The Lying Game (3 page)

Travis smirked. Something inside Emma broke loose. Screw keeping the peace. Screw adapting to whatever the foster family needed her to be. She shot for him, grabbing Travis by his meaty neck.

“Emma!” Clarice shrieked, pulling her off her son. Emma staggered backward, bumping against one of the patio chairs.

Clarice spun Emma around so that they were face-to-face. “What’s gotten into you?”

Emma didn’t answer. She glowered at Travis again. He had flattened himself against the wall, his arms in front of him protectively, but there was a thrilled glow in his eyes.

Clarice turned away from Emma, sank down in the chair, and rubbed her eyes. Mascara smudged on her fingertips. “This isn’t working,” she said softly after a moment. She raised her head and gazed soberly at Emma. “I thought you were a sweet, nice girl who wouldn’t cause any trouble, Emma, but this is too much for us.”

“I didn’t
do
anything,” Emma whispered. “I swear.”

Clarice pulled out a nail file and started nervously sawing on her pinkie. “You can stay until your birthday, but after that you’re on your own.”

Emma blinked. “You’re kicking me
out
?”

Clarice stopped filing. Her face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But this is the best choice for all of us.”

Emma turned away and stared hard at the ugly block wall at the back of the property.

“I wish things were different.” Clarice pulled the sliding door open and padded back into the house. As soon as she was out of view, Travis peeled himself off the wall and straightened up to full height.

He sauntered casually around Emma, scooped up the tiny nub of the joint that was still under the chair, blew off the bits of dried grass that had stuck to the tip, and dropped it into his enormous pants pocket. “You’re lucky she didn’t press charges,” he said in a slimy voice.

Emma said nothing as he swaggered back into the house. She wanted to leap up and claw his eyes out, but her legs felt like they had been filled witssh heavy wet clay. Her eyes blurred with tears.
This
again. Every time a foster familytold Emma she had to move on, she invariably thought back to the cold, lonely moment when she’d realized Becky had ditched her for good. Emma had stayed a week at Sasha Morgan’s house while the police tried to track down her mom. She’d put on a brave face, playing Candy Land, watching
Dora the Explorer,
and making scavenger hunts for Sasha like the ones Becky had masterminded for her. But every night in the glow of Sasha’s Cinderella night-light, Emma struggled to read the parts of
Harry Potter
she could understand—which weren’t many. She’d barely mastered
The Cat in the Hat.
She needed her mom to read the big words. She needed her mom to do the voices. Even now, it still hurt.

The patio was silent. The wind blew the hanging spider plants and palm trees sideways. Emma stared blankly at the terra-cotta sculpture of a shapely woman that Travis and his friends liked to dry-hump. So that was that. No more staying here until the end of high school. No more applying to a photojournalism program at USC … or even community college. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Unless …

Suddenly, the image from the video fluttered through her mind once more.
A long-lost sister.
Her heart lifted. She had to find her.

If only I could have told her it was too late.

An hour later, Emma stood in her little bedroom, her Army-Navy bags splayed open on the floor. Why wait to pack? She also held her phone to her ear, talking to Alexandra Stokes, her best friend from back in Henderson.

“You could always stay with me,” Alex offered after Emma finished telling her that Clarice had just kicked her out. “I can talk to my mom. She might be cool with it.”

Emma shut her eyes. She and Alex had been on the cross-country team together last year. They’d both wiped out on a downhill part of a trail run on the first day of practice, and they’d become fast friends while the nursecleaned their wounds with ultra-stingy hydrogen peroxide. She and Emma had spent their entire junior year sneaking into the casinos and taking pictures of celebrities and lookalikes with Alex’s Canon SLR, trolling the pawn shops but never buying anything, and sunning themselves at Lake Mead on weekends.

“That’s a lot to ask of your family.” Emma removed a pile of vintage T-shirts from her top drawer and plopped them into the duffel. She’d stayed with the Stokeses for a couple of weeks after Ursula and Steve relocated to the Florida Keys. Emma had had a great time, but Ms. Stokes was a single mom with enough to manage already.

“It’s crazy for Clarice to kick you out,” Alex said. Soft smacking sounds filled the receiver; she was probably chomping on a piece of chocolate Twizzlers, her favorite candy. “She can’t honestly think you stole that money.”

