by Sara Shepard
She looked around the classroom. Both art history and English classes met here, so there was a motley mix of Cézanne and Picasso prints and black-and-white photos of Walt Whitman, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Virginia Woolf. Tacked up in the corner was a poster labeled great shakespearean sayings. That poster had hung in Aria’s English classroom last year, too, the class that had briefly been taught by Ezra Fitz, with whom Aria had had a fling until A got him fired.
Ezra. Now there was someone who would have enjoyed going to an art gallery and commiserating about all the Typical Rosewoods. The first time Aria and Ezra had met, they’d had a real connection. Ezra understood what it was like to be part of a family that was falling apart. He got what it was like to be different.
Aria surreptitiously pulled out her phone and looked at her contacts list. Ezra’s name was still there. Just wondering what you’re up to, she typed in a new email. Going through a hard time right now. Feeling lonely and in need of a good convo about poetry writing and the ridiculousness of the suburbs. Ciao, Aria.
And then, before she lost her nerve, she pressed SEND.
Chapter 8
THE STARS ALIGN
Later that Friday, Hanna and Kate pulled into a space next to Mr. Marin’s car on the Hyde campus, an old Jesuit college in the leafy suburbs a few miles outside Philadelphia. It was unseasonably warm, and kids walked across the street sans coats. Boys played Frisbee on the dry, greenish-yellow lawn, and preppy girls sipped lattes underneath the clock tower, which chimed out the hour in six deafening bongs. It was the perfect night for a flash mob.
“So is the band definitely coming?” Hanna said to Kate, scanning the parking lot. After Mr. Marin informed Kate about the flash mob plan, Kate had offered to hire some band called Eggplant Supercar from Hollis College. Apparently they drove an Astro van with flames painted on the sides, but Hanna didn’t see it anywhere.
Kate rolled her eyes. “Yeh-hes. That’s like the twentieth time you’ve asked.”
“Is someone nervous?” Naomi cackled from the backseat.
“Maybe someone realizes that a flash mob is a stupid idea,” Riley chimed in.
“Seriously,” Kate mumbled. “When I heard about it, I thought Tom was joking.”
Riley and Naomi snickered. Klaudia, who was squeezed in the bitch seat, barked out a horsey, slutty laugh.
Hanna glanced at her dad’s car to her left, wishing he’d overheard, but Mr. Marin was talking animatedly on his cell phone. When Kate told her she’d recruited her friends to help with the flash mob today, Hanna should’ve put her foot down. Now that Mona Vanderwaal, Hanna’s old BFF, was dead, and Hanna wasn’t hanging out with Emily, Aria, or Spencer anymore, she felt Kate, Naomi, and Riley’s insults much more acutely. It was like she was back where she started in sixth grade: a loser. Except thinner. And a lot prettier.
“There they are,” Kate said, pointing triumphantly. A van rolled into the parking space on the other side of them, and a bunch of ragged guys spilled out, carrying music equipment. One had a patchy beard and greasy skin. Another had an elongated head and a prominent chin. The others looked like they could be in a police lineup. Hanna sniffed. Couldn’t Kate have hired a cuter band?
Mr. Marin finally climbed out of the car and strode up to the band. “Thanks for helping us out tonight,” he said, shaking each of their hands.
“Okay, let’s get them set up, ladies,” Kate said to her friends, grabbing a bunch of neon-green TOM MARIN FOR SENATE flyers from the backseat. “You do your Twitter thing, Hanna.”
Naomi sniffed. “Like it’s really going to work,” she said under her breath. The four girls whirled around and led the guys toward a band shell to the left of the clock tower. Everyone moved deferentially out of their way.
Mr. Marin clapped his hand on Hanna’s shoulder as she climbed out of the car, too. “You all set?”
“Of course,” Hanna answered. She grabbed her phone, opened her email, and sent Gregory, a computer science major at Hyde who claimed to know how to tap into everyone’s Twitter and email accounts on campus, a message. I’m ready. Seconds later, Gregory replied that the flash mob tweet had been posted. Hanna had crafted it last night: Something huge is happening in the band shell. Be there or be a nobody. Short and sweet. Elusive yet intriguing.
