by Sara Shepard
Emma scowled. The G on the schedule stood for German. Eins, zwei, and drei were the only German words she knew. Perfect. She willed herself not to start crying all over again.
More kids smiled at Emma as she walked down the aisle and fell into a seat at the back. Then she noticed a familiar dark-haired guy sitting by the window, staring out at the red running track: It was Ethan, the stargazing guy Emma had met last night. Mr. Rebel Without a Cause.
Ethan turned and looked over his shoulder, as if he sensed Emma was watching. His eyes seemed to come alive when he saw her. Emma lobbed him a tiny smile hello. He smiled back. But when another girl walked up the aisle and purred “Hey, Ethan,” Ethan only gave her a terse nod.
“Psst!” a voice called from the other side of the room. Emma swiveled around and saw Garrett’s spiky blond head a few rows over. He waved at her and winked. Emma waved back, but she felt like such an impostor. What would Sutton’s boyfriend think if he knew she was really dead? And now she couldn’t even tell him.
The bell rang again, and everyone scrambled to find their desks. An Asian woman with man-short hair and wearing a long blue dress that looked way too stifling for the Arizona heat marched stiffly into the room. Frau Fenstermacher, she wrote on the board in spiky handwriting, drawing a sharp line underneath. Emma wondered if she’d changed her last name for authenticity.
Frau Fenstermacher pushed her clear, Lucite-framed glasses farther down her nose as she examined the class list. “Paul Anders?” she barked.
“Here,” a guy in dark-framed glasses and a Grizzly Bear band T-shirt mumbled.
“Answer in German!” The teacher was barely over five feet tall, but there was something solid and menacing about her that made it look like she could kick someone’s ass.
“Oh.” Paul blushed. “Ja.” It sounded like yah.
“Garrett Austin?”
“Ja, ja.” Garrett said it like the Swedish Chef. Everyone giggled.
Frau Fenstermacher called more names. Emma ran her fingers nervously over an anarchy symbol someone had carved into the top of the desk. Say ja when she calls for Sutton Mercer, she silently chanted over and over. She was sure she was going to forget.
Nine jas later, Frau Fenstermacher blanched at the roll sheet. “Sutton Mercer?” she called in the angriest voice of all.
Emma’s mouth opened, but it was like someone had stuffed wiener schnitzel down her throat. Everyone turned to stare at her. The giggles started again.
Frau’s eyebrows came to a point. “I see you there, Fraulein Mercer. I know who you are, too. You’re a Teufel Kind. Devil Child. But not in my class, ja?” She spit as she spoke.
The whole class swiveled from Emma to Frau Fenstermacher to Emma again, as if they were watching a Ping-Pong match. Emma licked her dry lips. “Ja,” she said. Her voice cracked.
Everyone laughed again. “I heard she almost got arrested twice this summer,” a girl in a long sweater vest and skinny jeans whispered to a wavy-haired girl across the aisle. “And I heard her car was impounded, too. She had so many traffic violations that they finally towed the thing away.”
“The cops brought her to school this morning,” the wavy-haired friend whispered back.
Sweater Vest shrugged. “Not surprised.”
Emma sank down in her chair, thinking about the file at the police station with Sutton’s name on it. What kind of crazy girl was she? She reached into the pocket and touched the edge of the note, desperately wanting someone to see it, to believe it. But then she loosened her grip, pulled out Sutton’s iPad, and placed it on the desk. Now if only she could figure out how to turn it on.
Six more classes of circumspect teachers. Eight wrong turns. A lunch period with Madeline and Charlotte congratulating Emma on showing up to school in a police car—apparently, to them, it was a good thing. Finally, at the end of the day, Emma opened Sutton’s locker. She’d broken down and looked through Sutton’s wallet for money before lunch, realizing there was no way she could get through the day without eating something. Besides cash, Sutton’s America’s Next Top Model–worthy driver’s license, an Amex Blue, and a wallet-sized Virgo horoscope for the month of August, Emma had found a tiny slip of paper that listed Sutton’s locker number and combination. It was as though Sutton had put it there on purpose, hoping Emma would find it.
