Never Have I Ever

Chapter 15 An Opening . . . and a Closing

CAN YOU SNEAK OUT?

Emma rolled onto her back to read the text Ethan had just sent. Pulling one of Sutton’s soft blue throw blankets over her bare legs, she texted back: MERCERS ARE OUT TO DINNER. I’D HAVE TO BE BACK BEFORE TEN.

I’LL PICK YOU UP IN FIFTEEN, Ethan responded. WEAR A DRESS.

A dress? Emma frowned. UM . . . OKAY, she wrote. CAN I ASK WHAT WE’RE DOING?

NOPE. IT’S A SURPRISE.

Emma sprang from Sutton’s bed and padded to her closet. She pushed aside a row of soft cotton tops and skinny jeans and examined Sutton’s dress selection, which was plentiful and expensive. She touched a long black dress with gold straps. Too fancy, it seemed, for a Tuesday. Her fingers traced the feathered collar of a short silver cocktail dress. Maybe it was too short. She ran her hands along the hem of a fire engine-red minidress. Too sex goddess.

I couldn’t help but groan. Was there even such a thing as being too much of a sex goddess? As far as I was concerned, Emma needed to get down with her sexy self. This had to be the night they were finally going to kiss, right?

Then Emma’s palms rested on a light gray one-shouldered dress. The gauzy silk felt soft beneath her fingertips. She slid it over her head and glanced at herself in the gold-framed full-length mirror on the back of the door. It was perfect.

After mascara, lip gloss, black patent heels, and chandelier earrings that matched Sutton’s silver locket, she was ready. The phone beeped once more, and Emma ran to the bed, thinking it was Ethan. But it was from her friend Alex instead. YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY CHECK THIS PLACE OUT! Attached was a website for a vintage store near the University of Arizona. I KNOW HOW YOU LOVE YOUR THRIFT SHOPS, Alex added, with an emoticon smiley. Emma wrote back a quick thank-you followed by a series of Xs and Os. Then she glanced at herself in the mirror, dolled up in Sutton’s designer dress, jewelry, and expensive shoes. Would Alex even know her right now?

She sat on the bottom step of the Mercers’ staircase, the house quiet around her. Laurel was out with a friend at Les Misérables—since Emma was grounded, she couldn’t use the ticket Laurel had given her for her birthday. Only Drake watched her from his sprawled-out post on the living room floor, and he was too lazy to get up.

Bright headlights shone in the driveway. Emma rose, carefully opened the front door, and looked both ways as she stepped off the porch. Some of the windows in the houses next door were lit; she hoped no nosy neighbors would mention this to the Mercers. Your daughter looked lovely all dressed up! And who was that dashing young man escorting her?

Ethan had gotten out of the car to open the passenger door for her. He wore a dark suit jacket, khaki pants, and shiny black shoes, a huge change from his usual disheveled shorts and tees.

“Wow.” Emma paused for a moment before getting into the car. “You look so . . . handsome.”

“Handsome, huh?” Ethan grinned.

Emma blushed. “Yeah, handsome like a Ken doll.”

Ethan’s eyes traveled along her body. “And you look really pretty,” he said, his words spilling out awkwardly. “But not like a Barbie.”

Emma pressed her lips together in a bashful smile. After a moment, she swung into the passenger seat. Ethan jogged to the driver’s door and revved the engine. Emma rested her hand on the console between them, wondering for just a moment whether Ethan would try to link his fingers through hers. Instead, he took out a plaid handkerchief from the inside of his coat and turned to face her.

“You’re going to have to wear this,” he said, a mischievous grin crawling across his face. “Our destination is a secret.”

She burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack.” He motioned for her to twist and tied the scarf around her head. In moments, Emma was enveloped in darkness. She felt the car lurch into reverse and then pivot to the right, onto the street. With anyone else, she probably would’ve been freaked out by such a gesture—Madeline and the Twitter Twins had kidnapped her at Sabino Canyon in a similar fashion, after all. But with Ethan, she felt safe. Excited.

“It won’t be too long,” he assured her. Emma heard the soft tick-tick-tick of the turn signal. “No peeking!”