“I sent the tweet,” Hanna told her dad. “You should probably head up to the stage and wait. I’ll watch from below.”
Mr. Marin kissed the top of Hanna’s head. “Thank you so much.”
Don’t thank me quite yet, Hanna thought uneasily. She walked into the square, looking around. Kids were still playing Frisbee. Girls giggled over a magazine, not even glancing at their phones. What if Kate was right? What if nothing did happen? She could picture it: Kate, her evil cronies, and the band standing on the pavilion, staring out at an empty courtyard. Her father looking disappointedly at Hanna, losing all faith in her. Tomorrow Hanna would be the laughingstock of Rosewood Day—and her dad’s campaign.
When she was almost to the band shell, three girls wandered into the square, holding their phones and looking around. A couple of the guys slammed their textbooks shut and meandered over, curious looks on their faces. Two kids rolled up on skateboards. Hanna caught snippets of their conversation: Is something happening? Did you see that on Twitter? Who posted it? Someone get Sebastian. He’ll know.
Suddenly it was like a stampede. Kids poured out of the dining hall, emerged from the dorms, streamed in from late classes. A group of girls in sorority sweatshirts gathered under a big oak tree plastered with carvings. Some guys chugging beers from inside paper bags shoved one another by a board covered in advertisements for roommates, yoga lessons, and free tutoring services. Everyone was staring at their phones, their fingers moving over the keyboards. Retweeting. Asking what was up. Gathering more people.
Yes.
Kate turned around on the stage. When she saw the crowd, her mouth settled into a straight, annoyed line. Hanna gave her a triumphant three-fingered wave, then sent out a text telling her dad’s aides that they could start circulating with voter registration forms and flyers. A few minutes later, the band began to play. Thankfully, despite their ugliness, they were pretty good, and everyone started to bounce to the music. A green banner that advertised Mr. Marin’s campaign rose in the air. When Eggplant Supercar—they seriously needed a new name—finished a song, the lead singer roared into the microphone: “Let’s hear it for Tom Marin!” and Mr. Marin walked onto the stage and waved, the crowd actually cheered.
Hanna let the sound wash over her body. Maybe this would win her dad the election. Maybe Hanna had a future in campaign management. She pictured herself on the cover of Vanity Fair in a sleek Armani suit. Visiting the White House. Riding on Air Force One, wearing big Jackie O sunglasses . . .
“This band is decent,” said a voice.
Hanna jumped. A tall, lanky guy with wavy brown hair, dark eyebrows that framed kind, sparkling brown eyes, and a square, superhero-esque jaw stood beside her. He wore a faded navy T-shirt that said HYDE across the chest, slim-cut jeans, and a beat-up pair of Sperry Top-Siders. He was also standing close enough to Hanna that she could smell his Tom Ford Azure Lime cologne, her absolute favorite. He looked familiar for some reason, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d had a dream about him or something. He was definitely hot.
“Do you know the band’s name?” the guy asked, his eyes still fixed on Hanna.
“Um, Eggplant Supercar,” Hanna answered, absently twirling a piece of auburn hair around her finger. Thank God she’d recently had it highlighted at Henri Flaubert at the King James.
“I like them.” The guy pushed his hands into his pockets. “Hyde doesn’t usually do cool stuff like this. I think we’ve been voted Most Boring Campus in a bunch of magazines, actually.”
Hanna took a breath, about to tell him that he could thank her for setting the whole thing up, when suddenly three burly guys holding beer cans cut between them. After they passed, the boy pushed around
a couple of bodies to stand next to Hanna again. “Doesn’t the singer look exactly like Bert from Sesame Street?” he asked, pointing to the guy with the elongated head. He was fondling the microphone like he was in love with it.
“Totally.” Hanna giggled. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Of course, I shouldn’t talk,” the boy said sheepishly. “People used to call me Harry Potter when I was growing up.”
“Really?” Hanna cocked her head and inspected him. He was tall but not too tall, and his limbs were long and lanky without being too skinny. “I don’t really see a resemblance.”
