“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.