Hey!” Laurel says eagerly. Her foot lands squarely on my brand-new Vince Camuto cap-toe ballet flats, and I glare at her.

“I thought we lost you back by the front entrance,” I snap. I couldn’t get out of driving Laurel here, but Mads, Charlotte, and I slipped away from her the second she was distracted by someone in her class.

A hurt expression flits across her face, and I turn away. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too mean to Laurel. We actually used to be friends, but then we just … drifted apart. It happens. Plus, I think that deep down, I’m kind of pissed at her. Laurel is my parents’ biological daughter, the child they never thought they could have. There’s always a fear inside me that they love her just a little bit more.

Laurel sweeps her hair back off of her shoulder. “I just saw Aidan Grove by the Skee-Ball. He asked if you were here tonight,” she reports, looking proud of herself. “I told him you were.” She reminds me of a puppy who wants a treat for a well-executed sit or roll over.

“He is so smitten,” Charlotte agrees. She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone, texting furiously as she barely maneuvers the sea of bodies streaming past us on all sides. Her hand is jostled and she squeaks a protest. “Stupid autocorrect!” She sighs again, but her eyes shine with enthusiasm. “Garrett just got here. Oh! There he is!”

She spies a figure walking through the crowd and starts to wave. We all crane our necks to see Garrett coming toward us. He’s got close-cropped hair, high cheekbones, and small, intense eyes that look like they’re always squinting—but in a cute way.

Madeline nudges Charlotte, whose cheeks are pink with happiness. “I guess Garrett was okay with you coming with us to the fair instead of riding with him?” she asks.

Charlotte nods, looking sheepish. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you come with him?” Laurel asks.

“Sutton told me that when it comes to guys, you have to have the upper hand at all times. Which means leaving them wanting more.”

“And … ?” I goad her.

“And you were right,” Charlotte admits.

“Exactly,” I say. “I’m always right about those kinds of things.”

“Hey,” Garrett says as he joins us. He drapes his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Charlotte looks like she’s about to faint. Then Garrett nods at the rest of us. “Where are you guys headed?”

“Skee-Ball,” I announce.

Garrett twists his mouth. “What Sutton says, goes, huh?”

“That’s usually how it works,” Madeline answers, shrugging.

We head over to Skee-Ball, where the crowd is thicker than ever. Over the clatter of wooden balls bouncing through targets, we’re greeted by a roar of hooting, whistling, and enthusiastic cheers. Mads and I exchange a glance. Someone was clearly on a roll. Could this crowd be all because of Gabby?

But then a cloud of Wintermint Trident surrounds me, and I hear Gabby’s screechy voice in my ear. “Oh my God, Sutton!” She presses me into a cloying hug. “You totally missed my moment of triumph!”

I unwind my arms from her torso, shooting Mads an eye roll. “It looks like we’re here just in time for some real excitement, though.”

“It’s Thayer,” Laurel squeals, scanning the scene and grinning. She rises on her tiptoes to get a better look. “He’s kicking butt!”

I frown. It’s got to be someone else. Last year, Laurel used to always whine about how she and Thayer never went to any good concerts because he couldn’t deal with crowds. And forget about things like talent shows and battle of the bands—though we’d sometimes hear Thayer rocking out on his guitar through the walls at Mads’s house, he would have never, ever gone onstage and performed in front of all those people. Madeline used to say that instead of having attention-deficit disorder, he had attention-terror disorder.

I jostle Laurel aside and rise, zeroing in on the Skee-Ball machine just as a ball disappears squarely down the highest-scoring hole. A scoreboard lights up and the crowd cheers. I follow the trajectory of the ball backward and up an exceptionally graceful, well-muscled arm clad in a heather-gray T-shirt … a T-shirt that covers the chiseled torso of the least likely candidate for rock-god status Hollier High has ever known....

Wow.

Thayer gracefully picks up another silver ball and lobs it toward the hole. Bing bing bing, another high score. He turns to the crowd and bows.

Someone certainly has gotten over his shyness.

Char nudges me. “Check out his number-one groupie.”

She points to Nisha Banerjee, my tennis rival, who is glued to Thayer’s side. She nibbles at a rainbow snow cone that’s stained her lips a deep purple. She catches my eye across the crowd and scowls, but I avert my gaze frostily. Because of Nisha’s perma-smug expression, of course. And how she doesn’t bow down to me like she should. And because she’s a ridiculously good tennis player, and I hate having competition. Not because she’s standing next to Thayer. I don’t care about that.

Thayer sinks another ball down the 50-point chute, and the crowd roars once more. Lili nudges me. “Rumor has it he’s trying to win one of those huge toys for someone.” She points out the hulking plush dolls looming large on a rickety, overcrowded prize shelf at the back of the booth. There’s a Scooby-Doo, Flounder from The Little Mermaid, Snoopy, and that football-headed baby, Stewie, from Family Guy. “You have to get a thousand points to win one, though.”

“For Nisha?” Laurel says, sounding heartbroken.

“Maybe,” Gabby trills.

“Seriously?” The thought burns like bile in the back of my throat. There’s no way he likes her. Right?

Laurel looks at me, then glances at Scooby. “Oh my God, remember, Sutton? Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” She says it in Scooby’s goofy voice, shaking her head from side to side. “A couple of years ago? You tried to win him, too!”

I turn brusquely away from her. “No, I didn’t.” Did she have to say it so loudly? I hate when my little sister brings up dorky stuff from my past. Okay, okay, yeah, I used to really, really like Scooby-Doo. When Laurel and I were younger—when we were actually friends—I once played Skee-Ball just like Thayer is doing now, determined to get Scooby for myself. I didn’t get remotely close, though.

I take a big step away from Laurel, indicating I want her to drop it, now. Madeline is shaking her head as Thayer pumps his fist in a dorky victory gesture. “My brother seriously needs to get over himself,” she snaps.

Suddenly, Thayer looks at me. My eyes narrow into slits, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The corners of his mouth spread into a huge, gorgeous grin. And then he winks.

A rush of something goes through me, but I turn away, pretending to fume. “Yes,” I say to Madeline. “He definitely does.”

4

FLEAS AND THANK YOU?

An hour or so later, Madeline, Charlotte, Garrett, and I sit at a picnic table outside the soft pretzel stand, where we’re devouring warm pretzels dusted in cinnamon, sugar, and butter. Some things are totally worth the calories. The smoky tang of barbecue fills the air, and crickets chirp a peaceful rhythm. A toddler wobbles past us clutching a Mylar balloon. Just as I wonder who he belongs to, a tired-looking woman with a weary smile jogs briskly after him, an overstuffed canvas tote banging against her hip as she passes. The air is cool and dry against my skin, and even though crowds around us thrum with energy, I feel relaxed and happy. I bite greedily into my pretzel, washing it down with a tart, icy lemonade.

Char presses her side to Garrett’s and lets out a happy sigh. They’re sharing an ice-cream sundae loaded with hot fudge and whipped cream. Char doesn’t need the calories and she knows it, but like I said—she eats when she’s happy. I consider pointing it out, but then realize it would be too cruel to do it in front of her boyfriend, even for me.

Garrett suddenly leans across the table, eyeing my pretzel. “Can I have a bite?”

I nod, taking another swallow of lemonade. “Go for it.”

He reaches for the pretzel. As he does, his hand grazes my own.

I stiffen slightly. Was that … intentional? Something about Garrett’s fleeting touch felt a little … flirty.

A Mama Bear feeling flares up inside me … alongside a small, smug flicker of satisfaction. I’m not proud of it, but it’s there. Maybe it has to do with being given up for adoption when I was little, but it’s nice to be wanted.

The protective feeling wins out, and I glance at Charlotte, but she’s engrossed in an anecdote of Madeline’s about finding a girl from her ballet class puking behind a port-a-potty earlier. As for Garrett, he’s licking his fingers and peering at something on his phone.

I turn to Madeline, who is finishing her story. “I guess that’s what happens when the only thing you’ve ‘eaten’ all day is an extra-large Diet Coke, spiked!” she cackles, her bun bobbing up and down on top of her head as she laughs. “That bitch has the sloppiest battement in the studio.” She slurps noisily at her own lemonade for good measure.

I lean forward to chime in when, from across the table, Charlotte’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder. “Um, hello there, Scooby-Doo!” Her voice is tinged with surprise.

I twist around on the bench to find my sister with Thayer, giant Scooby in tow. Laurel gazes at him, giggling as he adjusts the massive stuffed animal against his hip.