“Actually, it wasn’t just that.” Emma scooped up a stack of jeans and tossed them in the bag, too.

“Was there something else? “ Alex asked.

Emma picked at a loose military patch on the old duffel. “I can’t get into it right now.” She didn’t want to tell Alex about the video she’d seen. She wanted to keep it to herself for a little while longer, just in case it wasn’t real. “But I’ll explain soon, okay? I promise.”

After Emma hung up, she sat on the carpet and looked around. She’d pulled all her photography prints by Margaret Bourke-White and Annie Leibovitz off the walls and her collection of classic novels and sci-fi thrillers off the shelves; the place now looked like a pay-by-the-hour motel room. She stared into the open bureau drawer, which contained her favorite things, the stuff she carried to every foster home. There was the hand-knitted monster toy Mrs. Hewes, a piano teacher, had given her the day she’d mastered “Für Elise” despite not actually having a piano at home to practice on. She’d saved a couple of scavenger hunt clues from Becky, the creases soft and the paper nearly disintegrating. And there was Socktopus, the threadbare stuffed octopus Becky had bought for Emma during a road trip to Four Corners. Nestled at the bottom of the drawer were her five cloth-bound journals, stuffed with poetry, the Comebacks I Should’ve Said list, the Ways to Flirt (WTF) list, the Stuff I Love and Hate list, and a thorough review of every secondhand store in the area. Emma had mastered the thrift store circuit. She knew exactly which days new shipments hit the floor, how to haggle for better prices, and to always paw through the bottom of the shoe bin—she’d once scored a barely scuffed pair of Kate Spade flats that way.

Finally, Emma lifted the battered Polaroid camera and a large stack of Polaroid photos from the corner of the drawer. The camera had been Becky’s, but Emma had brought it with her to Sasha’s house the night her mom had taken off. Not long after that, Emma had begun to write fake news captions to match the photos about her life and the goings-on of her foster families: “Foster Mom Gets Sick of Kids, Locks Self in Bedroom to Watch
Leave It to Beaver.”
“Hippies Leave for Florida Unannounced.” “Semi-decent Foster Mom Gets Job in Hong Kong; Foster Kid Not Invited.” She was the one and only reporter on the Emma beat. If she were in the right mind-set, she’d craft a new top story for today: “Evil Foster Brother Ruins Girl’s Life.” Or maybe “Girl Discovers Doppelgänger on Internet. Perhaps a Long-Lost Sister?”

Emma paused at the thought. She glanced at the tattered Dell laptop on the floor, which she’d bought from a pawn shop. Taking a deep breath, she set it on the bed and opened the lid. The screen glowed to life, and Emma quickly called up the video site where Travis had found the fake strangling film. The familiar video was the very first item on the list. It had been posted earlier that evening.

Emma pressed
PLAY,
and the grainy image appeared. The blindfolded girl bucked and scratched. The dark figure pulled the necklace taut around her neck. Then the camera fell, and someone emerged and whipped off the blindfold. The girl’s face was ashen and dazed. She looked around frantically, her eyes rolling around in her head like loose marbles. Then she looked at the camera. Her blue-green eyes were glassy and her pink lips glowed. It was Emma’s exact face. Everything about it was the same.

“Who are you?”
Emma whispered, a shiver running up her spine.

I wished I could answer her. I wished I could do something useful instead of just dangling over her silently like a creepy ghost-stalker. It was like watching a movie, except I couldn’t even call out or throw popcorn at the screen.

The clip ended, and the site asked Emma if she wanted to replay it. The bed springs squeaked as she shifted her weight, thinking. After a moment, she typed
SuttonInAz
into a Google search. A few sites popped up instantly, including a Facebook page by the same name.
SUTTON

MERCER,
IT SAID.
TUCSON, ARIZONA.

Screeching tires out the window sounded like a cackle. The Facebook page loaded, and Emma gasped. There was Sutton Mercer, standing in a foyer of a house with a bunch of girls by her side. She wore a black halter-style dress, a sparkly headband, and silver high heels. Emma blinked at her face, feeling queasy. She leaned in closer, certain she would see a difference that would set Sutton apart from herself, but everything, down to Sutton’s petite ears and the same perfectly square, perfectly straight teeth, was identical.

