The Hardest Ones to Fool

For fans of the hit Netflix series Inventing Anna and The Girls I've Been comes a bold young adult thriller about a teen scammer who won't let boys, friends, or even murder get in her way.

The first edition will feature blood red sprayed edges and a gritty matte cover!

Amelia Wu is great at relationships. So great, in fact, that she’s in three of them. Why choose between the suave debate team captain, the charming indie filmmaker, and the tennis star when she can be with them all?

The catch? None of them know about each other. It works perfectly. They’re in love with her—or the versions of her that they get. Amy. Ellie. Mia. And she’s in love with the lavish dinners, fancy yacht trips, and expensive gifts. Times three.

But schemes always get complicated, don’t they? When Amelia's best friend ends up dead, her alleged murder shocks their placid beachside city. And soon, Amelia's carefully planned relationships start to dangerously unravel.

In a fit of desperation, Amelia teams up with her academic nemesis Jackie, the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and a self-proclaimed true crime junkie, to get to the bottom of this.

After all, Amelia needs to keep her boyfriends close and her enemies closer if she wants to keep her scam—and herself—afloat.Christina Li (she/her) is the award-winning author of children’s books Clues to the Universe, which was a Washington Post summer book club pick, and Ruby Lost and Found, which was an NPR and New York Public Library Best Book of the Year and recipient of the Asian/Pacific American Award for Children's Literature. She is also the author of the young adult novel True Love and Other Impossible Odds as well as her adult fiction debut, The Manor of Dreams, which has been listed as one of TIME magazine’s most anticipated novels of the year. Learn more at christinaliwrites.com.Chapter One

My mom thinks I’m tutoring right now.

My cover story is that I’m helping some desperate junior with the SAT math section. But the boy I’m making out with on his beige leather couch doesn’t actually need one bit of tutoring. Dalton Burke’s dad already donated millions last year to his top college (and his backup, just so he could have options). There will be a Burke chemistry wing somewhere at Yale, a fact that this boy in front of me deeply resents. He is independently smart: He’s debate team captain, sensational at trivia, and likely the only high schooler in La Jolla who buys and reads actual physical books from the philosophy section of Warwick’s and holds intelligent conversations about them. That brilliance drew me to him in the first place. I know he wishes he could just have a chance to prove himself without his parents intervening every step of the way. When he told me that, I had to physically restrain my eyeballs from rolling out of my sockets. But unfortunately, he is an incredible kisser, so I humor him. His teeth lightly trace my bottom lip. The room is airy, the windows cast open, warmth beaming down on us. His fingertips run down my arm in a way that makes me shiver. I shift, feeling him press against me, ­and—­

Glass clatters on glass and we jump apart. We’ve knocked over a wine bottle on the coffee table. I leap for it, worried I’ve broken something. The Georgian silver gilt coasters are worth a semester of private school tuition. But the Herman Miller table is unscathed, as are the coasters. The carpet, less so. There’s a dried wine stain. I get up and survey the wider aftermath of Dalton’s party from last night. Furniture ­surfaces—​­armrests, the mantel, the TV ­console—​­are littered with empty chip bags and plastic cups filled with alcohol that have been left out overnight. Playing cards lie scattered on the floor. There’s a cloying, acidic sweetness to the air.

“We should start cleaning,” I say. “Your dad’s coming home in, like, two hours. Maybe even less.” Depending on how the traffic from the Palos Verdes golf courses is today.

“Ugh, come on, Amy.” Dalton leans back into the recesses of the couch and covers his face. “Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.” He pushes himself up, kissing my shoulder, and then gives me a long, thoughtful look.

I feel suddenly ­self-​­conscious. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Thanks for helping out.”

“Of course.” I beam at him.

Combining all the ­half-​­filled sticky cups into one revolting cup, I carry them to the sink and pour them out. I paw everything into the trash bag and bring the lamps and the glass vases out from the cabinets. Dalton scrubs at the carpet with some diluted dish soap and water. His thick, wavy brown hair, ­honey-​­streaked from the sun, falls in front of his eyes and he pushes it back with his free hand. He’s methodical. He’s done this before, I know, because everybody talks about the parties at the Burke house on La Jolla Shores, the beach cliffsides a stone’s throw away, and also, the first time we met was at his Halloween party. There’s no panic. His parents are more absent than most and lean heavily into plausible deniability.