I bite back a smile. There’s something absurd about seeing strong, built Thayer grappling with a plush cartoon dog that’s practically as big as he is. And I’m totally jealous Thayer won him. That dog was supposed to be mine.

“I guess you weren’t kidding about wanting to win that thing,” Madeline says, toying with her straw.

“Well, I can be pretty determined when I want something,” he says, shrugging.

Underneath the table, Mads pokes me. Get a load of him.

All three of them—Thayer, Laurel, and Scooby—plop down at the end of the table. “Nisha was bummed you didn’t give the Scooby to her, you know,” Laurel says to Thayer, shaking her head. “She was all over you the whole time you were playing.”

Thayer’s face splits open into an easy, cocky grin. “Yeah, well. Can you blame her?”

I roll my eyes at Madeline.

“So who are you going to give it to, dude?” Garrett asks.

There’s a long pause. Thayer laces his hands atop Scooby’s big head. “I guess I sort of have my pick, huh?”

Garrett guffaws loudly. Madeline turns purple. Charlotte pokes me this time, and I pinch her back. The prank is on. So on.

I spin on the picnic bench, folding one knee up into my chest and tilting my head at Thayer. “What do you say to a friendly wager?” I ask, staring him squarely in the eyes.

Thayer arches a quizzical eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I’m challenging you to another game of Skee-Ball—winner takes Scooby and another stuffed animal. I can be determined when I want something, too.” I layer my voice with meaning.

Thayer shrugs. “Well, Laurel and I were going to hit the bumper cars next, actually. Rain check?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Knowing my friends are watching, I decide to pretend I didn’t mean anything by my challenge. I stand, crumpling up my used napkin and paper plate and stalking toward the trash can. “Whatever.”

But then, suddenly, Thayer is grabbing my hand. His grip is surprisingly warm and firm. All at once, I’m unsteady on my feet. “Sutton,” he says, glancing surreptitiously toward the others on the bench. He pushes Scooby at me. “Promise you’ll give him a good home.”

I stare at the stuffed animal now in my arms. Part of me is thrilled. Thayer played for hours to win Scooby. But then I feel annoyed. Is he only giving me Scooby out of pity, because he didn’t want to take me up on my bet?

“Remember that one year you tried to win him?” he says softly.

I blink at him. Of course. Thayer had been at the fair with Laurel and me, too—he’d just been so quiet I’d barely noticed him. Did he try to win Scooby specifically for me? My heart starts to beat a little faster. I can’t believe he even remembered I liked Scooby, after all these years.

But then I feel ridiculous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Yes, you do.” Thayer’s gaze is unbroken. “I know you remember, Sutton. You’re just pretending you’re too cool.”

Unbelievable! The urge to push Scooby back at Thayer rises up inside me, but out of the corner of my eye I see Mads flashing me a subtle thumbs-up from the picnic table. Thayer giving me Scooby is a good thing. It’s a first step in our Lying Game prank.

I turn Scooby over suspiciously. “This thing is probably full of fleas.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Thayer says, reaching out and patting Scooby on the head affectionately. “So, do you like him?”

As I reach out and gingerly finger Scooby’s paw, rolling the tufts of his fur between my thumb and forefinger, I realize my fingers are trembling. Then I square my shoulders. “You’re full of crap, you know. You’re only giving me Scooby because you didn’t want to accept my challenge. Because you know you would have lost.” I poke him playfully.

Thayer laughs and meets my gaze. “Maybe,” he answers. “Or maybe not.” And before I can say another word, he winks, then disappears into the crowd with Laurel.

5

NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

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.

“I can be pretty adventurous,” I admit. “But maybe not garlic-ice-cream adventurous. Everyone has their limits.”

“So what kind of ice cream would you eat?” Thayer asks. “Chili pepper?”

“Why not?” I shrug. “I like some spice.”

“How about miso?”

“Totally—I love sushi.” I point to him. “What about prosciutto?”

“As in ham?” He makes a face. “Not sure about that one.”

I feign shock. “Have I grossed out the unflappable Thayer Vega?”

“Maybe,” Thayer says, and we both chuckle. Suddenly, something strikes me: standing here, hanging out on the Donovans’ front walk, talking to Thayer like he’s … a guy feels so normal and natural. More than that, it’s fun, and it fills me with a sparkly feeling I can’t ignore.

But then a voice inside me speaks very, very loudly: This is just a prank. Nothing more.

I straighten, hitch my shorts back up over my hips, and clear my throat, suddenly clamming up. “Well, I should get going.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep your adoring public waiting,” Thayer quips.

I bite my lip. “No, definitely not.” My eyes dart across his lithe body again, just for good measure. “Don’t work too hard.”

“I won’t,” he assures me. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

I raise my eyebrows, feeling a skip in my chest. “You will?”

He nods. “I’m hanging out with Laurel.”

Of course. “Cool,” I say. I’m about to turn and wander back home when Thayer reaches forward, placing a hand on my forearm. The contact sends a thrill straight to my core. “Watch out,” he says, gesturing to the rake I was about to step on.

“Right,” I say, regaining my balance. But I feel like he meant watch out in another way, too. Watch out, Sutton. You’re getting in over your head.

6

ZEN AND NOW

“And … breathe …”

It’s Tuesday evening, and Alexis, my favorite instructor at Prana Yoga, winds her way through the studio, her cleanly pedicured feet nearly soundless against the sleek, blond bamboo flooring. The silver toe ring nestled around her left third toe makes a tiny click with each step, but it’s barely audible over Charlotte’s labored ujjayi breathing. It’s not very yogic, and I have to restrain myself from pinching her so she’ll quiet down.

Om, I remind myself. Breathe. I focus on the clicks of Alexis’s toe ring tapping out a steady, rhythmic Morse code and draw my concentration inward. If I can make my mind blank, maybe I’ll stop thinking about Thayer’s lazy smile. Or the way he touched my arm before I left the Donovans’ yard yesterday. Or how he said watch out like it meant something. Or the fact that I actually slept with my arm tucked around Scooby last night. And when I woke up at 2 A.M. and couldn’t find him, I kind of freaked out a little. He’d only been on the floor, but really—how old was I? Didn’t I stop sleeping with toys when I was three?

I bend my right leg until my thigh is nearly parallel to the floor, sinking lower into the release of the muscle as Alexis gently nudges my extended front arm into proper alignment. “One long line,” she reminds me, nodding as I make the adjustment. Her sandy corkscrew curls bob as she surveys Madeline’s posture, which is, of course, ballerina perfect.

“Chaturanga to up dog,” Alexis intones, her voice low and hypnotic, like car tires crunching over gravel. Madeline drops gracefully into a firm, strong plank on my left while, from the right, Charlotte grunts as she lowers into the pose. We all invert back into down dog, then stand, shake out for a moment, and drag our sticky mats to the wall for headstands.

“Remember that headstands, like all inversions, are about clarity. Perspective,” Alexis says. She kneels at the front of the studio and lights a cluster of eucalyptus candles, then rises and dims the overhead lights. The room is bathed in a soft glow, the candles giving off a clean, fresh scent.

Clarity. Perspective. It’s a good thing we’re here, I think. I could use some of both of those.

Thayer never did come by to see Laurel yesterday. And what’s worse is that I noticed. And cared.

What’s wrong with me?

I mean, I can’t actually like Thayer, can I? And I definitely can’t be seen dating him or anything like that. I have my reputation to think of. Still, though—thinking about yesterday, his skin on mine, the jokes back and forth, the easy way I felt around him, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

This is so totally not okay. There’s only one thing left to do.

I have to call the prank off, shove my feelings down into some kind of emotional lock box before they become anything more, and pretend none of this insanity ever happened in the first place.

I press my fists firmly into the ground and send all of my energy to my legs, imagining them shooting straight up into the sky. But then Thayer’s face materializes in my mind again. I wince, and my legs wobble.

There’s a soft thud beside me as Charlotte allows her legs to fall over her head in plow pose. As if she can read my mind, she whispers, “How’s it going with Thayer, Sutton?”

Here goes, I think. No time like the present.

“I don’t know, guys,” I say, working as much boredom into my tone as I can. I’m grateful that Charlotte and Madeline are both twisted up like human pretzels and can’t see my face when I answer. “I’ve been thinking, and pranking Thayer seems kind of … lame. I think it might be beneath the standards of the Lying Game.”

They’re silent next to me. Maybe they’ll be cool with it. “Besides,” I go on, “what if people actually believe that I like him? I do have my reputation to think about. No offense, Madeline,” I add as an afterthought.

