4.5 The First Lie (the lying game) Read online

  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.