into the back, looking in every single empty jewelry box and CD case, and even spilling a nearly full pack of Camel Lights onto the carpet. Tobacco flaked onto her hands.
“Get it open!” I shouted to her uselessly. Screw feeling protective of my stuff. I was dead, and we both needed to know why.
Then something came to Emma in a flash. Travis. That YouTube video he’d watched about how to open a padlock with a beer can. During the brief time they’d been friendly, Travis had made Emma watch it, too. It hadn’t looked hard.
She leapt up and found an empty Diet Coke can on Sutton’s windowsill. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she drew out the design for the shim that would be used to break the lock and started to cut. In moments, she’d made an M-shaped shim, just like the criminal-in-training had made in the YouTube video. As soon as she wiggled the shim down the left shackle, the ball released and the lock snapped open. Emma couldn’t help but grin. “Thanks, Travis,” she murmured. She never thought she’d say that.
The lock clunked to the floor. The drawer made a grating screech as it opened. Emma peered inside. Sitting in the bottom was a thick spiral-bound notebook. That was all.
Emma pulled it out and held it in her lap. There was nothing written on the front cover—no names or doodles, just a shiny piece of blue card stock. The wire spirals were perfectly coiled and even, without a hint of bending or rust. She turned to the first page. There was Sutton’s handwriting, round and neat and eerily similar to Emma’s own. January 10, she’d written.
Emma sucked in her stomach. Did she really want to read her sister’s diary? When she lived in Carson City, she’d sneaked into a bedroom that belonged to Daria, a pretty, mysterious older foster sister who paid no attention to her. She’d read every page of Daria’s diary, which was mostly about boys and how she thought her legs and arms were too fat. Emma had also searched through the pockets of Daria’s jeans. She’d stolen a pair of headphones out of Daria’s room, purely because they were hers. She’d taken little things every time she went in after that: a rap CD, a black jelly bracelet, a department-store sample of Chanel No. 5. After she’d moved on to another home, Emma felt ashamed about what she’d done. She’d put all of Daria’s pilfered things in a manila envelope, wrote Daria’s name on the top, and sent them back to social services, vowing she’d never do something like that again.
It’s nice that she was being all moral, but I just wanted her to read the damn diary.
Sighing, as though she’d actually heard my thoughts, Emma looked down at the first page again and started to read.
Each entry was short and sweet, more like quick Twitter entries and scattered thoughts. Sometimes Sutton wrote things like Elizabeth & James clogs or B-day party on Mount Lemmon? Sometimes she wrote exclamations like I hate history! or Mom can kiss my ass! The entries that seemed like they might be about something deeper were even more baffling though. C has been so bitchy lately, Sutton had penned on February 10. She just needs to get over it. On March 1: I had an unexpected visitor after school today. He’s such a cute little puppy dog, following me everywhere. On March 9: M outdid herself today. Sometimes I think C is right about her.
Emma leafed through the pages, trying to extrapolate meaning from the entries. There were a lot about L, who she could only assume was Laurel. L came downstairs this morning in an identical outfit to mine. And, Playing an awesome prank on L this afternoon. Maybe she’ll be sorry she wanted in so badly! And then on May 17, L is still ruined over T. Pull yourself together, bitch. He’s just a guy. Emma’s gaze landed on an entry from August 20, just a week and a half ago: If L brings up that night one more time, I’m going to kill her.
What night? Emma wanted to yell. Why was Sutton so ridiculously vague? It was like she was keeping a journal for the CIA.
I was just as frustrated as she was.
Then a small construction-paper square fell out of the notebook and fluttered to the floor. Emma picked it up, gazed at the bold writing on the front, and gasped: THE LYING GAME MEMBERSHIP CARD.