I haul the bag up and tie it shut. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He sits back and stares at me again with his clear green eyes. His jaw tenses and he tilts his head, the generous sunlight brushing the sculpted, gorgeous planes of his tanned cheekbones. He has something on his mind. Conflict clouds his expression.

Now I’m getting slightly flustered and concerned. “Everything good?”

“Who was that guy you were talking to last night? On the steps?” He nudges his head toward the massive foyer and staircase.

Shit. He’s talking about me running into Aditya. Did he see us go upstairs together after? I hope my face isn’t red.

“Just catching up with an old friend,” I say airily. “We met at tennis camp years ago.”

“I see.”

He’s still looking very intently at me. Dalton’s the hardest one of them to fool. He’s not letting this go, not just yet. I know what matters to him is not how I answer but my reaction. I keep my head cool. Try not to let my gaze wander up to one of the ­second-​­floor bathrooms, where Aditya hoisted me onto the sink counter and kissed ­me—­

“It was good to see him again,” I continue. “But I barely know him. We weren’t, ­like . . .”

“I know. I wasn’t implying anything.”

I hold my eye contact with him for a second more, and then he drops his gaze.

I’ve passed the test.

I settle onto the couch. He slings an arm around me. The leather feels stiff and cold to the touch. He picks up his phone, where group chat messages are flooding ­in—​­from his stoner surfer friends, his debate camp friends. The group chat names are all esoteric. I have no idea how he can manage to keep track of this many people in his life. My phone is silent today. One text from my mom. A few texts from my academic nemesis, the annoying girl from my AP classes who exclusively texts me questions about homework assignments. Two chats I’ve turned the alerts off for, for now. I’m on Do Not Disturb on these dates. Nothing from Ingrid, but that’s to be expected because she usually wakes up late, anyway. I wonder where she went last night. We only briefly crossed paths, right before I ran into Aditya and proceeded to spend my night avoiding people. It was actually a quite hard thing to do, despite the size of this massive house.

I really need to text Aditya and confirm that we’re on for Monday. Max, too. I close my eyes, lie back on Dalton’s lap, and let the sun warm my eyelids.

I feel something cold settle around my neck, and I jolt. “What’s—­” My voice softens. “Oh.”

“An early birthday present,” Dalton whispers in my ear.

My fingers trace the necklace, feeling out a butterfly pendant with jewels on the wing tips, which I’m pretty sure are aquamarine. I don’t even need to look at my reflection in my phone to know that it’s a platinum chain from Tiffany’s. I caught him looking over my shoulder when I pulled it up on my phone weeks ago. I’d only dropped the smallest hints about it. It’s his most extravagant gift yet. I gasp with delight.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I murmur breathlessly, staring up into his eyes in disbelief. “You remembered.”

I told him this birth date ­once—​­and never mentioned it again. I know how he works. He likes to think that he’s thoughtful, that he picks up on the details. Dalton Burke, too, loves passing a test. I glance at his phone. “Your dad will probably be home soon. I should go.”

“Wait, stay. Say hi.”

I shake my head. “I need to go home and pick up some meds for my mom. Want to hang out sometime next week?”

“Of course.”

Slowly, I disentangle myself from him. I feel the pendant knock against my clavicle. “I just need to go upstairs. I think I forgot my charger.” I pad across the spacious foyer, the unforgiving marble chilling my bare feet. I ascend the stairs and go straight for the master bedroom and into the massive walk‑­in ­closet—​­specifically, his mother’s walk‑­in. Shelves of shoes line my right, an entire row of the ­same-​­looking navy blue pumps. Coats hang above me, carefully preserved in plastic dust bags. Pantsuits in every color, so bright they hurt my eyes.

Being Congresswoman Celia Burke must be exhausting.

I carefully root through the drawers. I don’t even want to think about how much everything costs, but still, I do the mental math in my head. There’s a drawer that’s just full of silk scarves. I dig my hand in, deep, and pull out a sheer soft slip of fabric that feels like water on my hands. A forest print, with bright flowers. I think it’s Hermès. She won’t miss this.

