Lies I Told

  “I have a hair appointment in town. Figured I’d get the lay of the land.”

  I wasn’t surprised by the vague dance of questions and answers. No one said anything specific about a job outside of the War Room. Ever. It was one of the rules.

  “Good. We’ll have a family meeting tonight.” He tossed a set of keys to Parker. “Saab’s out front and ready to go.” He turned to me. “You ready, Gracie?”

  I nodded, remembering the dark-haired boy with deep brown eyes from the subject files. It was time to go to work.

  Three

  A balmy breeze lifted my hair as I followed Parker down the stone path at the side of the house. Foliage grew thick overhead, blocking out the sun as the strange green pods of the paloverde trees crunched under our feet.

  We were almost to the driveway when a chill iced the back of my neck. It was that universal feeling of being watched, and I looked up at the house next door just in time to see a curtain drop over one of the second-story windows. I kept walking. Some things were different city to city, but nosy neighbors were everywhere. I made a mental note to be extra vigilant.

  The black Saab was like a jungle cat, sleek and gleaming in the morning sun. My dad had arranged it—in addition to the Volvo he’d purchased for my mom—just like he did everything. Parker didn’t even pause to admire it. He just climbed into the driver’s side, waiting for me to buckle my seat belt before backing out of the driveway.

  We didn’t talk on the way to school, which wasn’t unusual. We spent a lot of our time together in silence. It was one of the things I loved most about being with Parker: we didn’t have to pretend. We both had our demons, and we knew from experience that talking about them didn’t change anything. I needed to concentrate anyway.

  The new school wasn’t a big deal. Mom made that easy, insuring that we were pre-enrolled, our fake transcripts and immunization records sent over ahead of time so that all we had to do was show up and get our schedules.

  It was the other stuff that was hard. The pretending to be someone else. The being careful not to let slip who we were, where we came from, what we’d done.

  More and more, I had to really think about that part. Had to prepare myself for weeks or months of being in character, of losing a little more of myself with each passing day.

  Parker turned a corner and the sign for Playa Hermosa High School came into view. His face was impassive as he reached over, cranking the music until the car vibrated. He hated loud music, but it went with the territory. A successful con required careful balance between avoiding the wrong kind of attention and getting the right kind.

  And we needed the right kind at Playa Hermosa High.

  The parking lot was nearly full when we pulled in. Some of the kids got out of their cars and hurried into the building, while others stood around, talking and goofing off in the warm September sunshine. School had only been in session for a few weeks, but most of Playa Hermosa’s student body had probably gone to kindergarten together.

  Parker made a show of backing smoothly into a spot next to a sleek BMW. Several kids were leaning against the car and standing around it, the girls subtly tan in the way people are when they spend a lot of time on the beach—complete with SPF 50 as protection against the aging effects of the sun—the boys all sporting versions of a familiar haircut, a little bit long, slightly sloppy, totally surfer.

  Parker knew his stuff.

  The parking spot was no accident, either. I recognized a couple of the kids, including the dark-haired boy, from the subject files we’d read while preparing for the job.

  This was the group Parker and I were assigned to infiltrate. They were all seniors, like Parker, but I wasn’t worried about doing my share. Parker and I were only eighteen months apart, and I spent most of my time with him. Besides, I hadn’t had the luxury of acting my age since, well, ever.

  He cut the engine and surveyed the crowd. Some of the kids glanced over, trying to be sly, because everyone knows there’s nothing more pathetic, more desperate, than being too curious about anything.

  “There’s your mark,” Parker said quietly, his eyes drifting to the dark-haired boy.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  He glanced at me. “You good?”

  Parker was tough. Some would even say hard. But he had looked out for me since the day he’d joined the family, even when it seemed he needed looking after more than anyone.

  I smiled. “Yeah.”

  It was the only possible answer, because it didn’t really matter if I was good or not. This was why we were here.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “See you on the flip side.”

  He got out of the car and started across the parking lot without a backward glance. We had to act like other siblings now. We couldn’t afford to display our closeness, born of all the times we’d moved, all the cons and near misses we’d weathered together when there was no one else we could trust.

  I dug through my tote bag like I was looking for something, trying to stifle a wave of panic. I always got a little anxious before a new job, but I usually rallied at the last minute, remembering the payoff of doing my part, of keeping the family together.

  Now I had the feeling that there were things I didn’t know. Things I hadn’t anticipated. I should have studied the subject files more thoroughly, should have taken a couple of days to get settled before starting school, just to get a feel for the place.

  But it was too late. The group—especially the girls—had watched with interest as Parker sauntered toward the school.

  Now their focus was on me.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door. Walking to the front of the car, I avoided eye contact with the guys. Instead I cast a hesitant smile at the long-legged redhead standing at the center of the crowd. Her name was Rachel Mercer, and I knew from our research that she was the unofficial leader of Logan’s social circle.

  A bell rang somewhere inside the building, and I walked purposefully toward the entrance, their eyes on me every step of the way.

