The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,126

into the driver’s seat, her phone screen flashed. “It’s Mads,” she said, checking the message. “Looks like Operation Titanic is good to go. I told the other girls on the court about the real outfits. I also told them not to discuss their outfits with anyone—that we were planning to prank two of the court members.”

Emma’s stomach turned, thinking about her discussion with Ethan last night. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should lay off the Twitter Twins for a while.”

Laurel’s eyebrows made a V. “Of course it’s a good idea. We can’t back out now. Besides,” Laurel went on, “I can guarantee you no one’s gonna talk. They’re all eager to see someone else go down. Everyone loves a big embarrassing social disaster.”

Way to go, court girls, banding together in solidarity, Emma thought. An itchy feeling reminded her that she was once the girl on the receiving end of the prank. When this was all over, she would extricate herself from the Lying Game as fast as she could.

The car jostled over the hump of the curb into the Mercers’ driveway. “Is that . . . Dad?” Laurel asked, frowning at the open garage door.

Sure enough, Mr. Mercer stood next to the motorcycle. He waved as they pulled in.

“What’s he doing home?” Emma murmured. Typically, Mr. Mercer didn’t return from the hospital until early evening—unless he was on call, and then sometimes he didn’t get home until the middle of the night.

Laurel cut the engine, and the girls got out of the car. “Sutton, I have to talk to you,” Mr. Mercer said, wiping his hands on a dingy green towel.

Immediately, Emma tensed. Maybe Nisha had told the Mercers after all. “I’m sorry,” she said preemptively.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.” Mr. Mercer chuckled. “Your mom got a call from Josephine Fenstermacher. She said you got a ninety-nine on your German test last week. The highest grade in the class.”

Heat rose to Emma’s cheeks. Laurel swung around and stared at her in disbelief. “You?”

Mr. Mercer grinned. “She said you’ve improved dramatically since last year. I know German is a tough subject for you. Mom and I are so proud.”

Emma ran a hand over her hair. Truthfully, the chapter test had been fairly easy, but she forced a humble look on her face. “Thank you.”

Mr. Mercer leaned against the back bumper of Laurel’s VW. “I convinced your mom to make you a deal: As a reward for doing so well, we’re going to break your grounding for Homecoming night and let you go to the dance. And we’re giving you phone privileges back,” he said, handing over Sutton’s iPhone.

“Seriously?” Laurel’s eyes lit up. “Dad, that’s amazing!”

Emma squeezed Laurel’s arm and let out a squeal, too, knowing it was the right reaction for Sutton. But Homecoming was the last thing that mattered to her right now.

Mr. Mercer raised an eyebrow. “You can go, but the very next day it’s back to being grounded. Got it?”

“What about the post-dance camping trip?” Laurel chirped. “Can Sutton come to that, too?”

A conflicted look passed over Mr. Mercer’s face. “Well, I suppose so.”

“Yes!” Laurel cried. She looked at Emma. “Maybe you’ll let me borrow your Miu Miu heels for the dance as a thank-you.” Then she turned and skipped toward the house.

Emma moved to follow her inside, but Mr. Mercer cleared his throat. “Sutton, will you help me for a moment?” He turned toward the motorcycle. “Can you hold this steady while I look at the tires?”

“Of course.” Emma followed him into the garage and gripped the handlebars.

Mr. Mercer leaned down and examined the fine tread on the front wheel. “So. Happy about Homecoming?”

“Uh, definitely,” Emma answered, trying to sound enthused. “Thank you so much. But . . . I don’t really deserve it.” She mentally ticked off the number of times she’d snuck out while she was grounded.

“You earned it, Sutton. Thank yourself for your test score—and thank your sister, for begging us to let you go.” Mr. Mercer stood from the tire and crossed his arms over his chest. “You should call Garrett and tell him the good news.”

Emma let out a short, sarcastic laugh, staring at her warped reflection in the bike’s shiny frame. “I don’t think Garrett will care.”

Mr. Mercer frowned. “Why not?”

Emma turned toward the shelves of rags, T-shirts, and bottles of motor oil and brake fluid. “We broke up,” she admitted softly. “And I sort of like someone else,” she added,