by Sara Shepard
Spencer haughtily passed Melissa, who was lounging on one of the tan leather couches, murmuring on her iPhone. She was probably talking to Ian Thomas. “I’ll be in my room,” Spencer yelled dramatically at the base of the stairs. “All. Night.”
She flopped down on her sleigh bed, pleased to see that her bedroom was exactly as she’d left it five years ago. Alison had come with her the last time she visited, and the two of them had spent hours gazing at the surfers through her late Grandpa Hastings’s antique mahogany spyglass on the crow’s-nest deck. That had been in the early fall, when Ali and Spencer were just starting seventh grade. Things were still pretty normal between them—maybe Ali hadn’t started seeing Ian yet.
Spencer shuddered. Ali had been seeing Ian. Did A know about that? Did A know about Spencer’s argument with Ali the night Ali disappeared, too—had A been there? Spencer wished she could tell the police about A, but A seemed above the law. She looked around haltingly, suddenly frightened. The sun had sunk below the trees, filling the room with eerie darkness.
Her phone rang, and Spencer jumped. She pulled it out of her robe pocket and squinted at the number. Not recognizing it, she put the phone to her ear and tentatively said hello.
“Spencer?” said a girl’s smooth, lilting voice. “It’s Mona Vanderwaal.”
“Oh.” Spencer sat up too fast, and her head started to spin. There was only one reason why Mona would be calling her. “Is…Hanna…okay?”
“Well…no.” Mona sounded surprised. “You haven’t heard? She’s in a coma. I’m at the hospital.”
“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered. “Is she going to get better?”
“The doctors don’t know.” Mona’s voice wobbled. “She might not wake up.”
Spencer began to pace around the room. “I’m in New Jersey right now with my parents, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning, so—”
“I’m not calling to make you feel guilty,” Mona interrupted. She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m stressed. I called because I heard you were good at planning events.”
It was cold in the bedroom and smelled a little like sand. Spencer touched the edge of the enormous conch shell that sat on top of her bureau. “Well, sure.”
“Good,” Mona said. “I want to plan a candlelight vigil for Hanna. I think it would be great to get everyone to, you know, band together for Hanna.”
“That sounds great,” Spencer said softly. “My dad was just talking about a party he was at a couple of weeks ago in this gorgeous tent on the fifteenth green. Maybe we could hold it there.”
“Perfect. Let’s plan for Friday—that’ll give us five days to get everything ready.”
“Friday it is.” After Mona said she’d write out the invitations if Spencer could secure the location and the catering, Spencer hung up. She flopped back on the bed, staring at its lacy canopy. Hanna might die? Spencer pictured Hanna lying alone and unconscious in a hospital room. Her throat felt tight and hot.
Tap…tap…tap…
The wind grew still, and even the ocean was quiet. Spencer pricked up her ears. Was someone out there?
Tap…tap…tap…
She sat up fast. “Who’s there?” The bedroom window offered a sandy view. The sun had set so quickly that all she could see was the weathered wooden lifeguard stand in the distance. She crept into the hall. Empty. She ran into one of the guest bedrooms and looked below to the front porch. No one.
Spencer slid her hands down her face. Calm down, she told herself. It’s not like A is here. She stumbled out of the room and down the staircase, nearly tripping over a stack of beach towels. Melissa was still on the couch, holding a copy of Architectural Digest with her good hand and propping up her broken wrist on an oversize velvet pillow.
“Melissa,” Spencer said, breathing hard. “I think there’s someone outside.”
Her sister turned around, her face pinched. “Huh?”
Tap…tap…tap…
“Listen!” Spencer pointed to the door. “Don’t you hear that?”
Melissa stood up, frowning. “I hear something.” She looked at Spencer worriedly. “Let’s go to the playroom. There’s a good view all around the house from there.”
The sisters checked and double-checked the locks before bolting up the stairs to the second-floor playroom. The room smelled closed-up and dusty, and looked as if a much-younger Melissa and Spencer had just run out for dinner and would be back at any second to resume playing. There was the Lego village that had taken them three weeks to complete. There was the make-your-own-jewelry kit, the beads and clasps still strewn all over the table. The indoor mini golf holes were still set up around the room, and the enormous chest of dolls was still open.
