by Sara Shepard
In turn, Spencer told Kelsey about her troubles, too—well, some of them. Like how she’d been tortured by A. How she’d stolen her sister’s paper and passed it off as her own for the Golden Orchid prize. How she wanted to be the very best all the time.
They’d both been the perfect candidates for Easy A. At first, the pills hadn’t had much effect other than making them both feel really awake even when they’d pulled all-nighters. But as time went on, they both began to notice when they hadn’t taken it. “I can’t keep my eyes open,” Spencer would say during class. “I feel like a zombie,” Kelsey would groan. They watched Phineas across the room, covertly slipping yet another pill under his tongue. If he was okay taking more, maybe they would be, too.
A car with a rattling muffler drove past, breaking Spencer from her thoughts. Straightening up, she climbed the steps to Beau’s front porch, checked herself out in the front sidelight window—she’d dressed in skinny jeans, a soft cashmere sweater, and tall boots, which she thought looked appropriately cute but not like she was trying to impress Beau—and rang the bell.
No one answered. She rang it again. Still no one.
“Hel-lo?” Spencer said impatiently, rapping hard on the door.
Finally, a light snapped on, and Beau appeared at the window. He whipped open the door. His eyes were sleepy, his dark hair was tousled, and he was shirtless. Spencer nearly swallowed the piece of Trident she was chewing. Where had he been hiding those abs?
“Sorry,” Beau said drowsily. “I was meditating.”
“Of course you were,” Spencer mumbled, trying not to stare at his thousand-sit-ups-a-day torso. This was like the time she and Aria had taken a life-drawing class at Hollis that had nude male models. The models seemed so nonchalant, but Spencer kept wanting to burst into giggles.
She strode into the foyer, noting that the inside of the Purple House was as chaotic-looking as the outside. The hallway walls were filled with an eclectic mix of handwoven tapestries, oil paintings, and metal signs advertising brands of cigarettes and long-defunct diners. Shabby mid-century modern furniture adorned the large living room off to the left, and a rustic maple table covered in hardcover books of all shapes and sizes took up most of the dining room. At the end of the hall was an unrolled blue yoga mat. A small boombox sat nearby playing a soothing harp song, and an incense holder bearing a single lit stick wafted smoke into the air from an end table.
“So is your family renting this place?” Spencer asked.
Beau strolled over to the mat, scooped up a white T-shirt from the floor, and pulled it over his head. Spencer was both relieved and oddly disappointed that he was covering up. “No, we’ve owned it for almost twenty years. My parents rented it out to professors, but then my dad got a job in Philly and we decided to move back in.”
“Did your parents paint it purple?”
Beau grinned. “Yep, back in the seventies. It was so everyone knew where the orgies were.”
“Oh, I heard something about that,” Spencer said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Beau snorted. “I’m messing with you. They were both literature professors at Hollis. Their idea of a thrill was reading The Canterbury Tales in Old English. But I heard all the rumors.” He glanced at her knowingly. “Rosewood people love to talk, don’t they? I heard some rumors about you, too, Pretty Little Liar.”
Spencer turned away, pretending to be fascinated with a folk art sculpture of a large black rooster. Even though surely everyone in town—in the country—had heard about her ordeal with Real Ali, it was strange that someone like Beau had paid attention. “Most of the rumors aren’t true,” she said quietly.
“Of course they aren’t.” Beau strolled toward her. “But it sucks, doesn’t it? Everyone talking. Everyone looking at you.”
“It does suck,” she said, surprised Beau had nailed her struggle so succinctly.
When she looked up, he was staring at her with an enigmatic look on his face. It was almost like he was trying to memorize every inch of her features. Spencer stared back. She hadn’t noticed how green his eyes were before. Or the cute little dimple on his left cheek.
“So, um, should we get started?” she asked after an awkward beat.
Beau broke his gaze, walked across the room, and settled into a leather chair. “Sure. If you want.”
Spencer felt a stab of exasperation. “You told me to come here so you could teach me. So . . . teach me.”