Madeline doesn’t look remotely offended—in fact, her face is a mask of tranquility, her delicate features serene and open—but Charlotte looks vindicated.

“I knew it!” she crows, her voice gleeful.

“Knew what?” I ask shakily, turning my face away. My heart suddenly thuds. Is it obvious how I’m starting to feel? Does Mads know, too?

“You don’t think you can get Thayer to fall in love with you, do you?” Char asks triumphantly.

What? I break out of the pose and stare at her. I hadn’t expected her to say that. “No, I—”

Madeline cuts me off. “Oh, please,” she says, the beatific expression on her face never wavering. “He’s already half in love with Sutton. He has a picture of you in his bedroom,” she says to me, tilting her chin toward me slightly while keeping her eyes closed.

As much as I wish it wouldn’t, my pulse quickens at the thought. “He does?”

“Yeah, he’s had it since last year at least,” Madeline says. “I found it underneath one of his math books. Don’t ask me where he got it from or what he does with it”—she shudders, causing her willowy frame to waver briefly—“but this prank should be a gimme for you.”

Then she giggles. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes it’s all a joke. I mean, come on. My baby brother with a hot older girl? Never. Gonna. Happen.” From upside down, her grin actually looks like a frown, filling me with a queasy foreboding.

“He deserves to be pranked just for thinking it could!” Charlotte chimes in. “It’s going to be so good, don’t you think, Sutton?”

“Uh-huh,” I say shakily. But as Alexis ushers us into shavasana, the final relaxation, the last thing I feel is calm. The leader of the Lying Game can’t be seen begging off of a prank. I can’t look like a failure in front of my friends.

I’m going to have to go through with this. It’s the only option.

But then I think what Mads just said. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes it’s all a joke. I’ve said that about a lot of pranks we’ve pulled: I’m going to die laughing when she realizes we tricked her; his expression is going to be priceless; I bet they’re going to scream. Never before, though, have I thought about how those people truly felt. And most of the people we pranked deserved it for one reason or another. But did Thayer, really? So he came back from soccer camp acting like he was the man. But then I think of Thayer’s teasing smile when he gave me the Scooby, the way he seemed to see right through me in the Donovans’ yard yesterday.

I shiver. The temperature in the room has dropped, and the moisture-wicking fabric of my tank suddenly feels flimsy and thin.

A light snore from Charlotte jolts me. I elbow her less than gently as Alexis flicks the lights back on. The three of us stand, straighten our tops, and roll up our sticky mats, getting ready to leave.

“So, what’s the deal, Sutton?” Charlotte asks, adjusting her white terry headband and flashing a pearly smile in Alexis’s direction. Alexis dips her chin in a quick nod of reply. “Is Operation Loverboy a go, or not?”

I grit my teeth. This is it, I tell myself. Clarity.

“Only if you promise never to call it that again,” I snap, narrowing my eyes. I fish my iPhone out of the pocket of my silver nylon gym bag. “He’ll be mine by the end of the weekend.”

And then I furiously tap a text to Thayer. Missed u yesterday. I’d better see you today or else it’s ham ice cream for you. It’s more aggressive than I’d normally be—than I’d normally need to be—but I might as well look at this plan like ripping off a Band-Aid. It’s better to get the painful part over with as quickly as possible.

7

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

“Sutton!” my mom calls out from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”

“Can’t a girl sleep in for once? It’s summer!” I yell back, but really, I’ve been up for hours. I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling idly through Facebook and staring angrily at my phone. Thayer still hasn’t responded to the text I sent him last night. Not even with a smiley. I can’t believe it.

It doesn’t matter, I try to tell myself. You’ll win him over. Then again, if Thayer does eventually like me, the end result is the same: all of us laughing in his face. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t fall for me.

But that doesn’t sit well with me, either.

I slip the phone into the pocket of my robe and pad downstairs. Just as I’m crossing the foyer, the doorbell rings. My heart lifts—is it Thayer? I get even more excited when I see a tall, broad shape through the clouded glass of the door. But when I open the door, it’s Garrett standing on the porch. I frown.

“Uh, are you looking for Charlotte?” I ask tentatively. Garrett smiles awkwardly, then pulls something out of his bag.

“Actually, I came by to see if this is yours.” He holds out a cell phone with a Swarovski crystal-bedazzled case. “I found it at the club yesterday. The battery is dead, so I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I recognized it.”

I stare at the phone without touching it. He thought this bedazzled, sparkly monstrosity was my phone? Eww. The Lying Game girls all have matching Tory Burch cases—classic and chic. “Not mine,” I say. “You should take it back to the club for lost and found.”

“Oh, okay, sorry.” Garrett gives me another wobbly smile as he slides the phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “So … what’s up?”

I stare down at my robe and slippers, then back at him. “Uh, I just woke up. I look like death.”

Garrett’s eyes widen. “No, you don’t. You look cute.”

Is he serious? “Garrett, I’m barely awake,” I say. “Can we talk later?” Or not at all? I think.

“Of course.” Garrett looks embarrassed. “I’ll let you have breakfast or whatever.” He steps off the porch, making a few too many flustered movements. “See you around, Sutton.”

“Yep, see you around.” I shut the door fast, watching him scamper back to his car, which is parked at the curb. Weird. Maybe he’s just being friendly to all of Char’s BFFs as a way to get in our good graces. Somehow, though, I doubt it.

Shrugging the situation off as best I can, I stride into the terra-cotta-tiled kitchen. Inside, Laurel is on her hands and knees scrubbing at our floor with a soaked dishrag. Orange liquid pools all around her like a moat. My mother leans over the kitchen table with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner, and my father holds out a plastic bag for collecting the soggy, orange-juice-soaked towels.

I sidestep them and head for the coffeemaker. “How many Mercers does it take to clean up an orange juice spill?” I say snidely.

My mom looks up at me. The morning light illuminates the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, making her seem more tired, more vulnerable than usual. “Who was at the door?”

“No one,” I say quickly, grabbing a steaming mug of coffee that’s already been poured and settling down at the table.

My mom glares. “You could help, you know, Sutton.”

I bristle. It wasn’t my mess. “It looks like Laurel’s got it under control,” I say, shrugging.

Laurel stands and drapes the wet dishcloth over the stainless steel basin of the sink. “Sorry again, Mom. All your freshly squeezed OJ down the drain.”

Our mother touches Laurel’s shoulder gently. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Accidents happen.”

I glare at them behind my coffee. If I were the one to douse the room in freshly squeezed orange juice, Mom would be giving me her Disappointed Look, the one that says I take every single thing I get for granted and always have. And Dad would be running his fingers through his hair at the temples, suddenly stressed because Mom is stressed. It’s like a chain reaction with them when it comes to me. But since Laurel screwed up, everything is A-okay. Mom gets a jug of Tropicana out of the fridge. Dad ties off the heavy black garbage bag and crosses the floor to rest it in the doorway leading to the mudroom, then pauses to pat Drake, the family Great Dane, on the head.

I take a sip of coffee and almost spit it out. It’s black—who drinks it that way? I open a packet of Splenda and dump it in. Behind me, Laurel sighs loudly.

“I poured that for myself, Sutton.” She’s glaring at me. “I needed it.”

Funny, when Laurel is around our family instead of my friends, she takes on the role of the whiny, annoying, self-righteous, victimized younger sister. “Why did you need it so badly?” I ask. “It’s still summer. Just go back to bed.”

“I’m hanging out with Thayer all day, and we’re planning on watching a meteor shower tonight,” Laurel snaps. “I’m going to need energy.”

Thayer. I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek. Is that why he didn’t text back—because he was texting Laurel? “Where are you watching this meteor shower?”

Laurel’s eyebrows shoot up, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve seemed too eager and curious. “Why do you care?” she asks.

“I don’t,” I say quickly.

Laurel huffily fixes herself more coffee. Our parents flit around trying to get ready for work—my father is a doctor, my mom a lawyer. I check my phone under the table, glancing at it without actually expecting much—but I’m rewarded with a bright new speech bubble indicating a new message. A little hum shoots down my spine. I silently scroll a thumb over the screen.

It’s Thayer.

Where do you stand on savory sorbets?

I smile. Okay, that was a cute message. Maybe, just maybe, it was even worth the wait. Is it an invitation of some sort? I said I wanted to see him—does he want to go out for sorbet?

I suppress a grin, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I feel relieved, maybe too relieved, that he wrote me back. But I’m in no rush to respond.

Now he can wait.

Mom sits down at the table with a bowl of granola and soy milk. “So, Laurel, is it nice to have Thayer back from soccer camp?”