Melissa reached the window first. She pushed back the sailboat-printed curtain and peered into the front yard, which was landscaped with sea glass pebbles and tropical flowers. Her pink cast made a hollow sound as it tapped against the windowpane. “I don’t see anyone.”
“I already looked out front. Maybe they’re around the side.”
Suddenly, they heard it again. Tap…tap. It was growing louder. Spencer grabbed Melissa’s arm. They both peered out the window again.
Then a drainpipe at the bottom of the house rattled a bit, and finally something scuttled out. It was a seagull. The thing had somehow gotten stuck in the pipe; the tapping sounds had probably been caused by its wings and beak as it struggled to break free. The bird waddled away, shaking its feathers.
Spencer sank down on the antique FAO Schwarz rocking horse. At first, Melissa looked angry, but then the corners of her mouth wobbled. She snorted with laughter.
Spencer laughed as well. “Stupid bird.”
“Yeah.” Melissa let out a huge sigh. She looked around the room, first at the Legos and then at the six oversize My Little Pony mannequin heads set up on the far table. She pointed at them. “Remember how we used to do the ponies’ makeup?”
“Sure.” Mrs. Hastings would give them all of last season’s Chanel eye shadows and lipsticks, and they’d spend hours giving the ponies smoky eyes and plumped-up lips.
“You used to put eye shadow on their nostrils,” Melissa teased.
Spencer giggled, petting the blue-and-purple mane of a pink pony. “I wanted their noses to be as pretty as the rest of their faces.”
“And remember these?” Melissa walked to the oversize chest and peered inside. “I can’t believe we had so many dolls.”
Not only were there more than a hundred dolls, ranging from Barbies to German antiques that probably shouldn’t have been carelessly tossed into a toy chest, but also tons of coordinating outfits, shoes, purses, cars, horses, and lapdogs. Spencer pulled out a Barbie in a serious-looking blue blazer and pencil skirt. “Remember how we used to make them be CEOs? Mine was the CEO of a cotton-candy factory, and yours was the CEO of a makeup company.”
“We made this one president.” Melissa pulled out a doll whose dirty blond hair was cut bluntly to her chin, just like her own.
“And this one had lots of boyfriends.” Spencer held up a pretty doll with long, blond hair and a heart-shaped face.
The sisters sighed. Spencer felt a lump in her throat. Back in the day, they used to play for hours. Half the time they didn’t even want to go down to the beach, and when it was time for bed, Spencer always sobbed and begged her parents to let her sleep in Melissa’s bedroom. “I’m sorry about the Golden Orchid thing,” Spencer blurted out. “I wish it had never happened.”
Melissa picked up the pretty doll Spencer had been holding—the one with lots of boyfriends. “They’re going to want you to go to New York, you know. And talk about your paper in front of a panel of judges. You’ll have to know the material inside out.”
Spencer squeezed CEO Barbie tightly around her impossibly disproportionate waist. Even if her parents wouldn’t punish her for cheating, the Golden Orchid committee would.
Melissa strolled to the back of the room. “You’ll do fine, though. You’ll probably win. And you k
now Mom and Dad will get you something amazing if you do.”
Spencer blinked. “And you’d be okay with that? Even though it’s…your paper?”
Melissa shrugged. “I’m over it.” She paused for a moment, then reached into a high cabinet Spencer hadn’t noticed before. Her hand emerged with a tall bottle of Grey Goose vodka. She shook it, the clear liquid swishing inside the glass. “Want some?”
“S-sure,” Spencer sputtered.
Melissa walked to the cabinet above the room’s mini fridge and pulled out two cups from the miniature china tea set. Using only her good hand, Melissa awkwardly poured vodka into two teacups. With a nostalgic smile, she handed Spencer her old favorite pale blue teacup—Spencer used to pitch a fit if she had to drink out of any of the others. She was astounded that Melissa remembered.
Spencer sipped, feeling the vodka burn down her throat. “How did you know that bottle was here?”
“Ian and I snuck here for Senior Week years ago,” Melissa explained. She sat down in a purple-and-pink-striped child-size chair, her knees piked up to her chin. “Cops were all over the roads, and we were terrified to bring it back with us, so we hid it here. We thought we’d come back for it later…only, we didn’t.”