I stuff it in my bra and swipe my phone charger from the bathroom on my way back.

“Got it,” I say as I descend the stairs. We hug, and I pull away, and yet again, Dalton stares strangely at me.

Oh my god. What if he’s about to tell me he loves me? He is the only one who’s held out this long. I bite my lip. “What?”

He’ll say it this time, I think.

“What, is it a crime to look at a pretty girl?” He pauses. “If so, sue me.”

I blush and press a kiss to his lips, gathering my car keys. I throw him an impish grin. “See you in court.”


***


The ocean peels away from my sight as I drive over the serene hills of La Jolla. I pick at the chipped leather of my steering wheel, this old Cadillac that used to belong to my dad. I tell Dalton that I keep this car for sentimental value because it’s the only thing I have left of my dad, which is not untrue. Max has never seen this car because it’ll be humiliating for me if he does. I always drive most of the way and then call a luxury Uber at the last mile to drop me off. I keep my window open. There is a clear air to everything around here. It’s a little gloomy right now, but it’s San Diego weather and I know the clouds will dissipate before noon. A gentle wind, dampened by salt, will pick up from the cliffside and crest toward the water. The cove will fill with kayakers and sunbathing sea lions. I drive a little bit inland, toward my neighborhood. I feel the soft silk of Dalton’s mother’s scarf around my neck. It feels nice and luxurious and vintage. The resale will go for a high value. I fiddle with the necklace. I’ll keep it for a few weeks. I’ll wear it to his mother’s ­fundraiser—​­that art museum gala coming up. Then I’ll hack into his email to access the receipt so I can exchange it for something else and sell that, too.

I drive to the Asian market by the freeway and pick up some snacks. Coconut milk for myself, the little packaged pineapple cakes for my mom. When I’m almost home, my phone vibrates on my passenger seat as I roll over a hill. I tap to answer it.

“Hi—​­Mrs. Mitchell?” Huh. Weird of Ingrid’s mom to call.

“Amelia, hi.” Her voice sounds strained. “Ingrid’s with you, right?”

I sit up. “No. She isn’t. Why?”

There is a very long pause.

“I thought she was with you,” Mrs. Mitchell finally says. “She said she was going to sleep over at your place, but she’s not texting me back. You were both at a party, right?”

Sleep at my place? I pull over to the side of the road and snatch up my phone. Our sleepovers are always at Ingrid’s. Mrs. Mitchell knows that. Ingrid never made plans with me, and she refused when I asked if she wanted a ride back. If anything, it seemed like she was still avoiding me at the party. Why did she lie? Where the hell is she? My breath picks up. I start to assume the worst and tell myself not to go there yet. “Yeah. We were. But I left early, and she said someone else was going to drive her. Is ­she . . . not home yet?”

“Okay.” I can hear Mrs. Mitchell start to panic. “Okay. Um. Well, she was supposed to come home for brunch with her grandparents. But I’m going to call some of her other friends. Um, Dana, ­Chris . . . ?”

These are Ingrid’s theater friends. I lean back, feeling my heart race. I need to stay calm for Ingrid’s mom. But still, a little bit of alarm laces my voice. “Yeah. She’s probably with them. Maybe one of them drove her and she stayed over with them.”

When our call ends, I just stare ahead for a while. I text Ingrid that her mom is checking in on her before scrolling through the texts she didn’t answer last night.

I can’t worry. The light is too bright; the sun feels too hot coming in the window. I unmute two chats.

sushi on Mon? Aditya’s texted. I autopilot send a slew of kiss emojis back and yes, can’t wait.

I switch chats to the one with Max Bracken. ty for being there for me yesterday, he wrote. meant tons

I send a single heart emoji. Ofc. Here if you want to talk.

Location scouting and off the grid to take my mind off things, he replies. But ty appreciate u

Have fun, I answer. Love u.

Having successfully communicated with all three boys I’m currently seeing, I get back on the road. Exhaust kicks into my window and I roll it shut. I pull into the parking garage of my apartment complex. I stuff the scarf into my bag and unclasp the necklace. I haul the untouched SAT books from the passenger seat and climb the stairs before unlocking the door.