Thayer. He’s everywhere. That fluttery feeling is back.

“Uh-huh,” Laurel stammers. Her eyes dart back and forth nervously and her movements are suddenly jerky, like a marionette.

“He grew a few inches, didn’t he?” Mom asks between bites.

“I haven’t noticed,” Laurel says, but a rosy flush creeps up her neck and perspiration beads her upper lip. She fiddles with her Tory Burch studded leather wrap bracelet, winding it forward and back across her wrist.

I swallow hard, the fluttery feeling inside me turning slightly acidic. I’ve known forever that Laurel likes Thayer, but I wonder if her feelings have intensified with his summer upgrade. The thought fills me with jealousy—and drive. Stealing a crush from my sister is old news, another trick that’s seriously beneath me. But maybe, just maybe, this is another perk to getting Thayer to like me. It will be nice to remind Laurel that no matter how things are with Mom and Dad at home, she isn’t the blazing superstar everywhere she goes.

8

BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED

I open my eyes and look around. The room is cast in a blue-black haze, images shapeless and sounds muffled, as though the entire scene were unfolding underwater. Wherever I am, it’s nighttime, and I am not alone.

In the dim light, I make out the four walls of a small, nearly bare room, a curtain-less window looking out into a parking lot. The air smells of pine-scented room spray and stale cigarette smoke. I hear a banging, then murmurs of conversation coming from somewhere nearby, some place outside of this room.

I’m not sure where I am. I’m not sure how old I am, either. Not seventeen, certainly—more like four, five. I look down and see a threadbare floral nightie that barely skims my knees on my body. The elastic cuffs of the sleeves cut into the flesh of my upper arms, and a stiff, scratchy, polyester motel blanket is pulled up to my chin. When I look over, I see a shadowy figure sitting at a small metal table by the window, drumming her fingers across the surface, staring into space.

“Mom?” I call out.

The figure turns, but I can’t see her face. I try my hardest—I want just one memory of my real mother, something I can hold on to. Only, this makes no sense: I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old, not four. I don’t have any memories of my mother. I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. Still, I struggle to see. Then, a hand that’s the exact shape and size as my own taps me on the shoulder. I turn again and look into another face. A mirror.

“Hello?” I ask. My mirror image doesn’t speak.

I start awake with a small scream. This time, I’m in my regular bedroom. My butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets are tangled in a sweaty ball at my ankles. My bare legs are cool and sticky from the blast of the air-conditioning. I look at the clock—it’s not even midnight. I fell asleep early tonight, exhausted after several hours of playing tennis with Charlotte at the court down the street; I don’t want to give Nisha the satisfaction of being rusty when the season starts next week.

I stretch and sigh. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I quickly slip on a waffle-knit hoodie and make my way downstairs, stepping softly as I go.

I fill a glass of water at the sink. Suddenly, something behind me catches my eye. At the far end of our immaculately landscaped backyard, a soft yellow light glows from within the latticework of crisscrossing branches.

The clubhouse. Laurel and Thayer are out there, looking up at the stars. I can picture their silhouettes in profile. They’re tilted toward each other, whispering in the dim space. About what, I wonder. What would it be like, to be the one curled up in there, with Thayer all to myself?

“Did we wake you?”

I jump at the figure in the doorway, dropping my glass of water in the process. It hits the granite countertop and shatters. When I pull my hand away, I see blood.

“Ouch!” The cut is shallow, but there’s a lot of blood. I lean against the countertop, suddenly woozy.

Thayer strides over to me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I eke out. “But maybe you could get me a Band-Aid?”

Thayer looks like he doesn’t want to leave my side. “Where are they?

“In the hall bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.” I point with my non-injured hand.

Thayer walks away quickly, and I use the time to catch my breath. What is wrong with me? I don’t go around dropping glasses, even in the middle of the night. Does he know I’m being extra clumsy because of him? Can he tell how I’m starting to feel?

How am I starting to feel? I still haven’t answered his text about sorbet. I tell myself it’s because I want to keep him on his toes, but really, I haven’t decided how to respond. I’m realizing that the usual rules of flirting don’t necessarily apply with Thayer.

A moment later, Thayer reappears with a first-aid kit in hand. He pulls out a thick square of gauze and holds it firmly against my palm, leading me gently to the kitchen table to sit down. “Keep the pressure on while I clean up,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“No problem,” Thayer says over his shoulder as he wipes off the countertop, picking up the larger shards of glass and tossing them in a garbage bag. “I shouldn’t have scared you like that. What are you doing up?”

“A dream woke me, I guess,” I say.

“About what?”

I look away, shy. I don’t usually talk about my birth mom with guys. Or with anyone, for that matter.

Thayer ties off the plastic bag and loops it around the doorknob of the door leading to the mudroom. Then he grabs the first-aid kit and takes a seat next to me at the table, sliding my chair out and tilting it so that we’re facing each other. I inhale, feeling the air charged and alive between us, and he leans in to me. Gently, he takes my injured hand and stretches it out, removing the gauze and placing it aside, on the table.

“This is going to sting,” he warns, his eyes never leaving mine.

He tears open an antiseptic wipe and runs it across my cut. I shiver from the quick, sharp burn. Then he lifts my palm to his face and blows lightly. I shiver again. This time, I think it has more to do with Thayer than the cut.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thayer asks softly.

“I’m fine,” I say, wincing.

“I don’t mean from the cut,” he says. “I mean about … your dream. Whatever woke you up. You seem …” He trails off, perhaps not able to find the words.

“I was dreaming about my mother,” I blurt suddenly. “My real mother, I mean. You know I’m adopted, right?”

“Yes.” If Thayer can tell I’m nervous, he doesn’t react. He just peels the backing off a large Band-Aid, fixing it tightly over my cut. Then he balls my hand into a fist, cupping it in his own, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. His strong grip comforts me, and I continue.

“I do that, sometimes—dream about her. It wakes me up every time. Except, it’s not really her, even—not that I’d really know. I have no memories of her. And it was a closed adoption, so my parents—the Mercers, I mean—won’t talk about it.”

For a moment, the kitchen is still, the low hum of the air-conditioning the only sound other than my own and Thayer’s breathing. When a few more seconds pass and Thayer doesn’t say anything, I start to panic. Maybe I shared too much. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear my lame dreams or angst about my birth parents. It’s not something I like to think about myself. I don’t even write the feelings down in my journal.

But then Thayer squeezes my hand more tightly. “That must be hard,” he says simply.

A rush of emotion washes over me. It is the best thing, the only thing, really, to say.

“Do you hope to meet her someday?” Thayer asks.

I consider this. Astonishingly, it’s a question no one has ever asked me. “I think so,” I say. “I mean, there’s part of me that’s really angry at her, of course—every adopted kid feels that way, probably. I want to know why she gave me up, why she couldn’t keep me.”

“Maybe she had a good reason.”

“Maybe.” I nod. “But more than that, I’d just like to see her. Talk to her. Figure out if we even have anything in common.” Suddenly, I feel tears blinking at the corners of my eyes. I swallow hard, horribly embarrassed. I am not going to cry around Thayer.

I give an exaggerated shrug. “Anyway, whatever. You asked what I was dreaming about, so there you have it.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Thayer says. Then he takes a breath. “I’m not a great sleeper, either.”

“Why not?”

“Insomnia, mostly. But I used to sleepwalk,” he confesses, looking sheepish. “It used to freak my parents out so badly.”

“What did you do?”

He laughs. “Well, once they came downstairs to find me sitting up on the couch in the den, remote control in hand, with an infomercial blaring.”

“And you don’t remember it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I was sound asleep.”

I cuff him on the arm. “They’re just lucky you didn’t order anything. They could’ve gotten stuck with a whole bunch of Snuggies.”

“Or Life Alert alarms,” Thayer jokes.

“Or those infrared flashlights that show you where your cats and dogs peed on the carpet,” I add.

We both snicker, and I’m grateful to Thayer for turning the conversation away from my mother and lightening the mood. When he pulls his hand away from mine, I realize I miss its warmth.

Then I ask, “Where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever woken up?”

“In the bathtub, with the water running,” he answers without any hesitation. “I was twelve, and my parents lost it, thinking I might drown one day. My dad threatened to take me to one of those sleep specialists and run tests. You know—with the electrodes and the monitoring, like you’re some kind of lab rat. I wasn’t into it.” His eyes darken. “He was so, so angry.”

“He was worried,” I say diplomatically.

Thayer sniffs. “I don’t think so.”

