“Getting you to pull over,” Emma said, gesturing to the parking lot. “We need to talk.”
To Emma’s surprise, Laurel signaled, turned into the lot, and shut off the engine. But then she got out of the car and stomped toward the strip mall without waiting for Emma to follow. By the time Emma caught up with her, Laurel had pushed into a shop called the Boot Barn. The place smelled like leather and air freshener. Cowboy hats lined the walls, and there were shelves and shelves of cowboy boots as far as the eye could see. A country singer crooned something about his Ford pickup truck in a twangy voice over the loudspeaker, and the only other customer in the store was a grizzly-looking guy with a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. The shopkeeper, an overweight woman wearing a vest with gall oping palominos embroidered on the front, gazed at them menacingly from behind the counter. She looked like the type who knew her way around a shotgun.
Laurel walked over to a black western button-down that had silver stud accents around the shoulders. Emma snickered. “I don’t think that’s quite your style.” Laurel placed the shirt back on the rack and feigned interest in a display of ornate belt buckles. Most of them were in the shape of cattle horns.
“Seriously, this ignoring me thing is getting a little old,” Emma said, following behind her.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” Laurel said.
Emma was grateful she’d at least said something.
“Look, I don’t know why Thayer came into my room, and—” Laurel whipped around and stared at her. “Oh, really?
Yo u really don’t know?” Her gaze fell to Emma’s waist.
Emma sucked in her stomach, feeling the folded letters she’d found in Thayer’s bedroom press against her. It almost felt like Laurel knew they were there.
“I really don’t know,” Emma said. “And I don’t know why you’re so pissed about it, but I wish you would tell me what I can do to make it up to you so you aren’t mad anymore.” Laurel narrowed her eyes and backed away. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out. Sutton Mercer doesn’t repent.
Sutton Mercer doesn’t make it up to anyone.”
“People change.”
Or sometimes they die and their nicer twin takes their place, I thought grimly.
A new country song blared over the loudspeakers, this one about loving the good old USA. Laurel absent-mindedly picked up a pair of pink cowboy boots and put them back down again. Her expression seemed to soften.
“Fine. There is one thing you could do to make it up to me.”
“What?”
Laurel leaned forward. “You could get Dad to drop the charges against Thayer. Or you could tell Quinlan that you invited Thayer over. That way the cops will be forced to let him go.”
“But I didn’t invite him over!” Emma protested. “And I’m not going to go behind Dad’s back and lie to the police.” Laurel blew air out of her mouth angrily. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
“Well, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. Trying not to have Mom and Dad pissed at me every other day for once.”
“Yeah, right.” Laurel snorted.
Emma balled her fists in frustration, staring at the tobacco-colored carpet. The bells to the store jingled, and an incongruous-looking tall girl in a peasant skirt walked through. She was wearing a T-shirt that said CLUB
CONGRESS POETRY SLAM. Laurel’s expression shifted; she’d obviously noticed the shirt, too.
“Look,” Emma said, eyeing the girl, “if you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Don’t drag Ethan into it. We shouldn’t ruin his poetry reading.”
For a second Laurel looked guilty. But then her features hardened again. “Sorry, Sis. No can do. The plan’s already in motion.”
“We could call it off,” Emma tried.
Laurel smirked. “Sutton Mercer, calling off a prank?
That’s not your style.” She leaned against a rack of what looked like burlap wizard cloaks. “I’ll make a deal with you.
You get Thayer out of jail, I stop the prank.”
“That’s not fair,” Emma hissed.
“Well, then, no can do.” Laurel turned on her heel perfunctorily. “I guess you don’t care that much about your secret boyfriend, huh? Then again, that’s not really a surprise. You treat all your secret boyfriends like shit.” With that, she shot Emma a knowing look, pushed against the door, and walked out into the sun. The jingle bells on the handle mocked Emma as the door slammed shut.
A few hours later, Emma pedaled up to the curb of a familiar-looking ranch house across from Sabino Canyon.
Her legs ached from the ten-mile uphil bike ride from Sutton’s house, and her skin was slick with sweat, even though dusk had fall en and the air had cooled. She had no choice but to ride to Ethan’s house tonight—it wasn’t like Laurel would drop her off. She had to see him.
Ethan’s house was next door to Nisha Banerjee’s, where Emma had attended a party her first night as Sutton.
The Landry property was situated on a small plot of land bordered by a white picket fence that needed painting.
Sparrows sat on the thin branches of an oak tree at the edge of the yard and the setting sun cast long shadows onto the slightly overgrown lawn. Tiny purple flowers in clay pots lined the front porch, and a rocking chair with chipped yellow paint sat next to three days’ worth of newspapers rolled in blue plastic bags. Even though the house was nicer than anything Emma had ever lived in, it seemed small compared to the Mercers’ five-bedroom bungalow. It was weird how quickly one got used to luxury.