But on Monday, Emma knew there would be no disguise that could get her through the day at Hollier. She stood at the mirror of the Landrys’ hallway bathroom, braiding her hair into a long side plait, a style she would never have worn as Sutton. For the first time in months she was dressed like herself, in a faded blue-and-white raglan T-shirt and a pair of perfectly distressed Rag & Bone jeans she’d scored for five bucks. As she looked at her reflection, she felt somehow vulnerable and exposed. She’d been hiding behind Sutton’s persona for months now, her real self a secret that she revealed only to Ethan. Now everyone would see the real her. The thought was strangely terrifying.
She hadn’t had the guts to reach out to any of Sutton’s friends. Her relationship with them was built on a lie—and now they knew it.
A soft knock came at the door. “Are you ready?” Ethan asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, opening the door. He smiled at her, grabbing the end of her braid and tugging lightly.
“It’s kind of weird, seeing you like this. Like seeing Sutton in Emma-drag.”
“I know,” she admitted. “I feel like I’m still playing a role.”
Ethan shrugged. “We all play roles. You just have to find the one that you like best.”
She poked him in the ribs. “What role are you playing?”
He put on a mock-hurt expression. “Prince Charming, obviously.”
Laughing, Emma followed him down the hall to the entryway. Staying with Ethan was the silver lining to this whole nightmare. She’d never spent so much time with a boy before, but it just felt . . . right. A perfect fit.
On the way to school Ethan played an old Arcade Fire album, humming under his breath. Emma idly opened and closed the glove compartment. She tried to steel herself for whatever would come.
The area around the student parking lot was clotted with news vans. Emma had anticipated this. She put on her shades and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head.
“You look like the Unabomber,” Ethan said.
“At least they won’t be able to see my face,” she replied.
Dozens of students milled about among the reporters, trying to get on TV. Emma saw Celeste Echols speaking into a microphone that Tricia Melendez held under her chin, and she groaned aloud. Celeste had been saying something was wrong with her “aura” since they first met. She would be insufferable now.
Ethan parked the car, and they stepped out into the pallid winter morning. A crescent moon still hung low on the horizon. She met Ethan’s questioning glance with a determined, let’s-get-this-over-with nod.
The students loitering in the parking lot stared at her baldly. A crowd of muscular guys hanging out around a Ford F-250 stopped body-slamming each other to gawk as she walked past. Two twiggy freshman girls scuttled out of her way as if she’d menaced them. She caught sight of a half dozen girls from the tennis team clustered near the flagpole. They fell silent as she approached, their faces pale and eyes wide. Ethan took her hand, and she squeezed back, trying not to look right or left. She focused on walking slowly and deliberately, though a part of her just wanted to bolt toward the glass double doors to the school.
Then she saw who was waiting in the entryway. Principal Ambrose stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her legs planted wide. She wore a zebra-striped suit coat and a pair of purple trousers. Her skin was usually dull and sagging, but today she’d put on turquoise eye shadow up to her eyebrows.
I had the distinct impression that Ambrose had dressed up for the media attention. I could just hear her saying Sutton Mercer was such a special girl, with tears in her eyes. So effervescent! I’d like to think I was something of a mentor to her. Never mind that the only times Ambrose talked to me were the handful of times I’d been busted for a Lying Game stunt.
Emma stopped uncertainly a few feet in front of the principal. She glanced at Ethan, who’d gone strangely pale, then back to Ms. Ambrose. The principal’s lips were pressed into a single thin line.
“You will not be allowed on the premises,” she said in a smug voice. “Emma Paxton is not registered at Hollier.”
Emma blinked, stunned. “But . . . what about school?”
Ms. Ambrose shrugged. “I expect they’ll let you get your GED in prison. Now please leave, before I report you for trespassing.”
The crowd surrounding Emma went absolutely quiet, a hundred pairs of ears straining so that they could later report everything they’d seen and heard.
“Can I at least clean out my locker?” she asked quietly. Her palms were suddenly moist with sweat. She let go of Ethan and grabbed her backpack straps in each hand.
“Those aren’t your things,” Ms. Ambrose said simply. “The police have confiscated the contents of Miss Mercer’s locker.”
Emma took two steps back, tears stinging her eyes. How could she be so stupid? She should have expected this. She turned to run when Ethan caught her hand.
“Here,” he said, pressing his car keys into her palm. “Go home. Call me if you need anything.” With that, he planted a firm, ostentatious kiss on her lips. Then he pulled away, giving the principal a defiant smirk, and shouldered past her into the school.
Bolstered by Ethan’s kiss, Emma turned and walked with as much dignity as she could back toward Ethan’s Civic. She was so focused on getting out of there that when Madeline and Charlotte stepped in front of her, it took her a moment to process. She stopped in her tracks.
Madeline looked as unkempt as Emma had ever seen her. Her hair was loose and unstyled, and while her balletic frame normally seemed willowy and graceful, the shadows under her eyes gave her a skeletal look. Charlotte stood next to her, her face pale beneath her freckles. She hadn’t put on makeup at all.