Never Have I Ever

Chapter 10 Fish Out of Water

Plink. Plink.

Emma shot up in Sutton’s bed. The moon cast a silver slant of light across the carpet. The screen saver on Sutton’s computer was playing a slideshow of photographs of happy Lying Game sleepovers. Sutton’s flat-screen TV was tuned to an episode of The Daily Show. The Bell Jar, which Emma was rereading after she and Ethan had discussed it last week, sat overturned on the nightstand. The door to the hall was closed tight. Everything was exactly where Emma had left it when she’d gone to bed.

Plink.

The sound was coming from the window. Emma threw back the covers. Just last week, she’d had a dream that had begun exactly like this. When she’d looked out the window in the dream, Becky stood in the driveway. Warning her. Telling her to be careful. And then she’d vanished.

Emma hesitantly padded to the window and peered out. The streetlight made a soft golden circle on the prickly pear cactus beside the sidewalk. Laurel’s Jetta was parked directly below. Sure enough, someone stood in the driveway beneath the basketball court. She half expected it to be Becky, but then the figure stepped into the light, arm aimed to pitch another rock at the window.

It was Ethan.

She inhaled sharply and moved away from the window. She pulled on a heather-gray bra under Sutton’s see-through camisole and kicked her bare legs into a pair of striped pajama pants. Then she reappeared at the glass, waved, and hefted open the window. Mrs. Mercer hadn’t locked it yet, and it gave easily. The night air was stiflingly hot without the faintest trace of wind.

“Have you heard of using your phone instead of a rock?” she called softly.

Ethan squinted up at her. “Can you come out?”

Emma listened for sounds in the hallway—a toilet flushing, Drake’s jingling tags, anything. The Mercers would kill her for sneaking out the very day she’d been caught stealing. But there was only silence. She lifted the window higher and shimmied out.

A thick tree branch extended toward the roof; Emma grabbed it easily and swung to the ground. No wonder Sutton used this as an escape route. She dropped to the gravel and headed toward Ethan, a smile on her face.

But Ethan wasn’t smiling back. “What on earth got into you? Have you lost your mind?”

“Shhh.” Emma glanced around. The neighborhood was eerily still, all lights off, cars silent in driveways. “It was the only way I could get into the police station.”

“Why did you want to do that?”

Emma sat down on the big boulder in front of the Mercers’ house. “I had to see Sutton’s police file.”

As Emma told Ethan about the police report and the incident at the train tracks, his eyes bulged wider and wider. “Sutton put everyone’s lives at risk,” Emma finished. “And something happened to Gabby that night. She went to the hospital.”

“Whoa.” Ethan sank down on the boulder next to her. “And no one told on Sutton?”

“According to the report, no.” Their legs were just barely touching; Emma could feel the tough fabric of his jeans through her thin pajama pants.

Ethan turned his phone over in his hands. “Why do you think they kept quiet?”

“I don’t know. The train prank was serious. They all could have died,” she said, watching a shadow pass across the window of a neighboring house. “Maybe they wanted to give Sutton a taste of her own medicine?”

“Through a prank . . . or something else?”

A chill coursed through Emma’s veins. “You said yourself that Sutton’s friends looked like they wanted to kill her the night of the snuff film, right?”

Ethan gazed down the street, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “That’s what it looked like to me,” he finally said. “Even though they said it was a prank, Sutton seemed really scared.”

“Sounds like payback,” Emma said.

Ethan had a better memory of that night than I did. When I’d seen Ethan standing over me, I’d felt woozy and vulnerable. If only I could remember the hours and days after the strangling incident . . . had I really resumed normal activities with my friends as if it hadn’t mattered? Had I been able to shake off my fear that easily?

“But I’m not sure we should write off the Twitter Twins either,” Emma said. “Gabby went to the hospital, after all—maybe she was really hurt. They were at Charlotte’s sleepover, too. And I’ve seen them driving up and down this street, watching me. Plus they’ve been giving me really weird looks in school.” She shut her eyes, thinking about Garrett. “Then again, a lot of people have been giving me weird looks.”

Ethan nodded. “You can’t write off any of them until they have a clear alibi.”

Emma arched her neck up to the sky and let out a groan. Everything felt so . . . difficult. “Sutton’s parents would kill me if they knew I was out here,” she said, eyeing the dark windows in the house. “I’m already grounded for life.”

Ethan shifted in the gravel. “So this is your only night of freedom?”

“You could say that. Tomorrow there will probably be a big bolt on my window.”

Ethan smiled. “We’d better do something more fun than talk about Sutton’s murderer, then.”

Slowly, Emma raised her eyes to his. “Like what?”

