The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,512

Boys fall over me, not the other way around.

I peel the magazine from my midriff and offer it to Thayer. “You want it? I remember how crazy you used to be for Mads’s old issues of People.”

Thayer blushes. “It was just that issue about the Olympic swimmers.”

I giggle and poke his calf—which, I might add, is even sexier than Aidan’s. “Just admit it. You totally love the celeb gossip.”

Thayer grins and pokes me back. “Do not.”

“Do too!” I say, nudging him with my foot. Thayer’s legs are rock-hard. This is starting to get fun.

“You guys,” a voice says from a few yards away. When I look up, Laurel stands there with a cardboard box from the snack bar in her hands. It’s filled with only sodas, though, none of the weird items we requested. “They don’t have gluten-free bread. They’ve never had gluten-free bread.”

“Really?” I blink innocently. “I swear I had some last time I was here.”

“Yep,” Char joins in. “It was totally delish.”

“And star fruit?” Laurel sticks out her lip in a pout. “They just laughed at me when I asked for that. They didn’t even know what I was talking about!”

I can’t help but explode into laughter. Char follows suit, and then Mads, and the three of us are suddenly a giggling mess. Laurel stands above us looking forlorn. She turns to Thayer with that doe-eyed expression she always has for him. Laurel has had a crush on Thayer forever. “They tricked me,” she whines.

Thayer’s playful, flirty expression shifts into one of annoyance. He shakes his head. “You guys are horrible. When are you going to grow up?”

He says it loudly, so that the whole pool can hear. A gasp doesn’t rise up in the crowd, but there might as well be one. Everyone turns and stares. Mads blinks as if he’s slapped her. Charlotte raises her eyebrows. I try my hardest not to alter my expression, but it’s almost impossible. Before any of us can say anything, Thayer waves his hand dismissively, links his arm through Laurel’s, and stalks off toward the diving board.

After a moment, everyone at the pool goes back to what they were doing. But neither I nor my friends can speak. It’s one thing for me to put the other two down, and occasionally, when she’s feeling feisty, Char has even gotten some good jabs in at me that I’ve let slide. But someone’s little brother dissing us? Not cool.

Finally, Charlotte sets down her glass. “What is up with your brother, Mads?”

Madeline shakes her head. “He was voted MVP at soccer camp. I guess he thinks he’s something now.” She makes a face.

“He is something else, all right,” I murmur. I try to sound annoyed—which I am, of course. But I feel some other things, too. Things I don’t want to admit to myself. It’s probably the sun. Maybe someone spiked my drink. But as I watch Thayer sauntering off with Laurel, grinning lazily at every girl in his path, I feel the distinct rumblings of an emotion that hasn’t hit me in a long, long time.

Jealousy.

2

UP FOR A CHALLENGE, DOWN FOR THE DEED

Here’s the thing about me and parties: Even the ones I don’t want to go to I have to look smoking hot for. As in, the hottest girl there—that’s how I keep my status, after all. But on Sunday, as Mads and I scour the racks at Jolie, our favorite boutique, the pickings are so slim I’m considering shoplifting a Missoni scarf or two in protest.

The place is packed, too, so maybe that has something to do with it. All three of us are frustrated—Madeline’s on her second walk-through of the floor, and Charlotte’s stuck in the dressing room wrestling with the slit sleeves on a yellow silk Elizabeth and James minidress. I eye a row of candy-colored Butter nail polish bottles on the glass-top display table. The turquoise has possibilities. A gawky brunette in a lime-green sundress and gladiator sandals looks like she’s considering approaching the display, but a glare from me sends her back toward the wall of belts instead.

I deftly sweep the turquoise polish from the table into my gray Miu Miu satchel. Done and done. No one even looked my way.

“Ugh,” Madeline groans from behind me.

I turn to face her as though nothing is amiss. “What is it?” I ask, scanning the store for something that would go nicely with my new acquisition. Rows of pastel tops sway on hanging racks like wearable meringue.

“Thayer,” Madeline says.

I