Melissa got a faraway look on her face. She and Ian had unexpectedly broken up shortly after Senior Week—that same summer Ali had gone missing. Melissa had been extra-industrious that summer, working two part-time jobs and volunteering at the Brandywine River Museum. Even though she never would have admitted it, Spencer suspected she’d been trying to keep herself busy because the breakup with Ian had really devastated her. Maybe it was the hurt look on Melissa’s face, or maybe it was that she’d just told Spencer she’d probably win the Golden Orchid after all, but suddenly, Spencer wanted to tell Melissa the truth.
“There’s something you should know,” Spencer blurted out. “I kissed Ian when I was in seventh grade, when you guys were dating.” She swallowed hard. “It was only one kiss, and it didn’t mean anything. I swear.” Now that that was out, Spencer couldn’t stop herself. “It wasn’t like the thing Ian had with Ali.”
“The thing Ian had with Ali,” Melissa repeated, staring down at the Barbie she was holding.
“Yeah.” Spencer’s insides felt like a molten lava–filled volcano—rumbling, about to overflow. “Ali told me right before she disappeared, but I must’ve blocked it out.”
Melissa began to brush the popular blond Barbie’s hair, her lips twitching slightly.
“I blocked out some other stuff, too,” Spencer continued shakily, feeling a little uneasy. “That night, Ali really teased me—she said that I liked Ian, that I was trying to steal him away. It was like she wanted me to get mad. And then I shoved her. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I’m afraid I…”
Spencer covered her hands with her face. Repeating the story to Melissa revived that awful night all over again. Earthworms from the previous night’s rain wriggled across the path. Ali’s pink bra strap slid down her shoulder, and her toe ring glimmered in the moonlight. It was real. It had happened.
Melissa put the Barbie down on her lap and took a slow drink of her vodka. “Actually, I knew Ian kissed you. And I knew that Ali and Ian were together.”
Spencer gaped. “Ian told you?”
Melissa shrugged. “I guessed. Ian wasn’t very good at keeping that kind of stuff a secret. Not from me.”
Spencer stared at her sister, a shudder snaking down her spine. Melissa’s voice was singsongy, almost like she was suppressing a giggle. Then Melissa turned to face Spencer head-on. She smiled widely, weirdly. “As for being worried that you were the one who killed Ali, I don’t think you have it in you.”
“You…don’t?”
Melissa shook her head slowly, and then made the doll in her lap shake her head, too. “It takes a very unique person to kill, and that’s not you.”
She tipped her teacup of vodka to the ceiling, draining it. Then, with her good hand, Melissa picked the Barbie up by its neck and popped its plastic head clean off. She handed the dismembered head to Spencer, her eyes open wide. “That’s not you at all.”
The doll’s head fit perfectly in the pit of Spencer’s palm, the lips pursed in a flirtatious smile, the eyes a brilliant sapphire blue. A wave of nausea went through Spencer. She’d never noticed before, but the doll looked exactly like…Ali.
8 DOESN’T EVERYONE TALK ABOUT THIS STUFF IN A HOSPITAL ROOM?
Monday morning, instead of rushing to English class before the bell rang, Aria was running toward the Rosewood Day exit. She’d just received a text message on her Treo from Lucas. Aria, come to the hospital if you can, it said. They’re finally letting people in to see Hanna.
She was so engrossed and focused, she didn’t see her brother, Mike, until he was standing right in front of her. He wore a Playboy bunny–icon T-shirt underneath his Rosewood Day jacket and a blue Rosewood Day varsity lacrosse bracelet. Engraved in the bracelet’s rubber was his team nickname, which, for whatever reason, was Buffalo. Aria didn’t dare ask why—it was probably an inside joke about his penis or something. The lacrosse team was becoming more and more of a frat every day.
“Hey,” Aria said, a bit distracted. “How are you?”
Mike’s hands seemed welded to his hips. The sneer on his face indicated he wasn’t up for small talk. “I hear you’re living with Dad now.”
“As a last resort,” Aria said quickly. “Sean and I broke up.”
Mike narrowed his ice blue eyes. “I know. I heard that too.”
