The First Lie
Page 4

“I guess you weren’t kidding about wanting to win that thing,” Madeline says, toying with her straw.
“Well, I can be pretty determined when I want something,” he says, shrugging.
Underneath the table, Mads pokes me. Get a load of him.
All three of them—Thayer, Laurel, and Scooby—plop down at the end of the table. “Nisha was bummed you didn’t give the Scooby to her, you know,” Laurel says to Thayer, shaking her head. “She was all over you the whole time you were playing.”
Thayer’s face splits open into an easy, cocky grin. “Yeah, well. Can you blame her?”
I roll my eyes at Madeline.
“So who are you going to give it to, dude?” Garrett asks.
There’s a long pause. Thayer laces his hands atop Scooby’s big head. “I guess I sort of have my pick, huh?”
Garrett guffaws loudly. Madeline turns purple. Charlotte pokes me this time, and I pinch her back. The prank is on. So on.
I spin on the picnic bench, folding one knee up into my chest and tilting my head at Thayer. “What do you say to a friendly wager?” I ask, staring him squarely in the eyes.
Thayer arches a quizzical eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I’m challenging you to another game of Skee-Ball—winner takes Scooby and another stuffed animal. I can be determined when I want something, too.” I layer my voice with meaning.
Thayer shrugs. “Well, Laurel and I were going to hit the bumper cars next, actually. Rain check?”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Knowing my friends are watching, I decide to pretend I didn’t mean anything by my challenge. I stand, crumpling up my used napkin and paper plate and stalking toward the trash can. “Whatever.”
But then, suddenly, Thayer is grabbing my hand. His grip is surprisingly warm and firm. All at once, I’m unsteady on my feet. “Sutton,” he says, glancing surreptitiously toward the others on the bench. He pushes Scooby at me. “Promise you’ll give him a good home.”
I stare at the stuffed animal now in my arms. Part of me is thrilled. Thayer played for hours to win Scooby. But then I feel annoyed. Is he only giving me Scooby out of pity, because he didn’t want to take me up on my bet?
“Remember that one year you tried to win him?” he says softly.
I blink at him. Of course. Thayer had been at the fair with Laurel and me, too—he’d just been so quiet I’d barely noticed him. Did he try to win Scooby specifically for me? My heart starts to beat a little faster. I can’t believe he even remembered I liked Scooby, after all these years.
But then I feel ridiculous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Yes, you do.” Thayer’s gaze is unbroken. “I know you remember, Sutton. You’re just pretending you’re too cool.”
Unbelievable! The urge to push Scooby back at Thayer rises up inside me, but out of the corner of my eye I see Mads flashing me a subtle thumbs-up from the picnic table. Thayer giving me Scooby is a good thing. It’s a first step in our Lying Game prank.
I turn Scooby over suspiciously. “This thing is probably full of fleas.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Thayer says, reaching out and patting Scooby on the head affectionately. “So, do you like him?”
As I reach out and gingerly finger Scooby’s paw, rolling the tufts of his fur between my thumb and forefinger, I realize my fingers are trembling. Then I square my shoulders. “You’re full of crap, you know. You’re only giving me Scooby because you didn’t want to accept my challenge. Because you know you would have lost.” I poke him playfully.
Thayer laughs and meets my gaze. “Maybe,” he answers. “Or maybe not.” And before I can say another word, he winks, then disappears into the crowd with Laurel.
5
NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT
On Monday afternoon, the Lying Game holds an official IM chat to check in about all current works in progress. We take our pranking very seriously. I lean back against the ornate sleigh headboard of my bed, the laptop warm against my legs.
Charlotte, whose IM handle is SexxyRed, types, Are we sure a Thayer prank is enough for our annual kickoff prank?
SwanLakeMafia, aka Mads, replies: I was thinking the same thing.
But now that I’ve started this flirtation with Thayer, I don’t know if I want to stop. We’ve got to do it, I, SuttoninAZ, answer. But only as a favor to the best BFF ever. I can tell Thayer’s bugging you, Mads. We’ll think of something else for the big back-to-school prank.
SwanLakeMafia: Thanks, Sutton. You’re right. And nice job on the Scooby score last night!
Watch and learn, ladies, I say nonchalantly. But I’m glad my webcam isn’t on right now, because I’m blushing—and snuggled up next to Scooby. I wouldn’t want my friends to see him there and get any ideas that I really like Thayer or something. It’s just that he’s so cozy to sleep with. And he barely smells like funnel cake and corn dog at all.
We still need to come up with our REAL prank then, I type, manicured fingers flying across the keyboard. Thinking caps on!
After a moment, an image loads into the chat screen: Charlotte, winking, a Eugenia Kim straw fedora perched at an angle across her forehead. Cute. It’s her take on a thinking cap. She looks a little like Britney Spears pre–Breakdown #1.
Adorbs, I tap. But keep the ideas coming. We have a reputation to uphold.
Off to ballet, bitches. I declare this Lying Game meeting officially dismissed, Mads types before signing off.
