Pretty Little Liars pll-1

by Sara Shepard

  “What?” Ezra called from behind the bathroom door. “You’re leaving?”

  Aria couldn’t quite believe it, either. She yanked her shirt over her head. “I’ll call you, okay? I just have to go do something.”

  “Wait. What?” he asked, opening the bathroom door.

  Aria grabbed her bag and tore out the door and across the yard. She needed to get away. Now.

  24

  THERE’S MORE THAN JUST SHOES AND JEANS IN SPENCER’S CLOSET

  “The limit of x is…,” Spencer murmured to herself. She propped herself up on one elbow on her bed and stared at her brand-new, just-covered-with-a-brown-bag calculus book. Her lower back still burned with Icy Hot.

  She checked her watch: It was after midnight. Was she crazy to stress over her calc homework on the school year’s first Friday night? The Spencer of last year would’ve whizzed over to the Kahns’ in her Mercedes, drunk bad keg beer, and maybe made out with Mason Byers or some other cute lax boy. But not the Spencer of now. She was the Star, and the Star had homework to do. Tomorrow, the Star was visiting home design stores with her mom to properly accessorize the barn. She might even hit Main Line Bikes with her dad in the afternoon—he’d pored over some bicycling catalogues with her during dinner, asking her which Orbea frame she liked better. He’d never asked her opinion about bikes before.

  She cocked her head. Was that a tiny, tentative knock at the door? Putting down her mechanical pencil, Spencer gazed out the barn’s large front window. The moon was silvery and full, and the windows of the main house blazed a warm yellow. There was the knock again. She padded over to the heavy wooden door and opened it a crack.

  “Hey,” Wren whispered. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Of course not.” Spencer opened the door wider. Wren was barefoot, in a slim-fitting white T-shirt that said, UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA MEDICAL, and baggy khaki shorts. She looked down at her black French Connection baby tee, short track-star gray sweat shorts from Villanova, and bare legs. Her hair was pulled back in a low, messy ponytail; wisps hanging around her face. It was a completely different look from her everyday Thomas Pink striped button-down and Citizens jeans. That look said, I’m sophisticated and sexy, this look said, I’m studying…but still sexy.

  Okay, so maybe she’d planned for the off chance this would happen. But it goes to show you shouldn’t just throw on your high-waisted underwear and old, ratty I HEART PERSIAN CATS T-shirt.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. A warm breeze lifted the wispy ends of her hair. A pine cone fell out of a nearby tree with a thump.

  Wren hovered in the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be out partying? I heard there was a huge field party somewhere.”

  Spencer shrugged. “Not into it.”

  Wren met her eyes. “No?”

  Spencer’s mouth felt cottony. “Um…where’s Melissa?”

  “She’s sleeping. Too much renovating, I guess. So I thought maybe you could give me a tour of this fabulous barn I don’t get to live in. I never even got to see it!”

  Spencer frowned. “Do you have a housewarming gift?”

  Wren paled. “Oh. I…”

  “I’m kidding.” She opened the door. “Enter the Spencer Hastings barn.”

  She’d spent some of the night daydreaming about all the potential scenarios of being alone with Wren, but nothing compared to actually having him right here, next to her.

  Wren strolled over to her Thom Yorke poster and stretched his hands behind his head. “You like Radiohead?”

  “Love.”

  Wren’s face lit up. “I’ve seen them like twenty times in London. Every show gets better.”

  She smoothed down the duvet on her bed. “Lucky. I’ve never seen them live.”

  “We have to remedy that,” he said, leaning against her couch. “If they come to Philly, we’re going.”

  Spencer paused. “But I don’t think…” Then she stopped. She was about to say I don’t think Melissa likes them, but…maybe Melissa wasn’t invited.

  She led him to the walk-in closet. “This is my, um, closet,” she said, accidentally bumping into the doorjamb. “It used to be a milking station.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep. This is where the farmers squeezed the cow’s nipples or whatever.”

  He laughed. “Don’t you mean udders?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Spencer blushed. Oops. “You don’t have to look in there to be polite. I mean, I know closets aren’t that interesting to guys.”