“I used to wear these goofy wire-rimmed glasses when I was younger. I picked them out at the eye doctor myself. You would’ve thought my mom would have been a little smarter, but instead she was like, Get them!”
Hanna giggled. “When I wore glasses, I chose fuchsia plastic frames and pink lenses. I looked like I had a disease. My third-grade school picture was horrific.”
“Don’t even get me started on school pictures.” The guy winced. “In my fifth-grade photo, I had black rubber bands on my braces. It looked like there was tar oozing from my mouth.”
“I had pink and green rubber bands on my braces. Disaster.” The words were out of Hanna’s mouth before she could stop them, and her confession surprised even her. Never had she willingly volunteered information about what a loser she used to be, especially to someone so good-looking. But there was something warm and inviting about this guy that actually made it fun to commiserate.
He straightened up and gave her a challenging look. “Well, I was way too skinny as a kid. Concave chest, knobby knees, picked last for every team in gym class. Top that.”
“I was chubby.” Hanna laughed self-consciously. “More like fat, actually. I looked like a beast next to my friends. My dad even called me a piggie once—like it was funny.” She shut her eyes.
“I got called scarecrow. Anorexic boy. Freak.”
“So? I was Chubby Couture. Hanna Fat-Assa.” Hanna felt a hurtful twinge. Actually, Their Ali had made up those nicknames when they were friends.
The guy reached out and touched the inside of Hanna’s wrist. It felt electrifying. “I bet no one calls you a loser anymore, huh?”
She swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. “Or you.”
The crowd moved again, this time pushing them into each other. Hanna tipped sideways, and the guy slipped his arm around her waist. When the mob shifted again, they didn’t break apart. Hanna breathed in his spicy, soapy smell, her pulse in her throat. He rested his chin in her hair. His hipbone pressed against her waist. She could feel his smooth, hard chest beneath his thin T-shirt. Something stirred deep inside her, filling her with heat. When he leaned down to kiss her, Hanna was struck with shock. But the kiss felt so good, so right, that she couldn’t help kissing him back.
They pulled away, staring into each other’s eyes. The guy looked as shocked as Hanna felt. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to—”
“I think we should—” Hanna said at the same time.
They both stopped and chuckled. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd until they turned into a dark alley between one of the classroom buildings and an internet café called Networks. They ran down it crookedly, hand in hand, tripping over empty cardboard boxes and abandoned Coke and beer cans. The guy stopped, pulled Hanna to the wall, and started kissing her fervently. Hanna kissed him back, tasting his slightly salty skin, touching the sinewy muscles in his arms, burrowing her hands under his T-shirt. Never before had she felt so swept away.
Finally, they pulled away, panting hard. “Wow,” the guy whispered, out of breath. “This is . . . crazy.”
“I know,” Hanna said.
He gripped Hanna’s hands. “What’s your name?”
“Hanna.”
“I’m Liam,” he said.
“That’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard,” Hanna murmured dreamily, barely aware of what she was saying. She didn’t know what her body was doing. Her father was up on the stage now, giving a speech about voting and change for the better and all kinds of other optimistic political promises. Hanna knew she should be out there, being the good little campaign strategist, but she couldn’t tear herself away from Liam’s embrace. She wanted to stay here in this dingy alley for the rest of her life, with Liam.
Chapter 9
EMILY’S GOT A TYPE
“Smile!” Kay pulled Emily close and aimed her camera phone at both of them as they stood under the marquee at the Electric Factory, a music club in downtown Philly—the Chambermaids, Kay’s favorite band, was going on in an hour. Emily smiled as the flash went off, and then Kay inspected the screen. “You look super-cute! Your sister will love it.”
Kay pressed a few buttons, sending the image off to Beth, who was out with a friend tonight. She’d insisted Emily go alone, though. “You’re the one Kay wants,” she’d urged. “I guarantee you guys are going to hook up by the end of the night.”
Truthfully, Emily had been ecstatic when Kay had called her this morning asking if she wanted to hang out. All she could think of was the quick but electrically charged kiss at the party, of Kay dancing, unfettered, and of what Kay said at the end of the night: I’ll die if we don’t become friends. There was something dangerous and unpredictable about Kay. Hanging out with her gave Emily the same deliciously illicit feeling she used to get when watching an R-rated movie at Ali’s when she was younger: R movies were banned at the Fields house, which made Emily even more curious to see what they were all about.