“There’s a pool in your neighbor’s yard.” Ethan gestured over the block wall that separated the Mercers’ house from the neighbors’. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“They’ll see us!” Emma cried. The Mercers’ next-door neighbors, the Paulsons, had waved to Emma a few times from their driveway. They wore matching J.Crew outfits, drove matching champagne-colored Lexuses, and plastered their last name over everything—a big PAULSON on the mailbox, PAULSON, ESTABLISHED 1968 on a stone plaque in the front garden, even their vanity plates read PAULSON1 and PAULSON2. They seemed friendly enough, but Emma doubted they took kindly to pool crashers.

Ethan pointed to their driveway. Several blue plastic-wrapped newspapers lay near the mailbox. The lights in the house were dark, and there wasn’t a car in the driveway. “I think they’re out of town.”

Emma paused. She knew she should march back inside and get into bed, but a devilish little voice in her head pointed out Ethan’s deep-set eyes and hopeful smile, egging her on.

Maybe the devil was me. Emma deserved to have a little fun.

“I’m in,” Emma said with a grin.

Within seconds, they’d scaled the Paulsons’ wall and reached the oval-shaped pool in the middle of the patio. Inner tubes and rafts were stacked neatly on the deck. A black Weber gas grill stood under the pergola, and a beehive-shaped fire pit loomed farther out in the yard. Two towels, both with purple monogrammed Ps in the center, hung over the chaises. Emma glanced cautiously once more at the Paulsons’ dark house. No lights snapped on.

It took Ethan less than five seconds to strip off his T-shirt and jeans, kick off his New Balance running sneakers, and dive into the pool. When he surfaced, he grinned at Emma. “The water’s awesome! Come in!”

Emma kicked out a pajama leg. “Uh, I’m not exactly dressed for swimming.”

Ethan waggled his brows. “Take ’em off. I don’t mind.”

Emma mock-glared at him, but shed her pajama bottoms, grateful she was wearing opaque, black cotton boy shorts underneath. Tiptoeing to the edge, she lowered her body into the pool, the cool water slipping over her skin inch by inch. She pushed off from the wall and did a couple of breaststroke pulls underwater. Her camisole billowed out beneath her like an inflated parachute. When she came up for air, Ethan had stopped in the center of the pool. The golden lights reflected off his cheekbones, showing off his slicked-back hair, angular face, and broad, golden shoulders. Ethan caught her eye and smiled back, but Emma quickly looked away. She didn’t want him to think she was staring.

“This was a good idea,” Emma said, twisting around to float on her back.

“Told you.” Ethan paddled toward the diving board. “I have a confession to make,” he said a moment later, his strong arms cutting the water. “I’m a serial pool crasher. When I was younger, I used to sneak into my neighbor’s pool all the time.”

“Well, I’m a pool-crashing virgin,” Emma said, hoping the night was dark enough that Ethan couldn’t see her blushing at the word virgin.

“I always wanted my own pool.” Ethan reached up and grabbed both sides of the diving board. “My parents never went for it. My mom thought I’d be one of those kids on the news who drowned.”

It occurred to Emma how little she knew about Ethan’s life. “What are your parents like?”

Ethan shrugged. “They’re . . . well, my mom’s a chronic worrier. And my dad’s . . . absent.”

“He’s gone?” Maybe the two of them had something in common.

Air slowly escaped Ethan’s lips. “Not exactly. He just travels a lot. His work means everything to him. He got an apartment in San Diego that’s close to his company’s main office, and he’s there more than he’s home. He probably likes being away from us.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that.”

One of Ethan’s shoulders rose. It looked like he was going to say something more, but then he shook his head forcefully as if to erase the thoughts and dropped from the diving board. “Did you have a pool when you were growing up, Emma?”

Emma laughed, kicking her legs faster as she tread water. “A foster kid with a pool? I was lucky if I had a clean bathtub. But I hung out at public pools a lot. When I was younger, a social worker got me into free swimming lessons.”

“That’s nice.”

“I guess.” It would’ve been nicer if Becky had taught her to swim. Or if one of her foster moms had bothered to come and watch her lessons. Emma used to look to the bleachers when she was in the water, thinking she might see someone for her there, but she was always disappointed. Eventually, she stopped looking altogether.

“Do you have a favorite pool game from when you were growing up?” Ethan asked.

Emma thought for a moment. “I guess Marco Polo.” They used to play it at the end of swimming lessons.

“Wanna play?” Ethan asked.

Emma giggled, but Ethan’s face was serious. “Uh, sure,” she said. “Quietly.” She shut her eyes, spun around in the water a few times, and whispered, “Marco!”

“Polo!” Ethan answered back, his voice low. Emma drifted toward his voice, sticking her arms straight in front of her.

Ethan snickered. “You look like the undead.”

Emma laughed, but it felt wrong somehow. What if Sutton’s body was floating somewhere just like hers was right now?

An image of cold, dark water raced through my mind. Waves lapped a body wrapped in soaked clothing. I couldn’t get close enough to make out the figure lying facedown on the riverbed. Could it have been me lying there, left for dead?

Emma halfheartedly swam toward Ethan’s voice, trying to shake off the feeling of dread that had bloomed in her stomach. Her hands swiped air.

