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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.”
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