The more Emma thought about it, the more she could believe she had a long-lost twin. For one thing, there were certain times in life where she felt accompanied,as if someone was watching her. Sometimes she woke up in the morning after having crazy dreams about a girl who looked like her … but she knew it
wasn’t
her. The dreams were always vivid: riding on a sun-dappled Appaloosa at someone’s farm, dragging a dark-haired doll across a patio. Besides, if Becky was irresponsible enough to forget Emma at the Circle K, maybe she’d done the same thing with another baby. Perhaps all those duplicate pairs of shoes Manic Becky bought weren’t for Emma at all, but for Emma’s twin sister, a girl Becky had already abandoned.

Perhaps Emma was right, I thought. Perhaps they’d been for me.

Emma moved the mouse over the girls standing next to Sutton in the photo.
MADELINE VEGA
, said a small popup tag. Madeline had sleek black hair, huge brown eyes, a willowy build, and a gap between her front teeth, just like Madonna. Her head tilted suggestively to one side. There was a fake—or perhaps real?—tattoo of a rose on the inside of her wrist, and her bloodred dress plunged provocatively to her breast bone.

The girl next to Madeline was a redhead named Charlotte Chamberlain. She had pink, pale skin and pretty green eyes, and wore a black silk dress that tugged over her broad shoulders. Two blondes with similar wide eyes and upturned noses stood on either end of the group. Their names were Lilianna and Gabriella Fiorello; in the caption Sutton had nicknamed them
THE TWITTER TWINS.

I looked over Emma’s shoulder. I recognized the girls in the photos. I understood we used to be close. But they were like books I’d read two summers ago; I knew I’d liked them, but I couldn’t tell you now what they’d been about.

Emma scrolled down the page. Most of the Facebook profile was public. Sutton Mercer was going to be a senior this year, just like Emma. She attended a school called Hollier High. Her interests were tennis, shopping at La Encantada Mall, and the Papaya Quench full body wrap at Canyon Ranch. Under
LIKES AND DISLIKES
, she’d written,
I love Gucci more than Pucci, but not as much as Juicy.
Emma frowned at the line.

Yeah, I had no idea what it meant, either.

Next, Emma clicked on the photo page and peered at a picture of a bunch of girls in tennis polos, skirts, and sneakers. A plaque that said
HOLLIER TENNIS TEAM
rested at their feet. Emma rolled the mouse over the girls’ names until she found Sutton’s. She stood third from the left, her hair pulled back tautly into a smooth ponytail. Emma moved the mouse to the dark-haired Indian girl to the right. A tag over her head said
NISHA BANERJEE
. There was a saccharine, kiss-ass smile on her face.

I stared hard at her, a spotty, snapping sensation coursing through my weightless body. I knew I didn’t like Nisha, but I didn’t know why.

Next Emma looked at a shot of Sutton and Charlotte standing on the tennis courts next to a tall, handsome, graying man. There was no tag over his face, but the caption said,
Me, C, and Mr. Chamberlain at Arizona Tennis Classic.
After that was a shot of Sutton with her arms around a handsome, sweet-looking, blond-haired guy wearing a Hollier soccer jersey.
Love ya, G!
she’d written. Someone named Garrett had replied in the comments window:
I love u too, Sutton.

Aw,
Emma thought.

My heart warmed, too.

The last picture Emma clicked on was a shot of Sutton sitting around a patio table with two attractive, older adults and a dirty-blond, square-jawed girl named Laurel Mercer. Sutton’s adoptive sister, presumably. Everyone was grinning and holding slushy drinks in a toast.
I heart the fam,
the caption proclaimed.

Emma lingered on the photo for a long time, her chest aching. All of her daydreams about a Mom Star, Dad Star, and Emma Star family looked pretty much like this: an attractive, happy family, a nice house, a good life. If she cut her own head out of a snapshot and pasted it on Sutton’s body, the picture would look no different. Yet her story was as opposite from this as could be.

There were a few YouTube clips on the Facebook page, and Emma clicked on the first one. Sutton stood on what looked like a lush green golf course with Madeline and Charlotte. Everyone knelt down and vigorously shook canisters in their hands. Slowly, silently, they spray-painted designs on a large rock.
WE MISS YOU, T
, Madeline’s message said. Sutton’s message said
NISHA WAS HERE
.