Never Have I Ever: A Lying Game Novel

“You know what? I don’t care.” Garrett slapped the sides of his legs and stood. “We’re done. I don’t want your excuses. I’m not falling for your games anymore. This is just like what you did to Thayer. I should have known.”

Emma recoiled at the harshness of Garrett’s voice—and at the mention of Madeline’s brother.

Thayer. Just hearing his name made his clear green eyes, high cheekbones, and mussed dark hair flicker across my mind. And then, I saw something else: an image of the two of us standing in the school courtyard. Tears streamed down my face as Thayer talked to me in urgent tones, as if he were trying to get me to understand something, but the memory flaked apart at my fingertips.

Emma struggled to regain her voice. “I’m not sure what you think I—”

“I’d like my Grand Theft Auto game back,” Garrett interrupted, turning to face the Mercers’ impeccable lawn. A black lab lifted his leg on an ash tree. “It’s in your PS3.”

“I’ll look for it,” Emma mumbled.

“And I guess I don’t need this either.” Garrett pulled a long, thin ticket from his gear bag. HALLOWEEN HOMECOMING DANCE, it proclaimed in melting letters. He thrust it at her almost violently, then stepped closer to her until they were almost touching. His body shivered with what seemed like coiled, pent-up energy. Emma held her breath, acutely aware that she had no idea what he might do next.

“Have a nice life, Sutton,” Garrett whispered, his voice icy. His cleats made loud clacking sounds as he stalked across the driveway, mounted his bike, and cruised away.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his receding back.

That went well. Technically, this had been Emma’s first breakup ever—all her previous relationships had either ended in mutual friendship or fizzled away. No wonder people said it sucked.

Shaken, Emma turned to head inside. As she walked across the porch for the front door, a white SUV on the street caught her eye. She squinted at the flash of blond hair through the windshield. But before she could make out a face, the car sped up, rocketing away in a plume of gray exhaust.

Emma found Laurel in the kitchen, slicing an apple into thin pieces. “Do we know anyone who drives a white SUV?” she asked.

Laurel stared at her. “Besides the Twitter Twins?”

Emma frowned. The twins lived all the way across town.

“So?” Laurel asked. “What happened with Garrett?” There was a smug look on her face. Now she wants to talk, Emma thought bitterly.

Emma walked up to the island and popped a juicy apple slice into her mouth. “It’s over.”

Laurel’s expression softened just a bit. “Are you okay?”

Emma wiped her hands across her tennis shorts. “I’ll be fine.” She looked at Laurel. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Laurel crunched an apple slice and glanced out the French doors into the backyard. “I don’t know. Garrett always struck me as sort of an enigma,” she finally said. “I always wondered if there was something more lurking beneath the surface.”

Emma flinched, thinking of how Garrett had loomed over her on the porch. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Laurel waved her hand dismissively, as if she suddenly remembered she wasn’t speaking to Emma today. She slid a stack of mail across the kitchen table. “These are for you.”

Then she wheeled around and sauntered down the hall way. As Emma absentmindedly sorted through the catalogs, mulling over Garrett’s visit and Laurel’s haunting words, an envelope with a bank logo in the upper corner caught her eye. AMEX BLUE, said the label. It was addressed to Sutton Mercer.

Emma’s breath caught in her throat as she tore it open. This was Sutton’s credit card statement, the one from the month leading up to her murder. With shaking fingers, she unfolded the paper and scanned the column of charges in August. BCBG … Sephora … Walgreens … AJ’s gourmet market. Then, her gaze landed on a charge on August 31. Eighty-eight dollars. Clique.

Nerves snapped inside of her. Clique. The word suddenly seemed ominous, like the sound of a safety latch releasing from a gun.

Emma yanked Sutton’s phone from her bag. Ethan answered on the second ring. “Clear your schedule for tonight,” Emma whispered. “I think I’ve got something.”

5

EXTREME TIMES CALL FOR EXTREME MEASURES

Hours later, Emma and Ethan sat in Ethan’s beat-up, dark red Honda in the back parking lot of a series of shops near the University of Arizona. The smell of brick-oven pizza filled the air, and tipsy college students walked past, singing Taylor Swift songs off-key. There was a head shop called Wonderland, a punk-rock beauty salon called Pink Pony, and a place called Wildcat Central, which sold University of Arizona sweatpants and shot glasses. On the very end was a boutique called Clique.