Beau tilted the chair back and pressed a hand to his lips. “Well, I think your problem is that you don’t understand Lady Macbeth. You’re just a high school girl regurgitating her lines.”
Spencer straightened her spine. “Of course I understand her. She’s determined. She’s ambitious. She gets in over her head. And then she’s plagued by guilt for what she did.”
“Where’d you get that from, SparkNotes?” Beau scoffed. “Knowing facts isn’t the same as getting into the character. You have to experience what she experiences and really feel her. That’s Method acting.”
Spencer resisted the urge to laugh. “That’s bullshit.”
Beau’s eyes flashed. “Maybe you’re scared to really go for it. Method acting can dredge up some demons.”
“I’m not scared.” Spencer crossed her arms over her chest.
Beau rose from the chair and moved a few steps closer to her. “Okay, so you’re not scared. But you are doing this to get a four-point-oh, aren’t you? Not because you care about acting. Not because you care about the integrity of the play.”
Heat rushed to Spencer’s face. “You know what, I don’t need this.” She spun on her heel and started out of the room. Arrogant jerk.
“Wait.” Beau clamped his hand on hers and spun her around. “I’m challenging you. I think you’re good, better than you realize. But I also think you can step it up to the next level.”
The sudden scent of sandalwood incense tickled Spencer’s nose. She looked down at Beau’s large, warm fingers tightly entwined around hers. “Y-you think I’m good?” she asked in a voice barely over a whisper.
“I think you’re very good,” Beau said in a suddenly tender voice. “But you also have to let go of a lot of things first.”
“Let go of what?”
“You need to become Lady Macbeth. Go to a special place inside of you to understand her motivations. Feel what she feels. Know what you would do, if faced with her predicament.”
“Why does it matter what I would do?” Spencer protested. “She’s the character Shakespeare wrote about. Her lines are there on the page. She helps kill the king and sits silently by while her husband kills off everyone else in his way. Then she freaks.”
“Well, wouldn’t you freak if you killed someone and kept terrible secrets?”
Spencer looked away, a lump rising in her throat. This was a little too close for comfort. “Of course I would. But I’d never do that.”
Beau sighed. “You’re taking this too literally. You’re not Spencer Hastings, good girl, straight-A student, teacher’s pet. You’re Lady Macbeth. Sinister. Conniving. Ambitious. You convinced your husband to murder an innocent man. If it hadn’t been for you, he might not have gone off his rocker. What does it feel like to be responsible for so much damage?”
Spencer picked at a loose thread on her cashmere sweater, uncomfortable with Beau’s scrutiny. “How do you become one with Macbeth? Where’s the special place you go to?”
Beau looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Spencer placed her hands on her hips.
Beau pressed his lips together. “Fine. If you must know, I was bullied a lot when I was younger.” His voice was pinched. “I thought a lot about getting revenge. That’s where I go. I think about . . . them.”
Spencer’s hands went slack at her sides. The words hung heavily in the air. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Beau shrugged. “It was these assholes in my eighth-grade homeroom. I wanted to hurt them so badly. It’s not the same as Macbeth’s ambition, but it
gets me in the right head space.”
He walked across the living room and spun a large old globe around and around. With his hunched shoulders and heavy head, he almost looked vulnerable. Spencer shifted her weight. “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
The corners of Beau’s mouth pulled up in a wry smile. “I guess we have something in common, huh? You were bullied, too.”
Spencer frowned. She’d never thought of A as a bully, exactly, but it wasn’t far off the mark. And come to think of it, Their Ali bullied them, too . . . even though she was their best friend.
She looked up at Beau and was surprised to see he was staring at her again. They held each other’s gaze for a few long beats. Then, with one swift movement, Beau sprang across the room and pulled Spencer to him. His breath was minty on her cheek. Spencer was certain they were going to kiss. And even crazier, she wanted to.
