sugar, and a tiny splash of vodka.
On Sunday, they disguised Emma in an old flowered shirtdress that belonged to Ethan’s mother so they could go to Goodwill incognito. Ethan even produced a blonde Farrah Fawcett–style wig from the back of
Mrs. Landry’s closet. They both laughed at her reflection in the mirror—she looked like she’d been stuck in a bomb shelter since the late seventies. But when they went out she was glad for the disguise.
For the first time in a long while, no one paid any attention to her at all, either as super-popular Sutton or as accused-murderer Emma.
But on Monday, Emma knew there would be no disguise that could get her through the day at Hollier. She stood at the mirror of the Landrys’ hallway bathroom, braiding her hair into a long side plait, a style
she would never have worn as Sutton. For the first time in months she was dressed like herself, in a faded blue-and-white raglan T-shirt and a pair of perfectly distressed Rag & Bone jeans she’d scored for
five bucks. As she looked at her reflection, she felt somehow vulnerable and exposed. She’d been hiding behind Sutton’s persona for months now, her real self a secret that she revealed only to Ethan. Now
everyone would see the real her. The thought was strangely terrifying.
She hadn’t had the guts to reach out to any of Sutton’s friends. Her relationship with them was built on a lie—and now they knew it.
A soft knock came at the door. “Are you ready?” Ethan asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied, opening the door. He smiled at her, grabbing the end of her braid and tugging lightly.
“It’s kind of weird, seeing you like this. Like seeing Sutton in Emma-drag.”
“I know,” she admitted. “I feel like I’m still playing a role.”
Ethan shrugged. “We all play roles. You just have to find the one that you like best.”
She poked him in the ribs. “What role are you playing?”
He put on a mock-hurt expression. “Prince Charming, obviously.”
Laughing, Emma followed him down the hall to the entryway. Staying with Ethan was the silver lining to this whole nightmare. She’d never spent so much time with a boy before, but it just felt . . . right. A
perfect fit.
On the way to school Ethan played an old Arcade Fire album, humming under his breath. Emma idly opened and closed the glove compartment. She tried to steel herself for whatever would come.
The area around the student parking lot was clotted with news vans. Emma had anticipated this. She put on her shades and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head.
“You look like the Unabomber,” Ethan said.
“At least they won’t be able to see my face,” she replied.
Dozens of students milled about among the reporters, trying to get on TV. Emma saw Celeste Echols speaking into a microphone that Tricia Melendez held under her chin, and she groaned aloud. Celeste had been
saying something was wrong with her “aura” since they first met. She would be insufferable now.
Ethan parked the car, and they stepped out into the pallid winter morning. A crescent moon still hung low on the horizon. She met Ethan’s questioning glance with a determined, let’s-get-this-over-with nod.
The students loitering in the parking lot stared at her baldly. A crowd of muscular guys hanging out around a Ford F-250 stopped body-slamming each other to gawk as she walked past. Two twiggy freshman girls
scuttled out of her way as if she’d menaced them. She caught sight of a half dozen girls from the tennis team clustered near the flagpole. They fell silent as she approached, their faces pale and eyes wide.
Ethan took her hand, and she squeezed back, trying not to look right or left. She focused on walking slowly and deliberately, though a part of her just wanted to bolt toward the glass double doors to the
school.
Then she saw who was waiting in the entryway. Principal Ambrose stood with her arms crossed over her chest and her legs planted wide. She wore a zebra-striped suit coat and a pair of purple trousers. Her skin
was usually dull and sagging, but today she’d put on turquoise eye shadow up to her eyebrows.
I had the distinct impression that Ambrose had dressed up for the media attention. I could just hear her saying Sutton Mercer was such a special girl, with tears in her eyes. So effervescent! I’d like to
think I was something of a mentor to her. Never mind that the only times Ambrose talked to me were the handful of times I’d been busted for a Lying Game stunt.
Emma stopped uncertainly a few feet in front of the principal. She glanced at Ethan, who’d gone strangely pale, then back to Ms. Ambrose. The principal’s lips were pressed into a single thin line.
“You will not be allowed on the premises,” she said in a smug voice. “Emma Paxton is not registered at Hollier.”
Emma blinked, stunned. “But . . . what about school?”