Ethan pulled down the brim of his red Arizona Diamondbacks ball cap. “Ready?”

Emma nodded, suppressing her nerves. She had to be ready.

As Ethan unlatched his seat belt, Emma felt a surge of gratitude rush through her. “Ethan?” She touched the soft spot behind his elbow, tiny pricks of heat shooting down her fingertips. “I just wanted to say thank you. Again.”

“Oh.” Ethan looked slightly embarrassed. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m not Mother Teresa.” He pushed the car door open with his foot. “C’mon. It’s showtime.”

The mannequins in the Clique storefront wore avant-garde Halloween masks. Luxurious cashmere coats, silk dresses, and diaphanous scarves draped their bodies. Their hollow black eyes stared at Emma. Bells dinged when she and Ethan pushed through the front door.

I looked around the place, trying to get a tingle of recognition. A large table stuffed with skinny jeans, skinny chinos, skinny cargo pants, and even skinnier skinny leggings took up most of the real estate in the front of the store. Boots, flats, heels, and espadrilles were lined up on the windowsill like soldiers readying for battle. But nothing stood out; it just looked like the normal sort of boutique I used to frequent.

Emma walked to a rack and checked the price tag on a plain white cotton tee. Eighty dollars? Her entire junior year wardrobe cost less than that!

“Can I help you?”

Emma whirled around to see a tall brunette with a Megan Fox scowl and Heidi Montag boobs. When the girl saw Ethan, her face brightened. “Ethan? Hey!”

“Oh hey, Samantha.” Ethan ran his fingers along a garment on the table, then blushed and backed away when he realized it was a pair of lacy pink panties. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Only part-time.” The shopgirl glanced at Emma again. Her expression soured. “Are you two … friends?”

Ethan glanced at Emma, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sutton, this is Samantha. She goes to St. Xavier. Samantha, this is Sutton Mercer.”

Samantha snatched the cotton tee from Emma and placed it back on the rack. “Sutton and I are already acquainted.”

Emma squared her shoulders, wary of Samantha’s tone. “Um, right,” she said. “Actually, I was wondering if you kept transaction records?” She held up her sister’s Amex bill. “I’m kind of in trouble for overspending on my credit card, and I want to return some stuff I bought on August thirty-first.” She let out an embarrassed giggle. “The problem is, I can’t remember what I bought where.”

Samantha pressed her hand to her chest, feigning surprise. “You don’t remember what you purchased?”

“Uh, no.” Emma wanted to roll her eyes. If she knew the answer, why would she be asking? But she needed Samantha’s help, so she’d have to bite her tongue and save her retort for her Comebacks I Should Have Said folder, a collection of nasty responses she’d thought of but hadn’t dared to say.

“Do you remember what you stole?” Samantha challenged.

“Excuse me?”

“The last time you were in,” Samantha said slowly, like she was speaking to a kindergartener, “you and your friends stole a pair of hammered gold earrings. Or have you conveniently forgotten that, too?”

Looks like I spent my last day on Earth as a shoplifter.

Emma clung to Samantha’s words. “My friends? Which ones?”

“Seriously, what are you on?” Samantha’s eyes were on fire. “Trust me, if I knew who they were or had solid proof of what you guys did, I’d press charges in a heartbeat.” With that, she whipped around, strode to the back of the store on her spike-heel booties, and began feverishly reorganizing a display of argyle sweaters.

For a moment, the only sounds in the store were the pounding beats of a Chemical Brothers dance mix. Then Emma ran her fingers over an itchy wool sweater dress and glanced at Ethan. “Which friends could Sutton have been with? Why wouldn’t they have just told me?”

Ethan picked up a ballet flat, turning it over in his hands before setting it next to its twin. “Maybe the shoplifting had them freaked out.”

“Freaked out about shoplifting? Are you serious?” Emma moved closer to Ethan and lowered her voice to a whisper. “These are the same girls who strangled Sutton for fun. And when the police escorted me to Hollier in a cop car on the first day of school, they were thrilled.”

