Lying Game 00: The First Lie

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  1: Facebook Hacking Is So Sophomore Year

  2: Up for a Challenge, Down for the Deed

  3: Fair Play

  4: Fleas and Thank You?

  5: No Time Like the Present

  6: Zen and Now

  7: No Place Like Home

  8: Beauty Sleep Is Overrated

  9: A Total Waste of a Pedicure

  10: Turnabout Is Fair Play

  11: You Can Dance If You Want To

  12: Surprise, Surprise

  13: Regrets Only

  14: Just Between Us

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from The Lying Game

  Prologue

  1: The Dead Ringer

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  Back Ads

  About the Publisher

  1

  FACEBOOK HACKING IS SO SOPHOMORE YEAR

  It’s a typical Saturday afternoon, and my best friends Charlotte Chamberlain and Madeline Vega and I are sitting outside La Paloma Country Club in Tucson, Arizona, where we all live. It’s the last few weeks of summer before we start our junior year and we’re not losing a second of tanning time. We’re all wearing our brand-new Missoni bikinis that are sort of matchy-matchy but not quite, the air smells like Banana Boat sunscreen and freshly cut limes in the neighboring moms’ cocktails, and the high-pitched squeals from the kiddie pool off to the left carry across the neatly landscaped stone patios. As we sip Perrier through skinny red straws—this place is super-strict about underage drinkers—Char takes a breath. “So I have an idea for the next prank for the Lying Game, Sutton,” she says, turning to me. “We go on Facebook, and—”

  “No, no, no,” I cut her off, lowering my copy of Us Weekly to my chest. “We’ve done the Facebook thing to death, Char. It’s too easy. The Lying Game is about originality, remember?”

  Charlotte flushes, which just makes her freckles stand out more. “It was a variation on a theme, obviously.” She pushes her Chloe aviators to the top of her head and offers a very well-practiced careless shrug that almost has me convinced she doesn’t care about my opinion. The thing is, though, she does. She and Madeline both … as well as everyone else at Hollier High. Not that I’m trying to boast or anything. That’s just the way it is.

  “Variation on a theme … how?” I prompt.

  “Such as … changing Nisha Banerjee’s profile picture to Lindsay Lohan’s latest mug shot?” Char suggests, snickering.

  From my left, Madeline, whose dark hair is gathered back into a messy knot, adjusts the ties on her crocheted bikini’s halter top. “It’d be an improvement on that tennis team group shot she’s got now. She looks totally deranged in it.”

  I cross and uncross my long legs, which are more muscular than Mads’s lithe ballerina ones. “She can’t help it. Nisha is deranged.” Nisha Banerjee is a tightly wound, quasi-popular girl who’s also my biggest tennis rival. I sit up. “It’s too small-time, though. The first Lying Game prank of the year has to be big. No exceptions.”

  My best friends reflect on this for a moment, knowing I’m right. Mads, Char, and I started the Lying Game back in sixth grade during a sleepover, wanting to prank all of the cute guys in our class. We were the most popular girls in school and we could do something like that, knowing they’d just fall over us even more. After that first prank—water-ballooning them from the school roof—we pulled other small-time pranks, like gluing Lori Sanchez’s locker shut or slipping a love letter from Darien Holbrook, the biggest heartthrob from that year, into the desk of Miranda Foos, a hopeless dork. The pranks have escalated since then, some of them downright scary and illegal. Still, we get away with most of it. And everyone at school expects us to push the boundaries. Which means we can’t do something lame like switch a Facebook profile picture.

  “That reminds me,” Charlotte says, changing the subject. “The Twitter Twins want to know if we’re going to Nisha’s back-to-school party on Thursday.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not if they are.” Gabriella and Lilianna Fiorello, and their constant addiction to their phones and all forms of social networking, are annoyance personified. Their desperation to get in on the Lying Game reeks worse than the latest Viktor and Rolf Flowerbomb perfume, which, fittingly, is their signature scent this summer.

  Not that I blame them for trying so hard to get in, of course. Everyone wants to be in our clique. But I told the Twitter Twins the same thing I tell everyone: Membership is strictly limited to three, Madeline, Charlotte, and me. No exceptions for anyone.