Later, Char, I type, flipping my laptop shut and sliding off my bed. Even with the windows shut and the central AC blasting, I can still hear the angry, insistent throttle of a leaf blower buzzing like a chain saw outside.
Gritting my teeth, I wander toward the window and thrust aside the curtains. Sure enough, across the street, a diligent gardener in a blue baseball cap walks the perimeter of the Donovans’ front lawn in increasingly wider circles. Their yard isn’t that big, but he doesn’t look remotely close to being done. I sigh in frustration, considering a long, hot shower with my Fresh lavender scrub, when I spot the leaf blower’s landscaping partner. I’d recognize that thicket of dark, shiny hair anywhere.
Thayer.
He’s at the edge of the front walk, neatly clipping the box hedges that line the flagstone path from the driveway to the entrance of the Donovans’ house. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the strong, defined arms that he debuted at the country club the other day are on full display. From where I stand, it looks like they’re getting a good workout, too.
On the one hand, the Fresh bath scrub is yummy-smelling. On the other hand, it’s not like I’m going to be able to truly relax as long as the leaf blower is making all that noise outside.
On the third hand—and as long as Thayer’s got his shirt off, I decide to give myself as many hands for this argument as I need—Thayer’s out there. Just begging to fall head over heels for me. It’s like fate has handed me an early Christmas present, wrapped in a bright, shiny bow.
Game on.
It only takes me a minute to fluff my hair in the mirror and swipe on some of my favorite NARS lip gloss in a peachy shade. Something tells me Thayer’s the type to appreciate the natural look in a girl. I grin at my reflection and shoot a quick glance at Scooby on the bed. The sight of him there gives me a warm glow—and a double shot of confidence. “Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” I whisper, then smile to myself.
Stepping into the Tucson heat is like crawling into an oven, but I stay focused as I approach Thayer. He’s crouching on the ground now, tugging a particularly stubborn weed.
“Oh my God,” I say, surprise ringing in my voice. “What are you doing here? Do you work for the Donovans?” As if I hadn’t been spying on him through the window.
Thayer turns, sets his shears down, and appraises me coolly. Based on his expression, I can tell he shares my opinion that my cutoffs show just the right amount of long, tanned leg. But even that doesn’t seem to faze him much.
“No,” he replies, smiling easily. “I work for the landscapers. They work for the Donovans.” His eyes are alight with mischief.
I tilt my head down, offering my most coquettish grin. “I guess you had to find some way to keep out of trouble, now that soccer camp is over.” My tone suggests that keeping in trouble is way more fun than the alternative, of course.
“Yeah. And I guess I’ve got a lot of excess energy to burn now that I’m not running drills every morning at five A.M.”
“That sounds horrible,” I say, grimacing as I wrap my hair up into a loose, casual bun at the nape of my neck. I read somewhere that guys love when girls play with their hair. “At tennis camp they let us sleep until six.”
“Spoiled,” he teases.
“I do usually get what I want,” I say.
Thayer locks eyes with me and a small charge passes through me. “So I’ve heard,” he says. “How’s Scooby, by the way?”
“Covered in fleas,” I answer quickly, only a slight hiccup in my voice.
“Too bad,” Thayer answers with mock sadness. We look at each other for a moment, each daring the other to make the next move.
A weed whacker grumbles from the Donovans’ backyard, snapping us out of the staring contest. Thayer clears his throat. “Anyhow, it’s not a bad job, really,” he says, gesturing to the wide, green expanse of the Donovans’ lush lawn. “I like being outside. But I miss California. We got to drive some of the Pacific Coast Highway to get to the camp.”
“We did that, too, a million years ago, on a trip to Disneyland for Laurel’s sixth birthday,” I offer. Unexpectedly, the memory rushes back to me: me, hair in twin pigtails, swinging my short legs against the cool leather of the backseat of our old Audi sedan, Laurel’s nose pressed against her window in search of an r for the license plate game. Even though I saw an r, I pretended not to. I was letting her win. That was back when we liked each other.
I look at Thayer. “My father made us stop in Gilroy, the—”
“—Garlic Capital of the World!” Thayer chimes in, laughing. He runs his hand through his hair, brushing it back from his perspiration-beaded forehead. “We stopped there, too. Totally worth the delay.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s actually serious. “We were ready to kill my father,” I say. “Laurel and I were so hyped to see Princess Jasmine in the flesh, and he wants to stop for some stinky garlic?” I make a face. “Ugh, and did you try the garlic ice cream?”
“Obviously,” he says, shrugging like I’m the weird one in this conversation. “How can you not?”
“Easily,” I say, “really, really easily,” and we laugh.
Thayer crosses his arms over his chest. “You know, Sutton, I’ll bet you’re not half as high maintenance as you pretend to be.” He frowns, as though considering, then nods. “I’ll bet that under the right circumstances, you’re the kind of adventurous girl who thinks garlic ice cream is for wimps.”