Emma’s mind drifted back to her brief encounter at the police station. The cops had written her off so fast when she tried to explain who she was, not believing for a second she could’ve been anyone other than Sutton. Then again, Sutton had a long track record—the cop on duty, Detective Quinlan, had brought out an enormous manila file packed with Sutton’s past misdeeds. It probably contained countless Lying Game pranks.

Emma straightened up, a thought striking her hard. What if the file contained something about the train prank? Madeline had said something about the cops showing up. At the back of the store, Samantha glanced at Emma out of the corner of her eye.

Ethan touched Emma’s shoulder. “I don’t like that look on your face,” he said. “What are you thinking?”

“You’ll see.” Emma casually picked up a teal Tori Burch clutch from the table. When she was sure Samantha was watching, she shoved it up her shirt. The leather was soft on her bare skin.

“What the hell?” Ethan made a frantic slashing motion across his throat. “Are you nuts?”

Emma ignored him.

Her pulse quickened. This felt so foreign, so wrong. Becky used to steal from convenience stores all the time—swiping a candy bar here, slipping a pack of gum into Emma’s pocket there, once even walking out with several two-liter bottles of Coke stuffed up her shirt like two freaky boobs. Emma had lived in fear that the cops would haul both of them off to jail—or, worse, take her mother away from her. But in the end, it hadn’t been the police who’d taken Becky away. Becky abandoned her daughter of her own volition.

“Stop right there!”

Emma froze, her hand on the doorknob. Samantha spun her around. Her eyebrows made a perfect V. “Nice try. Give it back.”

Sighing, she removed her hand from her midriff and shook out her shirt. The clutch clunked to the ground, the gold chain clanging on the tiled floor. A half-dressed girl poked her head out of the fitting room and gasped.

Samantha scooped up the clutch with a smug grin and pulled a BlackBerry from the pocket of her skintight jeans. She placed the call on speaker.

“Wait.” Ethan scuttled around a wine-colored velvet sofa. “This was a misunderstanding. I can explain.”

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a voice squawked on the other line.

Samantha’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “I’d like to report a robbery in progress.”

Emma shoved her shaking hands in her pockets and tried to keep the saucy, entitled, I’m-Sutton-Mercer-and-I’m-thrilled-to-be-hauled-off-to-jail smirk glued to her lips.

In a way, it wasn’t hard—going to the police station was exactly what she’d wanted.

6

A CRIMINAL HISTORY

Emma sat on a plastic yellow chair in a cinder-block room inside the police station. The room was no bigger than a chicken coop, smelled like rotting vegetables, and, inexplicably, had two pictures of serene-looking Japanese geishas hanging on the far wall. It would be a great setting for a news story … if she were the writer, not the subject.

The door creaked open, and Detective Quinlan stepped inside, the same cop who had refused to believe Emma when she said she was Emma Paxton and her long-lost twin, Sutton, was missing. There, hooked under his arm, was a file bearing the name SUTTON MERCER. Emma bit back a grin.

Quinlan plunked himself down across from her and laced his fingers atop the folder. Boots thundered down the hall, shaking the whole shoddily built complex. “Shoplifting, Sutton? Honestly?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Emma squeaked, shrinking down in her seat.

Long ago, Emma had sat in a police station with Becky in the middle of the night after the cops had brought her in for reckless driving. At one point, a cop lifted the big black telephone and handed it to Becky, but Becky pushed it away, imploring, “Please don’t call them. Please,” she said. At dawn, after Becky was released with a warning, Emma asked whom the policewoman had tried to call. But Becky just lit a cigarette and pretended she had no idea what Emma was talking about.

“You didn’t mean to get caught?” Quinlan held up Sutton’s file. “Have you forgotten you already got busted for shoplifting?” He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder. “A pair of boots from Banana Republic, January sixth. So you’re a repeat offender. That’s serious, Sutton.”

Emma scuffed her feet over the linoleum, her sweaty bare legs sticking to the plastic seat.

The handcuffs on Quinlan’s belt jingled as he sat back in the chair. “What are you trying to do, go to juvie? Or are you going to pretend you’re someone else this time, too, Sutton’s secret twin? What did you say your real name was? Emily … something?”

But Emma wasn’t listening. With a jerk, she grabbed her throat. She gasped, buckled over at the waist and began to cough. She hacked until it hurt her lungs.

Quinlan frowned. “Are you okay?”