  Four

  I picked up my schedule from the main office and headed to Precalc, fingering the Chandler High ID card in the pocket of my capris. It was way out of line, and I knew it. Not just a random memento that could be picked up at any souvenir stand in any big city, but a photo ID with my picture. I wasn’t sure why I’d chosen something so incriminating, but I couldn’t stand the thought of destroying it. I promised myself I would only keep it for a while, just long enough to let go of the people I’d met in Arizona, the life that had been on loan. Then I’d put it back in the wooden box with all the other stuff I wasn’t supposed to have.

  And someday I’d have a souvenir of Playa Hermosa, too.

  The high school was different than I’d expected. Instead of one building, the school was made up of multiple structures connected by a series of outdoor walkways. I hurried across campus in the dry autumn heat, a fragrant breeze scenting the air with the jasmine that seemed to grow wild all over the peninsula.

  I wasn’t surprised by the whispering of my new classmates. Playa Hermosa was a public school, but the town was small and exclusive, one of a handful of communities that were home to Southern California’s elite. It would be a while before anyone approached me. First they would observe me, like an exotic new animal in their familiar menagerie. This was doubly true for the girls who had been standing around the BMW in the parking lot. They were a pack, and Rachel Mercer was their alpha female. Winning her over was the quickest way into the group. There were others, but they would require more finesse, more time. It would be easier to work with Rachel than around her.

  I made mental notes throughout the morning, keeping track of the classes I had with Rachel’s posse, the hallways I saw them in the most, the lockers they seemed to congregate around. It was always good to know where to find your players in case you had to stage an “accidental” meeting.

  By fourth period, I was feeling better. My first-day jitters had subsided as I became more familia
r with the school, and I made my way to AP Euro totally unprepared to see Rachel Mercer occupying a desk near the back of the room. I stood at the front of the class, playing the part of self-conscious new kid while the teacher, Mr. Stein, checked his seating chart. A moment later, he pointed to the desk next to Rachel.

  “You can take that seat there.”

  I made my way to the empty chair, careful to keep an expression of calm boredom on my face. Still, I had to resist the urge to stare as I slid into my seat. Up close, Rachel was stunning, with deep green eyes and skin so pale, so perfect, it was almost translucent. Her hair, a true, natural red, fell in a satin sheet almost to her waist. Confidence emanated from the straightness of her back, the tilt of her chin. This was a girl who had gotten what she wanted for a very long time, and I was willing to bet she wasn’t going to let that change anytime soon.

  Or ever.

  We were halfway through Mr. Stein’s lecture when something scratched noisily next to me, slowly at first and then more urgently. I looked over at Rachel, who was making inkless circles on her notebook, trying to get her pen to work, while Mr. Stein droned on, leaving her further behind with every passing second.

  She finally gave up, digging around in her bag before letting out a sigh of frustration, looking helplessly at her paper while Mr. Stein babbled about the Weimar Republic. I felt her pain. This was the third AP Euro class I’d been assigned to in the past year, and one thing was true in all of them: without notes, you were screwed for the AP exam.

  Reaching into my bag, I pulled out an extra pen and handed it across the aisle, careful to keep my smile a little cool. Seeming desperate for the attention of a girl like Rachel was the kiss of death. In high school, any high school, there was a fine line between friendly and needy.

  She took the pen, flashing me a brief but appraising smile. I pretended not to notice her eyes skimming my hair (loose, beachy waves), makeup (a little mascara and tinted lip balm, in keeping with California natural), clothes (silk drawstring capris and a snug white tee), and shoes (gold sandals). Usually, that kind of appraisal didn’t bother me, but I had to fight not to squirm under the weight of her stare. I had the sensation of being laid bare. Of being really seen for the first time in ages.

  And not in a good way.

  I was relieved when class ended and she left without a word. Hopefully, I’d done enough to pique her interest, but only time would tell. It was hard, the waiting, the patience required to let a mark come to me, the deliberate positioning to make it look natural while being careful not to draw the wrong kind of attention.

  But I was good at it. Good at drawing people out, getting them to like and trust me. It didn’t matter if they were popular kids or misfits. It wasn’t difficult to find a common thread with all of them. I tried not to think about the implications. About what kind of person it made me and whether or not it was a gift or a curse. It had to be done, and Parker wasn’t exactly a candidate for the job.

  I was heading to the cafeteria for lunch when I spotted Logan Fairchild, he of the dark hair and brown eyes, leaning against a bank of lockers, goofing off with some of the guys he’d been with in the parking lot.

  I slowed down. Logan was my mark, but only acceptance by the group would earn me concentrated time with him. And Rachel Mercer could speed up that acceptance by a mile.

  According to the subject files, Rachel and Logan had once had a heated relationship, history that made my job a lot trickier. I had to earn Rachel’s trust to be included in the group’s social scene and then find a way to hit it off with Logan—without bringing out territorial jealousy in Rachel.

  Not an easy task, which was why I’d planned to work Rachel first.

  Still, I knew a golden opportunity when I saw one, and there was no harm in getting an early start on the Logan angle as long as I was careful.

  I took a quick inventory of the situation: Logan, standing near a kid with hair so bleached it was almost white. Next to them was a tall guy with swingy black hair and another one with perfect brown skin that I recognized from the morning BMW hangout.

