Hide and Seek (7 page)

That afternoon, the sun beat down on the Hollier tennis team as they went through warm-up stretches. Everyone was doing their own versions of yoga poses. Clara bent over in a Downward-Facing Dog position. Charlotte kicked her leg behind her, stretching her quad. Laurel sat a few feet away from everyone else, wrapping sticky white athletic tape around her ankle. She looked lost in thought—probably about Thayer.

Even though phones weren’t technically allowed at practice, Emma had Sutton’s iPhone in her palms, reading the most recent text from Ethan.
SO BUMMED ABOUT THE DANCE
, he said.

DON’T BE
, Emma wrote back.
MY FRIENDS AND I HAVE AN IDEA THAT MAKES UP FOR IT.

BE CAREFUL!
Ethan warned.
DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GET INTO MORE TROUBLE?

IT’S GOING TO BE GREAT
, Emma typed quickly.
I PROMISE. HEY, ARE YOU STILL UP FOR THE GAME TONIGHT?
There was a boys’ soccer game at Wheeler, their rival school, that would clinch their spot in the District Finals. As Sutton, she was expected to go. As Sutton’s boyfriend, Ethan was expected to go, too.

I GUESS SO
, Ethan wrote back. Emma could feel his hesitation through the phone line.
MY FIRST SOCCER GAME…AND I’M A SENIOR. LOL.

IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL ANY BETTER, IT’S MY FIRST GAME, TOO
, Emma wrote back.
I’LL PICK YOU UP AT 7.
“Writing to Ethan?” Charlotte teased, sidling up to Emma and plopping down on the bench.

Emma covered the screen self-consciously. “How’d you know?”

“Because you have a big, dumb, love-struck look on your face.” Charlotte nudged her. “Before the dance was canceled, there were rumors that Ethan was going to be voted Harvest King.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“Don’t look so surprised. He’s dating
you
. Of course
he’d be nominated.” Charlotte separated her ponytail down the middle and yanked it tighter.

“Are you ready, Hollier women?” a loud voice boomed.

Everyone looked over to see Coach Maggie in shiny navy blue Umbros and a white collared Hollier tennis shirt, standing with her hands on her hips at the edge of the courts. A couple of girls smirked. Maggie was always calling them “Hollier women,” or “women of Hollier,” or, once: “women of the racket.”

“Today’s practice will be a test of sheer will,” Maggie went on, pacing along the baseline. “I’ve pitted each of you against the player with whom your skills are most evenly matched. We’ll start with our cocaptains, Nisha and Sutton.” She paused dramatically as though expecting a round of applause. When she didn’t get one, she tossed two fuzzy tennis balls in Nisha’s direction. “Court six, ladies,” she said, gesturing to the court farthest from where the team sat.

Charlotte gave Emma a sympathetic glance—normally being paired with Nisha wasn’t something Sutton exactly celebrated.

Emma shrugged. “She’s okay,” she murmured.

Charlotte looked surprised, but didn’t say anything.

Nisha glanced sideways at Emma as they made their way across the court, like she was trying to gauge whether she and Emma would slip back into rival mode, or if their truce from the previous night would hold.

Emma gave Nisha a reassuring smile, hoping to put the girl at ease. “Can we stretch some more first?” she asked. “I’m sore after last night.”

Nisha sighed with relief. “Me, too.”

A series of footfalls sounded behind them, and the boys’ soccer team thundered past for their warm-up laps around the field. “Hey, Nisha,” Garrett called.

“Hey,” Nisha said faintly, waving back.

Then Garrett noticed Emma next to her. His expression soured.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and the girls walked quietly for a few seconds. “So you
are
still seeing Garrett?” Emma asked in as friendly a voice as she could muster, thinking about how Nisha had avoided the question last night.

Nisha adjusted the strap of her dark purple tank. “We were never really seeing each other,” she said. “He only went with me to get back at you.”

Then Emma remembered the real answer she had wanted from Nisha last night. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

Nisha put a hand on the hip of her neatly pleated white shorts and waited.

