“Only if you promise never to call it that again,” I snap, narrowing my eyes. I fish my iPhone out of the pocket of my silver nylon gym bag. “He’ll be mine by the end of the weekend.”
And then I furiously tap a text to Thayer. Missed u yesterday. I’d better see you today or else it’s ham ice cream for you. It’s more aggressive than I’d normally be—than I’d normally need to be—but I might as well look at this plan like ripping off a Band-Aid. It’s better to get the painful part over with as quickly as possible.
7
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
“Sutton!” my mom calls out from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”
“Can’t a girl sleep in for once? It’s summer!” I yell back, but really, I’ve been up for hours. I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling idly through Facebook and staring angrily at my phone. Thayer still hasn’t responded to the text I sent him last night. Not even with a smiley. I can’t believe it.
It doesn’t matter, I try to tell myself. You’ll win him over. Then again, if Thayer does eventually like me, the end result is the same: all of us laughing in his face. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t fall for me.
But that doesn’t sit well with me, either.
I slip the phone into the pocket of my robe and pad downstairs. Just as I’m crossing the foyer, the doorbell rings. My heart lifts—is it Thayer? I get even more excited when I see a tall, broad shape through the clouded glass of the door. But when I open the door, it’s Garrett standing on the porch. I frown.
“Uh, are you looking for Charlotte?” I ask tentatively. Garrett smiles awkwardly, then pulls something out of his bag.
“Actually, I came by to see if this is yours.” He holds out a cell phone with a Swarovski crystal-bedazzled case. “I found it at the club yesterday. The battery is dead, so I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I recognized it.”
I stare at the phone without touching it. He thought this bedazzled, sparkly monstrosity was my phone? Eww. The Lying Game girls all have matching Tory Burch cases—classic and chic. “Not mine,” I say. “You should take it back to the club for lost and found.”
“Oh, okay, sorry.” Garrett gives me another wobbly smile as he slides the phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “So … what’s up?”
I stare down at my robe and slippers, then back at him. “Uh, I just woke up. I look like death.”
Garrett’s eyes widen. “No, you don’t. You look cute.”
Is he serious? “Garrett, I’m barely awake,” I say. “Can we talk later?” Or not at all? I think.
“Of course.” Garrett looks embarrassed. “I’ll let you have breakfast or whatever.” He steps off the porch, making a few too many flustered movements. “See you around, Sutton.”
“Yep, see you around.” I shut the door fast, watching him scamper back to his car, which is parked at the curb. Weird. Maybe he’s just being friendly to all of Char’s BFFs as a way to get in our good graces. Somehow, though, I doubt it.
Shrugging the situation off as best I can, I stride into the terra-cotta-tiled kitchen. Inside, Laurel is on her hands and knees scrubbing at our floor with a soaked dishrag. Orange liquid pools all around her like a moat. My mother leans over the kitchen table with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner, and my father holds out a plastic bag for collecting the soggy, orange-juice-soaked towels.
I sidestep them and head for the coffeemaker. “How many Mercers does it take to clean up an orange juice spill?” I say snidely.
My mom looks up at me. The morning light illuminates the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, making her seem more tired, more vulnerable than usual. “Who was at the door?”
“No one,” I say quickly, grabbing a steaming mug of coffee that’s already been poured and settling down at the table.
My mom glares. “You could help, you know, Sutton.”
I bristle. It wasn’t my mess. “It looks like Laurel’s got it under control,” I say, shrugging.
Laurel stands and drapes the wet dishcloth over the stainless steel basin of the sink. “Sorry again, Mom. All your freshly squeezed OJ down the drain.”
Our mother touches Laurel’s shoulder gently. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Accidents happen.”
I glare at them behind my coffee. If I were the one to douse the room in freshly squeezed orange juice, Mom would be giving me her Disappointed Look, the one that says I take every single thing I get for granted and always have. And Dad would be running his fingers through his hair at the temples, suddenly stressed because Mom is stressed. It’s like a chain reaction with them when it comes to me. But since Laurel screwed up, everything is A-okay. Mom gets a jug of Tropicana out of the fridge. Dad ties off the heavy black garbage bag and crosses the floor to rest it in the doorway leading to the mudroom, then pauses to pat Drake, the family Great Dane, on the head.
I take a sip of coffee and almost spit it out. It’s black—who drinks it that way? I open a packet of Splenda and dump it in. Behind me, Laurel sighs loudly.