Sara Shepard - The Lying Game

BY

SARA
SHEPARD

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

KURT VONNEGUT

I woke up in a dingy claw-foot bathtub in an unfamiliar pink-tiled bathroom. A stack of Maxims sat next to the toilet, green toothpaste globbed in the sink, and white drips streaked the mirror. The window showed a dark sky and a full moon. What day of the week was it? Where was I? A frat house at the U of A? Someones apartment? I could barely remember that my name was Sutton Mercer, or that I lived in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. I had no idea where my purse was, and I didnt have a clue where Id parked my car. Actually, what kind of car did I drive? Had someone slipped me something?

Emma? a guys voice called from another room. You home?

Im busy! called a voice close by.

A tall, thin girl opened the bathroom door, her tangled dark hair hanging in her face. Hey! I leapt to my feet. Someones in here already! My body felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, it seemed like I was flickering on and off, like I was under a strobe light. Freaky. Someone definitely slipped me something.

The girl didnt seem to hear me. She stumbled forward, her face covered in shadows.

Hello? I cried, climbing out of the tub. She didnt look over. Are you deaf? Nothing. She pumped a bottle of lavender-scented lotion and rubbed it on her arms.

The door flung open again, and a snub-nosed, unshaven teenage guy burst in. Oh. His gaze flew to the girls tight-fitting T-shirt, which said NEW YORK NEW YORK ROLLER COASTER on the front. I didnt know you were in here, Emma.

Thats maybe why the door was closed? Emma pushed him out and slammed it shut. She turned back to the mirror. I stood right behind her. Hey! I cried again.

Finally, she looked up. My eyes darted to the mirror to meet her gaze. But when I looked into the glass, I screamed.

Because Emma looked exactly like me.

And I wasnt there.

Emma turned and walked out of the bathroom, and I followed as if something was yanking me along behind her. Who was this girl? Why did we look the same? Why was I invisible? And why couldnt I remember, well, anything? The wrong memories snapped into aching, nostalgic focusthe glittering sunset over the Catalinas, the smell of the lemon trees in my backyard in the morning, the feel of cashmere slippers on my toes. But other things, the most important things, had become muffled and fuzzy, as if Id lived my whole life underwater. I saw vague shapes, but I couldnt make out what they were. I couldnt remember what Id done for any summer vacations, who my first kiss had been with, or what it felt like to feel the sun on my face or dance to my favorite song. What was my favorite song? And even worse, every second that passed, things got fuzzier and fuzzier. Like they were disappearing.

Like I was disappearing.

But then I concentrated really hard and I heard a muffled scream. And suddenly it was like I was somewhere else. I felt pain shooting through my body, before a final, sleepy sensation of my muscles surrendering. As my eyes slowly closed, I saw a blurry, shadowy figure standing over me.

Oh my God, I whispered.

No wonder Emma didnt see me. No wonder I wasnt in the mirror. I wasnt really here.

I was dead.

Emma Paxton carried her canvas tote and a glass of iced tea out the back door of her new foster familys home on the outskirts of Las Vegas. cars swished and grumbled on the nearby expressway, and the air smelled heavily of exhaust and the local water treatment plant. The only decorations in the backyard were dusty free weights, a rusted bug zapper, and kitschy terra-cotta statues.

It was a far cry from my backyard in Tucson, which was desert-landscaped to perfection and had a wooden swing set I used to pretend was a castle. Like I said, it was weird and random which details I still remembered and which ones had evaporated away. For the last hour, Id been following Emma trying to make sense of her life and willing myself to remember my own. Not like I had a choice. Everywhere she went, I went. I wasnt entirely sure how I knew these things about Emma, eitherthey just appeared in my head as I watched her, like a text message popping up in an inbox. I knew the details of her life better than I did my own.

Emma dropped the tote on the faux wrought-iron patio table, plopped down in a plastic lawn chair, and craned her neck upward. The only nice thing about this patio was that it faced away from the casinos, offering a large swath of clear, uninterrupted sky. The moon dangled halfway up the horizon, a bloated alabaster wafer. Emmas gaze drifted to two bright, familiar stars to the east. At nine years old, Emma had wistfully named the star on the right the Mom Star, the star on the left the Dad Star, and the smaller, brightly twinkling spot just below them the Emma Star. Shed made up all kinds of fairy tales about these stars, pretending that they were her real family and that one day theyd all be reunited on earth like they were in the sky.

Emma had been in foster care for most of her life. Shed never met her dad, but she remembered her mother, with whom she had lived until she was five years old. Her moms name was Becky. She was a slender woman who loved shouting out the answers to Wheel of Fortune, dancing around the living room to Michael Jackson songs,and reading tabloids that ran stories like BABY BORN FROM PUMPKIN! and BAT BOY LIVES! Becky used to send Emma on scavenger hunts around their apartment complex, the prize always being a tube of used lipstick or a mini Snickers. She bought Emma frilly tutus and lacy dresses from Goodwill for dress-up. She read Emma Harry Potter before bed, making up different voices for every character.

But Becky was like a scratch-off lottery ticketEmma never quite knew what she was going to get with her. Sometimes Becky spent the whole day crying on the couch, her face contorted and her cheeks streaked with tears. Other times she would drag Emma to the nearest department store and buy her two of everything. Why do I need two pairs of the same shoes? Emma would ask. A faraway look would come over Beckys face. In case the first pair gets dirty, Emmy.

Becky could be very forgetful, toolike the time she left Emma at a Circle K. Suddenly unable to breathe, Emma had watched her mothers car vanish down the shimmering highway. The clerk on duty gave Emma an orange Popsicle and let her sit on the ice freezer at the front of the store while he made some phone calls. When Becky finally returned, she scooped up Emma and gave her a huge hug. For once, she didnt even complain when Emma dripped sticky orange Popsicle goo on her dress.

One summer night not long after that, Emma slept over with Sasha Morgan, a friend from kindergarten. She woke up in the morning to Mrs. Morgan standing in the doorway, a sick look on her face. Apparently, Becky had left a note under the Morgans front door, saying shed gone on a little trip. Some trip that wasit had lasted almost thirteen years and counting.

When no one could track down Becky, Sashas parents turned Emma over to an orphanage in Reno. Prospective adopters had no interest in a five-year-oldthey all wanted babies they could mold into mini versions of themselvesso Emma lived in group homes, then foster homes. Though Emma would always love her mom, she couldnt say she missed herat least not Miserable Becky, Manic Becky, or the Lunatic Becky whod forgotten her at the Circle K. She did miss the