The First Lie
Page 3

Charlotte traipses back from the cotton candy booth, a truffula tree of spun pink sugar in her hand. “Oh my God, did you see the guy running the cotton candy stand? I think he had, like, three teeth.”
I give the scrawny-looking guy a wink, and Charlotte practically spurts cotton candy out her nose.
“Gross,” Madeline says, more to Char than Cotton Candy Guy. She giggles and hands Charlotte a napkin. But her chin’s all sticky, and little flecks of paper get stuck there, making her look even more ridiculous. We collapse into laughter, giggling so hard we have to hold on to each other to stay upright. The crowd streams around us, giving us weird looks, but we don’t care.
“What’s next on our agenda?” I ask, finally straightening up and tugging at the hem of my Ella Moss tissue tee.
Mads looks around. “Gabby and Lili want us to meet them by Skee-Ball. Apparently Gabby’s smoking it.”
She holds her iPhone screen up to my face so I can see their latest Twitpic.
“That could be a picture of anything,” I scoff. “I need a visual confirmation.”
“Then let’s go.” Mads links arms with each of us, beaming with contentment, and we head back into the fray.
The fair is swarming with people. We’ve only moved about three feet, back to the ragged, dusty path between booths, when we bump directly into Laurel.
“Hey!” Laurel says eagerly. Her foot lands squarely on my brand-new Vince Camuto cap-toe ballet flats, and I glare at her.
“I thought we lost you back by the front entrance,” I snap. I couldn’t get out of driving Laurel here, but Mads, Charlotte, and I slipped away from her the second she was distracted by someone in her class.
A hurt expression flits across her face, and I turn away. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too mean to Laurel. We actually used to be friends, but then we just … drifted apart. It happens. Plus, I think that deep down, I’m kind of pissed at her. Laurel is my parents’ biological daughter, the child they never thought they could have. There’s always a fear inside me that they love her just a little bit more.
Laurel sweeps her hair back off of her shoulder. “I just saw Aidan Grove by the Skee-Ball. He asked if you were here tonight,” she reports, looking proud of herself. “I told him you were.” She reminds me of a puppy who wants a treat for a well-executed sit or roll over.
“He is so smitten,” Charlotte agrees. She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone, texting furiously as she barely maneuvers the sea of bodies streaming past us on all sides. Her hand is jostled and she squeaks a protest. “Stupid autocorrect!” She sighs again, but her eyes shine with enthusiasm. “Garrett just got here. Oh! There he is!”
She spies a figure walking through the crowd and starts to wave. We all crane our necks to see Garrett coming toward us. He’s got close-cropped hair, high cheekbones, and small, intense eyes that look like they’re always squinting—but in a cute way.
Madeline nudges Charlotte, whose cheeks are pink with happiness. “I guess Garrett was okay with you coming with us to the fair instead of riding with him?” she asks.
Charlotte nods, looking sheepish. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you come with him?” Laurel asks.
“Sutton told me that when it comes to guys, you have to have the upper hand at all times. Which means leaving them wanting more.”
“And … ?” I goad her.
“And you were right,” Charlotte admits.
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m always right about those kinds of things.”
“Hey,” Garrett says as he joins us. He drapes his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Charlotte looks like she’s about to faint. Then Garrett nods at the rest of us. “Where are you guys headed?”
“Skee-Ball,” I announce.
Garrett twists his mouth. “What Sutton says, goes, huh?”
“That’s usually how it works,” Madeline answers, shrugging.
We head over to Skee-Ball, where the crowd is thicker than ever. Over the clatter of wooden balls bouncing through targets, we’re greeted by a roar of hooting, whistling, and enthusiastic cheers. Mads and I exchange a glance. Someone was clearly on a roll. Could this crowd be all because of Gabby?
But then a cloud of Wintermint Trident surrounds me, and I hear Gabby’s screechy voice in my ear. “Oh my God, Sutton!” She presses me into a cloying hug. “You totally missed my moment of triumph!”
I unwind my arms from her torso, shooting Mads an eye roll. “It looks like we’re here just in time for some real excitement, though.”
“It’s Thayer,” Laurel squeals, scanning the scene and grinning. She rises on her tiptoes to get a better look. “He’s kicking butt!”
I frown. It’s got to be someone else. Last year, Laurel used to always whine about how she and Thayer never went to any good concerts because he couldn’t deal with crowds. And forget about things like talent shows and battle of the bands—though we’d sometimes hear Thayer rocking out on his guitar through the walls at Mads’s house, he would have never, ever gone onstage and performed in front of all those people. Madeline used to say that instead of having attention-deficit disorder, he had attention-terror disorder.
I jostle Laurel aside and rise, zeroing in on the Skee-Ball machine just as a ball disappears squarely down the highest-scoring hole. A scoreboard lights up and the crowd cheers. I follow the trajectory of the ball backward and up an exceptionally graceful, well-muscled arm clad in a heather-gray T-shirt … a T-shirt that covers the chiseled torso of the least likely candidate for rock-god status Hollier High has ever known....