I don’t say anything more, but I think I know what Thayer is getting at. This one time, Mr. Vega flipped out at Madeline because she was walking around the neighborhood barefoot. Not because he was worried that she’d step on something sharp, but because of what the neighbors would think. I’m not saying he wasn’t concerned about Thayer drowning in the bathtub, of course, but I wonder if some of his anger was because the whole thing was an added complication, an annoyance, an oddity, for him.

“Parents are weird, aren’t they?” I ask softly.

Thayer nods. “You said it.”

We look at each other like we have a special sort of understanding. I want to reach out, to brush a hand across the sharp angles of his cheekbones, to tilt his gaze back to me. Or, at the very least, grab his hand and squeeze it tight. But I realize I’m scared. What if he pulls away? What if he laughs?

“So do you still sleepwalk?” I ask.

“Nah.” Thayer shakes his head. “I grew out of it, I guess. But I still have anxiety dreams all the time. My big one is showing at up school and realizing I’m in my underwear.”

“That one’s a classic.”

“Do you dream about that, too?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, I have other recurring dreams.”

“About … ?”

You, I almost say, then stop myself.

But Thayer gazes at me as though he’s reading my mind. All of a sudden, he twines his feet around the legs of my chair and shifts me toward him. I can’t help but gasp, but I say nothing, and I certainly don’t move away. We’re so close now I’m enveloped in his clean, grassy scent. I stare at him, and he stares back. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, perhaps the noise of blood pumping quickly through my veins.

I struggle not to freak out completely. “So, are you going to Nisha’s party tomorrow night?” I ask casually.

Thayer looks startled for a moment, as though he didn’t expect the question. “I don’t know. Probably. Why—do you want me to go?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. Of course I do. But the idea of saying it fills me with jitters. It makes me feel needy, uncool, way off center. “Well, I don’t care either way,” I say lightly, though my voice cracks at the end. “But, um, I think my sister does. I think she might have a crush on you.” I arch an eyebrow, waiting for his reaction, anything to suggest that he might return her feelings.

Thayer doesn’t flinch. A slow grin breaks out across his beautiful face. He tilts his head so close to mine we’re practically breathing the same air. “Do you really want to talk about Laurel right now?” he whispers.

My mouth drops open in shock. “Um,” I say, but then my mind goes blank. Is he going to kiss me? His confidence is intoxicating. I look away, my heart thudding like a hammer against my ribs.

Thayer reaches up and sweeps my hair back off of my shoulders. “Um,” he teases, angling my face toward his.

So it is going to happen. I lower my eyes and inch toward him. Thayer’s rough hand grazes my forehead lightly. I hold my breath, excited and expectant, as our faces move closer, and …

“Thayer?”

For the second time since waking up, I jump. Thayer shoots away from me and stands up. Laurel looms in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. There’s an inscrutable expression on her face, and I wonder how long she’s been standing there.

“I was wondering what was taking so long,” Laurel says after a moment.

Thayer’s cheeks redden. He hitches up his jeans and points to the first-aid kit on the table. “Sutton broke a glass. I was helping her clean up.”

His gaze is only on Laurel, not me. I shift away, staring at my bandaged hand. All of a sudden, the prospect of kissing Thayer seems unthinkable, impossible. Maybe he’d never intended to do it at all—maybe he was just screwing with me. And he moved away from me like a slingshot, as though he was horrified at the idea that Laurel would catch us together. Does he find me that unkissable? Whatever, I think. I rise from my chair and snatch the first-aid kit from the table. “Thanks for your help, Thayer,” I say coolly. Then I turn to Laurel. “Have fun in your little clubhouse,” I snap.

I flounce past them and down the hall, shoulders thrown back. I want to turn around and see if Thayer is staring, but I don’t dare. On my way up the stairs, I tell myself sternly: It was nothing.

You don’t have feelings for Thayer. You don’t have feelings for Thayer.

But no matter how many times I repeat it, it feels like, for the very first time, I’m lying to myself.

9

A TOTAL WASTE OF A PEDICURE

On Thursday evening, as the settling dusk paints the sky a brilliant, streaky watercolor of pink, orange, and yellow, Charlotte, Madeline, and I jam into my vintage Volvo, Floyd, and head to Nisha’s party. I grip the steering wheel tightly and accelerate through the turns. The air smells of cut grass and charcoal grills, and Sabino Canyon and the Catalina Mountains rise large and beautiful in front of me. Finally, I turn onto Nisha’s street, the wind tickling my cheek almost playfully. I grin and crank up the volume on the radio as a Jay-Z remix comes on. Madeline lets out a whoop. Charlotte sticks her head out the window like a dog, then pulls it back in when she realizes it’s messing up her hair.

“Tonight’s going to be key for Operation Loverboy—I can just feel it!” Charlotte squeals next to me, breaking into a little impromptu shimmy in her seat. Her turquoise dangle earrings sway back and forth, and the heady, cloying scent of Prada Candy that she’s doused herself in wafts my way.

“Operation what?” I ask, shooting her a stern look.

“Operation Loverboy,” Charlotte repeats. “You know. You and Thayer, sitting in a tree?”

We pull along the curb a few houses down from Nisha’s low, Spanish-style ranch—being fashionably late means losing out on the best parking spots, unfortunately. As I kill the ignition, I shoot Char daggers. “I thought I told you not to call it that.”

“Whatever.” Charlotte waves a hand at me dismissively. “I don’t care what we call it. I just want to do it. Tonight’s the night, Sutton. You look super-hot.”

I swallow hard. My stomach is jumping, but maybe it’s because I’ve hardly eaten all day. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, and I have to say, Char is right. My hair cascades down my shoulders in soft waves. The red-and-white printed silk halter top brings out the rosiness in my skin and the green flecks in my eyes. And my smile is bigger and wobblier than usual because, well, I’m excited. Ready for the possibility of … possibility. I can’t remember the last time I went to this much trouble for a guy, cared so much, fussed so badly over every single Diorshow-coated eyelash and every last strand of hair. But after last night I just can’t ignore these feelings. They’re front and center. Huge letters on a marquee. The first thought I have when I go to sleep and wake up.

I can’t believe it myself, but, yeah: I’m into him. For real. And now I need to know, once and for all, if he’s into me.

What that means for my friends, the other kids at school … Laurel, I have no idea. But I can’t worry about that just yet—I have to figure it out with Thayer first.

We get out of the car. Across the street, two little girls dressed exactly alike are perched on matching bicycles, pedaling around their driveway. The grosgrain ribbons in their pigtails are perfectly coordinated to the piping on their bicycle baskets, and their sandals are the exact same shade of bubble gum pink. Laurel and I used to dress like that, back when we were friends and had less control over our wardrobe. A wave of guilt washes over me as I consider how far apart we’ve grown, and what I may do tonight. Steal Thayer from her. If I can.

But I need to keep up the front for a little while longer, because if Thayer doesn’t like me … I hold back a shudder.

“You guys, you should have been there last night, in the kitchen,” I say to my friends as we head down the sidewalk. “I’m telling you, Thayer’s, like, in love with me, big-time. I’m going to ask him on a picnic for tomorrow night. I’ll seal the deal there.”

“Sweet,” Charlotte chirps.

“He deserves it,” Mads adds.

I throw back my shoulders confidently as we stride up Nisha’s driveway. Bass pounds from the backyard. Kids stand on the front lawn, too, and, not surprisingly, every boy we pass stares at us. As I turn around to lock Floyd, I even see a curtain flutter next door. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Ethan Landry’s house. Why doesn’t he just come tonight? It’s not like he’s bad-looking—he could totally hang out at a party if he acted normal.

Suddenly, I’m bombarded by voices: “Sutton! You look ah-mazing!” “Is that top Thakoon?” Then I hear the distinctive, electronic click of an iPhone camera and look up. Gabby and Lili beam at me, phones in hand.

I extend my palm. “Girls, no pictures of me in Twitter-land without my permission.”

Gabby peers at the screen, then presents the photo to me for approval. I take in the image of myself on the sidewalk. My smile is wide and surprised. But I look a little nervous, too. A little, dare I say, in love.

Lili is already tapping away furiously. “Thank God you guys are here. Making a grand entrance, as usual.” Then she glances at Charlotte. “Oh. Garrett was looking for you.”

Charlotte smiles coolly. “Whatev. It never hurts to keep a guy waiting.” But even as she says it, she’s rising on her tiptoes to pick him out of the crowd. I want to make fun of her, but then I remember Garrett showing up on my porch the other day with that weird story about the phone. I’d forgotten to mention it to her—or maybe I didn’t want to. I only hope Garrett doesn’t say anything, either. Char might think I was deliberately hiding it or something.

