Authors: Sara Shepard
Never Have I Ever (4 page)
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.
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 some
ones
.
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?”
“Of course not!” I pull at my door handle, too.
“Seriously?” Madeline yells.
“Seriously! Cross my heart, hope to die!” It’s our fail-safe code, the thing we’re supposed to yell out to show something is dead serious.
Madeline reaches over and stabs the center of the steering wheel. The horn bleats feebly, like a dying goat. Laurel dials a number on her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” I scream at her.
“What’s your emergency?”
a voice squawks on speakerphone.
“We’re stuck on the train tracks of Orange Grove and I-ten!” Laurel screams. “We’re trapped in the car! The train’s about to run us down!”
The next few seconds are mayhem. Charlotte leans forward and pounds on the windshield. Gabby and Lili blubber uselessly. Laurel gives our details to the 911 operator. The train rockets toward us. I jiggle the keys in the ignition back and forth. The train barrels closer . . . closer . . . until I swear I can see the conductor’s panicked face.
Everyone screams. Our death is mere seconds away.
And that’s when I calmly reach to the dashboard and release the choke.
Gunning the engine, I roll us off the train tracks and spin out in a small, dusty area in the underpass. A moment later, I unlock the doors, and everyone falls to the dusty gravel, watching as the train thunders by just feet from their bodies.
“Gotcha, suckas!” I yell. My body is on fire. “Was that not the best prank
ever
?”
My friends stare at me, momentarily stunned. Tears streak their faces. Then their eyes blaze with anger. Madeline rises unsteadily to her feet. “What the
fuck
, Sutton? You used the fail-safe! You broke the rules!”
“Rules are meant to be broken, bitches. Wanna hear how I did it?” I can’t wait to explain. I’ve been planning this prank for weeks. It’s my pièce de résistance.
“I don’t care how you did it!” Charlotte screams. Her face is a knot of fury. Her hands twist at her sides. “No one thinks it’s funny!”
I look at my sister. But she just licks her lips and darts her eyes back and forth, like the prank has turned her into a mute.
Madeline is shaking with rage. “You know what, Sutton? I’m sick of this club. I’m sick of you.”
“Me, too,” Charlotte echoes. Lili looks back and forth, eating this up.
I tilt my chin. “Is that a threat? Do you want to quit?”
Madeline straightens up to her full five-foot-ten height. “Maybe.”
“Fine, then! Quit!” I say to Madeline and Charlotte. “There are plenty of girls who can replace you! Right?” I whirl around to glare at Lili and Gabby, but only Lili stares back. “Where’s Gabby?” I ask.
Charlotte, Madeline, Laurel, Lili, and I squint in the darkness.
But Gabby is gone.