“Laurel, that is ingenious!” Madeline says.

“Did you set up that DJ thing, too?” Char asks.

“That’s the best part,” Laurel says excitedly. “He did that all on his own! Poor little Sutton. I guess he thought she needed a good cry!”

Mads and Char giggle, then turn to me. When they see my face—I must not be smiling—both of them wrap their arms around me. “Come on, Sutton. It’s funny!”

“It’s not like you’re really a jilted bride!” Charlotte says.

Not that you know, I think. Jilted bride, no, but jilted secret girlfriend . . . yes. I allow myself a split second to wallow, hating Laurel and Thayer with all my might. Pranks aren’t so funny when you’re the butt of the joke. I can feel everyone in the club staring at me, pitying me. No one thinks I’m fabulous. No one wants me to be a model or an actress. I feel humiliated that I even thought that.

But if I storm off now, they’ll think I’m a baby, that I can’t handle it. So I force the corners of my mouth up in as convincing a smile as I can manage and begin to dance like nothing is bothering me. But everything is bothering me. I feel off my game—with everything. Thayer. My friends. My sister. My control.

And all of a sudden, it feels almost impossible to get it back.

9

TIED UP IN KNOTS

It’s eleven A.M. on Sunday, our last day in Vegas, and my last day to trounce Laurel in the Sudden Death challenge. We’re all standing in the lobby, considering what to do. I’ve already hit a sunrise yoga session, followed by a decadently long shower in our suite’s enormous rain-forest stall. I’m pumped. I’m focused. I’m ready for whatever they’re going to throw at me. After the jilted-bride stunt last night, I’m not going to let Laurel get the best of me again. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I spin on my heel toward the revolving doors and stare out at the street. “What do you guys want to do? I think we should ride the New York-New York Roller Coaster.”

“There’s a roller coaster here?” Laurel asks, wide-eyed.

“Dude, I kind of feel like I already am riding it.” Tucker, Garrett’s friend, groans and clutches his stomach. He, Garrett, and Marcus are all looking green and pasty this morning—they bragged that they’d gotten in at four A.M. from partying.

I put one hand on my hip and wag a finger at Tucker. “If you can’t hold your liquor, then you can’t keep up with us.”

Tucker gives Garrett a pleading look. “Can you reason with her? I can’t do a roller coaster this morning.”

“You boys can roller-coaster all you want,” Madeline jumps in. “But Sutton, Laurel, Char, and I have other plans.”

She says it with such authority that we all stare at her. “And what would those plans be?” I ask.

Madeline flushes and fiddles with the tassel on her purse. “You’ll see.” Mads heads to the revolving doors. “Meet me outside!”

Garrett touches my arm. “I need to take care of some trouble the boys and I got into last night.”

“What did you guys do last night, anyway?” I cock my head at him, imagining a Hangover-style scenario.

“We ended up playing poker out by the pool. We joined a game and this one”—he jerks his thumb toward Tucker, who has now collapsed on the chaise—“put up his father’s watch for collateral after he ran out of cash. We should go hit an ATM and get it back from those guys.”

I twirl my locket between my fingers. “You know you’d have more fun with me.”

He holds my gaze and smiles. “Trust me, I know. But we’ll catch up with you later. How about a one-on-one swim at the pool this afternoon?”

“Deal.”

He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. There’s a sniff behind me and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlotte adjusting her tank top, pretending not to watch.

The boys head off. Now it’s just the four of us again, wandering down the strip, Madeline in the lead.

“Where are we going?” I call out to her.

“It’s a surprise,” Madeline trills. She shoots a naughty smile to Charlotte. Laurel smiles, too. Does she know? She’d better not, if it has to do with a challenge.

A bright white party van speeds past, house music pouring out of the tinted windows. A sweaty, red-faced woman with crimped blonde hair peeks out of the sunroof, a plastic tiara attached to a mesh veil trailing behind her in the van’s wake. It’s obviously a bachelorette party, getting an early start on the day’s festivities. We walk for a while, and then Madeline stops short in front of a wild, over-the-top costume shop. The windows are crowded with headless silver mannequins draped in tutus, feather boas, and enough sequins to make a stripper call “uncle.”

“Here’s the place, girls,” Madeline says slyly, a small smile on her face.

I frown. “Here? Why? It looks like Mardi Gras threw up inside.”

Madeline taps her lips. “Let’s just say I feel a little late-morning challenge coming on.” Her eyes glimmer.

I eye a pair of thigh-high black vinyl boots with a fuchsia lace-up design. They’re paired with a plunging, open-front leotard that reveals fuchsia tiger-print pasties capped in silver-fringed tassels. “What do you want us to do in here?” I ask.

Charlotte takes a swig from the plastic water bottle she’s been carrying and nods excitedly. “This, girls, is a race. You have five minutes in the costume shop. The girl who comes out in the best costume wins.”

I scoff. “That’s the dumbest challenge I’ve ever heard.”

Laurel gives me a warning glance. “Does that mean you forfeit?”