  Now Charlotte sits up to face Madeline and me, adjusting the strap of her one-shoulder swimsuit. I haven’t said anything yet, but since Char started dating Garrett Austin, she’s put on a few happy pounds around her middle, surely from all the ice-cream outings and fancy dinner dates they’ve gone on. Char eats when she’s in love; that I know for sure.

  “We kind of have to go to Nisha’s,” Charlotte insists, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “She’s invited the whole tennis team, including the seniors. You know how the team eats that stuff up. If you want to be captain over her, you should at least put in an appearance.”

  I sniff. “I don’t have to do anything.” But then I shrug. “Oh, whatever. I’ll go. She’ll definitely have a way better turnout if people know we’re going, and Laurel’s been whining about wanting me there.”

  At that, I glance toward the snack bar. Laurel, my adoptive sister, is leaning against the window, repeating the order we gave her, her brow furrowed in concentration. We’d given her a ton of stuff to remember—the bread had to be the club’s signature gluten-free variety and the fruit salad could contain only grapes, pineapple, and star fruit—no melon or strawberries. I’m sure she sees it as a test, but I just wanted a few extra minutes of privacy so we could talk Lying Game pranks. Laurel practically invented the phrase hanger-on. She was so thrilled that I’d begrudgingly said she could join us at the pool today that she immediately posted it as her status on Facebook. I suppose a lot of girls would be thrilled that their little sisters admired them so much, but for me, it’s a little suffocating.

  Madeline’s cheery voice interrupts my thoughts. “So it’s settled. We’ll go. Nisha’s lame, but we’ll make it fun.”

  “Fine, great.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “We’ll go to Nisha’s. It’ll be like community service. But way more important than that is the inaugural Lying Game prank.” I drum my watermelon-tipped fingernails against the iron arm of my chaise. “Who should the target be?” I grin wickedly in Charlotte’s direction. “Garrett?”

  Charlotte sets her mouth in a line, her cheeks turning as red as her hair. “Don’t you dare, Sutton.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, deciding to go easy on her. Garrett is, after all, Char’s first Big Boyfriend.

  “What about boys of the non-boyfriend variety?” Madeline suggests. “Boys of the dirty, evil-scumbag-douche-lord variety?”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Are we talking about a certain lifeguard, Mads?” I glance over at Finn Hadley, the tanned, muscled, blond-from-the-sun boy who sits atop the lifeguard stand near the diving well. Finn was Mads’s intended summer fling, and he seemed to be into her, too, texting her regularly, putting his arm around her whenever he saw her, even bringing her treats from the snack bar. But then we caught him in a … private lesson with an off-duty au pair on the tennis courts after hours a week ago. Enough said.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I say, narrowing my eyes on Finn. I can’t let guys go around thinking they can screw with my friends. Especially not for nannies whose idea of personal style is faux-hipster Keds.


  “But I still don’t think he’s a big enough target,” I say after a moment. I pat Mads’s leg. “How about this—we report him to the management for smoking pot on duty?”

  Mads cocks her head. “A joint in his locker?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I say, giving her a high five.

  Char makes a face. “But guys, that’s a repeat. We did that to Dave Jaffrey last spring.”

  “Yeah, but …” I trail off, my gaze on someone across the pool. He’s tall, with dark hair, Beckham-esque shoulders, and an Ian Somerhalder brooding thing going on. His lean torso is tanned and rippled with muscles, and his easy lope is completely un-ignorable—every girl he passes gives him an appreciative stare, and he takes the time to greet quite a few of them. My competitive streak awakens inside me. This guy could be a contender for a summer fling of my own, even though summer’s almost over—I’ve been weighing my options for a while now. There was a half second last week when Aidan Grove, a lacrosse player who’s been into me since seventh grade, looked like a front-runner since I’m a sucker for calf muscles. But now, I’m not so sure. Mr. Vampire Diaries might just have taken the lead.