Mom’s sunk into the couch in front of the TV, a blanket draped around her, napping soundly. It’s the only way she can fall asleep these days, watching those shows where couples renovate their massive historic estates in England, looking like they enjoy their restored carved mantel more than they enjoy each other’s company. This is my mom’s special interest. She got an architecture degree in ­college—​­in her past life in China, pre‑­me. But then she married my dad right out of college and they came here and she never put the degree to use because time passed and a foreign degree didn’t really get her anywhere here. Between her shifts at the Granada Hotel, she sometimes wanders the fancy La Jolla open houses on her breaks, takes me to them on the weekends and points out the structural and design details she loves. She’s often joked that she’s going to go back to school when I go to college because she’ll have nothing to do. Then she says she won’t, because college is expensive. God forbid she spend any money on herself. There’s a wistful hint to her tone when she says it, though. I want to make it happen for her. The money from my boyfriends will help with that.

I also think it makes her a little anxious that I’m leaving for college soon. It’s been just the two of us for so long.

I think she’s asleep until I hear, “宝贝. How was tutoring today?”

I turn. “It was good.”

“Oh—​­I was talking to my coworker yesterday,” she continues from the couch. “I told her you are very good at SAT math. Then I tell her daughter to find you at the library.” She waves her phone at me. “I gave her your number.”

“Thanks. My uh, list is full at the moment.” I pour a cup of hot water and bring it to her.

“Aiyah, don’t be so picky. You make an exception for her, right?”

“Hm. Maybe.” I don’t love lying to my mother, and this is the most elaborate lie I’ve constructed yet. But I also don’t want her to ever worry about me, and so it’s better that I don’t tell her about any of this. There are my justifications, and I repeat them to myself now: This money is going to help me with college. This money can support my mom. Ingrid and I have planned this out so meticulously, and we’re determined to see it through.

Ingrid, Ingrid. Where is she?

Mom drinks her hot water and curls back into the couch. I should tell her that she should be sleeping on a proper bed after working long, ­late-​­night hours as the front desk manager at the hotel, that the lumpy cushions are going to mess up her back, given that she slipped a disc this ­year—​­but the couch is her comfort, especially with her TV show. Instead, I kiss the top of her head, give her shoulder a squeeze, and go scrounge together a makeshift lunch of leftover microwaved rice and the reheated egg and tomato dish on the stove. I put the pineapple cakes on the kitchen counter. They’ll make her happy later. I head to my room and stow away the scarf and necklace for safekeeping. I’ve got a mountain of homework that I can’t ­senior-​­spring my way out of. AP Comp Sci will be a breeze, as will multivariable. I open my phone. Ingrid hasn’t responded. I go to Find My Friends.

Ingrid’s turned her location off.

This is when I start to get really concerned. She has never, in our entire friendship, turned her location off. She’s someone who will stalk my location and text me about it. She did a lot of that this summer when I worked at the La Jolla Shores Beach Club. She wouldn’t ask where I was. She’d just come meet me.

I call her. It doesn’t even ring before going to voicemail. Maybe her phone just died. Maybe she lost it. I should have looked for it in Dalton’s house. Maybe she got too drunk and carpooled with one of her friends. From newspaper? From theater?

Just then, I get another notification from the annoying girl from Calc.

I never like hearing from Jacqueline Anh: Editor of the school newspaper, exceptional brownnoser, and thorn in my side. After every test, she texts everyone she knows, checking answers. Especially me, who she’s vying against for valedictorian. Even the colleges we’re going to are rivals: UC Berkeley for me, Stanford for her. Ingrid says she’s not that bad, but she’s a staff writer and I suspect that Jackie has personally bugged her phone or brainwashed her for her to say that. I specifically turn my read receipts on for her, just so she can see that I’ve looked at her messages and refuse to answer them. In this particular moment, my academic rival is the last person I want to hear from.

I look down, ready to leave on read whatever homework question Jackie’s sent me now. But then I see what she’s texted me, see Ingrid’s name, and everything in the world goes still.