Emma shook her head, dredging up another series of hacks. “Water,” she croaked between breaths. “Please.”

Quinlan rose from the table and pushed out into the hall. “Don’t move,” he growled.

Emma let out a few more coughs after he shut the door and then sprang into action, sliding the manila folder over to her seat. Her fingers trembled as she opened it and shuffled through the pages. On the top was the most recent write-up, when Emma had visited the station on the first day of school. Returned Miss Mercer to school in squad car, someone had typed. Four more forms had been filled out saying exactly the same thing.

“Come on,” Emma muttered under her breath, flipping through more pages. There were reports for disturbing the peace and a claim for Sutton’s impounded car, a 1960s Volvo, for unpaid parking tickets. Next on the stack was a statement Sutton had made about Thayer Vega’s disappearance. Emma’s eyes scanned the transcript. We hung out sometimes, Sutton said to the interviewer. I guess he had a little crush on me. No, of course I haven’t seen him since he vanished. Further down the page were the interviewer’s notes: Miss Mercer was very fidgety. Evaded several questions, mostly about Mr. Vega’s …

Emma flipped the page and rooted through the files until two words caught her eye. Train tracks. Emma yanked the paper out of the stack. It was a police report, dated July 12. Under LOCATION OF INCIDENT, it said Train tracks, corner of Orange Grove and Route 10. Under the description of the incident it said S. Mercer … vehicle endangerment … oncoming train. Sutton had been interviewed along with Charlotte, Laurel, and Madeline. Gabriella and Lilianna Fiorello were listed as witnesses, too.

Gabby and Lili? Emma frowned. Why had they been there?

I saw a flash and felt a strange tingling sensation. A far-off train whistle roared in my head. I heard screams, desperate pleas, and sirens.

Just like that, the memory of that night whooshed back to me.

7

THE ULTIMATE PRANK

I’m behind the wheel of my British racing-green 1965 Volvo 122. My hands squeeze the leather-wrapped steering wheel, and my foot shifts easily on and off the clutch. Madeline sits next to me, twisting the dial on the souped-up radio. Charlotte, Laurel, and the Twitter Twins squish in the back, giggling whenever the car careens around a corner and flattens all of them to one side. Gabby waves around a tube of red lipstick like a magic wand.

“Don’t you dare get lipstick on Floyd’s leather seats,” I warn.

Charlotte giggles. “I can’t believe you call your car Floyd.”

I ignore her. Saying I adore my car is putting it mildly. My dad bought it on eBay a couple of years ago, and I helped him restore it to its former glory—hammering out the dents in the body panels, replacing the rusty grille with a bright new chrome one, reupholstering the front and back seats with soft leather, and installing a new engine that purrs like a contented puma. I don’t care that it doesn’t have modern amenities like an iPod adapter or parallel-parking assist—this car is unique, classy, and ahead of its time—just like I am.

We sweep past Starbucks, the strip mall of art galleries all the retirees love, and the clay courts where I took my first tennis lesson when I was four. The moon is the exact same amber as the eyes of the coyote that nosed under our backyard fence last year. We’re on our way to a frat party at U of A, which promises to be a rager. Just because I’m with Garrett doesn’t mean I can’t ogle the hot college-boy merchandise now and then.

Madeline stops on a station playing Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.” Gabby squeals and starts to sing along. “Uch, I’m so sick of this song,” I moan, reaching over and twisting the volume knob down again. I usually don’t mind singing, but something irks me tonight. Or, more accurately, two someones.

Lili pouts. “But last week you said Katy was awesome, Sutton!”

I shrug. “Katy’s so five minutes ago.”

“She writes the best songs!” Gabby whines, twirling her honey-blonde highlights and pursing her extra-plump lips into a pout.

I take my eyes off the road for a moment and glare at them. “It’s not as if Katy writes the songs herself, guys. Some fat, middle-aged producer guy does.”

Lili looks horrified. “Really?”

If only I could pull over and let them out. I’m so sick of Twitter Dee and Twitter Dum’s faux-ditziness. I shared a trig class with them last year, and they’re not as stupid as they look. Guys find the dumb act cute, but I’m not buying it.

The light changes to green, and Floyd makes a satisfying roar as he guns off the line, kicking up dust and flying past the desert broom. “Well, I think it’s a good song,” Mads breaks the silence, slowly turning up the volume again.