If only I’d put it there on purpose. If only I’d left Emma tons of clues about who’d done this to me—put a big bull’s-eye on the killer’s head, maybe. I admired her for carefully examining each scrap of paper in my wallet as though it held a vital clue, though. She’d compiled a list of kids in my classes, too, writing things like Sienna, two desks up, history: smiled, seemed friendly, referenced “the egg-baby incident” and Geoff, catty-corner, trig: kept shooting me weird looks, made a joke(?) that I looked “different” today. Would I have known to sleuth like this, had our roles been reversed? Would I have dove in to avenge a sister I didn’t even know? There was something else I noticed about Emma, too: how she walked down the halls with her lips clamped together, like she was holding her breath. How she popped into the girls’ room to stare at herself in the mirror, as if to work up the courage all over again. We were both keeping secrets. We were both so alone.
Emma opened the locker. It was empty, save for a moldy-looking notebook at the bottom and a couple of pictures of Sutton, Madeline, and Charlotte taped up on the inside door. Just as Emma was about to gather the books she’d received today and somehow wedge them into Sutton’s leather purse—what kind of moron didn’t carry a real backpack to school?—she felt a hand on her arm.
“Are you thinking about ditching tennis?”
Emma turned. Charlotte stood in front of a WHY DRUGS AREN’T COOL poster. She’d pulled her red hair into a high ponytail, and she’d changed into a white T-shirt, black Champion shorts, and a pair of gray Nike sneakers. A tennis bag similar to the one Sutton’s mom had packed for Emma this morning swung from her shoulder.
Tennis. Right. “I was thinking about it,” Emma mumbled.
“No, you’re not.” Charlotte looped her arm through Emma’s elbow and pulled her down the hall. “C’mon. Laurel put your gear in the team locker room after you attempted your jailbreak this morning. Maggie will kill us if we’re late.”
Emma gazed at Charlotte as they walked, surprised she was on the tennis team, too. Physique-wise, Charlotte looked more like a wrestler. Then Emma bit her lip guiltily. Was that mean?
Not any meaner than I was, according to the one memory that had resurfaced. And I had a feeling, somehow, that was just the tip of the iceberg.
Emma and Charlotte strode down the yearbook hallway, which was decorated with snapshots of students from previous years. Emma spotted a photo of Sutton laughing with her friends in what looked like the front courtyard at school. Next to that photo was a candid of Laurel and a familiar dark-haired guy on the gym bleachers, engaged in a thumb war. Emma did a double take. It was the same guy she’d seen on Sutton’s photo bulletin board the night before . . . and on the Missing poster in the police station this morning: Thayer, Madeline’s brother. Emma wondered what had happened to him. Where and why he’d run away. If, like Sutton, he hadn’t run away at all. “So how was your day?” Charlotte’s ponytail bounced against her back.
“Um, all right.” Emma darted around two girls walking in the other direction, both carrying My Fair Lady scripts. “All my teachers acted like they wanted to have my head, though.”
Charlotte sniffed. “Like that’s a surprise?”
Emma ran her fingers along the scratchy strap on Sutton’s tennis bag. Yes, she wished she could admit. It wasn’t every day a teacher called her a Devil Child, or made her sit in the very front row so she could “keep an eye on her,” or glared at her and said, “All the desks in this room are bolted down, Sutton. Just so you know.” Uh, okay.
But Charlotte had already moved on to whine about her gym teacher and something she called the Stink Vent. “And Mrs. Grady in history totally has i
t in for me,” she moaned. “She called me to her desk after the bell rang and went, ‘You’re a smart girl, Charlotte. Don’t hang around with that crowd I always see you with. Make something of your life!” She rolled her eyes.
They turned down the biology wing. A human skeleton stood outside one of the classrooms, which made Emma shudder. Sutton could look like that, she thought.
Then Charlotte nudged Emma’s side. “So enough about me. How are you?” She squinted at Emma’s chest. “Where’s your necklace?”
Emma felt her bare neck. “I don’t know.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “That’s a surprise.” She hiked her tennis bag higher on her shoulder. “So how are things with you and Garrett?”
“Uh, he’s fine,” Emma answered slowly. She thought of the happy picture of Sutton and Garrett on Facebook. It was all she had to go by.