When she’d met Kay in the lobby earlier, she’d been pleasantly surprised: Out of her mermaid dress and wig, Kay was even hotter than Emily imagined. She had long reddish hair that fell almost to the small of her back. Her gray vintage T-shirt pulled across her torso, hinting at perky boobs and a flat stomach. Kay’s eyes had lit up when she saw Emily emerge through the throng, as if she liked what she was seeing, too.
Now, a doorman ripped their tickets, and the girls pushed through the front door. “Drinks,” Kay said with purpose, weaving around a bunch of kids milling by the stage. They got into the line behind two girls in matching T-shirts with photos of the Chambermaids. It was funny to see that the band members were all guys—and hot ones, too. Emily had envisioned girls in cleaning lady uniforms.
“How do you know this band?” Emily asked.
“I heard them on Pandora last summer.” Kay twisted a piece of hair around her finger. “They got me through a rough patch.”
Emily touched the feather earrings that hung from her ears. “What kind of rough patch?”
Kay stared off at the stack of amps that lined the wall. “I spent some time away from home. It’s a boring story, though.”
“I know all about rough patches,” Emily admitted, looking down at her toes. “My parents sent me away, too. I went to Iowa to live with my cousins. It was a disaster, and I ran away.”
Kay widened her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Emily shrugged. “Yeah. But I’ve been through other things, too. If my parents ever found out they’d do a lot more than send me away.” She shut her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine what her mother’s reaction would be if she learned Emily had been pregnant, but she simply couldn’t come up with anything extreme enough, save for her mother’s head literally exploding. She didn’t even dare consider what her mother would do if she found out about Tabitha.
“I’ve kept tons of things from my parents, too,” Kay said, almost with relief. “I used to be so much wilder than I am now. These days, my parents don’t trust me at all. Most of the time, if I want to go anywhere, I have to sneak out.” She smiled slyly and bumped Emily’s hip. “I doubt they would’ve let me out with you tonight, Miss Bad-Girl Bucket List.”
Emily struck a pose, channeling devilish New Emily. “Don’t think I’m done with the bad-girl bucket list. There might be a few things to cross off on the list tonight.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,”
Kay said, her green eyes on Emily’s. A tingle sizzled up Emily’s backbone.
It was Kay’s turn to order, and she asked the bartender for two Captain Morgan and Cokes. When he slid the glasses across the bar, she raised hers in the air. “To a checkered past, and a brighter future.”
Emily snorted. “That sounds like a valedictorian speech.”
An uncomfortable expression slid across Kay’s face, and she gazed up at the overhead lights. After a moment, she turned back to Emily, the look gone. “Do you kiss strange girls at parties often? You looked like you had some experience with it.”
Emily blushed. “No, kissing a stranger—well, two strangers—was a first for me.” But then she paused, feeling a surge of honesty. “I did have a girlfriend last year, though.”
Kay looked intrigued. “What was that like?”
Emily felt her cheeks burn even brighter. She ducked her head. “Actually, it’s pretty awesome.”
Kay stirred her drink with the little red straw. “Guys suck. And girls are so much cuter.”
“They are,” Emily said in a half whisper. She stared at Kay, entranced by the smooth, freckly skin on her bare shoulders and neck. Kay stared back.
Then Kay lifted her glass again. “Another toast. This time to girl-on-girl action.”
“Cheers,” Emily said, clinking her glass to Kay’s once more.
Kay took a long, almost grateful sip. “So. I think sneaking backstage and meeting the band should be on your bad-girl bucket list.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Okay. But how are we going to do that?”
Kay pointed to a bouncer who was manning a door near the stage. “Tell that guy you’re Rob Martin’s girlfriend and you want to see him for a sec before he performs. And slip him this.” She pressed something in Emily’s hand. Emily opened her palm and saw it was a twenty.
“He’ll know I’m lying!” Emily whispered.