Aria stepped back, surprised. Mike didn’t know about Ezra, did he? “I just wanted to tell you that you and Dad deserve each other,” Mike snapped, whipping around and nearly colliding with a girl in a cheerleading uniform. “See ya later.”
“Mike, wait!” Aria cried. “I’m going to fix this, I promise!”
But he just kept going. Last week, Mike had found out that Aria had known about their dad’s affair for three years. On the surface, he’d acted all tough and cool about their parents’ dissolving marriage. He played varsity lacrosse, made lewd comments to girls, and tried to give his teammates titty twisters in the hallways. But Mike was like a Björk song—all happy and giddy and fun on the surface, but bubbling with turmoil and pain underneath. She couldn’t imagine what Mike would think if he found out Byron and Meredith were planning to get married.
As she heaved a huge sigh and continued toward the side door, she noticed a figure in a three-piece suit staring at her from across the hall.
“Going somewhere, Ms. Montgomery?” Principal Appleton asked.
Aria flinched, her face growing hot. She hadn’t seen Appleton since Sean had told the Rosewood staff about Ezra. But Appleton didn’t exactly look pissed—more like…nervous. Almost as if Aria was someone he had to treat very, very delicately. Aria tried to hide a smirk. Appleton probably didn’t want Aria to press charges against Ezra or talk about the incident ever again. It would draw indecent attention to the school, and Rosewood Day could never have that.
Aria turned, fueled with power. “There’s somewhere I have to be,” she insisted.
It was against Rosewood Day policy to walk out of a class, but Appleton did nothing to stop her. Perhaps the Ezra mess was good for something, after all.
She reached the hospital quickly and sprinted up to the third-floor intensive care unit. Inside, patients were sprawled out in a circle, separated only by curtains. A long, U-shaped nurse’s desk sat in the middle of the room. Aria passed an old black woman who looked dead, a silver-haired man in a neck brace, and a groggy-looking fortysomething who was muttering to herself. Hanna’s partitioned-off area was along one of the walls. With her long, healthy auburn hair, unlined skin, and taut, young body, Hanna was definitely the thing in the ICU that didn’t belong. Her cordoned-off area was full of flowers, boxes of candy, stacks of magazines, and stuffed animals. Someone had bought her a large, white teddy bear that wore a patterned wrap dress. When Aria flipped open the tag on the be
ar’s plushy arm, she saw that the bear’s name was Diane von FurstenBEAR. There was a brand-new white cast on Hanna’s arm. Lucas Beattie, Mona Vanderwaal, and Hanna’s parents had already signed it.
Lucas was sitting in the yellow plastic chair by Hanna’s bed, a Teen Vogue on his lap. “‘Even the pastiest legs will benefit from Lancôme Soleil Flash Browner tinted mousse, which gives skin a subtle sheen,’” he read, licking his finger to turn the page. When he noticed Aria, he stopped, a sheepish look crossing his face. “The doctors say it’s good to talk to Hanna—that she can hear. But maybe fall is a stupid time to talk about self-tanners? Maybe I should read her the article on Coco Chanel instead? Or the one about Teen Vogue’s new interns? It says they’re better than the Hills girls.”
Aria glanced at Hanna, a lump growing in her throat. Metal guards lined the sides of her bed, as if she was a toddler at risk of rolling out. There were green bruises on her face, and her eyes seemed sealed closed. This was the first time Aria had seen a coma patient up close. A monitor recording Hanna’s heartbeat and blood pressure let out a constant beep, beep, beep noise. It made Aria uneasy. She couldn’t help but anticipate that the beeping would abruptly flatline, like it always did in the movies before someone died. “So, have the doctors said anything about her prognosis?” Aria asked shakily.
“Well, her hand’s fluttering. Like that, see?” Lucas gestured to Hanna’s right hand, the one with the cast on it. Her fingernails looked like someone had recently painted them a brilliant coral. “Which seems promising. But the doctors say it might not mean anything—they still aren’t sure if she has any brain damage.”
Aria’s stomach dropped.
“But I’m trying to think positive. The fluttering means she’s about to wake up.” Lucas closed the magazine and set it on Hanna’s bedside table. “And apparently, some of her brain activity readouts show that she might’ve been awake last night…but nobody saw it.” He sighed. “I’m going to go get a soda. Want anything?”