Beau’s face loomed teasingly close. He slid his arms along Spencer’s back and ran his fingers through her hair, which gave her shivers. Then he stepped away. “That’s one way of letting go,” he said softly. “Now, c’mon. We have a lot of work to do.”
He turned and strolled back into the hall. Spencer stared after him, her skin slightly sweaty and her emotions a jumble. She might have let go for a moment, but could she really let go in the way she needed to and connect with Lady Macbeth? It would mean facing what she did to Tabitha. Confronting the guilt.
She worried, suddenly, what on earth she’d just gotten herself into.
Chapter 15
WHAT YOU SEE ISN’T WHAT YOU GET
On Sunday morning, Emily did all her laundry, cleaned her bathroom, read a chapter of history homework, and even voluntarily went to church with her mother, all to avoid a certain phone call. But by 2 P.M., after she’d driven Beth to the airport for her flight to Tucson, walked her to security, and driven home again, she knew she’d procrastinated for too long.
Finally, she dialed Spencer’s number, nerves jangling. She needed to set Spencer straight. She’d gone over it in her head a million times, and there was no reason someone as awesome as Kay, someone whom Emily had connected with instantly, someone who seemed totally guileless and fragile and vulnerable, could be A.
“Emily,” Spencer answered on the third ring, sounding like her typical tightly wound self.
“Hey.” Emily bit down hard on her pinkie nail, her heart suddenly racing. “Um, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Kelsey.”
Spencer paused. “What about her?”
“Well, this is going to sound weird, but I actually met her the other day. At a party. Completely randomly. She introduced herself as Kay, but when you showed me that picture yesterday, it was definitely her.”
Spencer gasped. “She sometimes went by that—the letter K, for Kelsey. Why didn’t you say anything last night? This is proof that she’s stalking us!”
Emily glanced at her expression in the mirror. There were big furrows in her forehead, and her cheeks were red, the way she always looked when she felt conflicted. It seemed like Spencer was accusing her of withholding important information—or maybe Emily was just interpreting her tone of voice that way because she felt guilty of that very thing. “I-I don’t know why I didn’t say anything,” she said. “I guess because she seemed really sweet—her meeting me didn’t seem premeditated at all. And I don’t think she has a clue who I am or that I’m friends with you. There’s no way she can be A.”
“Of course she’s A!” Spencer cried with such volume that Emily moved the phone away from her ear. “Emily, she knows exactly who you are. She’s out to get all of us. Can’t you see that?”
“I think you’re being paranoid,” Emily protested, pausing by the window to watch a spider build a silken web. “And honestly, I can’t believe you framed her. I wouldn’t have supported you on that.” She thought about the remorseful look that had crossed Kay’s—Kelsey’s—face when they’d talked about how no colleges wanted her, and the undercurrent of shame in her voice when she’d talked about how her parents didn’t trust her.
Spencer sighed. “Like I said, it’s not like I’m proud of what I did. I mean, are you proud of what you did last summer?”
Emily winced. That was low. “You’re not thinking straight,” she said after a moment, trying to push her own trouble from last summer out of her mind. “A is someone else. Someone who was in Jamaica.”
“Who, Ali?” Spencer laughed mirthlessly. “She’s dead, Em. She really is. Look, I get that Kelsey might have seemed really nice—I liked her, too, once. But she’s dangerous. Stay away from her. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“But—”
“Do this for me, please? Kelsey’s trouble. She wants revenge.” There was a voice in the background on Spencer’s end. “I have to go,” she said after a pause and then hung up.
Emily stared at the phone’s screen, her thoughts whirling.
Almost immediately, her phone beeped again. She turned it over, wondering if it was Spencer sending a text, perhaps thinking more rationally. But it was an email from Kay—Kelsey. We’re hanging out this afternoon, right?
Sinking onto her bed, Emily thought about every moment she’d spent with Kay so far. Not for one second had she seemed anything less than fun, sweet, and amazing. She wasn’t A. There was no way. Real Ali was. Emily could feel it in her bones.
Emily opened a reply. Absolutely, she wrote. See you soon.
