by Sara Shepard
The woman wasn’t Mr. Kahn’s sister. She was Mr. Kahn.
6
SPENCER’S IN
That night, shortly after six, Spencer walked into Striped Bass, a restaurant on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. The place had echoing high ceilings, Brazilian cherry floors polished to a glossy shine, and Corinthian columns around the perimeter. Huge, barrel-shaped lights swung overhead, waiters swirled around white tablecloth–draped tables, and the air smelled like melted butter, grilled swordfish, and red wine.
PRINCETON EARLY ADMISSIONS WELCOME DINNER read a small sign just past the maître d’ stand, pointing to a small room off to the right. Inside, thirty eager kids her age were standing around tables. The guys were all dressed in khakis, button-downs, and ties, and had that slightly nerdy, overconfident look of every class valedictorian Spencer had ever met. The girls wore sweater sets, knee-length skirts, and demure, I’m-going-to-join-a-law-firm-someday high heels. Some of them were whip-thin and looked like models, others were chubbier or wore dark-framed glasses, but they all looked like they had 4.0 GPAs and perfect SAT scores.
A flashing TV screen above the main bar caught Spencer’s eye. THIS FRIDAY, AN ENCORE PERFORMANCE OF PRETTY LITTLE KILLER, a banner announced in bold yellow letters. The girl playing Alison DiLaurentis appeared, telling the Spencer, Aria, Hanna, and Emily actresses that she wanted to be their BFF again. “I’ve missed all of you,” she simpered. “I want you back.”
Spencer turned away, heat rising to her face. Wasn’t it time they stopped showing that stupid docudrama? Anyway, the movie didn’t tell the whole story. It left out the part about all of the girls thinking Real Ali had surfaced in Jamaica.
Don’t think about Ali—or Jamaica, Spencer scolded herself silently, squaring her shoulders and marching into the dining room. The last thing she needed was to freak out, Lady Macbeth–style, at her first Princeton fete.
As soon as she swept through the double doors, a girl with blond hair and wide, violet eyes gave her an enormous smile. “Hi! Are you here for the dinner?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, straightening up. “Spencer Hastings. From Rosewood.” She prayed no one would recognize her name—or notice that a slightly heavier, twenty-something version of her was on TV in the room behind them.
“Welcome! I’m Harper, one of the student ambassadors.” The girl shuffled through a bunch of name tags and found one with Spencer’s name written in all caps. “Hey, did you get that at the D.C. Leadership Conference two years ago?” she asked, eyeing the silver Washington Monument–shaped keychain that hung from Spencer’s oversize leather tote.
“I did!” Spencer said, glad she’d stuck the keychain on the zipper pull at the last minute. She’d hoped someone would recognize it.
Harper smiled. “I have one of those somewhere. I thought they only asked college students to that.”
“Normally they do,” Spencer said with mock-bashfulness. “You were there, too?”
Harper nodded eagerly. “It was pretty great, don’t you think? Meeting all those senators, doing those mock-UN meetings, although that opening dinner was kind of . . .” Harper trailed off, making an awkward face.
“Weird?” Spencer ventured, giggling. “You’re talking about that mime, right?” The event coordinators had hired a mime as entertainment. He’d spent the entire dinner pretending he was trapped in an invisible box or walking his imaginary dog.
“Yes!” Harper snickered. “He was so creepy!”
“Remember how that senator from Idaho loved him?” Spencer tittered.
“Totally.” Harper’s smile was warm and genuine. Her gaze moved to Spencer’s name tag. “You go to Rosewood Day? One of my best friends went there. Did you know Tansy Gates?”
“She was on my field hockey team!” Spencer cried, thrilled for another connection. Tansy was one of the girls who’d petitioned Rosewood Day to let seventh graders on the JV field hockey team, hoping that Spencer would be chosen. Ali had been picked instead, and Spencer had been relegated to the lame sixth-grade squad, which let anyone play.
Then Spencer looked at Harper’s name tag. It listed the activities she was involved in at Princeton. Field Hockey. The Daily Princetonian. At the very end, in small letters, were the words Bicker Chair, Ivy Eating Club.