A new song by the Strokes played softly on the stereo. Emma sat back and shut her eyes, wondering where they were going. Yesterday in school, she’d told him about Madeline’s, Charlotte’s, and Laurel’s alibis, and Ethan had nodded, businesslike—he’d been cordial but distant since the almost-kiss. The bell had rung before she could tell him about her new suspects, the Twitter Twins. There had been no mention of anything personal. There had been no mention of what had happened at the pool. Maybe Ethan just wanted to forget it had happened. But then again, this seemed a lot like a date.

She felt a slight jerk as the car stopped for a light. Close by, a car stereo thudded.

I tried to look at where they were going, but ran up against one of the weird side effects about my dead life with Emma—whenever her eyes were closed or covered, mine were, too. It made me wonder who or what was behind all this—not my murder, but me, here, trailing Emma from beyond the grave. Believe me, I hadn’t been a what-does-it-all-mean kind of girl when I was alive, reading philosophy and praying to Buddha or whatever. But this opportunity with Emma, as scary as it was, made me feel kind of . . . blessed. Undeserving, too. I’d clearly been a bitch in life; why was I given this special gift? Or was this what happened to everyone after they died, or at least those with unfinished business?

Finally, Emma sensed the car easing to a stop and heard Ethan shift it into PARK. “Okay,” he said softly. “You can look now.”

Emma lowered the scarf and blinked. They were downtown, near the college. A large, sand-colored building stretched across the horizon. Sweet-smelling lemon trees lined a stone walkway. Golden lights illuminated the grand front steps. Across the front of the building was a black banner that read TUCSON PHOTOGRAPHY INSTITUTE.

“Oh!” Emma cried, feeling more confused than ever.

“There’s an exhibit for three London-based photographers starting tonight,” Ethan explained. “I know you like photography, so . . .”

“This is great!” Emma breathed. Then she looked down at her dress. “But why are we dressed up?”

“Because tonight’s the opening party.”

“And we’re . . . invited?”

Ethan shot her a devious smile. “Nope. We’re going to crash.”

Emma’s hands went slack in her lap. “Ethan—I can’t get in trouble again. The Mercers will kill me if they know I’m out. I’m supposed to be in Sutton’s bedroom right now, repenting my life as a criminal.”

Ethan gestured to two party guests climbing the grand stairs. A tuxedoed man at the top smiled at them and politely opened the doors without checking for credentials. “Live a little. I promise you we won’t get caught.”

“But what does this have to do with Sutton?”

Ethan sat back against his seat, looking a little surprised by the question. “Well, nothing. I just thought it would be fun.”

Emma gazed from the photo institute’s elegant columns back to Ethan’s face. A fancy party with Ethan? That would be fun. Maybe she deserved some time to relax and just be herself.

“Okay.” She pushed open the door, casting a grin over her shoulder. “But at the first sign of trouble, we’re leaving.”

Good girl, I thought. For a second, I had been sure Emma was going to demand that Ethan take her home. The problem with Emma being grounded was that I’d been cooped up for days, watching her pace in my bedroom. Crashing a party is just what the boredom doctor ordered.

They ascended the stone staircase. The punishing heat of the day had broken, and a cool breeze tickled their cheeks. The scent of lemon trees and a musky mix of women’s and men’s colognes hung in the air. The tuxedoed man eyed them as they approached, and Emma sucked in her stomach. Was he ticking off his mental list of invitees? Could he tell they were high school students?

“Act naturally,” Ethan murmured to Emma, apparently noticing how stiff she’d become. “The opposite of how you acted when you stole that handbag.”

“Very funny.” When Emma reached Mr. Tuxedo, she shot him the most carefree smile she could muster. “Good evening,” the man said, opening the door for them.

“See?” she whispered when they were safely in the lobby. “I totally played it cool. I’m not as big a loser as you think I am.”

Ethan looked at her sideways. “I most definitely don’t think you’re a loser.” Then he touched the back of Emma’s arm to guide her inside the exhibit. For a moment, all sounds and sights dulled, and Emma felt like she and Ethan were the only ones in the universe. When he let go at the end of the lobby, she adjusted the strap of Sutton’s silky dress and tried to breathe normally.

