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“Let me put on jeans,” Emma decided.
Laurel smiled. “Meet you downstairs.” Just as she was halfway across the room to the door, Laurel paused and widened her eyes at something on the bed. “What’s that?”
Emma followed her gaze and panicked. Her notebook lay face-up on the mattress. Scrawled across the top sheet were the words Girl Strangled in Mansion. Thinks Friends to Blame. She grabbed for the notebook and covered it with her hand. “Just a project for school.”
Laurel paused for a moment. “You don’t do projects for school!” She shook her head and walked out of the room. But before she stepped down the stairs, she cast one more glance at Emma.
From where I watched it was hard to tell if it was questioning . . . or something more.
Mr. Pinky was a small salon tucked into the foothills, in a complex that also contained an organic yogurt shop, a holistic cat daycare, and a place that advertised ULTRA-CLEANSE COLONICS! LOSE FIVE POUNDS IN MINUTES! in the front window. At least Laurel hadn’t dragged her there.
The salon was part upscale spa, part Star Trek. All the nail technicians wore formfitting jumpsuits that were supposedly trendy, but Emma thought they looked ready to board a starship and fly the whole salon to the Crab Nebula.
Emma and Laurel plopped down on a sleek gray couch to wait. “So are you ready for your party?” Laurel pulled ChapStick out of her bag and smeared it over her lips.
“I guess,” Emma lied. More RSVP cards had been waiting in Sutton’s bedroom when she came home from tennis today. All of them said things like Can’t wait! and The party of the year!
“You’d better be.” Laurel nudged her in the ribs. “You’ve been planning it for long enough! So has Garrett told you what he’s getting you yet?”
Emma shook her head. “Why? Has he told you?”
Laurel’s smile broadened knowingly. “Nah. But I’ve heard rumors. . . .”
Emma pinched a handful of fabric on the couch. What was the big deal with Garrett’s present?
Nail dryers hummed across the room. The smell of polish remover and aloe hand lotion filled the air. Emma reached into her bag and touched the napkin from Thayer. Her stomach streaked with nerves. She’d intended to bring it up at the end of the manicures, but she couldn’t wait any longer. “Laurel?”
Laurel looked up and smiled. Emma placed the napkin on the empty cushion between them. “I found this in my tennis locker.”
A wrinkle formed between Laurel’s eyes as she gazed at Thayer’s drunk smiley face. Her fingers worked a tiny hole in her jeans. There was a sharp rip, and the hole suddenly, forcefully, split open. “Oh,” she whispered.
“I’m really sorry.” Emma’s voice shook. “I don’t know how it got there.” It wasn’t technically a lie.
Laurel balled the note in her hands and stared blankly at the rainbow-colored bottles of nail polish on the shelf. Emma gripped the arm of the couch hard. Would Laurel explode? Scream? Come after her with nail scissors?
“No biggie,” Laurel finally said. “It’s not like I don’t have a million notes exactly like that from Thayer in my room.”
Then she calmly pulled out her iPhone and checked her email.
“Do you miss him?” Emma blurted.
Laurel continued to tap her iPhone. “Of course.” Her voice didn’t rise or dip. It was as though they were talking about the differences between creamy peanut butter and crunchy. Then she nodded at the Snapple bottle Emma had taken from the Mercer fridge. “Mind if I have some?”
Emma shrugged, and Laurel took a long sip. As soon as she set the bottle back on the coffee table, her shoulders began to convulse. Her head jerked back, and she tipped over on the couch. She clutched her throat and stared at Emma with frightened, bulging eyes. “I . . . can’t . . .”
Emma shot to her feet. “Laurel?” Laurel made a choking sound, flopped once, and went limp. Her blond hair fanned out on the couch cushion. Her right hand spasmed.
“Laurel?” Emma shouted. “Laurel?” She shook her shoulders.
Laurel’s eyes were glued closed. Her mouth hung open limply. The iPhone she’d been holding slowly released from her grip and clonked to the carpet.
“Help!” Emma called out. She bent down and listened for breathing. No sounds escaped from Laurel’s lips. She pressed her fingers to Laurel’s wrist. It felt like there was a pulse. “Wake up,” she urged, shaking her. Laurel’s head bobbed like a rag doll. Her chunky silver bracelets jangled together.
Emma leapt to her feet and looked around. A black girl stared at them from a pedicure chair across the room, Vogue in her lap. A small Spanish woman rushed over. “What’s the matter with her?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said frantically.
“Is she pregnant?” the woman suggested.
“I don’t think so. . . .”
“Hey.” The Spanish woman jostled Laurel’s arm. “Hey!” she yelled in her face, slapping her cheek. Emma put her ear to Laurel’s mouth again. The mouth-to-mouth unit of the babysitter training class she’d taken in sixth grade rushed to her mind. Did you pinch the nose then breathe into the mouth, or the other way around?
Then something cold and wet touched her earlobe. Emma pulled back in alarm. Was that . . . a tongue? She stared at Laurel’s face. And then, suddenly, Laurel’s eyes popped open. “Boo!”
Emma screamed. Laurel exploded with giggles. “I totally had you! You thought I was dead!”