Emma swallowed hard. “Are you sure my sister was at the back-to-school sleepover the whole night?”

Nisha’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Why?”

“I just think she was somewhere else and lying to me about it. Sister stuff,” Emma said vaguely. “I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything. But if you remember something, please tell me.”

A few beads of sweat appeared on Nisha’s brow. Finally she let out a sigh. “I suppose I’m not a hundred percent sure she was there the
whole
night.”

Emma’s heart thumped. “Was she there when you woke up in the morning?”

Nisha pushed a strand of hair off her face. “Well, no.”

“Was she there for breakfast or anything?” Emma asked, clutching her racket.

Nisha raised one shoulder, then let it drop.

“So she
wasn’t
there the whole night,” Emma said. “But you said she was.”

Nisha’s eyes flashed. “God, Sutton. I was trying to piss you off, okay? I was mad that you told Laurel not to hang out with me. I wanted you to know that she went behind your back and did it anyway.”

Emma barely heard her. She stepped back and turned to face Laurel, who was dueling Charlotte on court one. Laurel smashed a lob overhead, sending the ball sailing past Charlotte’s outstretched racket. She did a happy victory dance like she was a normal, ordinary teenager. But Nisha had just given her confirmation. Laurel never went back to the sleepover that night. Suddenly, it felt like the
air had been sucked from Emma’s lungs. She bent at the waist, staring down at the baked clay ground.

“Hey, are you okay?” Nisha’s shadow loomed over Emma. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“Um, I just…need water,” Emma stammered. “I’ll be right back.”

She took off in the direction of the school, doing her best to look casual. She pushed through the double doors of the girls’ locker room, the smell of plastic and stale bread making her feel sick. Half a chocolate-chip cookie was squished along the wooden bench lining the lockers. She checked the stalls, relieved that they were empty, then found Laurel’s locker, which was decorated with shooting stars, gold-foil tennis rackets, and Laurel’s name in purple bubble letters. She touched the lock and twisted the combination to zero.
I just need to find something
, she thought manically.
Anything.

I held my breath. This seemed dangerous. I only hoped she knew what she was doing.

Emma used the toe of her sneaker to pound the base of the locker—Alex had taught her at their old high school in Henderson that if you turned a lock to zero and kicked it, the lock would open. The locker creaked, then burst open.
Score.

Several notebooks were stashed at the bottom, along with a thick chemistry textbook. On the top shelf was a
tube of melon-scented deodorant. Emma yanked Laurel’s brown leather bag from the metal hook and opened it like a kid tearing open a Christmas present. Laurel’s iPhone, safe in its pink neoprene case, was in the side pocket, amid gum wrappers and ballpoint pens. Emma set the purse back inside the locker and pushed the door closed in case anyone came in. The last thing she needed was someone telling Laurel they’d seen her sister snooping through her stuff.

Then with trembling fingers, she scrolled through the texts, from the most recent to ones from more than a month ago. Just this Monday, she’d written to Thayer:
I’M GLAD WE TALKED.
Another to Thayer earlier on Monday:
IT’S IMPORTANT YOU DON’T TELL ANYONE.

Other than a few
WHERE ARE YOU
s, there was no correspondence when Thayer was in rehab. But even Laurel’s texts to Charlotte and Madeline were oddly cryptic—things like
SORRY I HAD TO BAIL BUT SOMETHING CAME UP
and
I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
, but never any details. It was almost like she expected someone to snoop.

Emma took out Sutton’s iPhone and snapped a photo of the texts—she could decipher them later. Finally, she scrolled to August thirty-first, the day of Sutton’s death. Laurel had sent a bunch of texts that day, but only one to Sutton, time stamped 10:43
P.M.
When Emma read it, her throat caught, and her vision went fuzzy.

THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU, YOU’RE DEAD.

Emma slumped against the locker stall, her hand over her mouth.