The museum was dark and smelled like fresh flowers. Guests mingled around the wide, terra-cotta-tiled space, some gazing at the black-and-white photos on the walls, some chatting with one another, others scoping out the crowd. Everyone wore sleek gowns, chic party dresses, and dapper suits. There were clusters of people surrounding three awestruck guys who looked like they were in their twenties, probably the artists. A jazz band played an Ella Fitzgerald song, and waitresses in simple black sheaths swirled around with trays of canapés and drinks. A couple of guests glanced at Emma and Ethan curiously, but Emma tried to stand as straight and confidently as she could.

“Stuffed shrimp?” a waitress asked as she floated past. Emma and Ethan each took a treat.

A second waitress materialized, offering them flutes of champagne. “Of course,” Ethan said, taking two glasses and handing one to Emma. The crystal sparkled, and the bubbles rose to the top of the glass.

Champagne. How I wished I could have one tiny, beyond-the-grave sip.

“Cheers,” Ethan said, offering his glass in a toast.

Emma clinked her champagne flute to his. “How did you know about this?”

A slight flush crawled up Ethan’s neck. “Oh, I just came across it online.”

Warmth spread through Emma’s chest as she imagined Ethan sitting at his computer, scrolling through events they could attend together.

They walked toward the artwork. Around each photograph was a large black square frame. Small beams of light from the ceiling illuminated each image. The first photo was of a long, straight road as seen from the inside of a car. It was printed in black archival pigment ink on cotton paper, and there was something haunting about the dark trees and eerily lit sky. Emma glanced at the small placard off to the side. Besides listing the artist’s name, it also showed the price. Three thousand dollars. Whoa.

“So I haven’t told you the latest,” Emma whispered as they moved to the next photo, a triptych of desert vistas. The champagne tickled her throat, and she felt increasingly aware of how close Ethan stood to her as he examined each photo. To outsiders, they probably looked like boyfriend and girlfriend. She took another sip of champagne. “I’m almost positive Sutton was with the Twitter Twins at Clique on the night she died.”

Ethan lowered his glass from his lips. “What makes you say that?”

Emma explained the conversation she’d had at Madeline’s house on Saturday. “It’s too much of a coincidence. They had to be the friends Sutton was with when she shoplifted. And what if they . . .” She looked away, fixating on a fire extinguisher mounted to the wall across the room.

“Gabby and Lili, killers?” Ethan tilted his head and squinted as if trying to picture it. “Those two are definitely off-kilter, that’s for sure. They have been for years.”

Emma skirted around an enormous potted plant with spidery leaves to get to the next photo. “Part of me thinks they’re too vapid to pull it off.”

“They’re the poster girls for vapid,” Ethan agreed. “But whatever happened to Gabby on the night of the train prank gives them motive.”

“And maybe that ditzy-girl act is just that—an act,” Emma said. She’d certainly known fake ditzes before, like her foster sister, Sela, who acted like the quintessential dumb blonde in front of their foster parents but sold pot out of an abandoned split-level at the back of the neighborhood.

“They’re good actresses, then.” Ethan walked to another photograph. “Did anyone tell you that Gabby ran over Lili’s foot last year with their dad’s Beemer?”

“No . . .”

“And then when Lili came home with a cast on, apparently Gabby was like, ‘Oh my God! What happened to you?’”

Emma giggled. “She did not!”

“There’s another story about Gabby somehow locking herself inside her gym locker in ninth grade.” Ethan paused to take another canapé from the tray. “I didn’t even know someone could fit inside one of those. And when we were in junior high? Someone caught Lili and Gabby talking in British voices on the playground, calling each other ‘Miss Lili Tallywacker’ and ‘Gabby Pony Baloney.’ They had no idea the terms were slang for penis; they just thought they sounded funny. They didn’t live that down for a long time.”

Emma almost coughed up a mouthful of champagne. “Oh my God.”

“But despite all that, something tells me you shouldn’t write them off so easily,” Ethan said. “You should be careful around them, figure out what they know.”

Emma nodded. “Madeline and the others want to prank them. But I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“I’d stay away from that plan. If they are the killers, the last thing you want to do is piss them off more.”