We enter the living room, which is spacious and decorated in stylish neutrals. A cluster of tiny tea lights twinkle from a marble console table, and the smell of gardenia mixed with beer envelops me. Almost all of my classmates are here—at least, the ones who should be here, chatting eagerly and enjoying the very last gasp of summer. Starling Russe, who’s on the tennis team, spots me and waves broadly, brandishing a giant plastic red cup. The florid hue of her pert nose tells me that whatever she’s drinking, it’s not her first. There are discarded red plastic cups on the floor, a bunch of chips spilled on the table, and a splash of something suspicious on one of the walls. The music is so loud it’s making everything vibrate.

“Did we miss anything good?” Madeline asks Gabby loudly, craning her neck to take in everything at once.

Gabby rolls her eyes. “Not really. Nisha’s freaking, though. I guess she assumed we were going to keep this place spotless or something.”

I snort. “She’s wound so tight.”

Then I spy Nisha at the foot of the stairs, holding court among a cluster of other girls from the team. But she doesn’t look stressed to me. She’s gesticulating lavishly and tossing her glossy dark ponytail over one shoulder. Several of the tennis girls glance my way and wave, but Nisha just gives me a snottily arched eyebrow. Whatever. My presence here makes the party, and she knows it.

I continue surveying the room. There’s Jeff Katz from the football team, and Greg Richter, the actually cool class president. A couple of senior girls dressed in BCBG frocks stand impassively by the sliding-glass doors, glancing at their phones. My gaze sweeps across the faces again and again, but then I realize: Thayer isn’t anywhere. Is it possible he didn’t come?

I lean over to Madeline. “It’s too hot in here. I’m gonna get a drink and head to the backyard.”

She nods. “Good luck finding my brother.”

I freeze, wondering if I’ve somehow given myself away. Does she know how I feel? Does she realize that for me, it’s not a prank anymore? But Madeline is smiling at me excitedly without a trace of guile in her expression. I breathe out, feeling drunk even though I haven’t had a sip of anything yet. Suddenly, I really do need to get outside to cool down.

I push through pockets of people, making my way through the house. The kitchen is where the crowd is thickest, kids milling around an overflowing keg, draped across the punch-stained kitchen table, and perched, legs swinging, on the limestone countertop. Garrett works the pump for a throng of beefy jocks, though he doesn’t hold a cup of beer himself. I debate getting his attention to let him know that Charlotte’s arrived, but I quickly decide against it. He might think I deliberately sought him out.

Then a wave of Polo cologne almost knocks me on my butt. “Hey, Sutton, looking good,” says a voice, and a freckled, green-eyed face pops up into my field of view. It’s Aidan Grove, my five-second summer crush. Now he’s looking at me eagerly, like tonight might be the night for us. But he’s not who I’m here for.

“Hey, Aidan,” I say distractedly, glancing over his shoulder into the backyard. Where is that messy dark hair, those twinkling hazel eyes? What if Thayer decides not to come? I think of the conversation we had in the middle of the night. Are you going to Nisha’s? Probably. Why, do you want me to go?

“So how’s your summer been?” Aidan asks. “Looking forward to going back to Hollier?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, my eyes still on the crowd. Then I have an epiphany: Maybe Thayer is running late, later than me. Which is infuriating, because I timed our arrival for maximum impact, but maybe Thayer knows how to beat me at my own game.

I reach into my bag and pull out my cell. Maybe he texted. But I can see right away that my home screen wallpaper is completely undisturbed. A recent snapshot of Charlotte, Madeline, and me greets me brightly, unmarred by a text bubble or missed call notification.

“How’s your tennis game this year?” Aidan asks.

I look up, astonished he’s still standing there. “Uh, you know.”

“You want a beer?”

I barely mumble a response. My insides feel like they’re on fire. I have never been so completely confounded by a member of the opposite sex. I have never not been the one to call the shots. Whatever’s going on with Thayer, it’s totally unfamiliar and new.

And honestly? It’s kind of thrilling.

My excitement must show on my face, because Aidan’s mouth turns up at the corners. “I’ll get you a beer, then!” he says emphatically. “Let’s party!”

I place a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off. “Uh, on second thought, I’m cool. I think I see Madeline outside,” I say, nodding toward the back door. “I have to ask her about something.”

He frowns. “Isn’t that Madeline right there?”

He points behind me, and lo and behold, there’s Madeline talking to Finn Hadley, the very idiot that ditched her for the au pair earlier this summer. If I weren’t so preoccupied, I’d march over there and give her a stern talking-to.

I turn back to Aidan. “Um, I just need …” I offer him an apologetic smile and push past him to the door. Who cares if I don’t have a good excuse? Aidan is history.

There are fewer kids outside, and the sound of crickets and the dull buzz of conversation meld together in a pleasant hum. The night air is cool, and the damp, dewy grass tickles at my toes through my strappy wedge sandals. I inhale the scent of the warm summer evening, flavored by the scent of woodsmoke a few houses down.

And then, from across the lawn, I see a rustling of the hedges as the gate from the front drive swings open. A boy steps through and onto the back patio. My breath catches in my throat. Thayer.

My heart hammers as he saunters through the gate, his thick hair still damp from a shower. One curl falls messily across his forehead. He wears a short-sleeved button-down that hangs perfectly on his solid frame and jeans that outline his muscular legs.

“Thayer,” I call out, raising one hand to wave. But then, when my gaze locks on the figure behind him, I lower my hand immediately. The girl shuts the latch of the wooden gate and trots forward to take Thayer’s hand. Her grasp is possessive and showy. He’s mine, it says. All mine.

I take a big step back, hoping, praying, he hasn’t heard me call his name. And as the two of them step into the light, I get a good look at that blond ponytail, that compact, trim-from-tennis frame, and the pair of James jeans she only bought because I had them. And my stomach sinks to my feet.

The girl holding on to Thayer for dear life is my sister. Laurel.

10

TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY

“Thayer! Hey, man!”

I stand, rooted to the edge of Nisha’s backyard, watching as Thayer’s soccer buddies cluster around him greeting him eagerly. It’s a lot of guy-ish back-slapping and understated head-nodding. Laurel remains by Thayer’s side through every second, her eyes glued to his face. When she’s forced to let go of his hand while he says hi to the team, she looks almost like a boat that’s drifted away from its slip. She keeps a pale hand hovering near the small of his back and gazes up at him adoringly, possessively.

What I can’t tell, though—and what’s seriously killing me right now—is whether Thayer feels the same way about her. I think about the idiotic, I-don’t-want-to-reveal-my-feelings-so-I’ll-make-you-think-I-don’t-care thing I said last night: I think Laurel wants you to go. She has a crush on you. What if Thayer took it to heart? What if they went back into the clubhouse last night and Thayer confronted her about it? Maybe Laurel was like, Yeah, I really like you. Do you like me? And Thayer, thinking I would never like him, perhaps shrugged and said, Totally. Let’s be a couple.

He never actually denied having feelings for her, after all. And they were holding hands. My head starts to spin. I can’t believe I’m jealous of Laurel—because of Thayer. Everything about this night is totally inside out, and I only just got here.

“Sutton! Here’s that beer!”

I whirl around. Aidan is coming toward me, holding a bottle in his hands. There’s a hopeful expression on his face, meaning he completely missed my signals inside.

But maybe this is perfect timing.

I look back at Thayer, who still hasn’t acknowledged my presence. Two can play at this game, I think. There’s one way to discover exactly what Thayer thinks of me: to feign interest in someone else. It’s usually at the bottom of my bag of tricks, but I’m seriously running out of options here.

I turn to Aidan. “Thank you soo much,” I croon, taking the proffered beer from him and clinking my bottle against his. “Cheers.”

As I take a deep swig, I can almost feel the moment when Thayer turns and locks eyes on me. I peek over, and yes, he’s staring. Good. But then he catches me looking and arches a questioning eyebrow in my direction. Not a jealous eyebrow. Not an envious, love struck expression. It’s almost like he’s challenging me: C’mon, Sutton. I know you’re just doing this to make me jealous. You’re such a silly girl.

I turn stiffly back to Aidan and thrust my beer at him. “Can you hold this for a second? I need to adjust my top.”

“Sure,” Aidan says, and watches me as I reach up to my neck, untie the thin straps of the halter, and allow the fabric to pool ever so slightly so that just a bit more of my collarbone is exposed. “Can you get my hair?” I murmur to Aidan.