I shoot her a look. “What would your dad say if he knew slutty Katy was your role model, Mads?”

“He wouldn’t care,” Madeline says, trying to sound tough. She picks at the SWAN LAKE MAFIA ballerina sticker on the back of her cell phone. I don’t know what the sticker means—none of us do. I think Mads likes it that way.

“He wouldn’t?” I repeat. “Let’s call Daddy and ask. Actually, let’s call him and tell him you’re hoping to score with a college guy tonight, too.”

“Sutton, don’t!” Madeline growls, catching my hands before I can reach for my phone. Mads is notorious for lying to her dad; she probably told him she was at a study group.

“Relax,” I say, slipping my phone back into the center console again. Madeline slumps down in the seat, making her I’m-not-speaking-to-you face. Charlotte catches my eye in the mirror and gives me a look that says Cut it out. Teasing Madeline about her dad is a low blow, but that’s what she gets for inviting the Twitter Twins tonight. It was supposed to be just us, the real Lying Game members, but somehow Gabby and Lili found out about our plans, and Madeline was too nicey-nice to tell them they couldn’t come. I’ve felt their imploring stares the whole drive, their hopes and dreams written in thought bubbles over their heads: When are you going to let us into the Lying Game? When can we be one of you? It’s bad enough my little sister weaseled her way into our club. There’s no room for anyone else, especially not them.

And more than that, I have a plan for tonight—a plan that doesn’t involve Gabby or Lili. But who says Sutton Mercer can’t be flexible?

The northern part of Tucson goes dead after ten o’clock, and there are barely any other cars on Orange Grove. Before we can merge onto the highway, we must cross the train tracks. The X-shaped RAILROAD CROSSING sign glows in the dark. Once the light turns green I edge Floyd over the bumpy rails. Just as I’m about to accelerate toward the highway entrance, the car dies.

“Uh …” I mumble. “California Gurls” falls silent. Cool air-conditioned vapors stop flowing from the vents, and the lights on the dash darken. I twist the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. “Okay, bitches. Who filled Floyd’s gas tank with sand?”

Charlotte fakes a yawn. “This prank is so two years ago.”

“It wasn’t us,” Gabby chirps, probably thrilled that I’ve quasi-included her in a conversation that involves the Lying Game. “We have way better prank ideas, if you’d ever let us share them with you.”

“Not interested,” I say, dismissing her with a wave.

“Um, does anyone care that we’re stopped on train tracks?” Madeline peers out the window, her fingertips clutching the door. Suddenly, the red lights on the RAILROAD CROSSING sign begin to flash. The warning bell clangs, and the striped gate lowers across the road behind us, preventing all other cars at the light—not that there are any—from passing over the tracks. A hazy beam of the Amtrak train blinks in the distance.

I try the ignition again, but Floyd just coughs. “What’s the deal, Sutton?” Charlotte sounds annoyed.

“Everything’s under control,” I mutter. The Volvo-symbol keychain swings back and forth as I twist the key again and again.

“Yeah, right.” The leather squeaks under Charlotte’s butt. “I told you guys we shouldn’t have gotten into this death trap.”

The train blows its whistle. “Maybe you’re starting it wrong.” Madeline reaches over and tries the ignition herself, but the car only makes the same wheezing sound. The lights don’t even flicker on the dash.

The train is getting closer. “Maybe it’ll see us and hit the brakes?” I say, my voice shaking as adrenaline courses through my veins.

“The train can’t stop!” Charlotte unbuckles her seat belt. “That’s why those warning gates go down!” She pulls at the door handle in the back, but it doesn’t budge. “Jesus! Unlock it, Sutton!”

I press the UNLOCK button—my dad and I had installed an electronic power feature on all four doors and windows—but there isn’t the familiar heavy click sound of the barrel releasing. “Uh …” I jab the button again and again.

“What about the manual unlock?” Lili tries to lift the button on her door. But something jams that button, too.

The train whistles once more, a low harmonica chord. Laurel tries to unroll the windows, but nothing happens. “Jesus, Sutton!” Laurel screams. “What are we going to do?”

“Is this a prank?” Charlotte shouts, yanking hard on the door handle, which doesn’t give. “Are you messing with us?”