of whipped cream into her hair, all of them giggling.
And finally, there was a cut of Sutton doing a pin-up pose in a slinky silver dress. She was on Charlotte’s patio, and behind her one of the Lying Game’s exclusive parties raged.
“You can’t keep a good diva down,” she said coyly, her voice amplified through the church. Then she blew a kiss at the camera, and the video went dark.
Emma realized that her cheeks were streaming with tears. As the lights came back up, a long and echoing silence descended. Mr. Mercer had broken down, his face hidden in his wife’s shoulder. Half the tennis team was sobbing—Clara wailed out loud, her cries cutting through the stillness.
As I watched the video, my friends’ final tribute, my heart felt like a flower opening its bloom to the sun. Pops of color and light filled my mind, and suddenly everything—every memory, every moment of my life—came flooding through me. Everything I thought had been lost was returned. I remembered pouring pretend tea for my mother from her antique tea set. I remembered my father handing me a set of binoculars, pointing to where a red-tailed hawk nested in a tree above. There I was, playing with Laurel in a pillow fort on a rainy night. Meeting Charlotte on the school bus in third grade, and Madeline at recess the next year. Getting my first tennis racket for Christmas. Swimming in the Pacific Ocean on a vacation, staring out at the miles and miles of lonely blue. Printing the official Lying Game cards at Charlotte’s house, giggling over the titles we’d invented for ourselves.
Kissing Thayer for the first time, and the second, and the third. All our kisses, every sun-drenched moment we spent together, came back in perfect focus.
Every prank, every secret, every adventure came back to me. And it was all so beautiful, so vibrant, so real. It was my life. Ethan couldn’t take that away.
At the back of the church Emma heard scuffling. The lights came back up, and she turned to see an old woman with curly gray hair escorting Lili and Gabby out of the audiovisual booth by their ears. The Twitter Twins raised their fists in “heavy metal” devil horns as they followed. Father Maxwell was hurrying to take the microphone from Charlotte at the altar, and a man wearing a bow tie was shooing Madeline from the light control box.
But before the Lying Game girls could be removed from the building, someone started to clap.
Emma couldn’t pinpoint where it started, but once it did, the applause built up, louder and louder. Someone wolf-whistled on his fingers. A girl Emma had never seen yelled, “I love you, Sutton!”
“Sutton, we’ll miss you!” someone else cried behind her. And soon everyone was clapping and stomping, calling out for Sutton.
“Hollier will never be the same!”
“You’re the only prom queen we’ll vote for!”
Grandma Mercer was clapping harder than anyone else, Laurel weeping next to her. The pursed-lipped old lady let go of Gabby and Lili in shock, and they ran to join Charlotte and Madeline under a statue of the Virgin Mary. Then the four of them joined in the applause, and turned toward the portrait of Sutton, with tears glistening in their eyes.
I hovered over them, the applause vibrating through my being. For a moment, I could almost mistake it for a heartbeat.
35
MAKE NEW FRIENDS, BUT KEEP THE OLD
A few minutes later, Emma stepped out into the gentle afternoon sun. The reception had been arranged on the patio in front of the church, beneath clusters of fragrant eucalyptus trees. Already some of the funeral attendees had filled paper plates with vols-au-vent, cucumber sandwiches, and shortbread-and-jam cookies. Emma spied Dr. Banerjee, looking frail but talking animatedly to Coach Maggie. Quinlan was there too, sipping a glass of lemonade and chatting with Father Maxwell. Louisa stood with Celeste, sharing crudités off a single plate. Knowing what Louisa had gone through, Emma couldn’t help but stare at her. Somehow she’d managed to put all the darkness behind her and move on. If she could come out the other side, then maybe Emma could too.
“Emma?” An uncertain voice spoke softly to her left. She turned to see Alex Stokes, a full head shorter than Emma and pixie-shaped, wearing a black slip-dress and Doc Martens laced halfway up.
Emma’s face lit up. “Alex!”
Alex hurried forward and threw her arms around her. “I knew you didn’t do it,” she said, her voice muffled against Emma’s shoulder. “I’m so