“Uh …” Aidan fumbles for a moment, then places both bottles awkwardly on an iron patio table. He steps forward and lifts my hair so that I can retie my top. His hands shake slightly. I hope I’m having the same effect on Thayer, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of looking over at him to check it out.

“Is that good?” Aidan asks.

“That’s perfect,” I purr, turning back to Aidan and running a finger through my loose curls. Aidan laughs. He grabs his beer and takes another sip. I take a sip of mine, too. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I turn and look at Thayer. He’s standing in the same spot with the soccer guys, but his gaze is still on me. When he sees me glancing his way, he raises a hand in a casual wave.

I whip my head back to Aidan. Thayer is going to have to work much, much harder than that.

“So,” I say to Aidan, sidling closer to him. “Has anyone ever told you that you have amazing calf muscles?”

Aidan turns pink. “Oh, well, we run a lot in practice, I guess.”

After Thayer’s magnetic confidence, Aidan’s nervousness feels like a letdown. I wonder what I ever saw in him. But I smile and purr, “Oh, I can tell.”

Encouraged by my response, Aidan launches into a lecture about the various weight exercises he does to enhance his calves. I sneak another glance at Thayer, and my heart picks up speed. He’s pushing through the crowd, heading right to me. Laurel has been left behind at the fence, and she looks bereft and slightly lost. I feel a slight regretful twinge—even though Laurel drives me crazy, she’s still my sister. But what I feel for Thayer is totally different than what I’ve felt for anyone else. All’s fair in love and war, right?

I step closer to Aidan, touching his forearm lightly. “Want to dance?”

He grins broadly. “Sure.” He takes my hand and leads me back into the house. He steps through the threshold toward the humid, crowded air of the kitchen, and I turn, offering one last look over my shoulder at Thayer. His mouth is set in a thin, tight line, and his forehead is creased in frustration.

That’s how I know my plan is working.

11

YOU CAN DANCE IF YOU WANT TO

The basement-level rec room of the Banerjee house has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor. The space is huge and finished in smooth, cream-colored stucco and adobe tiling, with moody, striking desert-scape photography adorning the walls. The plush sectional sofas have been pushed aside to make room for the crush of bodies. Tea lights flicker down here, too, casting wavering shadows along the walls.

Someone has queued an eighties dance playlist, and the room is frenzied, smelling of a sweaty mix of summery, floral perfumes. It’s actually slightly suffocating, and I’d rather be outside again in the cool, fresh night air, but dancing with Aidan is the best way to fast-track my plan. I glance around me as I lead Aidan onto the dance floor. Thayer hasn’t come inside. Once again, I’m tense. Did he decide I wasn’t worth it?

Aidan and I sway to some classic Madonna—Aidan doing more of a dorky knee-dip/head-bob thing—and I try to lose myself in the music, closing my eyes and feeling the rhythm. But my mind is scattered in a million different directions. What is Thayer doing right now? Has he gone back to Laurel? I move closer to Aidan, resting a hand on his hip flirtatiously and drawing his face in toward mine. Aidan grins and wraps his arms around my shoulders in response, resting his clasped hands lightly on the back of my neck. We turn and twirl, navigating the crowded floor as people actually step aside for us. Until there’s a tap at Aidan’s shoulder and we pause, mid-step.

I look up, and my heart soars. Two searing beautiful hazel eyes search mine.

“Mind if I cut in?” Thayer asks, his look implying that no is not an option. The question is for me, not for Aidan, and I can’t bring myself to decline.

Aidan puffs out his chest just like a male bird during mating season. But something in Thayer’s face makes him back down. “Okay,” he says reluctantly. He looks at me. “Another beer?”

“Thanks, Aidan.” I offer him a sweet smile to smooth the moment over.

Thayer moves toward me, and when he touches my hip, anticipation ripples down my spine. The music switches from upbeat to a slow, languid ballad. We exchange a glance, barely hesitating before melting into each other.

Suddenly, everything feels utterly right. He does like me. I can feel it in his fast heartbeat, his shallow breathing, his sigh. I inhale deeply, taking in Thayer’s clean scent. He places one hand on the small of my back, and my skin tingles. I rest my fingers on his shoulders, tracing patterns against the strong, firm muscles of his back. We pull away for a moment and stare at each other, both with small smiles on our faces. We don’t speak. There is no need to speak.

Thayer leans in to whisper in my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” he says softly. His lips against my cheek make me shiver.

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

He takes my hand and winds me through the crush of people again, upstairs and out the front door.

There isn’t anyone else in the front yard, and we crunch through the gravel until we’re out of the porch lights. A slight breeze blows the spiny branches of a mesquite tree, and stars glitter a psychedelic pattern against an obsidian backdrop. Halfway across the yard, Thayer turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. There’s a heartbreakingly gorgeous smile on his face, and suddenly, I feel silly for the games I’ve played.

“Thayer, I’m sorry,” I start.

“Shh,” he says. He puts his finger to his lips, then moves forward to kiss me. Softly, at first, and then with more urgency. I fold into him, wrapping my hands around his waist and pulling him toward me tightly. His hands slide down my back as I rake my fingers through his messy waves.

His lips trace my earlobe, my jaw, my neck. I moan, arching back and clutching him tighter. I’ve kissed other guys before, but nothing compares to this.

We don’t speak, just kiss and touch and breathe each other in. We’re completely intertwined, like we’re the only two people who exist in the universe. In fact, it’s almost like we’re one person, we’re so completely and utterly in tune with each other. I never want to separate.

Until I hear a rustle from the hedges. And then a wicked cackle. I shoot away. That’s Madeline’s laugh.

But before I can say anything, before I can stop them, Charlotte and Madeline are jumping out of the bushes, camera phones in hands, triumphant looks on their faces. “Gotcha, Thayer!” they scream as the flashes go off.

12

SURPRISE, SURPRISE

Thayer and I blink in the flashes of light. “Gotcha!” Char crows again.

“You are so busted, Thayer!” Madeline squeals.

Thayer makes an annoyed face. “What the hell, guys?”

“Say cheese!” Madeline trills, taking another picture. Then she turns to Charlotte and slaps her high five. “Another Lying Game success!”

Thayer squints. “Lying Game?” He says it like he’s never heard of it before. But I know he has. I’m sure Laurel’s told him about it, if he didn’t already know from school. I feel paralyzed. I want to somehow put on the brakes, make this all stop, but the words won’t come out of my mouth. Everything is happening too fast.

Madeline straightens and whirls toward me, her blue eyes shining like gemstones. “Sorry we interrupted before you had a chance to invite him to the picnic, Sutton,” she says. “But when we saw you guys dancing, we knew you were going to seal the deal tonight. We just couldn’t hold back.”

Thayer looks at me. “Seal the deal? What are they talking about?”

Madeline puts her hand on her hip. “What do you think we’re talking about, Thayer?”

Charlotte guffaws. “You don’t think Sutton would actually go for you, do you?”

Dark realization dawns on Thayer’s chiseled features. He stares at me, his eyes wide. “Sutton?” he asks. “What the hell is going on?”

“I …” It comes out of me like a burp. Just say it, I tell myself. Just tell your friends that you really wanted to kiss him. But my mouth can’t form the words. The moment I say it, my friends will lose all respect for me. What was I thinking, dancing with Thayer for real, for keeps, in front of everyone? How could I have thought they’d just accept this? And it’s all my fault. If I’d have fought harder to stop the prank, this wouldn’t have happened. Even if I’d had to pull back from Thayer, pretend I didn’t like him, at least it would be better than this.

Charlotte gasps. “Oh my God. He really fell for it! He actually thought she liked him!”

“This is better than we imagined,” Madeline says. “You really thought you were so hot that the most popular girl in school would want to go out with you?”

Thayer steps back as though we’ve punched him. “Sutton, is this true?”

A wave of nausea ripples through me. No, I want to say. Of course not. But then my stomach lurches. I know what I have to do. I have no choice.

I thrust my hands into my pockets and work to keep my voice steady. “It was a prank, Thayer,” I hiss, mustering up every bit of scorn I possibly can. “You needed to be knocked down a few pegs. You can thank us later.”

Thayer’s brows knit together. He balls his hands into fists. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“Nope!” Charlotte crows gleefully.

He staggers backward, almost barreling into a cactus. “So, everything we talked about? That moment we had at your house? Those texts? None of it was true?”

I can’t even look at him. “No.”