The AC clicked on, and the air suddenly felt chilly. The band played something more appropriate for a 1920s speakeasy, and a couple of the drunker attendees started to dance. Ethan waved his hands around his face to dispel a cloud of cigar smoke.

They were quiet as they moved to the next set of photographs. It was a collage of Polaroids, each depicting different body parts: eyes, noses, feet, ears. “I love Polaroids,” Ethan said.

“Me, too,” Emma answered, relieved at the change in subject. “My mom gave me a Polaroid camera when I was little, before she took off.”

“Do you miss her?” Ethan asked.

Emma fingered the stem of her champagne glass. “It’s been so long,” she said vaguely. “I hardly remember what there is to miss.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Emma sighed and moved past a clump of patrons talking loudly about how they’d all been friends with Andy Warhol back in the glory days of the art scene. “A long time ago, I used to think she was still nearby, watching me. Following me from home to home, staying close to make sure I was okay. But I know now how stupid that was.”

“It’s not stupid.”

Emma stared intently at the price list on the wall as though she were thinking of making a purchase. “No, it is. Becky left me. She made a choice; I can’t change that.”

“Hey.” Ethan turned Emma to face him. For a moment, he just stared at her, which sent a thousand butterflies flapping through Emma’s stomach. Then, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “She made the wrong choice. You know that, right?”

A swell of emotions washed over Emma. “Thank you,” she said quietly, staring into his round blue eyes.

“Kiss him,” I whispered, feeling like the singing hermit crab in The Little Mermaid. I was all out of my own first kisses, so I had to root for Emma now.

A woman in a magenta dress bumped into Emma. “Sorry,” she slurred, her eyes glazed and her cheeks a boozy red. And Emma pulled away, giggling.

“So how do you know so much about crashing art openings?” Emma said, smoothing the front of Sutton’s dress. “I thought you were anti-party.”

Ethan strolled to a bank of windows at the back of the gallery that overlooked a stone terrace festooned with Christmas lights. “I’m not. I’m just against the kind of party with spiked punch and body shots. It’s so . . .”

“Juvenile?” Emma filled in for him. “But sometimes that’s a part of having a social life. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it to have friends.”

Ethan drained his glass of champagne and set it on a side table. “If that’s the price I have to pay, then I’d rather be alone.”

“What about girlfriends?” she asked nervously. She’d wracked her brain for days, thinking of how to ask him this.

A tiny smile danced across Ethan’s lips. “Yeah, I’ve had a few of those.”

“Anyone I know?”

Ethan just shrugged and sank into one of the angular leather chairs that could’ve been an art exhibit themselves.

“Were any of them serious?” Emma pressed as she settled next to him and cradled a soft, overstuffed pillow.

“One was. But it’s over now. What about you?” His gaze canvassed her face. “Did you leave anyone behind in Vegas?”

“Not exactly.” Emma stared at her lap. “I had some boyfriends, but nothing was too serious. And then there was this one guy, but . . .”

“But what?”

Emma’s throat tightened. “It ended up being nothing.”

She hated lying, but she didn’t want to get into her embarrassing fiasco with Russ Brewer, whom she’d made the mistake of liking. After he’d asked her out, she’d prepared for the date, borrowing a dress from Alex, wearing the last-season Kate Spade shoes she’d scored at Goodwill, rewashing and restyling her hair three times to get it right. But when she’d gone to the mall entrance, Russ wasn’t there. Instead it was his ex-girlfriend, Addison Westerberg, and her posse, their laughs high, horrible cackles. As if Russ would date the foster girl? they’d teased. It had been a setup. Not, in fact, unlike a Lying Game prank.

Ethan opened his mouth, perhaps to say more, but suddenly his eyes widened at something behind them. “Shit.” He leaned forward and clamped down on Emma’s arm.

Emma swung around and stared. Nisha Banerjee, dressed in a high-neck black dress and snakeskin heels, stood by a huge photograph of a mostly naked man. Her father was next to her, glancing around with a blank look on his face.

“Oh my God,” Emma whispered. Just then, Nisha turned and stared right at her and Ethan. A chicken satay skewer dangled from her fingers, forgotten.