Over her shoulder, I read the text again and again, the black type silhouetted against the green text bubble. Suddenly the screen felt too bright, the neon glow taking over my entire vision. And just like that, something shifted in my mind and I was sucked into a full-blown memory.

The headlights of Laurel’s Jetta flash as she makes a U-turn across the dirt road. Jealousy surges through me as her car speeds off, taking Thayer farther and farther away from me. My boyfriend is seriously hurt and my sister, who would freak out if she knew the truth about me and Thayer, is the one there to hold his hand. I should be the one taking him to a hospital. Not her.

Brushing off my clothes, I stand up from my position in the shrubs. To protect my secret relationship with Thayer, I had crouched in the bushes when she arrived. But from the glare she sent in my direction, I could tell she knew I was there. I can only hope she hasn’t figured out why.

I glance around, getting my bearings. A dark mountain looms
behind me. Next to me is a sign that reads
PLEASE DON’T FEED THE SNAKES
, and off to my left is a tourist train car bearing a sign that says
SABINO CANYON RIDES FROM 10 A.M. TO 5 P.M! CHUGGA CHUGGA CHOO CHOO!
I’m one hundred yards away from Sabino Canyon’s dusty, empty parking lot, and just feet from where someone hit Thayer with my car.

I still can’t believe how this night turned out. My mind replays the events of the evening over and over, like a horror movie stuck on repeat. I recall my giddiness as I picked up Thayer at the bus station and drove him to the overlook in Sabino Canyon, where my dad used to take me bird watching when I was little. I feel my terror as Thayer and I ran through the canyon, some unknown pursuer fast on our heels. I hear the roar of my Volvo tearing across the pavement and crashing into Thayer. The only thing I can’t see is the face behind the wheel, the face of the person who stole my car and tried to run us down. There’s no way it was an accident. But was the person gunning for Thayer—or for me?

I look up to the night sky hoping to see some kind of sign, some kind of message that assures me everything will be okay. But a shiver crawls along my spine and I know everything is not okay. Thayer is seriously hurt, and I still don’t know how a night that had started with such romantic promise had devolved into this.

A motorbike’s engine chokes in the distance, breaking me from my thoughts and reminding me that I need to get the hell out of this canyon.

Dried leaves crackle as I emerge from the thicket and send little
brown birds fluttering into the sky, calling to each other with soft, squeaking noises, as if discussing where to settle next. I pull out my phone. Maybe I can’t tell the cops what happened to Thayer—no one can know he came back to Tucson to see me—but I can report my car stolen. I just hope they don’t send Detective Quinlan. He was so mad after our last prank that I think he’d arrest me just for the hell of it.

I’m about to dial 911 when I realize I don’t have service. Shit. I curse my provider—Thayer’s phone worked when he called Laurel to pick him up, but of course the canyon has interrupted my signal.

A cloud passes over the moon. A coyote wails in the distance. The reality of the situation crashes around me hard. Someone stole my car, and now I’m out in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help.

Nisha’s house isn’t far from here, and I know the rest of the tennis team is there. But I can’t go back to the parking lot in case that lunatic who hit Thayer is still out there, waiting for me. I’ll need to take a different route, one that winds around the base of the canyon. The wind howls as I set out. The path narrows and the trees thicken above my head. The brush along the sides of the trail claws at my ankles like fingernails, ripping the skin there and drawing blood. I keep going, knowing I won’t be safe until I reach a populated area.

A screech of tires sounds in the distance, followed by a crash. I whirl around and stumble over a root sticking up in the path,
breaking my fall with my palms. Bits of gravel groove into my skin, stinging like I’d just dried my hands with sandpaper. My cell phone falls out of my pocket and lands in the dirt, the screen lighting up with an incoming call.

Instead of sobbing with pain, I cry out with relief. I have cell service again. This nightmare is one phone call away from being over. But then I notice the number on the screen.

I let out a long breath and reject Laurel’s call. I can’t deal with her anger right now—or her questions. A second later my phone buzzes with a text.

THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU, YOU’RE DEAD.

Way to overreact, Sis,
I think, and press
DELETE
.