Cross My Heart, Hope to Die Read Online Free PDF

fight except to send him a few texts, yelling at him for being so rash. Ethan had apologized, as had Thayer. But Emma didn’t exactly like having the two of them fighting over her.
    The late fall air was dry and hot, the sky a robin’s-egg blue beyond the mountains. The moon hung visible even in the afternoon, a pale disc in the cloudless sky. The courts were busy with girls warming up, adjusting ponytails and gossiping—probably about the fight.
    Laurel nudged Emma. “Check out the new girl,” she giggled, thankfully changing the subject.
    Emma glanced up at the thin, elfin-looking girl standing a few feet away. Her long blond hair was swept back in lots of little braids, and she had about a dozen earrings in her earlobes, and silver rings shaped like ankhs and Wiccan spirals and Celtic crosses on every finger. While the other girls on the team were doing deep, athletic-looking stretches and exercises, this girl stood on one leg in some kind of yoga pose, her hands at her chest in prayer position. She hummed distractedly to herself as she lifted her arms in the air, balancing perfectly. Emma recognized Joni Mitchell’s “Free Man in Paris,” which Ursula, one of her old foster mothers, used to play nonstop.
    Charlotte snorted. “What’s she doing, balancing her chakras?”
    Laurel laughed, and the girl’s eyes snapped open. She gazed at them as if she was seeing them through a deep mist and could just barely make them out.
    “Be quiet, Charlotte, you’re disturbing the cosmic forces,” Laurel teased, slapping her friend lightly on the arm.
    Emma shifted her weight, a twinge of guilt gnawing at her. She’d been the new girl often enough in her life to know how hard it could be. She straightened her spine and strode across the court toward the strange girl.
    Practically everyone on the team stopped what they were doing. Nisha paused mid-push-up to follow Emma with her eyes. Clara, who’d been demonstrating a backhand grip to some low-ranked players, dropped her racket and openly stared.
    It wasn’t the first time Emma had been struck by the power of popularity. When Sutton Mercer talked, people listened. Sometimes that influence made Emma uncomfortable—she’d never had that kind of sway in her own life, and she’d been on the receiving end of the popular kids’ cruelty a few times herself. But now she had the opportunity to use her role as Sutton Mercer to do some good.
    “Hi,” she said, holding her hand out to the new girl. “My name’s Sutton.”
    The girl didn’t budge from her yoga pose. After a moment Emma was forced to lower her hand awkwardly. It was only then that the girl gracefully dropped back to a standing position, opened her eyes, and gave Emma a big smile.
    “Sorry about that—I like to see how long I can balance in vrksasana . My record is twelve minutes thirteen seconds.” She blinked placidly. “My name’s Celeste. Do you practice yoga?”
    Emma pursed her lips. “Uh, no …”
    “You totally should,” Celeste said, a languid smile on her face. “Not only does it improve your focus, but it can really put you in touch with the flow of the universe. My tennis game has improved so much since I started. Once you learn to move with the racket, it’s like it just finds its way to the ball.”
    “That’s … cool,” Emma said.
    Celeste grabbed a SmartWater from the bench and took a long swig. “We moved here from Taos. Daddy got a new position in the art department at the U. He’s a painter. He just finished a big exhibition in Berlin.”
    Emma perked up. This at least sounded more interesting—she was a huge fan of art, especially photography. Ethan had taken her to an opening a month ago, and she’d loved it. “What kind of work does he do?”
    “You like art?” A hint of skepticism had entered the girl’s voice. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. Daddy’s work is very conceptual. People don’t get it most of the time, at least not in Arizona .” She wrinkled her