“No,” I say toughly, turning toward the store. There is absolutely no way I’m losing another challenge. “Bring it on.”

Charlotte glances at her slim, gold Movado watch. “Time starts . . . now!”

Laurel and I bolt inside. The room smells like mothballs, and the aisles are a jumble of showgirl-ready metallic lamé, lace, and satin. Fortunately, there are no other customers in here this early in the day. At least we can do our extreme shopping in peace.

I spin around the place, trying to decide what the “best” costume might be. Something garish? Scary? Slutty? Just over-the-top? I survey a wall of rainbow-colored fishnet tights, flapper dresses, Elvis masks, costume jewelry, and ball gowns, and then I spy it: a gloriously retro, puffed-sleeve explosion of a Queen of Hearts costume. Between the sweeping, ruffled, full skirt, the boned corset bodice covered in a graffiti heart print, and the flame-red, sausage-curled Victorian wig, the effect is Tim Burton on acid.

I lunge for it on the wall. Another hand touches it at exactly the same time.

“I saw it first,” Laurel growls, tugging the dress toward her.

“You did not!” I leap forward. “It’s mine!”

We each grab on to a pink polka-dotted sleeve and tug violently. “You’re going to rip it,” I hiss.

“No, you are,” Laurel says.

The bracelet Thayer gave her gleams close to my face. I want to lean forward and rip it off her wrist. But instead, I give a sharp pull to the dress. It falls from the wall, still on its hanger, into my arms. Laurel reels back, stumbling onto the carpet. I lord it over her, grinning.

“You lose,” I tease.

Laurel glares at me and straightens back up, brushing a stray blonde tendril from her forehead. “Whatever. Maybe I lost, but at least I’m not a heartless bitch.”

I hug the dress tighter, hearing the fabric rustle. “I’m a heartless bitch? You’re the one who made fun of me at the club with that stupid jilted-bride thing!”

Laurel’s expression crumples. “I thought it was funny. I—I’m sorry. You didn’t?”

I thrust my chin in the air, annoyed that I showed any vulnerability. And please, like Laurel really didn’t know how mean she was being? “It was lame, Laurel, just like you are.”

Laurel blinks hard. “Sutton, why don’t you want me in the club?”

She’s leaning against a rack of flesh-colored bodysuits, suddenly looking small and wounded. It’s such a direct question that it knocks me off guard. “Because I don’t think you deserve it,” I snap. “Besides, why do you want in so bad?”

Two red spots bloom on Laurel’s cheeks. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I shrug. Maybe it is obvious. We’re the club to be part of. And more than that, Laurel has to steal everything of mine. All the affection. All the attention. And now this, too.

But then, ducking her head, Laurel says, “I miss being friends with you.”

I step back, blinking hard. “Huh?”

“Like we used to be. We had so much fun. I . . . miss that.”

My arms go slack and my mouth drops open. As I struggle to regain my composure, the salesclerk pops up, bobbing in front of us nervously. “Everything okay here? Would you like a fitting room for that?” She eyes the Queen of Hearts dress in my hands.

Laurel brightens. “She totally wants a fitting room! Sutton, you have to try it on.”

I look at her curiously. Why is she being so nice now? I glance at my watch—the five minutes are probably almost up. “I don’t need to try it on, I just want to buy it,” I start to say, but the salesgirl has already taken the dress from me. The minute she turns, Laurel speeds over to her, snatching the dress. She holds it over her head in victory.

“You bitch!” I scream, lunging after her. But it’s too late—Laurel already has it on the counter, and she’s whipped out her credit card. I can’t believe her composure, and I wonder: Was everything she just said about wanting to be friends again just to disarm me a little?

Fuming, I scan the floor for something I might have missed. And then I spy a perfect latex replica of Lady Gaga’s meat dress, glistening with a coat of wax that renders it completely grotesque and lifelike.

Nice. Without missing a beat, I duck behind a tall rack of fishnet and marabou accessories, shamelessly shimmy out of my strappy sundress, and shrug the plastic meat down the length of my body. It looks ridiculous, but also kind of awesome.

“Here,” I say to another salesgirl who is prowling behind me, about to tell me I can’t change clothes in the middle of the store. “I’m taking this.” I dig into my wallet, pull out a fistful of twenty-dollar bills, and shove them at her, and run outside.

Mads and Charlotte are both bent over their phones, distracted, when I step outside. When they see me, they slowly drop their phones into their bags and actually gasp in disbelief. “Amazing, Sutton,” Madeline says, awed.

“I know.” I spin to give them the full 360-degree view. The plastic meat is heavy and cold, and I’m relieved the dress is just a replica. Passersby notice me and hoot appreciatively.

The door of the shop swings open a second time, and Laurel’s footsteps sound behind me. Her Queen of Hearts dress crinkles with her every movement. “Check me out!” she crows. She prances toward us, curtsying like a Disney princess and fanning out the costume’s full skirt. The clown-red curls of the wig brush against her pale cheeks and the gaudy tiara on her head sparkles. She glows . . . until she realizes where I am and what I’m wearing.