She almost gasped. She’d done a ton of research about Eating Clubs since she’d been caught unaware at the cake-tasting. The coed Ivy, which boasted heads of state, CEOs of major companies, and literary giants as alums, was at the top of her must-join list. If Harper ran Bicker, that meant she was in charge of picking new members. She was definitely the person to know.
Suddenly, someone started clapping at the front of the room. “Welcome, incoming freshmen!” a gangly guy with curly reddish-blondish hair yelled. “I’m Steven, one of the ambassadors. We’re going to start dinner, so could everyone take their seats?”
Spencer looked at Harper. “Want to sit together?”
Harper’s face fell. “I’d love to, but our seats are assigned.” She pointed to Spencer’s name tag. “That number on your name tag is the table you’re sitting at. I’m sure you’ll meet some awesome early admits, though!”
“Yeah,” Spencer said, trying to hide her disappointment. And then, before she could say anything else, Harper flounced away.
Spencer found her way to table four and sat down across from an Asian boy with spiky hair and angular glasses who was glued to his iPhone screen. Two guys in matching Pritchard Prep jackets were talking about a golf tournament they’d competed in the summer before. A petite girl in a Hillary Clinton–esque pantsuit was screaming into a cell phone about selling stock. Spencer raised an eyebrow, wondering if the girl already had a job. These Princeton kids didn’t mess around.
“Hola.”
A guy with a billy-goat chin-beard, shaggy brown hair, and sleepy bedroom eyes gazed at Spencer from the adjacent seat. His gray dress pants had a ragged hem, his shoes were thick-soled and surely made of hemp, and he smelled like the enormous bong Mason Byers had brought back from Amsterdam.
The stoner kid stuck out his hand. “I’m Raif Fredricks, but most people call me Reefer. I’m from Princeton, so I feel like I’m going to the local community college. My folks are begging me not to board, but I’m like, ‘Hell no! I need my freedom! I want to hold drum circles in my room at four in the morning! I want to have killer protest meetings during dinner!’”
Spencer blinked at him. He’d said everything so fast she wasn’t sure she caught it all. “Wait, you got into Princeton?”
Reefer—God, that was a stupid nickname—grinned. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” His hand was still hanging in front of Spencer. “Uh, normally, this is the part where people shake. And you say, ‘Hi, Reefer, my name is . . . ’”
“Spencer,” Spencer said dazedly, clasping Reefer’s enormous palm for a split second. Her mind reeled. This dude belonged on a grassy knoll at Hollis with the other kids who’d graduated from their high schools in the middle of the pack. He didn’t look like the type who agonized over AP exams and made sure he’d fulfilled enough community service hours.
“So, Spencer.” Reefer sat back and eyed Spencer up and down. “I think it’s fate that we got seated together. You look like you get it, you know? You look like you aren’t a prisoner to the system.” He nudged her side. “Plus, you’re totally cute.”
Ew, Spencer thought, purposely turning the opposite direction and pretending to be enamored with the endive salads the waiters were serving. It was just her luck to be seated next to this loser.
Reefer didn’t get the hint, though. He leaned closer, tapping her shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re shy. So get this: I was thinking of heading over to Independence Hall and checking out the Occupy Philly rally after this. Are you in? It’s supposed to be really inspiring.”
“Uh, that’s okay,” Spencer said, annoyed at how loud this guy was talking. What if everyone thought they were friends?
Reefer shoved a piece of endive into
his mouth. “Your loss. Here, in case you change your mind.” He ripped a piece of paper from a ragged spiral-bound notebook in his bag, scribbled something down, and passed it to Spencer. She squinted at the words. What a long, strange trip it’s been. Huh?
“Jerry’s my guru,” Reefer said. Then he pointed to a bunch of digits below the quote. “Call anytime—day or night. I’m always up.”
“Uh, thanks.” Spencer slipped the paper into her bag. She noticed Harper watching her from across the room, met her eyes, and gave her an Oh-my-God-I-think-he’s-gross eye roll.
