by Sara Shepard
Spencer bit a hangnail on her thumb. What if Melissa had overheard Spencer and Ian in the yard earlier? Ian had alluded to their kiss. Or, worse: what if Ali had told Melissa what Spencer had done, years ago?
Not long before Ali vanished, Spencer’s dad had taken the five of them to play paintball. Melissa had come along, too. “I’m going to tell Melissa what you did,” Ali singsonged to Spencer as they put on their jumpsuits in the changing room.
“You wouldn’t,” Spencer hissed back.
“Oh no?” Ali teased. “Watch me.”
Spencer had followed Ali and the others to the field. They all crouched behind a large bale of hay, waiting for the game to start. Then Ali leaned over and tapped Melissa on the shoulder. “Hey, Melissa. I have something to tell you.”
Spencer nudged her. “Stop it.”
The whistle blew. Everyone shot forward and started pelting the other team. Everyone, that was, except for Ali and Spencer. Spencer took Ali’s arm and dragged her behind a nearby hay bale. She was so angry her muscles were quivering.
“Why are you doing this?” Spencer demanded.
Ali snickered, leaning against the hay. “Why are you doing this?” she imitated in a high falsetto. “Because it’s wrong. Melissa deserves to know.”
Anger gathered in Spencer’s body like clouds before a huge thunderstorm. Didn’t friends keep each other’s secrets? They’d kept the Jenna secret for Ali, after all—Ali was the one who’d lit that firework, Ali was the one who had blinded Jenna—and they’d all vowed not to tell. Didn’t Ali remember that?
Spencer didn’t mean to pull the trigger of the paintball gun…it just happened. Blue paint splattered all over Ali’s jumpsuit, and Ali let out a startled cry. Then she glared at Spencer and stormed away. What if she’d gone and told Melissa then, and Melissa had been waiting all this time for the right moment to drop it on Spencer? Maybe this was it.
“Any guesses who it was?” Melissa goaded, breaking Spencer out of the memory.
Spencer sank down farther into the hot tub’s bubbles, her eyes stinging with chlorine. A kiss hardly qualified as cheating, and it had been so long ago. “Nope. No clue.”
Melissa sighed. “Maybe Dr. Evans is full of it. What does she know, really?”
Spencer studied her sister carefully. She thought about what Dr. Evans had said about Melissa—that her sister needed validation. That she was jealous of Spencer. It was such a weird possibility to consider. And could Melissa’s issues have something to do with the time they’d been mugged, Spencer had gotten sick, and Melissa had had to go to her Bee with Yolanda? How many other things had her sister missed out on that summer because her parents were too busy hovering over Spencer? How many times had she been shoved to the side?
I liked when we were friends, said a voice inside Spencer’s head. I liked quizzing you with your spelling words. I hate the way things are now. I’ve hated it for a long time.
“Does it really matter if Ian cheated on you in high school?” Spencer said quietly. “I mean, it was so long ago.”
Melissa stared up at the dark, clear sky. All the stars had come out. “Of course it matters. It was wrong. And if I ever find out it’s true, Ian is going to regret it for the rest of his life.”
Spencer flinched. She’d never heard Melissa sound so vengeful. “And what will you do to the girl?”
Melissa turned very slowly and gave Spencer a poisonous smile. At that very moment, the backyard’s timed lights snapped on. Melissa’s eyes glowed. “Who says I haven’t done something to her already?”
27 OLD HABITS DIE HARD
Late Saturday afternoon, Aria slumped down behind a maple in the McCreadys’ yard, which was across the street from her own house. She watched as three cookie-selling Girl Scouts strode to her family’s front door. Ella’s not home, but put her down for a couple boxes of Thin Mints, she wanted to tell the girls. They’re her favorite.
The girls waited. When no one answered, they went to the next house.
Aria knew it was weird to have biked here from Sean’s, stalking her own house as if it were a velvet-rope celebrity club and she were a paparazzo, but she missed her family so badly. The Ackards were like the bizarro-Montgomerys. Mr. and Mrs. Ackard had joined the Rosewood Stalker Community Watch Board. They’d established a twenty-four-hour tip hotline, and in a few days, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Ackard’s turn to make the nightly rounds. And every time any of them looked at her, Aria felt like they could tell what she’d done with Ezra in his office. It was as though she had a big scarlet A on her shirt now, too.
Aria needed to clear her head and purge herself of Ezra. Only, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. This whole bike ride had been one Ezra reminder after another. She’d passed a chubby man eating Chicken McNuggets and had gotten weak-kneed from the smell. She’d seen a girl with black plastic glasses just like Ezra’s and felt chills. Even a cat on a garden wall had reminded her of Ezra, for no good reason at all. But what was she thinking? How could something be so wrong…yet so right at the same time?
