“Gross,” Madeline says, more to Char than Cotton Candy Guy. She giggles and hands Charlotte a napkin. But her chin’s all sticky, and little flecks of paper get stuck there, making her look even more ridiculous. We collapse into laughter, giggling so hard we have to hold on to each other to stay upright. The crowd streams around us, giving us weird looks, but we don’t care.
“What’s next on our agenda?” I ask, finally straightening up and tugging at the hem of my Ella Moss tissue tee.
Mads looks around. “Gabby and Lili want us to meet them by Skee-Ball. Apparently Gabby’s smoking it.”
She holds her iPhone screen up to my face so I can see their latest Twitpic.
“That could be a picture of anything,” I scoff. “I need a visual confirmation.”
“Then let’s go.” Mads links arms with each of us, beaming with contentment, and we head back into the fray.
The fair is swarming with people. We’ve only moved about three feet, back to the ragged, dusty path between booths, when we bump directly into Laurel.
“Hey!” Laurel says eagerly. Her foot lands squarely on my brand-new Vince Camuto cap-toe ballet flats, and I glare at her.
“I thought we lost you back by the front entrance,” I snap. I couldn’t get out of driving Laurel here, but Mads, Charlotte, and I slipped away from her the second she was distracted by someone in her class.
A hurt expression flits across her face, and I turn away. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too mean to Laurel. We actually used to be friends, but then we just … drifted apart. It happens. Plus, I think that deep down, I’m kind of pissed at her. Laurel is my parents’ biological daughter, the child they never thought they could have. There’s always a fear inside me that they love her just a little bit more.
Laurel sweeps her hair back off of her shoulder. “I just saw Aidan Grove by the Skee-Ball. He asked if you were here tonight,” she reports, looking proud of herself. “I told him you were.” She reminds me of a puppy who wants a treat for a well-executed sit or roll over.
“He is so smitten,” Charlotte agrees. She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone, texting furiously as she barely maneuvers the sea of bodies streaming past us on all sides. Her hand is jostled and she squeaks a protest. “Stupid autocorrect!” She sighs again, but her eyes shine with enthusiasm. “Garrett just got here. Oh! There he is!”
She spies a figure walking through the crowd and starts to wave. We all crane our necks to see Garrett coming toward us. He’s got close-cropped hair, high cheekbones, and small, intense eyes that look like they’re always squinting—but in a cute way.
Madeline nudges Charlotte, whose cheeks are pink with happiness. “I guess Garrett was okay with you coming with us to the fair instead of riding with him?” she asks.
Charlotte nods, looking sheepish. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you come with him?” Laurel asks.
“Sutton told me that when it comes to guys, you have to have the upper hand at all times. Which means leaving them wanting more.”
“And … ?” I goad her.
“And you were right,” Charlotte admits.
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m always right about those kinds of things.”
“Hey,” Garrett says as he joins us. He drapes his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Charlotte looks like she’s about to faint. Then Garrett nods at the rest of us. “Where are you guys headed?”
“Skee-Ball,” I announce.
Garrett twists his mouth. “What Sutton says, goes, huh?”
“That’s usually how it works,” Madeline answers, shrugging.
We head over to Skee-Ball, where the crowd is thicker than ever. Over the clatter of wooden balls bouncing through targets, we’re greeted by a roar of hooting, whistling, and enthusiastic cheers. Mads and I exchange a glance. Someone was clearly on a roll. Could this crowd be all because of Gabby?
But then a cloud of Wintermint Trident surrounds me, and I hear Gabby’s screechy voice in my ear. “Oh my God, Sutton!” She presses me into a cloying hug. “You totally missed my moment of triumph!”
I unwind my arms from her torso, shooting Mads an eye roll. “It looks like we’re here just in time for some real excitement, though.”
“It’s Thayer,” Laurel squeals, scanning the scene and grinning. She rises on her tiptoes to get a better look. “He’s kicking butt!”
I frown. It’s got to be someone else. Last year, Laurel used to always whine about how she and Thayer never went to any good concerts because he couldn’t deal with crowds. And forget about things like talent shows and battle of the bands—though we’d sometimes hear Thayer rocking out on his guitar through the walls at Mads’s house, he would have never, ever gone onstage and performed in front of all those people. Madeline used to say that instead of having attention-deficit disorder, he had attention-terror disorder.
I jostle Laurel aside and rise, zeroing in on the Skee-Ball machine just as a ball disappears squarely down the highest-scoring hole. A scoreboard lights up and the crowd cheers. I follow the trajectory of the ball backward and up an exceptionally graceful, well-muscled arm clad in a heather-gray T-shirt … a T-shirt that covers the chiseled torso of the least likely candidate for rock-god status Hollier High has ever known....
Wow.
Thayer gracefully picks up another silver ball and lobs it toward the hole. Bing bing bing, another high score. He turns to the crowd and bows.
Someone certainly has gotten over his shyness.
Char nudges me. “Check out his number-one groupie.”
She points to Nisha Banerjee, my tennis rival, who is glued to Thayer’s side. She nibbles at a rainbow snow cone that’s stained her lips a deep purple. She catches my eye across the crowd and scowls, but I avert my gaze frostily. Because of Nisha’s perma-smug expression, of course. And how she doesn’t bow down to me like she should. And because she’s a ridiculously good tennis player, and I hate having competition. Not because she’s standing next to Thayer. I don’t care about that.
Thayer sinks another ball down the 50-point chute, and the crowd roars once more. Lili nudges me. “Rumor has it he’s trying to win one of those huge toys for someone.” She points out the hulking plush dolls looming large on a rickety, overcrowded prize shelf at the back of the booth. There’s a Scooby-Doo, Flounder from The Little Mermaid, Snoopy, and that football-headed baby, Stewie, from Family Guy. “You have to get a thousand points to win one, though.”
“For Nisha?” Laurel says, sounding heartbroken.
“Maybe,” Gabby trills.
“Seriously?” The thought burns like bile in the back of my throat. There’s no way he likes her. Right?
Laurel looks at me, then glances at Scooby. “Oh my God, remember, Sutton? Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” She says it in Scooby’s goofy voice, shaking her head from side to side. “A couple of years ago? You tried to win him, too!”
I turn brusquely away from her. “No, I didn’t.” Did she have to say it so loudly? I hate when my little sister brings up dorky stuff from my past. Okay, okay, yeah, I used to really, really like Scooby-Doo. When Laurel and I were younger—when we were actually friends—I once played Skee-Ball just like Thayer is doing now, determined to get Scooby for myself. I didn’t get remotely close, though.
I take a big step away from Laurel, indicating I want her to drop it, now. Madeline is shaking her head as Thayer pumps his fist in a dorky victory gesture. “My brother seriously needs to get over himself,” she snaps.