  “Oh no.” Wren grinned. “I’ve come all this way; I absolutely want to see what Spencer Hastings has in her closet.”

  “As you wish.” Spencer flicked on the closet light. The closet smelled like leather, mothballs, and Clinique Happy. She’d stashed all her undies, bras, nightgowns, and grubby hockey clothes in wicker pull-out baskets, and her shirts hung in neat rows, arranged according to color.

  Wren chuckled. “It’s like being in a shop!”

  “Yeah,” Spencer said bashfully, running her hands against her shirts.

  “I’ve never heard of a window in a closet.” Wren pointed to the open window on the far wall. “Seems funny.”

  “It was part of the original barn,” Spencer explained.

  “You like people watching you naked?”

  “There are blinds,” Spencer said.

  “Too bad,” Wren said softly. “You looked so beautiful in the bathroom…. I hoped I’d get to see you…like that…again.”

  When Spencer whirled around—what did he just say?—Wren was staring at her. He rubbed his fingers over the cuff of a hung-up pair of Joseph trousers. She slid her Tiffany Elsa Peretti heart ring up and down her finger, afraid to speak. Wren took a step forward, then another, until he was right next to her. Spencer could see the light smattering of freckles over his nose. The well-behaved Spencer of a parallel universe would have ducked around him and shown him the rest of the barn. But Wren kept staring at her with his huge, gorgeous brown eyes. The Spencer who was here now rubbed her lips together, afraid to speak, yet dying to do…something.

  So then she did. She closed her eyes, reached up, and kissed him right on the lips.

  Wren didn’t hesitate. He kissed her back, then held on to the back of her neck and kissed her harder. His mouth was soft, and he tasted a tiny bit like cigarettes.

  Spencer sank back into her wall of shirts. Wren followed. A few slipped off the hangers, but Spencer didn’t care.

  They sank down onto the soft carpeted floor. Spencer kicked her field hockey cleats out of the way. Wren rolled on top of her, groaning slightly. Spencer grabbed fistfuls of his worn T-shirt in her hands and pulled it over his head. He took hers off next and ran his feet up and down her legs. They rolled over and now Spencer was on top of him. A huge, overwhelming surge of—well, she didn’t know what—overcame her. Whatever it was, it was so intense it didn’t occur to her to feel guilty. She paused over him, breathing hard.

  He reached up and kissed her again, then kissed her nose and her neck. Then he pushed himself up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Why?”

  He motioned his eyes to his left, the direction of her bathroom.

  As soon as she heard Wren shut the door, Spencer threw her head back onto the floor and stared dizzily up at her clothes. Then she scrambled up and examined herself in the three-way mirror. Her hair had come out of its ponytail and cascaded over her shoulders. Her bare skin looked luminous, and her face was slightly flushed. She grinned at the three Spencers in the mirror. This. Was. Unbelievable.

  That was when the reflection of her computer screen, directly opposite her closet, caught her eye.

  It was flashing. She turned around and squinted. It looked like she had hundreds of instant messages, piled one on top of the other. Another IM popped on the screen, this time written in 72-point font. Spencer blinked.

  A A A A A A: I already told you: Kissing your sister’s boyfriend is WRONG.

  Spencer ran up to her computer screen and read t
he IM again. She turned and glanced toward the bathroom; a tiny strip of light shone from underneath the door.

  A was definitely not Andrew Campbell.

  When she kissed Ian back in seventh grade, she told Alison about it, hoping for some advice. Ali examined her French-manicured toenails for a long moment before she finally said, “You know, I’ve been in your corner when it comes to Melissa. But this is different. I think you should tell her.”

  “Tell her?” Spencer shot back. “No way. She’d kill me.”

  “What, do you think Ian’s going to go out with you?” Ali said nastily.

  “I don’t know,” Spencer said. “Why not?”

  Ali snorted. “If you don’t tell her, maybe I will.”

  “No you won’t!”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “If you tell Melissa,” Spencer said after a moment, her heart pounding wildly, “I’ll tell everyone about The Jenna Thing.”

  Ali barked out a laugh. “You’re just as guilty as I am.”

  Spencer stared at Ali long and hard. “But no one saw me.”

