A hand touched Emma’s arm, and she jumped once more. Laurel stood behind her, leaning against the big gray trash barrel of wet clay next to the sink.
“Oh, hey.” Emma’s heart pounded in her ears.
“Just waiting for you.” Laurel brushed a lock of highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder and stared at the iPhone in Emma’s hands. “Writing to anyone interesting?”
Emma dropped Sutton’s phone into her bag. “Uh, not real y.” The spot where the Twitter Twins had stood was now empty.
Laurel caught her arm. “Why did you bring up the train prank?” she asked, her voice hushed and hard. “No one finds it funny.”
Sweat prickled on the back of Emma’s neck. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Laurel’s words echoed the note she’d gotten: The others might not want to remember the train prank, but I’ll be seized by the memory always. Something had happened that night. Something horrible.
Emma took a deep breath, rol ed back her shoulders, and slung her arm around Laurel’s waist. “Don’t be so sensitive. Now let’s go. It smel s like ass in here.” She hoped she sounded breezier than she felt.
Laurel glared at Emma for a moment, but then fol owed her into the crowded hal . Emma let out a sigh of relief when Laurel headed in the opposite direction. She felt like she’d dodged a huge bul et.
Or maybe, I thought, opened up a huge can of worms.
Chapter 4
Paper Trail
After tennis practice, Laurel steered her black VW Jetta onto the Mercers’ street, a development in the Catalina foothil s with sand-colored stucco houses and front yards ful of flowering desert succulents. The only sound in the car was Laurel’s jaw working the piece of gum she’d shoved into her mouth.
“So . . . thanks for the ride home,” Emma offered, breaking the awkward silence.
Laurel shot Emma a frosty glare. “Are you ever going to get your car out of the impound lot, or am I going to have to chauffeur you forever? You can’t keep lying about it being at Madeline’s, you know. Mom and Dad aren’t that stupid.”
Emma slumped down in the seat. Sutton’s car had been impounded since before Emma arrived in Tucson. It looked like she’d have to retrieve it if Laurel wouldn’t drive her around anymore.
Then Laurel fel into silence again. She’d been frosty with Emma ever since ceramics, turning away when Emma asked to partner with her for tennis vol eying and shrugging off Emma’s suggestion that they hit Jamba Juice on the drive home. Emma wished she knew the magic words to get Laurel to open up, but navigating the world of sibling relationships was something with which she had no real experience. She’d had foster siblings, sure, but those relationships rarely ended wel .
Not that mine and Laurel’s had either. We hadn’t been close for years. I saw flashes of us when we were much younger, holding hands on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair and spying on our parents’ dinner party when we were little, but something had happened between now and then. After passing by three large homes—two of which had gardeners out front, watering the mesquite trees—Laurel pul ed into the Mercers’ driveway. “Shit,” she said under her breath.
Emma fol owed Laurel’s gaze. Sitting on the wrought-iron bench on the Mercers’ front porch was Garrett. He was stil in his soccer cleats and practice shirt. Two muddy pads covered his knees, and he cradled a bike helmet in his arms.
Emma exited the car and slammed the door. “H-hey,”
she said tentatively, her gaze on Garrett’s face. The corners of his pink mouth curved into a scowl. His soft brown eyes blazed. His blond hair was sweaty from practice. He sat at the very edge of the porch seat like a cat ready to pounce. Laurel fol owed her up the driveway, waved at Garrett, and headed inside.
Slowly, Emma walked up the porch steps, standing a safe distance away from Garrett. “How are you?” she asked in a smal voice.
Garrett made an ugly noise at the back of his throat.
“How do you think I am?”
The automatic sprinklers hissed on in the front yard, misting the plants. In the distance, a weed whacker growled to life. Emma sighed. “I’m real y sorry.”
“Are you?” Garrett palmed his helmet with his large hands. “So sorry you didn’t return my cal s? So sorry you won’t even look at me right now?”
Emma took in his strong chest, toned legs, and just a hint of stubble on his chin. She understood what Sutton had seen in him, and her heart panged that he didn’t know the truth.
“I’m sorry.” The words lodged in Emma’s throat. “It’s been a weird summer,” she said. That was an understatement.
“Weird as in you met someone else?” Garrett bal ed his fist, making the muscles in his forearms pop.
“No!” Emma took a startled step back, almost bumping into the wind chimes Mrs. Mercer had hung from the eaves. Garrett wiped his hands on his shirt. “Jesus. Last month you were into this. Into me. Why do you hate me al of a sudden? Is this what everyone warned me about? Is this classic Sutton Mercer?”
Classic Sutton. The words echoed painful y in my ears, a refrain I’d heard so many times over the past few weeks. From my new vantage, I’d begun to realize how badly I used to treat people.
“I don’t hate you,” Emma protested. “I just . . .”
“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 fal ing for your games anymore. This is just like what you did to Thayer. I should have known.”