Charlotte shot her a lukewarm, closemouthed smile. “I heard he’s getting you something pretty special for your birthday.”
“Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm. Lucky.” Charlotte’s voice was strained. Emma sneaked a wary peek at her, but Charlotte was busy fiddling with a strap on her tennis bag.
A moment later, they entered the echoing locker room, which was abuzz with the sounds of slamming locker doors and cheerleaders warming up with a couple of Be aggressives and hand claps. Emma quickly changed into the shorts and tank top Sutton’s mom had packed, then followed Charlotte through a rabbit warren of hallways to join the rest of the tennis team. All the girls lay on the floor with their butts in the air doing piriformis stretches. Emma noticed Laurel in the second row; when Laurel saw them, she quickly looked away. A girl at the very front of the room glowered at Emma. Nisha.
“Sutton?” another voice called. A twentysomething woman marching up the side of the room smiled in Emma’s direction. She had a strawberry-blond ponytail and wore a blue polo shirt with the words HOLLIER TENNIS COACH and the name MAGGIE stitched over one boob. “Go on up! Co-captains in the front!”
Co-captain? Emma almost burst out laughing. Most of her tennis experience was from playing Wii Tennis at Alex’s house. She glanced at Charlotte helplessly, but Charlotte just shrugged.
“Chop-chop!” Coach Maggie said, making a rolling motion with her hands. Emma shifted her gaze to Nisha at the front once more. Nisha wore a heather-gray T-shirt that said HOLLIER VARSITY TENNIS CAPTAIN. Emma winced. The universe was definitely plotting against her.
She slowly wove through the maze of butt-up girls until she reached the front of the room. She gave Nisha a co-captainly, let’s-be-friends smile, but Nisha shot her back a disgusted glare.
Maggie blew her whistle, and the rest of the team sat up. “As you know, it’s tradition that on the first day of practice every year, we wear our Hollier uniforms as a show of team spirit.” A couple of girls let out whoos and whistles. “Nisha Banerjee and Sutton Mercer, our two new co-captains, will do the honors of passing out your uniforms.”
Maggie gestured to a stuffed blue plastic tub in front of Nisha. Emma peered inside and saw carefully folded tennis dresses in neat, even piles. She tried to pull one out, but Nisha slapped her away. “I’ve got it.”
Nisha turned to the team and began calling out names. One by one each girl marched up to the front of the room. Nisha handed them their uniforms, like a principal handing graduates their high school diplomas. After every girl had received an outfit, and after Maggie stepped into the coaches’ office, Nisha pulled the final dress from the bin and handed it to Emma. “And here’s yours, Sutton.”
Emma unfolded the dress and held it in front of her. The sleeves were about an inch long. The shirt didn’t cover her stomach. Either someone had really shrunk it in the dryer, or it had been specially designed for a Smurf. Several girls snickered.
Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. “Um . . . do we have something a little bigger?”
Nisha tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “I already assigned the rest, Sutton. That’s what you get for not helping me do uniforms yesterday afternoon!”
“But . . . I wasn’t here yesterday!” Emma protested. Technically, she’d been on the smelly bus to Tucson.
Nisha let out a sharp sniff. “So I suppose that was someone else who looked exactly like you at my party then?” She pointed at the Mini-Me uniform. “Hurry up and get dressed, co-captain! You want to show your team spirit, don’t you?” With a roll of her hips, she sauntered out of the gym toward the tennis courts, several younger players in her wake. The giggling grew louder and louder, bouncing off the gym’s high walls.
Emma balled up the uniform in her hands. No one had ever been so blatantly mean to her before. Nisha really had it out for Sutton.
I was thinking the same thing, too. And it actually kind of made me nervous.
Charlotte approached Emma, her mouth a tight line. “We can’t let her do this to you,” she hissed in Emma’s ear. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Emma stared at her blankly.
“Let’s get her,” Charlotte finished. “Soon.”
Get her? An uncertain shudder rumbled deep within Emma’s core. But before she could say a word, Charlotte pulled her toward the doorway, leading her into the punishing Arizona sunshine, and leaving us both to wonder what she meant.