  I flick my low, shiny ponytail over one shoulder as casually as I can and push my sunglasses up my nose for maximum intimidation factor. To my delight, he’s walking over. I tilt my body and put my hand on a tanned, bare hip. He’s coming right toward me. And now he’s stopping. Who knew this could be so easy?

  “Hey, Sutton. How’s it going?” the boy says, offering an easy smile. Then he glances to the left. “Hey, Char. Hey, Mads,” he says, almost as an afterthought.

  “Hey,” Char says, sounding bored. But I’m confused. How does this guy know my name, all of our names? And then, as I look at him, something clicks. My jaw nearly drops. But … wait. There’s no way. This can’t be—

  “Hey, Thayer,” Mads says, as if answering my thoughts.

  It’s Madeline’s younger brother.

  I fiddle with my sunglasses to disguise my utter shock. I’d forgotten that Mads’s baby brother, whom I’d never given the time of day before, had returned from soccer camp last night. What the hell were they feeding them there? Is this seriously the same skinny kid who never spoke?

  Thayer is still staring at me. “Finding out a lot of good stuff about Will and Kate, Sutton?”

  For a moment, my mind is blank—I have no idea what he’s talking about. Then I look at the Us Weekly still overturned on my lap. On the cover is the royal couple at a ball. “O-oh,” I say haltingly, like I’ve never spoken to a boy in my life. I can feel the blush rising to my cheeks. “Um …”

  Thayer grins, perhaps knowing that he’s made me tongue-tied. Before soccer camp, he would never do something like this. But then again, that was back when he had regular, freshman-sized shoulders, eyes I never bothered to really look into, and, well, no voice. I can’t even recall our last conversation. It was probably when he’d come over to see Laurel, who’s been his best friend for eons. Every time I answered the door instead of her, his face would turn violet, and he’d trip over his words just like I’m doing now.

  Get it together, Sutton, I tell myself, and I straighten up. Boys fall over me, not the other way around.

  I peel the magazine from my midriff and offer it to Thayer. “You want it? I remember how crazy you used to be for Mads’s old issues of People.”

  Thayer blushes. “It was just that issue about the Olympic swimmers.”

  I giggle and poke his calf—which, I might add, is even sexier than Aidan’s. “Just admit it. You totally love the celeb gossip.”

  Thayer grins and pokes me back. “Do not.”

  “Do too!” I say, nudging him with my foot. Thayer’s legs are rock-hard. This is starting to get fun.

  “You guys,” a voice says from a few yards away. When I look up, Laurel stands there with a cardboard box from the snack bar in her hands. It’s filled with only sodas, though, none of the weird items we requested. “They don’t have gluten-free bread. They’ve never had gluten-free bread.”

  “Really?” I blink innocently. “I swear I had some last time I was here.”

  “Yep,” Char joins in. “It was totally delish.”

  “And star fruit?” Laurel sticks out her lip in a pout. “They just laughed at me when I asked for that. They didn’t even know what I was talking about!”

  I can’t help but explode into laughter. Char follows suit, and then Mads, and the three of us are suddenly a giggling mess. Laurel stands above us looking forlorn. She turns to Thayer with that doe-eyed expression she always has for him. Laurel has had a crush on Thayer forever. “They tricked me,” she whines.

  Thayer’s playful, flirty expression shifts into one of annoyance. He shakes his head. “You guys are horrible. When are you going to grow up?”

  He says it loudly, so that the whole pool can hear. A gasp doesn’t rise up in the crowd, but there might as well be one. Everyone turns and stares. Mads blinks as if he’s slapped her. Charlotte raises her eyebrows. I try my hardest not to alter my expression, but it’s almost impossible. Before any of us can say anything, Thayer waves his hand dismissively, links his arm through Laurel’s, and stalks off toward the diving board.

  After a moment, everyone at the pool goes back to what they were doing. But neither I nor my friends can speak. It’s one thing for me to put the other two down, and occasionally, when she’s feeling feisty, Char has even gotten some good jabs in at me that I’ve let slide. But someone’s little brother dissing us? Not cool.

  Finally, Charlotte sets down her glass. “What is up with your brother, Mads?”

  Madeline shakes her head. “He was voted MVP at soccer camp. I guess he thinks he’s something now.” She makes a face.

