So we’d been friends . . . once upon a time, anyway. It certainly hadn’t seemed that way from my memory of the hot springs.
“Still, maybe you can make it up to me,” Laurel said to Emma, crossing her arms over her chest. “Manicures at Mr. Pinky next week before your birthday party? Maybe Thursday?”
“Okay,” Emma said, although Thursday might as well have been in the next millennium. Would she even be here next week?
Mrs. Mercer pulled a dish out of the oven with a loud clang. Mr. Mercer gathered shiny steak knives out of the drawer. Laurel leaned forward. The front of her blouse gaped so that Emma could see the top of her pink scalloped-edge bra. “Why did you run off this morning?” she whispered. “Mads told me she saw you getting out of a cop car during homeroom.”
Emma stiffened. “I was trying to ditch,” she whispered back. “A cop driving by saw me. He said if I didn’t go back to school with him, he’d raise the impound fee on my car.”
“That sucks.” A honey-blond lock of hair fell into Laurel’s eyes.
They were interrupted by Mrs. Mercer rushing to the table with steaming plates. She dished out portions of steak, spinach, and baked potatoes to everyone. Mr. Mercer sneaked Drake a piece of roll, which the dog swallowed without chewing. When everyone had been served, Mrs. Mercer sat and unfolded a napkin on her lap. “I just got a call from Coach Maggie, Sutton. She said you were off your game today.”
“Oh.” Emma sliced the baked potato with her fork. Tennis hadn’t exactly been successful, though at least she hadn’t had to wear the Smurf Dress—Maggie had told Emma they’d straighten out the uniform problem tomorrow. During practice, she’d returned a few shots—thanks, Wii!—but serves whipped past her head, and when she was playing doubles with Charlotte, she ran for a shot and slammed right into Charlotte’s side. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little rusty,” she said. Not to mention she was slightly distracted the whole time.
Mr. Mercer clucked his tongue. “It’s probably because you didn’t practice all summer.”
“You should put in some time at the courts tonight.” Mrs. Mercer wiped her mouth with a pineapple-printed napkin.
“Maybe Sutton was off her game because Nisha Banerjee was a total bully today,” Laurel jumped in. Emma shot Laurel a grateful look. It was nice that she was sticking up for her.
Sticking up for me, Emma meant. But I agreed with her. It was nice that Laurel had my back.
A softened, wistful look appeared on Mrs. Mercer’s face. “How is Nisha? I ran into her dad at the club this weekend. Apparently she went to tennis camp this summer. And did a precollege program at Stanford. She’s been so strong, especially after what happened with her mom.”
Emma sniffed. If strong was a synonym for bitchy, then Mrs. Mercer was exactly right. “Nisha’s kind of diabolical.”
“Totally,” Laurel added.
“And Madeline and Charlotte aren’t?” Mrs. Mercer bit into a piece of steak.
“Madeline and Charlotte are awesome,” Laurel piped up. “And nice.”
Mrs. Mercer sipped her wine. “You know how I feel about you girls hanging out with them. They’re always getting in so much trouble.”
Emma swallowed a mouthful of steak, thinking about the manila file Detective Quinlan had trotted out at the police station today. Madeline and Charlotte weren’t the only ones getting in trouble.
“Even their parents are . . . odd,” Mrs. Mercer continued, chewing a bite of spinach. When she swallowed, she added, “I’ve always found Mrs. Vega too pushy. The way she’s always so crazed about Madeline and dance. And Mr. Vega is so . . . intense. Those fights he used to have with Thayer, right out in public . . .” She trailed off and glanced shiftily at Laurel. Laurel slathered an even coat of butter on a roll.
Emma leaned forward, hoping she would elaborate on Thayer Vega. “And what’s with Charlotte’s mother?” Mrs. Mercer said instead, wrinkling her nose. “Every time I open the paper, she’s in another dress, christening a boat on Lake Havasu with a bottle of champagne.”
Mr. Mercer stabbed a bite of steak. “Mrs. Chamberlain’s dresses are very . . . interesting.”
“You mean inappropriate?” Mrs. Mercer pressed her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, girls. It’s not nice to talk about people. Right, James?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Mercer murmured. Then his gaze settled laser beam–like on Emma. An alarmed expression flashed across his face. Emma tilted her head nervously. Her heart began to pound. He was suddenly staring at her like he knew.
Then he looked away. Emma sliced the baked potato open and mashed the starchy insides, just as she’d done since she was a little kid. “Maybe Madeline and Charlotte get in trouble because their parents are, like, preoccupied with other things.”
Mrs. Mercer leaned back in her chair. “Well! How astute of you, Oprah.”
Emma shrugged nonchalantly. It was practically the first lesson in Foster Children Psychology 101—most kids acted out when they weren’t getting enough attention or nurturing. They had no parents to help them with homework or attend their sports games or encourage them to enter science fairs. No one read them bedtime stories, or gave them kisses every night, or sat down with them at nice family dinners.
Something suddenly occurred to her. In a way, this was the first real family dinner she’d had in, well, ever. Even with Becky, most meals were either in the car after hitting the drive-through or on trays in front of the TV. Or else Emma ate a bowl of cereal alone while Becky delivered an hour-long soliloquy to an empty apartment courtyard.