“Come on.” Before she could think, Emma grabbed Ethan’s hand and pulled him through the crowd. She ditched her champagne flute in a big trash barrel and wound around the guests, nearly upending a waitress’s tray of cheese puffs. A man in a blue ruffled suit and a teal cowboy hat sneered at them over his martini, as though they were two children escaping the scene of a schoolyard scuffle. But Mr. Tuxedo opened the double doors for them placidly, as though he saw people fleeing from art openings all the time. They scurried down the stairs into the twinkling Tucson night.

Only when Emma had safely reached the street did she turn around to see if Nisha had followed them. There was no one at the entrance.

Ethan straightened his jacket and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. All of a sudden, Emma burst into giggles. Ethan chuckled, too.

After a moment, she grew serious. “Nisha definitely saw us.” Emma flopped on a green city bench and heaved a sigh.

“Who cares?” Ethan asked. He sat down, too.

“I care,” Emma answered. “She’ll tell my parents I snuck out.”

“Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you?” Ethan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t mind if she saw us . . . together?”

Emma’s stomach flipped over. “No, of course not. Would you?”

Ethan stared at her without blinking. “What do you think?”

Jazz music drifted out from the party. Across the street, a stray cat darted between the tires of a parked car. Ethan moved a little closer so that their legs touched. Emma wanted so badly to kiss him, but her body trembled with nerves.

“Ethan . . .” She turned away.

Ethan laid his hands in his lap. “Okay, am I misinterpreting things?” He sounded both sheepish and annoyed. “Because sometimes it seems like you really want to . . . you know. But then you always pull back.”

“It’s . . . complicated,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“How?”

Emma bit her fingernail. She’d always wanted a serious boyfriend. Back in Vegas, she’d even named a star in the sky the Boyfriend Star, hoping it was a sign that she’d finally meet the person with whom she was meant to be. But now she was torn.

“It’s this life I’m living right now,” Emma started hesitantly, a lump hardening in her throat. “I love being with you. You make me laugh, and you’re the only person I can be myself with—my real self. I’m Sutton to everyone else.”

Ethan glanced up to meet Emma’s gaze. His eyes were huge and imploring, but he waited for her to go on. “I’m pretending to be a dead girl, Ethan,” she said. “And I’m being threatened, and you’re the only person who knows about it. I don’t have my own life right now, which makes this . . . bad timing.” She’d always thought excuses like “bad timing” were made up, occupying the same file as “It’s not you, it’s me.” But this was real. She did have feelings for Ethan, strong ones, but she didn’t know how to be with him when her life was in such upheaval. “And what if we start something and it ends badly? What if we get in a fight? Then I’ll have no one again.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “Maybe, when I’m finally free of all this we can . . .” She trailed off.

Finally, Ethan exhaled loudly. A frown marred his lips. “Are you saying that if we got into a fight, if we broke up, I’d abandon you? Do you really think I’d do that?”

Emma raised her palms to the air. “Breakups can be ugly.” Then she sighed. “I like you so much. But there are so few people I can trust—and you’re the only one I can rely on. I can’t jeopardize that. Not now.”

Ethan turned away, saying nothing. Emma stared at the parked cars across the street. A cleaning service called Clean Machine had stuck flyers under each of the windshields. A convertible cruised by with its radio blasting hip-hop.

“I think we need to keep it as friends,” Emma whispered into the darkness, afraid to look at Ethan head-on. “At least until I can figure out this mess and live my own life again.”

Next to her, Emma felt Ethan’s body slump from the weight of her words. “If you think that’s best,” he said slowly.

“I do,” Emma insisted in the strongest voice she could manage.

Without answering, Ethan rose and reached into his pocket for his car keys. Emma followed behind him to the Honda, feeling like someone had scooped out her insides with a big ladle. Had she just ruined everything?

As she swung into the passenger seat, a crackling sound made her turn. Her eyes scanned the dark road. Then, she spied something moving in the bushes across the street near the bench where they’d been sitting. The cherry-red tip of a lit cigarette glowed in the darkness. It dangled, disembodied, as though held by a ghost.

“Ethan,” she whispered, grabbing his arm. But as soon as Ethan twisted around to look, the spooky burning cigarette vanished.