Chapter 12
EMMA’S FIRST FAMILY DINNER DYSFUNCTION
As soon as Emma stepped through the door from tennis practice, the smell of steak, baked potatoes, and crescent rolls swarmed her nostrils. Mrs. Mercer stuck her head through the kitchen doorway. “There you are. Dinner’s ready.”
Emma pulled a hand through her wet hair. Right now? She’d hoped she’d get a couple minutes to herself before dinner. Maybe go upstairs, curl up in a ball, mourn the dead sister she’d never met, figure out what to do next . . .
She dropped Sutton’s tennis bag in the foyer and stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mercer carried tumblers of water to the table while Mr. Mercer uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Laurel was already sitting down, fiddling with her fork. She’d taken off after tennis practice without offering Emma a ride.
Emma slid in next to Laurel. There was a tiny folded paper crane near her water glass. Laurel cleared her throat and nudged her chin toward it. “You should open that.”
Emma stared at the crane, and then looked cautiously around the room. She’d rather not open it, thanks, especially if it was going to be another creepy note. But Laurel kept staring. The shiny origami paper crinkled as Emma slowly deconstructed the bird. On the plain white underside it read: I FORGIVE YOU. –L
“I heard Nisha’s party sucked.” Laurel twisted a cloth napkin in her hands. “And I finally asked Char after tennis. She told me they kidnapped you.”
Emma folded the origami paper back into a bird and touched Laurel’s arm. “Thanks.” It wasn’t much, but at least someone finally believed something she’d said.
“You’re welcome,” Laurel said, shooting Emma a tiny hopeful look.
Suddenly, a blurry flash about Laurel appeared before my eyes. I saw the two of us standing at a gate with a sign on it that said LA PALOMA SPA POOL—GUESTS ONLY! We both wore terry-cloth shorts and oversized sunglasses. “Just pretend like you belong here,” I instructed, taking Laurel’s hand. She gave me that same eager, loyal, you’re-the-big-sister-and-I-want-to-be-just-like-you look as she was giving to Emma now.
So we’d been friends . . . once upon a time, anyway. It certainly hadn’t seemed that way from my memory of the hot springs.
“Still, maybe you can make it up to me,” Laurel said to Emma, crossing her arms over her chest. “Manicures at Mr. Pinky next week before your birthday party? Maybe Thursday?”
“Okay,” Emma said, although Thursday might as well have been in the next millennium. Would she even be here next week?
Mrs. Mercer pulled a dish out of the oven with a loud clang. Mr. Mercer gathered shiny steak knives out of the drawer. Laurel leaned forward. The front of her blouse gaped so tha
t Emma could see the top of her pink scalloped-edge bra. “Why did you run off this morning?” she whispered. “Mads told me she saw you getting out of a cop car during homeroom.”
Emma stiffened. “I was trying to ditch,” she whispered back. “A cop driving by saw me. He said if I didn’t go back to school with him, he’d raise the impound fee on my car.”
“That sucks.” A honey-blond lock of hair fell into Laurel’s eyes.
They were interrupted by Mrs. Mercer rushing to the table with steaming plates. She dished out portions of steak, spinach, and baked potatoes to everyone. Mr. Mercer sneaked Drake a piece of roll, which the dog swallowed without chewing. When everyone had been served, Mrs. Mercer sat and unfolded a napkin on her lap. “I just got a call from Coach Maggie, Sutton. She said you were off your game today.”
“Oh.” Emma sliced the baked potato with her fork. Tennis hadn’t exactly been successful, though at least she hadn’t had to wear the Smurf Dress—Maggie had told Emma they’d straighten out the uniform problem tomorrow. During practice, she’d returned a few shots—thanks, Wii!—but serves whipped past her head, and when she was playing doubles with Charlotte, she ran for a shot and slammed right into Charlotte’s side. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little rusty,” she said. Not to mention she was slightly distracted the whole time.
Mr. Mercer clucked his tongue. “It’s probably because you didn’t practice all summer.”
“You should put in some time at the courts tonight.” Mrs. Mercer wiped her mouth with a pineapple-printed napkin.
“Maybe Sutton was off her game because Nisha Banerjee was a total bully today,” Laurel jumped in. Emma shot Laurel a grateful look. It was nice that she was sticking up for her.