Thayer shakes his head slowly. “God, Sutton. You’re an even bigger bitch than everyone says.”

I feel dizzy, the air rushing from my lungs. I know what people say about me, of course. I know what they think. It’s just, I don’t care about their opinions.

Only Thayer’s.

“It’s okay, Baby Bro,” Madeline singsongs. “We can find you someone more your speed. Maybe a middle schooler?”

But Thayer barely hears her. He’s still staring at me. “That would be better than getting involved with you,” Thayer says, his voice thick with disgust. “Have you ever been honest a day in your life?”

Inside, I reel, but my expression is totally controlled. “With guys I like, Thayer. Not with you.”

Thayer’s face contorts into an ugly grimace, and he whirls around, kicking clouds of dust up from the gravel of the Banerjee front drive as he runs into the middle of the street.

A lump forms in my chest. I want to follow him. I want to fix this. But with my friends standing here, watching me, I can’t.

Charlotte cackles, doubling over. “Oh my God, Mads, I think he’s actually crying.”

Still giggling, Madeline straightens up and claps me on the shoulder. “That. Was. Amazing. Good work, Sutton.”

“Uh-huh,” I say woodenly.

“I can’t wait to send that picture around,” Charlotte exclaims.

“We knew you could bag him,” Madeline says.

And then my best friends link arms with me, one on either side, and lead me back to the party. Not that I’m in the mood for it anymore. Right now, there’s only one thought running through my mind:

What did I just do?

13

REGRETS ONLY

“Sutton, can you please stop bogarting the Twizzlers?”

“What? Oh, sure. Sorry.” I idly pass the giant bag of strawberry licorice across the couch to Charlotte. It’s later that same night, and we’re back in Madeline’s family room. We stayed at the party for a while after the “prank” was exposed, and I went through the motions as best as I could, but I can’t get Thayer—and that devastated look on his face—out of my mind. I didn’t see him again at the party, not that I would have known what to do or to say to him if I had. There’s part of me that doesn’t want to be here at all. I’d rather be home, snuggled up with Scooby-Doo, thinking about how it felt to kiss Thayer—and how I could fix everything that happened tonight.

Thayer must have come home earlier than we did, and we haven’t heard a peep from his room since we got here. Still, traces of him permeate the Vegas’ media room: a battered copy of Spin sitting on the sleek, mid-century modern coffee table, a row of slightly tarnished soccer trophies locked in a tall glass cabinet, a key chain tossed in a decorative bowl with the Hollier High logo. Thayer is all around me.

Too bad he wants nothing to do with me now.

Then Madeline shoots up. “Charlotte, be careful with the Diet Coke! If you spill on the leather sofa, my dad is going to kill me.” Something in her tone suggests that it’s not an exaggeration.

“God, sorry.” Charlotte sets her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. “We shouldn’t be drinking soda, anyway—we should have champagne to celebrate the smashing success of the first Lying Game prank of the season!”

“Done and done,” Madeline says. “And maybe it’ll give us some inspiration for the back-to-school prank. As long as we’re on a roll.” Then she rises and pads to the Mad Men–style hutch that stands adjacent to the oversized flat-screen TV on the far side of the room. She slides the cabinet doors open and pokes around inside it, her bun bobbing up and down lightly as she hunts.

After a moment, she emerges, triumphantly brandishing a half-full bottle of Absolut. “Will vodka do?”

“Absolut-ly,” Charlotte trills, but I can’t even muster the energy to roll my eyes at her nerdiness.

Madeline dips into the kitchen, returning with three clean glasses stacked in the crook of her arm and a carton of orange juice tucked under her chin, somehow managing to make the awkward juggling act look graceful.

“We’ll save the champagne for after the back-to-school prank. Like a grand finale. This is just a warm-up.” She winks, heavy lashes fluttering against her alabaster cheek.

She pours three generous cocktails, vodka sloshing over the sides of the glasses, which she hastily wipes with the hem of her gray Calvin Klein ribbed tank top. She passes two of the drinks to Charlotte and me. We each take one and raise our arms, clinking glasses.

I will the corners of my mouth into the most convincing smile I can manage. My face feels stiff, like a carnival mask. “Cheers,” I mumble.

“To the Lying Game!” Madeline toasts, brimming with enthusiasm. She fixes her sparkling blue eyes on me. “Seriously, Sutton, your work was inspired. Thank you so much for putting Thayer in his place for me.” She sounds intensely sincere. Almost alarmingly so.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, waving a hand at her dismissively.

My stomach flips over just thinking about the look on Thayer’s face before he darted off.

“Honestly, you’re the master. The queen of the Lying Game,” Charlotte praises. She sounds more than a little bit awestruck, and that lump rises in the back of my throat again. I choke down a swallow of my drink, the acidic tang of the vodka burning on the way down.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, ladies,” I say, as breezily as I can. “But please—the queen is tired from a hard night’s work. Can we just watch the movie and not talk?”

“Yes! Of course,” Madeline agrees. She scrambles for the Titanic Blu-ray she pulled from her overstocked media shelf and slides it into the DVD player. The machine blinks and whirs as it powers on and clicks into gear.

“Just as long as you don’t expect us to feed you grapes and fan you,” Charlotte grumbles, smiling good-naturedly. She takes another healthy gulp of her drink, sighing contentedly.

“You know you would if I asked you to,” I quip.

I’m acting like my old self, but my heart’s not in it. In fact, I think I left it somewhere back on Nisha’s front lawn, or buried deep in the crags of Sabino Canyon. Even as the movie cues up and Leo’s boyish face fills the enormous screen, I can’t stop thinking about Thayer. The look in his eyes as his expression crumbled. The disgust on his face as he realized he’d been a Lying Game target.

And … that kiss.

More than anything, that kiss.

It was incredible; toe-curling, earth-shattering, monumental. It was like no other kiss I’d experienced in my life. And I’m not exactly a novice when it comes to kissing boys.

Why couldn’t I date a younger guy? What would really be so bad about that? I weigh the idea in my mind, considering all of the angles.

Okay, so maybe my friends would make fun of me. Maybe definitely, fine. But probably not for long, right? They’d tease me in the beginning, of course, but once they got used to the idea, maybe they’d even think it was cool. Who knows—maybe I’d start a trend somehow, setting off a rash of cougars on the prowl in the halls of Hollier.

The thing is, being with Thayer might make me really … happy. And I think I might deserve that. I think my friends would agree.

And after that kiss, maybe I don’t really care what they think. Maybe I just want Thayer.

The opening credits of the movie roll and the imposing orchestral sound track swells, filling the room. Suddenly I can’t sit still for a second longer. It’s like ants are crawling over every exposed surface of my skin. I leap up from the sofa, ignoring the startled looks Charlotte and Madeline shoot my way.

“I, uh, need to use the bathroom,” I mumble, wandering down the hall.

“Do you want us to pause it?” Madeline calls after me, sounding confused.

“No, it’s fine,” I call back. “I know the whole thing by heart.”

I tiptoe past the bathroom and make my way stealthily down the hall. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing, but almost unconsciously, I find myself at the door to Thayer’s bedroom. A light glows from beneath it, and my heart jumps. I have no idea what I’ll say to him … but I have to say something.

I knock lightly, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to the other. But there’s no answer. I knock again, quickly, and when it’s still silent inside, I cautiously push the door open.

I’m greeted with a gust of fresh air from an open window, but no Thayer. A worn-in navy hoodie lies rumpled across his unmade bed, and I’m tempted to run to it and rub it between my fingers, to breathe it in and slip it on over my tank top. It would be almost like having his arms around me again.

Surveying the room, I realize that Thayer’s computer is still on, casting an eerie glow across his desk. An open IM window blinks beckoningly on the screen.

Heading over, it says.

The message is for my sister.

My blood runs cold. He’s gone to see Laurel? He’s going to tell her what happened tonight, and she’ll console him … and then what? It’s obvious she’s totally in love with him. And they’re so close. Just because they haven’t been romantic yet doesn’t mean they never will.

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.

Content

Sara Shepard
The First Lie

1  FACEBOOK HACKING IS SO SOPHOMORE YEAR

2  UP FOR A CHALLENGE, DOWN FOR THE DEED

3  FAIR PLAY

4  FLEAS AND THANK YOU?

5   NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

6  ZEN AND NOW

7  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

8  BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED

9  A TOTAL WASTE OF A PEDICURE

10  TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY

11  YOU CAN DANCE IF YOU WANT TO

12  SURPRISE, SURPRISE

13   REGRETS ONLY

14  JUST BETWEEN US