  She turned to Spencer and gave her a fierce, angry look—scarier than any look she’d ever given any of the girls before. “You know I took care of that.”

  Then there was that sleepover in the barn on the last day of seventh grade. When Ali said how cute Ian and Melissa were together, Spencer realized Ali really might tell on her. Then, strangely, a light, free feeling swept over her. Let her, Spencer thought. She suddenly didn’t care anymore. And even though it sounded horrible to say now, the truth was, Spencer wanted to be free of Ali, right then and there.

  Now Spencer felt nauseous. She heard the toilet flush. Wren strode out and stood in the closet’s doorway. “Now, where were we?” he cooed.

  But Spencer still had her eyes on her computer screen. Something on it—a flicker of red—just moved. It looked like…a reflection.

  “What’s the matter?” Wren asked.

  “Shh,” Spencer said. Her eyes focused. It was a reflection. She spun around. There was someone outside her window.

  “Holy shit,” Spencer said. She held her T-shirt up against her naked chest.

  “What is it?” Wren asked.

  Spencer stepped back. Her throat was dry. “Oh,” she croaked.

  “Oh,” Wren echoed.

  Melissa stood outside the window, her hair messy and Medusa-like, her face absolutely expressionless. A cigarette shook in her tiny, usually steady fingers.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Spencer finally said.

  Melissa didn’t answer. Instead, she took one more drag, threw the butt in the dewy grass, and turned back toward the main house.

  “You coming, Wren?” Melissa called frostily over her shoulder.

  25

  STUDENT DRIVERS THESE DAYS!

  Mona’s mouth dropped open when she came around the corner to Noel’s front lawn. “Holy shit.”

  Hanna leaned out the window of Sean’s father’s BMW and grinned at Mona. “You love it?”

  Mona’s eyes lit up. “I’m speechless.”

  Hanna smiled gratefully and took a swig from the Ketel One bottle she’d swiped from the booze table. Two minutes ago, she’d texted Mona a picture of the BMW with the message, I’m all lubed up and out front. Come ride me.

  Mona opened the heavy passenger door and slid into the seat. She leaned over and stared intensely at the BMW insignia on the steering wheel. “It’s so beautiful….” Shetraced the little blue and white triangles with her pinkie.

  Hanna flicked her hand off. “Get stoned much?”

  Mona raised her chin and appraised Hanna’s dirty hair, crooked dress, and tear-stained face. “Things didn’t go well with Sean?”

  Hanna looked down and jammed the key into the ignition.

  Mona moved to hug her. “Oh Han, I’m sorry…. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Whatever.” Hanna jerked away and put on her sunglasses—which made it a little hard to see, but who cared?—and started the car. It burst into action, all of the BMW’s dashboard lights switching on.

  “Pretty!” Mona cried. “It’s like the lights at Club Shampoo!”

  Hanna slammed the gear into reverse and the tires rolled through the thick grass. Then she jerked it into drive, cut the wheel, and off they went. Hanna was too keyed up to worry about the fact that the double lines on the road were quadrupling in her vision.

  “Yee haw,” Mona whooped. She rolled down the window to let her long, blond hair flutter behind her. Hanna lit a Parliament and swiveled the Sirius radio dial until she found a retro rap station playing “Baby Got Back.” She turned the volume up and the cabin throbbed—of course the car had the best bass money could buy.

  “That’s more like it,” Mona said.

  “Hells yeah,” Hanna answered.

  As she navigated a sharp turn a little too quickly, something in the back of her mind made a ping.

  It’s not gonna be you.

  Ouch.

  Even Daddy doesn’t love you best!

  Double ouch.

  Well, fuck it. Hanna pressed down on the gas and nearly took out someone’s dog-shaped mailbox.

  “We’ve got to go somewhere and show this bitch off.” Mona put her Miu Miu heels up on the dashboard, smearing bits of grass and dirt on it. “How ’bout Wawa? I’m jonesing for some Tastykake.”

  Hanna giggled and took another swig of Ketel One. “You must be super-baked.”

  “I’m not just baked, I’m broiled!”