A few hours later, Emily walked toward the Rosewood Lanes, the old bowling-alley-slash-cocktail-lounge that had a large neon sign of a ball striking ten pins above the entrance. She spied Kelsey—Emily felt foolish for thinking her name had been Kay when really it had just been her first initial, and now she couldn’t think of her by anything other than her full name—waiting by the door, dressed in jeans, a long yellow tunic sweater, and a green anorak with a furry hood. She was taking a big swig from a Poland Spring water bottle. When Kelsey saw Emily, she jumped, quickly stuffed something back into her gold purse, and shot Emily a huge but slightly off-kilter smile. “Ready to bowl?”
Emily snickered. “We’re not really bowling, are we?”
“If the Chambermaids guys want to, I’m all for it.” The band members from the Chambermaids had challenged Kelsey and Emily to a friendly game of bowling.
The two of them walked into the darkly lit bowling alley. It smelled like old shoes and fried mozzarella sticks and was filled with the sounds of heavy balls crashing into pins. Both of them scanned the crowd, which was a mix of old guys in satin bowling league jackets, Hollis students swilling cocktails, and high-school kids drawing pornographic pictures on the big scorecards that were reflected on the ceiling. They were early, though, and the guys from the band were nowhere to be seen.
“Let’s grab some snacks.” Kelsey headed to the bar. They settled on two plush red stools. The bartender, a stout guy with a bushy beard and several large tattoos on his biceps, strolled over and gave them a dirty look. He didn’t seem the type who’d tolerate underage drinkers. Emily asked for water. Kelsey ordered a Diet Coke and some fries.
When the bartender trundled away, silence fell between them. All Emily could think of was her conversation with Spencer. On one hand, she felt like a traitor for defying Spencer’s wishes. On the other, she was certain Spencer was wrong about Kelsey being A.
“I think we know someone in common,” Emily blurted out, not able to hold it in any longer. “Spencer Hastings. We used to be best friends, actually. Spencer said she met you at the Penn summer program.”
Kelsey flinched. “Oh,” she said quietly, peering down to inspect her strawberry-colored split ends. “Yeah. I knew Spencer.”
Emily turned over an old coaster for Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, its corners chipped away. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t recognized me. I was one of Alison DiLaurentis’s best friends, too. One of the Pretty Little Liars.”
Kelsey’s lips made a small O. After a moment, she smacked the side of her head. “God
, right. Spencer told me about all of that. You must think I’m a huge idiot. I knew you looked familiar . . . I just didn’t know from where.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Emily said quickly, noting that Kelsey genuinely seemed surprised about who she was. “I didn’t feel like talking about it. I hate people defining me by what happened.”
“Of course.” Kelsey nodded like she was absolutely tuned in to the conversation, but her eyes darted distractedly all over the bar area. Her hands were shaking a little, too, as if she’d drunk a hundred cups of espresso.
The bartender returned and plunked down their drinks and a large plate of fries. Kelsey busied herself with dousing them in ketchup and salt. After taking a sip of her Diet Coke and eating a fry, she raised her eyes to Emily again. “Spencer and I lost touch last summer. It was because I . . .” A muscle at her temple twitched. “I was sent away to juvie.”
Emily blinked. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” She hoped she sounded surprised.
Kelsey shrugged. “I haven’t told that many people—a lot of kids at school think I did an exchange program. But the cops found drugs in my dorm room at Penn, and it was my second strike. I don’t even know if Spencer knew about it, even though she was with me the night it went down. I saw her the other day and told her, but she reacted really strangely. Maybe it’s because she . . .” She was talking very quickly, so it was jarring when she trailed off. “I’m sorry. She’s your friend. I shouldn’t talk about her.”
“We’re not as close as we used to be.” Emily pushed her straw around her water glass, making a mini whirlpool with the ice cubes.
Kelsey’s hands shook faster. When she reached for the fries, she could barely hold one without it wobbling all over the place. “Are you okay?” Emily asked worriedly.