“I’m the Marco Polo master,” Ethan teased. It sounded like he was now in the shallow end. “So did being a foster kid suck?”

Emma cleared her throat. “Pretty much,” she said, squeezing her eyes tighter. “But since I’m eighteen, I guess it’s over. Marco!”

“Polo,” Ethan answered, now sounding on Emma’s left. “It’s also over because you’re here, living Sutton’s life. And once we figure this out, you can go back to being Emma again.”

Emma swished her fingers through the cool water, considering this. It was hard not to think about what might happen to her after Sutton’s murder was solved—if it was solved. She wanted more than anything to stay here, to get to know the Mercers as herself, but what if they kicked her out once they discovered she’d been impersonating their dead daughter?

Ethan broke the silence. “I don’t know how you got through years of foster care and turned out so . . . normal. I’m not sure I would.”

“Well, I kind of disappeared into my own head.” Emma skimmed through the water, focused on the sound of Ethan’s low voice. “Made up a world of my own.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“I kept journals and wrote stories. And I created a newspaper.”

“Really?”

Emma nodded, her eyes still closed. “It was sort of . . . the Daily Emma. I would take pictures and write down stuff that happened to me as if it were a top story on the front page. You know, ‘Girl Cooks Yet Another Lentil Loaf for Hippie Foster Parents.’ Or ‘Foster Sister Breaks Emma Paxton’s Prized Possession Just ’Cause She Feels Like It.’ It helped me cope. I still compose headlines in my head, sometimes.”

“How come?”

Emma wiped water from her face. “I guess it makes me feel . . . significant. Like I’m good enough to be a headline on a front page—even if it’s my own made-up newspaper.”

“I went into my own little world, too,” Ethan confessed. “I used to get picked on all the time when I was younger.”

“You were picked on?” Emma wanted to open her eyes and stare at him. “Why?”

“Why does anyone ever get picked on?” Ethan’s voice cracked. “It was just something that happened. Except instead of writing newspapers, I drew mazes. First, they were pretty basic, but eventually I made them more and more complicated until even I couldn’t solve them. I would get lost in those mazes. I imagined that they were a garden labyrinth I could disappear into forever.”

Suddenly, she felt fluttering kicks underwater. She thrust her hand out, touched skin, and opened her eyes. Ethan was wedged in the corner near the built-in hot tub.

Before Emma knew what she was doing, she touched a little shaving cut on Ethan’s chin. “Does it hurt?”

Ethan blushed. “Nah.” Then he grabbed her waist and pulled her closer. Their legs collided and Emma felt the friction between their skin. She stared at Ethan’s dewy lips, the droplets of water on his eyelashes, the smattering of freckles scattered across his shoulders.

Crickets chirped. The mesquite trees sighed in the wind. Just as Ethan leaned closer, Sutton’s necklace caught the moonlight and sent a glimmer across the surface of the pool.

The water suddenly felt like ice on Emma’s skin. This was all happening too fast. “Um . . .” she muttered, turning and swimming away.

Ethan twisted awkwardly, too, wiping water from his face.

“Ugh!” I screamed at them. Talk about frustrating!

Emma moved to the ladder. “We should probably get out.”

“Yeah.” Ethan pushed out of the pool. He looked at the flower beds and the cone-shaped bird feeder that hung from a birch tree—anywhere but at Emma.

They stood wet and shivering and almost naked on the deck. Emma wished she could think of something to dispel the tension, but her mind felt blank and waterlogged.

A deep groan made her turn. Lights shone through the slats in the fence. A car idled on the street. Emma grabbed Ethan’s arm. “Someone’s here!”

“Shit.” Ethan tucked his shoes and clothes under his arm and ran barefoot to the back of the block fence. Emma shimmied into her pajama pants, wrung out her camisole, and ran after him. He gave Emma a boost, then climbed over himself. On the other side of the Paulsons’ backyard was a dried-out creek bed filled with random sticks and rocks, tumbleweeds, and overgrown cacti. The Mercer house was to the left, but Ethan veered right.

“I should get home,” he said.

“You walked here?” Emma asked, surprised.

“Jogged, actually. I like jogging at night.”

The car’s engine idled on the street. Emma squinted in the darkness. The desert went on forever. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Catch you later.”

Emma watched Ethan until she could no longer see the reflective patches on the back of his sneakers. Then she followed the path to Sutton’s backyard, crept close to the edge of the fence, and emerged onto the driveway next to Laurel’s Jetta. When she looked over, she fully expected to see a car in the Paulsons’ driveway, maybe even Mr. Paulson prowling around the property with a baseball bat. But the driveway was empty. The newspapers lay in the exact same spots they’d been an hour before. No lights were on inside the house either.

A cold, slimy realization washed over Emma’s skin. The car didn’t belong to the Paulsons at all. Whoever had been idling there, watching them, had been someone else entirely.