Thankfully, Steven, the other ambassador, started speaking, and his long, ego-stroking speech about how everyone in the room was wonderful and amazing and would surely change the world someday because they went to Princeton took up the rest of the hour. As soon as the waiters cleared the desserts, Spencer shot out of her seat as fast as her toned-from-field-hockey legs could carry her. She found Harper by the coffee urn and gave her a huge smile.
“I see you met Reefer.” Harper winked.
Spencer scrunched up her face. “Yeah, lucky me.”
Harper gave Spencer an inscrutable look, then moved in closer. “Listen, I know this is last minute, but do you have plans for this weekend?”
“I don’t think so.” Aside from helping her mom taste-test yet more confections for the wedding. Did a second wedding really need a cake and a cupcake tower?
Harper’s eyes glittered. “Great. Because there’s a party I’d love to bring you to. I think you’d really get along with my friends. You could stay with me in this big house I live in on campus. Get a sense of things.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Spencer said quickly, as though if she paused even a millisecond, Harper would rescind her offer. The big house on campus was the Ivy House—as Bicker Chair, Harper got to live there.
“Awesome.” Harper tapped something on her phone. “Give me your e-mail. I’ll send you my number and directions of where to find me. Be there by six.”
Spencer gave Harper her e-mail address and phone number, and soon enough, Harper’s e-mail appeared in her inbox. When she read it, she almost whooped aloud. Sure enough, Harper had given her directions to the Ivy House on Prospect Avenue.
She filed out of the room, walking on air. As she pushed through the revolving door to the street, her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse, let out a muffled chime. When she pulled it out and saw the screen, her heart plummeted like a stone. New text message from Anonymous.
Hi Spence! Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appetite for murder? Kisses! —A
7
HANNA GETS STEAMED
The following night, Hanna stood outside the boys’ locker room, tugging down the curve-hugging dress she’d changed into after the final bell. All around her, students bustled to catch their after-school buses, rushed to activities, or climbed in their cars to head to the King James Mall.
Hanna’s cell phone beeped, and she quickly turned down the volume. It was yet another message from Isabel, reminding Hanna to be at her father’s town hall meeting that night a little early to meet and greet some of the donors. Duh—as if she didn’t already know that. She’d helped organize the whole thing. And she’d get there when she got there. The task at hand was the only thing on her mind right now.
The aromas of dirty socks and Axe body spray wafted into the hall. Muffled voices and hissing shower sounds echoed. It just so happened that the boys’ indoor track team had come in from a grueling workout of wind sprints around the iced-over parking lot. It also just so happened that Mike was on the indoor track team to keep in shape for lacrosse. Operation Get Mike Back was about to begin.
The blue door swished open, and two sophomores in track jackets emerged, giving Hanna strange looks as they passed. She glared at them in return, then edged toward the door again.
“It was genius of the gym to introduce a pole-dancing class,” Mason Byers’s telltale gravelly baritone rang out. “Have you seen the girls that take it?”
“Dude, don’t even get me started,” James Freed answered. “I didn’t even work out the last time I was there—I just watched them the whole time.”
“That girl Mike’s dating takes it,” Mason said.
Hanna frowned. Colleen was pole dancing now? For an eighth grade talent show, Colleen had dressed in a Latvian costume and danced her ancestors’ native steps. Hanna and Mona had made fun of her for months afterward.
“I know.” James made a weird boy grunt. “No wonder he’s doing her.” He snickered. “Did you know Bebris means beaver in Latvian?”
Wait. The guys didn’t just say Mike was doing her, did they? Hanna felt a hurt twinge. She and Mike hadn’t done it, and they’d dated for over a year.
Two more guys emerged from the locker room, and Hanna peeked inside. James and Mason were nowhere to be seen, but Mike was at his locker. He was standing in his boxers, his black hair wet and matted against his head, little water droplets on his broad shoulders. Had he always been that muscled?
Hanna rolled back her shoulders. Go time. She sauntered into the steamy room. She’d never been inside the boys’ locker room before and was disappointed to find that it didn’t look all that different from the girls’, aside from the jockstrap lying on the floor in one of the aisles. The room smelled like talc and sweaty socks, and the trash can was overflowing with empty Gatorade bottles.
