We sweep past Starbucks, the strip mall of art galleries all the retirees love, and the clay courts where I took my first tennis lesson when I was four. The moon is the exact same amber as the eyes of the coyote that nosed under our backyard fence last year. We’re on our way to a frat party at U of A, which promises to be a rager. Just because I’m with Garrett doesn’t mean I can’t ogle the hot college-boy merchandise now and then.
Madeline stops on a station playing Katy Perry’s
“California Gurls.” Gabby squeals and starts to sing along.
“Uch, I’m so sick of this song,” I moan, reaching over and twisting the volume knob down again. I usually don’t mind singing, but something irks me tonight. Or, more accurately, two someones.
Lili pouts. “But last week you said Katy was awesome, Sutton!”
I shrug. “Katy’s so five minutes ago.”
“She writes the best songs!” Gabby whines, twirling her honey-blonde highlights and pursing her extra-plump lips into a pout.
I take my eyes off the road for a moment and glare at them. “It’s not as if Katy writes the songs herself, guys. Some fat, middle-aged producer guy does.”
Lili looks horrified. “Really?”
If only I could pull over and let them out. I’m so sick of Twitter Dee and Twitter Dum’s faux-ditziness. I shared a trig class with them last year, and they’re not as stupid as they look. Guys find the dumb act cute, but I’m not buying it.
The light changes to green, and Floyd makes a satisfying roar as he guns off the line, kicking up dust and flying past the desert broom. “Well, I think it’s a good song,” Mads breaks the silence, slowly turning up the volume again.
I shoot her a look. “What would your dad say if he knew slutty Katy was your role model, Mads?”
“He wouldn’t care,” Madeline says, trying to sound tough. She picks at the Swan Lake Mafia ballerina sticker on the back of her cell phone. I don’t know what the sticker means—none of us do. I think Mads likes it that way.
“He wouldn’t?” I repeat. “Let’s call Daddy and ask. Actually, let’s call him and tell him you’re hoping to score with a college guy tonight, too.”
“Sutton, don’t!” Madeline growls, catching my hands before I can reach for my phone. Mads is notorious for lying to her dad; she probably told him she was at a study group.
“Relax,” I say, slipping my phone back into the center console again. Madeline slumps down in the seat, making her I’m-not-speaking-to-you face. Charlotte catches my eye in the mirror and gives me a look that says Cut it out. Teasing Madeline about her dad is a low blow, but that’s what she gets for inviting the Twitter Twins tonight. It was supposed to be just us, the real Lying Game members, but somehow Gabby and Lili found out about our plans, and Madeline was too nicey-nice to tell them they couldn’t come. I’ve felt their imploring stares the whole drive, their hopes and dreams written in thought bubbles over their heads: When are you going to let us into the Lying Game? When can we be one of you? It’s bad enough my little sister weaseled her way into our club. There’s no room for anyone else, especially not them. And more than that, I have a plan for tonight—a plan that doesn’t involve Gabby or Lili. But who says Sutton Mercer can’t be flexible?
The northern part of Tucson goes dead after ten o’clock, and there are barely any other cars on Orange Grove. Before we can merge onto the highway, we must cross the train tracks. The X-shaped railroad crossing sign glows in the dark. Once the light turns green I edge Floyd over the bumpy rails. Just as I’m about to accelerate toward the highway entrance, the car dies.
“Uh . . .” I mumble. “California Gurls” falls silent. Cool air-conditioned vapors stop flowing from the vents, and the lights on the dash darken. I twist the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. “Okay, bitches. Who filled Floyd’s gas tank with sand?”
Charlotte fakes a yawn. “This prank is so two years ago.”
“It wasn’t us,” Gabby chirps, probably thrilled that I’ve quasi-included her in a conversation that involves the Lying Game. “We have way better prank ideas, if you’d ever let us share them with you.”
“Not interested,” I say, dismissing her with a wave.
“Um, does anyone care that we’re stopped on train tracks?” Madeline peers out the window, her fingertips clutching the door. Suddenly, the red lights on the railroad crossing sign begin to flash. The warning bell clangs, and the striped gate lowers across the road behind us, preventing all other cars at the light—not that there are any—from passing over the tracks. A hazy beam of the Amtrak train blinks in the distance.
I try the ignition again, but Floyd just coughs. “What’s the deal, Sutton?” Charlotte sounds annoyed.
“Everything’s under control,” I mutter. The Volvo-symbol keychain swings back and forth as I twist the key again and again.
“Yeah, right.” The leather squeaks under Charlotte’s butt. “I told you guys we shouldn’t have gotten into this death trap.”
The train blows its whistle. “Maybe you’re starting it wrong.” Madeline reaches over and tries the ignition herself, but the car only makes the same wheezing sound. The lights don’t even flicker on the dash.
The train is getting closer. “Maybe it’ll see us and hit the brakes?” I say, my voice shaking as adrenaline courses through my veins.
“The train can’t stop!” Charlotte unbuckles her seat belt.