  “He is something else, all right,” I murmur. I try to sound annoyed—which I am, of course. But I feel some other things, too. Things I don’t want to admit to myself. It’s probably the sun. Maybe someone spiked my drink. But as I watch Thayer sauntering off with Laurel, grinning lazily at every girl in his path, I feel the distinct rumblings of an emotion that hasn’t hit me in a long, long time.

  Jealousy.

  2

  UP FOR A CHALLENGE, DOWN FOR THE DEED

  Here’s the thing about me and parties: Even the ones I don’t want to go to I have to look smoking hot for. As in, the hottest girl there—that’s how I keep my status, after all. But on Sunday, as Mads and I scour the racks at Jolie, our favorite boutique, the pickings are so slim I’m considering shoplifting a Missoni scarf or two in protest.

  The place is packed, too, so maybe that has something to do with it. All three of us are frustrated—Madeline’s on her second walk-through of the floor, and Charlotte’s stuck in the dressing room wrestling with the slit sleeves on a yellow silk Elizabeth and James minidress. I eye a row of candy-colored Butter nail polish bottles on the glass-top display table. The turquoise has possibilities. A gawky brunette in a lime-green sundress and gladiator sandals looks like she’s considering approaching the display, but a glare from me sends her back toward the wall of belts instead.

  I deftly sweep the turquoise polish from the table into my gray Miu Miu satchel. Done and done. No one even looked my way.

  “Ugh,” Madeline groans from behind me.

  I turn to face her as though nothing is amiss. “What is it?” I ask, scanning the store for something that would go nicely with my new acquisition. Rows of pastel tops sway on hanging racks like wearable meringue.

  “Thayer,” Madeline says.

  I stiffen slightly. “What’d baby brother do now?” I ask, sifting idly through a bunch of bangle bracelets.

  “He just texted to ask if I was going to Nisha’s party,” Madeline says, in a horrified voice that suggests he’d just texted to ask her if she was planning to shave her head. “Can you believe him?”

  Char, who has just emerged from the dressing room with the yellow dress slung over her arm, gapes at us. “But he’s only a sophomore!”

&nb
sp; “Seriously.” Madeline shakes her head at her phone as if Thayer can see her.

  “Wait, he asked if you were going as if you hadn’t already been invited?” I sputter.

  Madeline nods. “As if he’s the cool one, not me.” Then she points at a bracelet I’ve picked up from the table. “I love that.”

  “It’s yours.” I wink at her, and she widens her eyes back, grinning, knowing what I’m going to do. But my mind isn’t really on the five-finger discount. It’s on Thayer 2.0. Who is this guy? Unbidden, the image of his chiseled abs and defined calves floats in my mind. I force myself to push it away.

  “He definitely thinks he’s the man since coming back from soccer camp, huh?” I say. “Like he’s the only guy who’s ever played a sport before.”

  Madeline rolls her eyes. “Thayer had some kind of crazy transformation while he was away. Suddenly he thinks he’s a sex god or something. Apparently he had a serious girlfriend while he was there. She was super into him, and now she won’t stop calling. He claims she’s stalking him.”

  “Please,” Charlotte says as she sashays toward the register. “I’m sure he doesn’t mind being stalked.”

  I smile, but I’m not so sure about that myself. Thayer used to be so quiet—at least, that’s what I thought of him. But it’s starting to seem like I had the wrong idea about Thayer all along.

  As Charlotte winds around the racks, she plucks up a La Perla bra-and-panties set and adds it to her pile.

  “La Perla?” The corners of my mouth twitch. “Planning a hot night with Garrett?”

  Charlotte’s cheeks flare a bright pink, but she doesn’t deny it. As the salesclerk rings up the purchase, I slide the bracelet up my sleeve, easy as that. Then I look at Madeline. “So Thayer isn’t into Stalker Girl, then?” I try to sound nonchalant, like I don’t really care.

  Madeline leans against the counter. “I don’t know what their deal was this summer, but I definitely don’t think he’s into her anymore,” she says, eyeing me. “Honestly? I think he might have a crush on you, Sutton.”