“Ethan,” she whispered, grabbing his arm. But as soon as Ethan twisted around to look, the spooky burning cigarette vanished.

Chapter 16 - X Marks the Spot

Chapter 16
An A for Effort

After tennis practice the following day, Emma threw her gear into the hatchback of Laurel’s VW. “Ahem,” Laurel whispered, nudging Emma’s side. “Looks like you have an anti–fan club.”

Emma swung around, and her stomach dropped. Two figures stared from the gym doorway, their mouths angry red slashes. It was Nisha . . . and Garrett.

“Do you think she’s still pissed about you sneaking into her room?” Laurel asked.

“I doubt it,” Emma said slowly. It more likely had to do with Nisha seeing Emma and Ethan at the art opening last night. Thankfully, Nisha hadn’t called up the Mercer parents to rat her out, but it seemed she’d just spilled the beans to Garrett. Why else would he look at Emma with such fury?

“Let’s get out of here,” Emma mumbled, slamming the car door.

As Laurel plopped into the driver’s seat, her phone screen flashed. “It’s Mads,” she said, checking the message. “Looks like Operation Titanic is good to go. I told the other girls on the court about the real outfits. I also told them not to discuss their outfits with anyone—that we were planning to prank two of the court members.”

Emma’s stomach turned, thinking about her discussion with Ethan last night. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should lay off the Twitter Twins for a while.”

Laurel’s eyebrows made a V. “Of course it’s a good idea. We can’t back out now. Besides,” Laurel went on, “I can guarantee you no one’s gonna talk. They’re all eager to see someone else go down. Everyone loves a big embarrassing social disaster.”

Way to go, court girls, banding together in solidarity, Emma thought. An itchy feeling reminded her that she was once the girl on the receiving end of the prank. When this was all over, she would extricate herself from the Lying Game as fast as she could.

The car jostled over the hump of the curb into the Mercers’ driveway. “Is that . . . Dad?” Laurel asked, frowning at the open garage door.

Sure enough, Mr. Mercer stood next to the motorcycle. He waved as they pulled in.

“What’s he doing home?” Emma murmured. Typically, Mr. Mercer didn’t return from the hospital until early evening—unless he was on call, and then sometimes he didn’t get home until the middle of the night.

Laurel cut the engine, and the girls got out of the car. “Sutton, I have to talk to you,” Mr. Mercer said, wiping his hands on a dingy green towel.

Immediately, Emma tensed. Maybe Nisha had told the Mercers after all. “I’m sorry,” she said preemptively.