  They got quiet as I passed, but I pretended not to notice as I slipped a hand into my binder, tugging on the class schedule I’d stuffed there. I let it fall to the floor and kept walking.

  I was almost to the end of the hall when a voice called out behind me.

  “Hey! Wait up!”

  I turned around. Logan was jogging toward me with a piece of paper in his hand.

  “I think you dropped this, uh . . .” He looked down at the schedule, searching for my name. “Grace.”

  “I did?” Looking innocent was second nature.

  He nodded. “It’s your schedule. I thought you might need it.”

  I took it from him, holding his gaze just a second longer than normal. I’d been wrong about his eyes. To say they were brown didn’t do them justice. They carried traces of mossy green, too, like something you’d find in a tropical pool at the bottom of a hundred-foot waterfall. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead, giving him a boyish quality that was surprisingly sexy against his all-American good looks.

  “Thank you.” I held out my hand. “Grace Fontaine, resident new girl.”

  He smiled and took my hand. “Logan Fairchild.” His skin was warm and dry. “I saw you this morning, in the parking lot.”

  I nodded. “With my brother, Parker.” Best to clear that up right away. “We just moved here from San Francisco.”

  The lie was an easy one.

  Sympathy moved behind his eyes. “Must be tough now that school’s already started.”

  “I’m managing.” I held his gaze until he pulled his eyes away.

  He shuffled from foot to foot. “Well, nice meeting you, Grace. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  I smiled. “Maybe.”

  I turned and headed for the cafeteria, surprised by the possibility that Logan Fairchild might actually be nice.

  Five

  I threw together a salad, grabbed a bottle of water, and surveyed the lunchroom.

  Parker was by himself, but joining him was out. Teenagers were more likely to approach a new kid sitting alone. It changed the psychology of things if they thought you had someone, which was why we would try separately to get in with Rachel and Logan’s crowd. Whoever got in first would introduce the other one. Until then, we were on our own.

  I looked around the cafeteria, scouting for a spot, wondering which of the kids eating lunch, studying, and messing around I’d get to know. Which of them I would miss when we left. We’d pulled five good-size cons in the last four years. I had lied, cheated, and stolen on behalf of the family. But it only got harder to befriend people I would eventually betray.

  I forced the thought away. There was no point thinking about the end of a con before we got there. It only increased the odds of getting distracted, making a mistake.

  Right now I needed a place to set up shop until I got in with Rachel and her posse, who were eating and talking at a table near the window. I avoided looking their way as I scanned the room, not wanting to seem interested in them.

  My gaze landed on a table occupied by three girls. Two blondes were talking while a curly-haired brunette read a book. The blondes were obviously tight, their postures relaxed as they leaned toward each other, deep in conversation. The short-haired blonde said something to the dark-haired girl. She glanced up and smiled before turning back to her book.

  Acquaintances, then. Friends, maybe, but not super close.

  I studied her from across the cafeteria, trying to gauge the impact my association with her would have on the con. Pretty enough to be under the radar but not so pretty that someone like Rachel would view her as competition, the girl had pale skin, lush black hair, and the kind of demeanor that suggested she spent a lot of time alone reading books. One of many kids who traveled the back roads of high school unnoticed.

  In other words, perfect. It was just a bonus that she was reading.

  I crossed the cafeteria and
stopped in front of the table. “Hey.”

  The girl looked up, blinking, a far-off expression in her eyes. I recognized it, understood the shock of realizing the world inside your book wasn’t real. Even worse, you were in another world entirely and no one understood—or even cared—that you preferred the one living on the page.

  “Oh . . . hey,” the girl said.

  I smiled. “Mind if I sit here?”

  She glanced at the blondes, who shrugged almost in unison.

  She turned back to me. “Sure.”

  I sat across from her. “I’m Grace.”

  “Selena Rodriguez,” the girl said, closing her book. “This is Ashley.” She gestured to the short-haired girl before turning to the other one, her waist-length waves too frizzy to be anything but natural. “And that’s Nina.”

  After a perfunctory round of nice-to-meet-yous, Ashley stood, raking her fingers through her short spiky hair. “I’ve got to make up a quiz in Mrs. Beamon’s class.”

  Nina stood. “I’m gonna hit it, too.” She looked at Selena. “See you after school?”

  “Yep.”

  I waited for the girls to get out of earshot. “Friends of yours?” I asked.

  She smiled a little. “More or less.”

  I nodded, tearing open the packet of salad dressing on my tray. “What are you reading?”

  Selena held up the book.

  “White Oleander?” I don’t know why I was surprised. “That’s my favorite book in the whole world.”

  I wasn’t lying, but I would never be able tell Selena why it was true. Why I identified so much with Astrid and everything that happened to her in foster care. With the strength it took to keep trudging through life when my legs were so heavy I couldn’t even think about how far I still had to go.

  Selena blinked. “Seriously?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It’s . . . well, it’s amazing. I’ve read it, like, five times.”

  Selena’s gaze got sharper, like she was suddenly really seeing me. “Me too.”