“Girls?” Mrs. Mercer’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? You’re going to wake up the neighborhood. Drake, get inside. Laurel, Sutton, go to bed.”
The door shut firmly. Emma and Laurel exchanged glances, and then collapsed into silent laughter.
I watched my sisters with a sad pang, wishing I were there between them. I marveled at my twin’s ability to defuse Laurel’s frustration. I’d never been able to do that.
“Sutton,” Laurel whispered, pushing her away so she could look into her eyes. “Whatever’s going on … just tell me if I can help, okay?”
Emma thought about denying that there was anything going on, but then she bit her lip. “Okay,” she said.
Then they stood and strode toward the brightly lit kitchen while I, their silent third sister, trailed unseen behind them.
10
TEA FOR TWO
The next day after school, Emma skipped tennis and drove straight home. The house was quiet when she arrived, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock echoing through the foyer. When her phone beeped, piercing the silence, she jumped. She had a new text from Ethan: I DIDN’T SEE YOU AT TENNIS PRACTICE. EVERYTHING OK?
YEAH, JUST TRYING TO GET SOME REST, Emma wrote back. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, haunted by nightmares of being strapped to a hospital bed.
HOW ARE YOU HOLDING UP?
Emma’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She’d quickly told Ethan about Becky in the hallway that morning, not wanting to go into much detail because she wasn’t sure who might be listening—she doubted the story of Sutton Mercer’s crazy mother was something Sutton would have wanted to become common knowledge. Ethan had given her a huge hug. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” he’d said, and she’d felt just a little better, knowing that he was there for her.
I’M FINE, she finally wrote. BUT I MISS YOU. I CAN’T WAIT FOR OUR PICNIC TONIGHT.
ME NEITHER, he responded. SEE YOU AT 8?
After Emma texted YES, she shut the door softly. Drake loped into the foyer, his long tail waving behind him. She stroked the smooth short fur around his ears. “Hey, buddy,” she whispered.
He raised his head to lick her face. When she started up the stairs to Sutton’s room, he followed, his nails clattering noisily on the hardwood.
The stairwell was hung with family pictures: images of the vacations the Mercers had taken over the years to Disneyland, Paris, Maui, mixed in with snapshots of Christmas mornings and school awards ceremonies. Emma stopped absently to straighten a school picture of a seven-year-old Sutton in pigtails. Even then Sutton’s smile looked mischievous, like she knew just how much she could get away with.
Emma was halfway up the stairs when Mrs. Mercer stepped into the hall with a basket of laundry in her arms. She had changed out of the sleek, tailored work suit she’d worn this morning into a pair of dark-wash jeans and a short-sleeved cashmere sweater. When she saw Emma on the stairs, she looked startled. “Sutton!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing home?”
Emma rested her hands on the banister. “I have a headache, so I skipped tennis.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. The episode with Becky had shaken her to her core.
Seeing Mrs. Mercer’s concerned frown, she added, “I’m okay. I took some aspirin and I’m already feeling better. Just not up to running around a hot tennis court.” Then she cocked her head. “What are you doing home?”
Mrs. Mercer smiled. “I cut out of work early today. There was a meeting on the books that I just couldn’t bring myself to sit through.”
“I guess we’re both playing hooky,” Emma joked.
Mrs. Mercer shifted the laundry basket to one arm. “Why don’t you join me for some tea? I was just about to sit down for a cup.”
Emma had actually come home to try to refocus—she needed to be able to think logically if she was going to find out what had really happened to Sutton. She’d been looking forward to some time alone, relaxing in Sutton’s bedroom, but she didn’t feel like she could turn down the offer. “Sure.”
Sun poured through the kitchen’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Emma perched at the island counter and watched as Mrs. Mercer measured loose-leaf tea into a purple-flowered teapot. “Remember playing tea when you were little?” Mrs. Mercer asked, smiling. “You would bring your stuffed animals down and sit them around the table and pretend to serve them crumpets.”
“Crumpets?” Emma rolled her eyes as she imagined Sutton would have done. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did. I don’t think you even knew what crumpets were—you just heard the word somewhere and liked how it sounded.”
Emma smiled. She liked hearing sweet memories of her sister.
I liked that my mom had sweet memories of me.
“How’s Ethan?” Mrs. Mercer poured hot water over the leaves. Lavender-scented steam billowed from the teapot’s spout.
“He’s good.” Emma couldn’t wipe a dopey grin off her face. “We’re having a picnic tonight.”
Mrs. Mercer raised an eyebrow. “How romantic.”
Emma ducked her head, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “We’re going stargazing—he’s really into astronomy. I was going to bake cookies this afternoon to take with us.”
“You’re making cookies?” Mrs. Mercer peered at her. “You don’t even know how to turn the oven on!”
“Oh, I’m sure I can figure it out,” Emma covered. It didn’t surprise her that Sutton didn’t know how to cook, but she’d been baking since junior high, making chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and peanut butter blossoms to try to win over her various foster families. Baking relaxed her. She liked to sit, listening to her favorite music on the used iPod she’d bought at Goodwill, inhaling the delicious smells of sugar and chocolate.