Emma cast her eyes down, feeling her cheeks burn. “Uh-huh,” she mumbled.
Laurel slumped into her regular breakfast seat. “You missed the best part of Dad’s party, Sutton—the cake. It was ah-may-zing. Then again, you seem to be ditching all kinds of parties these days, including your own.” She rolled her eyes.
“It was a nasty case of food poisoning,” Emma mumbled, clutching her stomach for effect. “In fact, I should probably go upstairs and lie down some more. I’m still feeling dizzy.”
“Nonsense. A little food in your stomach will do you good,” a sharp voice said to Emma’s left. She looked over and saw Grandma at the table, a mug of coffee before her. Her eyes were cold, and she looked Emma up and down with pursed lips. “Funny, you don’t look sick.” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Mercer. “Does she?”
Mr. Mercer flinched, dropping the ladle into the batter bowl. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
“What do you think poisoned you?” Laurel asked, looking a little worried. “I hope I don’t get sick, too.”
Emma shifted her weight, suddenly not remembering a single morsel of food that had been served at the party. “Uh, a hot dog, maybe,” she blurted, thinking of the time she’d gotten food poisoning from a hot dog she’d bought at a Vegas street stand.
Grandma gave Emma a pointed look. “Hmm. I thought the food was delicious. Are you sure it wasn’t something else that…upset your stomach?”
“She said it was the food, Mom,” Mr. Mercer snapped. “Just drop it.”
Grandma’s wrinkled lips flattened into a frown, but she stayed quiet.
Laurel swiveled back and forth, staring at all of them. “Uh, does someone want to let me in on the joke?”
No one answered. Emma shrank against the wall, wishing Grandma would keep her mouth shut. She was playing with fire—and she didn’t even know the half of it.
Just then, Mrs. Mercer swept into the room, all sunshine and happiness. “Everyone’s up!” she trilled. “And we’re all having pancakes! How lovely!” She glided over to Mr. Mercer at the stove. “And how’s the birthday boy? Did you enjoy your party last night?”
Mr. Mercer swallowed hard and mumbled a less-than-enthusiastic yes.
Mrs. Mercer poked his side. “You’d better be happier about it than that! I thought it was a resounding success! Didn’t you, Gloria?”
She looked at Grandma. Grandma Mercer’s gaze was still on Emma. “I think it had its good moments and its bad moments,” she said in a pinched voice.
Mrs. Mercer paused and stared from Grandma to her husband to Emma. “Did I miss something?” she asked tentatively.
“That’s what I want to know,” Laurel said. “They’re all acting really weird.”
“We’re acting fine,” Mr. Mercer said quickly, flopping several pancakes on the plate so forcefully that one nearly flipped onto the floor. He carried the plate over and set it on the table. “Voilà. Enjoy.”
Mrs. Mercer reached for a pancake, the chipper expression returning to her face. “So, girls, I found out last night from Mr. Banerjee that the school dance was canceled because of some kind of vandalism,” Mrs. Mercer said. “What happened?”
Laurel grabbed the syrup, which was in a striped ceramic jug. “Oh, it was just a stupid thing. Some freshman girls did it, but because they won’t fess up the dance is off.” She poured the syrup onto her stack of pancakes. “I heard that it’s really canceled, though, because the teachers wanted to use the money they set aside for the dance to go to some off-site conference at a spa in Sedona.”
“Really?” Mrs. Mercer said, her brow crinkling. “Well, I’ll be sure to bring that up at the next PTA meeting.”
Laurel took a big bite of her pancake and washed it down with orange juice. “Sutton and I will be home late that night, though. The tennis team is having a get-together after practice.”
She was lying, of course. But the Mercer parents weren’t likely to go along with their daughters breaking into the school gym to throw a dance. “It’ll be fun to do some team bonding off the court,” Laurel chirped. “Don’t you agree, Sutton?”
Emma glanced up from her plate of pancakes. “Um, yeah,” she mumbled. “Really fun.”
“And the get-together was Nisha’s idea,” Laurel went on, meeting eyes with Emma.
Mrs. Mercer’s eyes lit up. She had Nisha on a pedestal like some teenage version of Mother Teresa. “That girl is always thinking about what’s best for the team,” she murmured.
Grandma Mercer stared at Emma. “Just like you, Sutton. Remember last year, when you made those team T-shirts? Your father told me about how clever your wording was. What was it again?”
Emma looked up and felt four pairs of eyes on her. Mrs. Mercer, Laurel, and Grandma just looked inquisitive, interested. But Mr. Mercer’s gaze was cold and threatening. She could practically hear his thoughts: Keep playing along. Keep your mouth shut.
Emma jumped up abruptly, nearly upending the jug of syrup. She couldn’t stand another second of this. “Um, can I be excused?”
Mrs. Mercer looked surprised. “Are you still not feeling well?”
Emma shook her head, careful to avoid eye contact with everyone.
Mrs. Mercer let out a note of concern. “Oh, you poor thing!” she said, following Emma out of the room. “Is there anything I can do for you? Get you some ginger ale? Bring you up some of your favorite DVDs?”