She tiptoed across the gray tiled floor until she was only a few feet away from Mike. On his back was the crescent moon–shaped scar he’d gotten from falling off his bike when he was little. They’d shown each other all their scars one afternoon at Hanna’s house, stripping down to their underwear but not going any further. In some ways, Hanna had been too afraid to have sex with Mike—she’d never slept with anyone before, and it seemed like such a big deal with him. And despite how Mike was always talking about how sex-crazed he was, Hanna had wondered if he had been a little afraid, too.
Hanna reached out and clapped her hands over Mike’s eyes. “Boo.”
Mike jumped, but then relaxed. “Heeeyy,” he said, drawing out the word. “What are you doing in here?”
Instead of saying anything, Hanna began to pepper the back of Mike’s neck with little kisses. Mike leaned into her, his bare skin warm against her tight dress. He reached back and raked his fingers through Hanna’s long ringlets. Suddenly, he whipped around, opened his eyes, and stared.
“Hanna!” Mike grabbed the towel from the bench and covered his bare torso. “What the hell?”
Hanna grabbed for the rope necklace Mike had worn ever since his family returned from Iceland and yanked him closer. “Don’t be shy. Just go with this. Isn’t this one of your sex fantasies?”
Mike stepped away from her, his eyes bulging. “Have you lost your mind?” He wasn’t checking out Hanna’s skintight dress or the super-high-heeled shoes that made her ankles ache. Instead, he was glaring at her like she was being wildly inappropriate. “You need to go.”
Hanna stiffened. “You seemed into it just a few seconds ago.”
“That’s because I thought you were someone else.” Mike pulled a T-shirt over his head and stepped into his pants.
Hanna leaned against the lockers, not budging. “Look, Mike, I want you back, okay? Things are over with me and my boyfriend. I know you want me back, too. So stop acting like an idiot and kiss me already!”
She punctuated this with a little laugh so that she didn’t sound complete pushy, but Mike just stared at her blankly. “You heard me at the mall the other night—I have a girlfriend now.”
Hanna rolled her eyes. “Colleen? Please. Don’t you remember how she had her head flushed in the Old Faithful toilet four times in sixth grade? And Mike, she’s a drama geek. You’re totally bringing down your popularity quotient by dating her.”
Mike crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, Colleen has an agent for her drama stuff. She’s been on auditions for some big stuff on TV. And
I don’t care about popularity.”
Yeah, right. “Is she easy or something?” Hanna was surprised by how bitter she sounded.
Mike’s face hardened. “I like her, Hanna.”
He stared at her unflinchingly, and the clouds in Hanna’s head began to lift. Mike wasn’t going out—and sleeping—with Colleen because she was willing, but because he cared about her.
Someone snickered from near the sinks, and Hanna spied James and Mason hiding behind the wall, hanging on every word. She wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly feeling exposed. They were laughing at her. Dorky Hanna, throwing herself at her ex. Dorky Hanna, making an idiot out of herself. She might as well have been fat again, with poop-brown hair and braces on her teeth. The ultimate chubby, ugly loser who nobody loved.
Without another word, she whipped around and marched out of the locker room, not even stopping when her ankle twisted beneath her. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, she silently repeated over and over. There was no way she had been beaten by someone as milquetoast as Colleen.
She slammed the locker room door hard and emerged into the silent hall. Suddenly, a new laugh rang through the corridor, high-pitched and even more sinister than the boys’. Hanna froze and listened. Was she crazy, or did that sound like Ali’s laugh? She cocked her head to the side, waiting. But just like that, the sound disappeared.
8
HELLO, MY NAME IS HEATHER
That night, Emily walked into the Rosewood Arms, a hotel near Hollis that was half quaint B&B, half fancy resort. The old mansion was once owned by a railroad baron, and each room was decorated with priceless antique cabinetry and a smattering of deer, bison, and lion heads. One of the wings had been converted into a spa. The baron’s old garage, which used to house dozens of top-of-the-line carriages and early race cars, was now the banquet hall.
