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“Sort of.” Emma’s voice cracked, wincing at the memory of the art museum date. It had been so . . . perfect. But then she remembered the look on Ethan’s face when he told her how he felt about her, and the utter disappointment in his eyes when she said they should just be friends. The tight feeling that had formed in her chest the moment those words had spil ed out of her mouth stil hadn’t gone away.
“Are you and this new guy . . . going out?” Mr. Mercer used the term tentatively, as though he wasn’t sure if it was the right lingo.
Emma reached for a clean rag from the metal garage shelves and twisted it into a knot. When she untied it and spread it out, she saw a faded silkscreened image of a crab and a clam dancing the tango. It advertised either a restaurant or a fish market; the lettering was too worn away to tel which.
“No,” Emma answered in a tired voice. “Things are . . . complicated.”
“Why is that?”
She shut her eyes. “I’m having a hard time trusting people, I guess.”
A pained look Emma couldn’t quite gauge crossed Mr. Mercer’s face. “You should trust people, Sutton. You shouldn’t let . . .”
Emma waited for him to finish, but Mr. Mercer just twisted his mouth and looked away. “Let what?” she final y asked.
“I just mean . . .” He fumbled through his tools. They made loud clanging noises as they banged together. “I only want what’s best for you. If it’s meant to be, honey, it’s meant to be.”
“Maybe,” Emma said thoughtful y. His wording made her think of the Boyfriend Star, burning brightly in the sky. Fate. Then, placing the rag back on the shelf, she padded over to Mr. Mercer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Mr. Mercer held her tentatively for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure the gesture was genuine. But then, slowly, he squeezed her hard. He smel ed like cologne, black pepper, and motor oil.
It was a smel I knew so, so wel . A wave of grief pounded my body until I felt like I would wash away. What I wouldn’t give to hug my dad one more time. As I watched their embrace, a dark image surfaced in my mind. My dad’s eyes widening when he turned and spotted me. Betrayal surging through me like he’d driven a stake through my heart. But before I could delve deeper into the memory, it submerged once more.
Chapter 17
X Marks the Spot
Thursday afternoon, during the last period of the school day, Emma, Charlotte, and Madeline stood backstage in the auditorium, dressed in black cocktail dresses and high heels. Old play props and sets, abandoned scripts from last year’s production of Oklahoma!, and several ful -length mirrors were littered in the otherwise barren space, but the situation on the other side of the curtain was another story. That morning, with the help of the committee’s party planners, the girls had transformed the stage into an elegant, ghostly replica of the Titanic, complete with chandeliers, a sweeping faux-staircase, gilded fixtures, and tables set with fine china.
Emma shook her head in awe. “This is real y beautiful.” It was too bad this couldn’t be the décor for the dance Friday night. But that would be held in the gym, not the auditorium. Charlotte paced back and forth, tapping a clipboard. Her type-A personality made her the perfect detail-organizer.
“Okay,” she said. “So after everyone files into the auditorium, we’l announce the court nominees’ names. They’l walk in and waltz with their escorts. The party wil last until the late bus is cal ed.”
Madeline gestured to the caterers in white uniforms scurrying around backstage and setting chrome tureens, platters, pitchers, and glasses on a long folding table.
“We’ve got sparkling cider, hors d’oeuvres, cheeses. Nondairy stuff for Norah, gluten-free stuff for Madison.”
“And don’t forget about Alicia Young,” Laurel said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on her cocktail dress.
“She’s on that grapefruit-and-cayenne-pepper cleanse.”
Charlotte looked like she was going to explode. “That diet is nasty. She’s just going to have to suffer.”
A pang overcame me as I watched the preparations. I vaguely remembered planning last year’s Homecoming Court party. The theme and decorations were no more than wisps, but I remembered the moment I’d stepped out to announce the winners, knowing I looked more glamorous than al of them combined. And I remembered a faceless guy—my date—catching my arm afterward and tel ing me that I was the most gorgeous girl on the stage. “I know,” I’d replied, shooting him one of my signature Sutton Mercer smiles.
Sharp, staccato, high-heeled clacks fil ed the room as court girls filed in, each with a black garment bag slung over her arm and perfectly styled hair piled atop her head or cascading down her back in soft ringlets. They oohed and ahhed over the set design, letting out little gasps and appreciative squeals. Gabby and Lili entered last, noses in the air, hairdos bigger and bouncier than anyone else’s. Emma turned away fast and pretended to fix a frayed ribbon on one of the tables, but she could stil feel their eyes burning on her.
“Gabby! Lili!” Laurel shot across the room and linked her elbows through the Twins’. “Let me show you your dressing rooms! We ran out of room down here, so you guys get to change upstairs in the lighting booth.”
Gabby extracted herself from Laurel’s grip. “Lemme just finish my tweet, ’kay?”
Laurel rol ed her eyes and waited while Gabby’s thumbs flew across her phone at warp speed. When Gabby finished, she let out a satisfied sigh. “We’re ready to be taken to our chambers now,” she said in a queenlike voice. As Laurel steered them up a staircase, both twins leveled stares at Emma. Laurel twisted around, too, signaling a covert thumbs-up to Madeline and Charlotte.