Wow.
Thayer gracefully picks up another silver ball and lobs it toward the hole. Bing bing bing, another high score. He turns to the crowd and bows.
Someone certainly has gotten over his shyness.
Char nudges me. “Check out his number-one groupie.”
She points to Nisha Banerjee, my tennis rival, who is glued to Thayer’s side. She nibbles at a rainbow snow cone that’s stained her lips a deep purple. She catches my eye across the crowd and scowls, but I avert my gaze frostily. Because of Nisha’s perma-smug expression, of course. And how she doesn’t bow down to me like she should. And because she’s a ridiculously good tennis player, and I hate having competition. Not because she’s standing next to Thayer. I don’t care about that.
Thayer sinks another ball down the 50-point chute, and the crowd roars once more. Lili nudges me. “Rumor has it he’s trying to win one of those huge toys for someone.” She points out the hulking plush dolls looming large on a rickety, overcrowded prize shelf at the back of the booth. There’s a Scooby-Doo, Flounder from The Little Mermaid, Snoopy, and that football-headed baby, Stewie, from Family Guy. “You have to get a thousand points to win one, though.”
“For Nisha?” Laurel says, sounding heartbroken.
“Maybe,” Gabby trills.
“Seriously?” The thought burns like bile in the back of my throat. There’s no way he likes her. Right?
Laurel looks at me, then glances at Scooby. “Oh my God, remember, Sutton? Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” She says it in Scooby’s goofy voice, shaking her head from side to side. “A couple of years ago? You tried to win him, too!”
I turn brusquely away from her. “No, I didn’t.” Did she have to say it so loudly? I hate when my little sister brings up dorky stuff from my past. Okay, okay, yeah, I used to really, really like Scooby-Doo. When Laurel and I were younger—when we were actually friends—I once played Skee-Ball just like Thayer is doing now, determined to get Scooby for myself. I didn’t get remotely close, though.
I take a big step away from Laurel, indicating I want her to drop it, now. Madeline is shaking her head as Thayer pumps his fist in a dorky victory gesture. “My brother seriously needs to get over himself,” she snaps.
Suddenly, Thayer looks at me. My eyes narrow into slits, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The corners of his mouth spread into a huge, gorgeous grin. And then he winks.
A rush of something goes through me, but I turn away, pretending to fume. “Yes,” I say to Madeline. “He definitely does.”
4
FLEAS AND THANK YOU?
An hour or so later, Madeline, Charlotte, Garrett, and I sit at a picnic table outside the soft pretzel stand, where we’re devouring warm pretzels dusted in cinnamon, sugar, and butter. Some things are totally worth the calories. The smoky tang of barbecue fills the air, and crickets chirp a peaceful rhythm. A toddler wobbles past us clutching a Mylar balloon. Just as I wonder who he belongs to, a tired-looking woman with a weary smile jogs briskly after him, an overstuffed canvas tote banging against her hip as she passes. The air is cool and dry against my skin, and even though crowds around us thrum with energy, I feel relaxed and happy. I bite greedily into my pretzel, washing it down with a tart, icy lemonade.
Char presses her side to Garrett’s and lets out a happy sigh. They’re sharing an ice-cream sundae loaded with hot fudge and whipped cream. Char doesn’t need the calories and she knows it, but like I said—she eats when she’s happy. I consider pointing it out, but then realize it would be too cruel to do it in front of her boyfriend, even for me.
Garrett suddenly leans across the table, eyeing my pretzel. “Can I have a bite?”
I nod, taking another swallow of lemonade. “Go for it.”
He reaches for the pretzel. As he does, his hand grazes my own.
I stiffen slightly. Was that … intentional? Something about Garrett’s fleeting touch felt a little … flirty.
A Mama Bear feeling flares up inside me … alongside a small, smug flicker of satisfaction. I’m not proud of it, but it’s there. Maybe it has to do with being given up for adoption when I was little, but it’s nice to be wanted.
The protective feeling wins out, and I glance at Charlotte, but she’s engrossed in an anecdote of Madeline’s about finding a girl from her ballet class puking behind a port-a-potty earlier. As for Garrett, he’s licking his fingers and peering at something on his phone.
I turn to Madeline, who is finishing her story. “I guess that’s what happens when the only thing you’ve ‘eaten’ all day is an extra-large Diet Coke, spiked!” she cackles, her bun bobbing up and down on top of her head as she laughs. “That bitch has the sloppiest battement in the studio.” She slurps noisily at her own lemonade for good measure.
I lean forward to chime in when, from across the table, Charlotte’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder. “Um, hello there, Scooby-Doo!” Her voice is tinged with surprise.
I twist around on the bench to find my sister with Thayer, giant Scooby in tow. Laurel gazes at him, giggling as he adjusts the massive stuffed animal against his hip.
I bite back a smile. There’s something absurd about seeing strong, built Thayer grappling with a plush cartoon dog that’s practically as big as he is. And I’m totally jealous Thayer won him. That dog was supposed to be mine.