  They parked crookedly in the Wawa lot and sang, “I like big BUTTS and I cannot lie!” as they stumbled into the store. A couple of grubby delivery guys, holding 64-ounce cups of coffee and leaning against their trucks, stared with their mouths open.

  “Can I have your hat?” Mona asked the skinnier of the two, pointing to his mesh ball cap that said WAWA FARMS. Without a word, the guy gave it to her.

  “Ew,” Hanna whispered. “That thing is germy!” But Mona had already put it on her head.

  In the store, Mona bought sixteen Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets, a copy of Us Weekly, and a huge bottle of Tahitian Treat; Hanna bought a Tootsie Pop for ten cents. When Mona wasn’t looking, she shoved a Snickers and a pack of M&M’s into her purse.

  “I can hear the car,” Mona said dreamily as they paid. “It’s screaming.”

  It was true. In her drunken haze, Hanna had activated the alarm on the keychain. “Oops.” She giggled.

  Hooting with laughter, they ran back to the car and slid inside. They stopped at a red light, heads bobbing. The supermarket strip mall to their left was empty except for some loose shopping carts. The store’s neon signs glowed vacantly; even the Outback Steakhouse bar was dead.

  “People in Rosewood are such losers.” Hanna gestured to the darkness.

  The highway was barren too, so Hanna let out a startled, “Eep!” when a car stealthily rolled up in the lane next to her. It was a silver, pointy-nosed Porsche with tinted windows and those creepy blue headlights.

  “Check that out,” Mona said, Krimpet crumbs falling out of her mouth.

  As they stared, the car revved its engine.

  “It wants to race,” Mona whispered.

  “Bull,” Hanna answered. She couldn’t make out who was inside the car—only the red, glowing tip of a lit cigarette. An uneasy feeling washed over her.

  The car revved its engine again—impatiently, this time—and she could finally see a vague outline of the driver. He revved his engine again.

  Hanna raised an eyebrow at Mona, feeling drunk, hyped, and completely invincible.

  “Do it,” Mona whispered, pulling down the brim of the Wawa milk hat.

  Hanna swallowed hard. The light turned green. As Hanna hit the gas, the car launched forward. The Porsche growled ahead of her.

  “You pussy, don’t let him beat you!” Mona cried.

  Hanna stepped down on the gas pedal and the engine roared. She pulled alongside the Porsche. They were doing 80, then 90, then 100. Dri
ving this fast felt better than stealing.

  “Kick his ass!” Mona screamed.

  Heart pounding, Hanna pressed the pedal to the floor. She could hardly hear what Mona was saying over the engine noise. As they rounded a turn, a deer stepped into their lane. It came out of nowhere.

  “Shit!” Hanna screamed. The deer stood dumbly still. She gripped the wheel tightly, hit the brakes, and swerved right, and the deer jumped out of the way. Quickly, she wrenched the wheel to straighten it out, but the car began to skid. The tires caught on a patch of gravel on the side of the road, and suddenly, they were spinning.

  The car spun around and around, and then they hit something. All at once, there was a crunch, splintering glass and…darkness.

  A split second later, the only sound in the car was a vigorous hissing noise from under the hood.

  Slowly, Hanna felt her face. It was okay; nothing had hit it. And her legs could move. She pushed herself up through a bunch of folded, puffy fabric—the airbag. She checked on Mona. Her long legs kicked wildly from behind her airbag.

  Hanna wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “You okay?”

  “Get this thing off me!”

  Hanna got out of the car and then pulled Mona out. They stood on the side of the highway, breathing hard. Across the street were the SEPTA tracks and the dark Rosewood station. They could see far up the highway: There was no sign of the Porsche—or the deer that they’d missed. Ahead of them, the stoplights swung, turning from yellow to red.

  “That was something,” Mona said, her voice quivering.

  Hanna nodded. “You sure you’re all right?” She looked at the car.

  The whole front end had crumpled into a telephone pole. The bumper hung off the car, touching the ground. One of the headlights had twisted around to a crooked angle; the other flashed crazily. Stinky steam poured out of the hood.

  “You don’t think it’s gonna blow up, do you?” Mona asked.

  Hanna giggled. This shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. “What should we do?”

  “We should bolt,” Mona said. “We can walk home from here.”