As she passed a stone house with its own waterwheel, a Channel 7 news van whizzed by. It disappeared over the hill, the wind slid through the trees, and the sky suddenly darkened. All at once, Aria felt as if a hundred spiders were crawling over her. Someone was watching.
A?
When her Treo let out a whirly little ring, she nearly fell off her bike. She hit the brakes, pulled onto the sidewalk, and reached for it in her pocket. It was Sean.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Um…I went out for a bike ride,” she answered, chewing on the cuff of her beat-up red hoodie.
“Well, come home soon,” Sean said. “Otherwise we’ll be late to Mona’s.”
Aria sighed. She’d completely forgotten about Mona Vanderwaal’s party.
He sighed back at her, too. “Do you not want to go?”
Aria squeezed the bike’s brakes and stared at the beautiful Gothic Revival house in front of her. The owners had decided to paint it royal purple. Aria’s parents were the only people in the neighborhood who hadn’t signed a petition demanding the artist-owners paint it a more conservative color, but the petition hadn’t held up in court. “I’m not really friends with Mona,” Aria mumbled. “Or anyone else going to that party.”
“What are you talking about?” Sean sounded baffled.
“They’re my friends, so they’re your friends. We’re going to have a great time. And, I mean, other than our bike ride, I feel like I haven’t seen you, really, since you moved in with me. Which is weird, if you think about it.”
Suddenly, Aria’s call waiting beeped. She brought her phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. Ezra. She clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Sean, can I put you on hold for a sec?” She tried to contain the exhilaration in her voice.
“Why?” Sean asked.
“Just…hang on.” Aria clicked over. She cleared her throat and smoothed down her hair, as if Ezra were watching her on a video screen. “Hello?” She tried to sound cool yet seductive.
“Aria?” She swooned at Ezra’s sleepy, gravelly voice.
“Ezra.” Aria feigned surprise. “Hi.”
A few seconds of silence passed. Aria spun her bike’s pedals with her foot and watched a squirrel run across the purple house’s lawn. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Ezra finally admitted. “Can you meet me?”
Aria squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn’t go. But she so wanted to. She swallowed hard. “Hang on.”
She clicked back over to Sean. “Um, Sean?”
“Who was it?” he asked.
“It was…my mom,” Aria fumbled.
“Really? That’s great, right?”
Aria bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She focused intently on the intricately carved pumpkins on the purple house’s steps. “I have to go do something,” she blurted out. “I’ll call you later.”
“Wait,” Sean cried. “What about Mona’s?
”
But Aria’s finger was already switching back to Ezra.
“I’m back,” she said breathlessly, feeling as if she’d just competed in some sort of boy triathlon. “And I’ll be right over.”
When Ezra opened the door to his apartment, which was in an old Victorian house in Old Hollis, he was holding a Glenlivet bottle in his right hand. “Want some Scotch?” he asked.
“Sure,” Aria answered. She walked into the middle of Ezra’s living room and sighed happily. She’d thought about this apartment a lot since she’d been here last. The billions of books on the shelves, the blue melted candle wax spilling over the mantel in Smurf-like lumps, and the big, useless bathtub in the middle of the room…it all made Aria feel so comfortable. She felt like she’d just come home.
They plopped down on Ezra’s springy, mustard-yellow love seat. “Thanks for coming over,” Ezra said softly. He was wearing a pale blue T-shirt with a little rip in the shoulder. Aria wanted to stick her finger through the hole.
“You’re welcome,” Aria said, sliding out of her checkerboard Vans slip-ons. “Should we toast?”
Ezra thought for a moment, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes. “To coming from messed-up homes,” he decided, and touched his glass to hers.
“Cheers.” Aria tipped the Scotch back. It tasted like glass cleaner and smelled like kerosene, but she didn’t care. She drained the Scotch fast, feeling it burn down her esophagus.
“Another?” he asked, bringing the Glenlivet bottle with him as he sat back down.
“Sure,” Aria answered. Ezra got up to get more ice cubes and glanced at the tiny muted TV in the corner. There was an iPod commercial on. It was funny to watch someone dance so enthusiastically with no sound.
Ezra returned and poured Aria another drink. With every sip of the Scotch, Aria’s tough exterior melted away. They talked for a while about Ezra’s parents—his mom lived in New York City now, his dad in Wayne, a town not too far away. Aria began to talk about her family again. “You know what my favorite memory of my parents is?” she said, hoping she wasn’t slurring. The bitter Scotch was doing a number on her motor skills. “My thirteenth birthday at Ikea.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding. Ikea’s a nightmare.”
“It sounds weird, right? But my parents knew someone who was really high up who ran the Ikea store near here, and we rented it out after-hours. It was so much fun—Byron and Ella went there early and planned this whole big scavenger hunt all around the Ikea bedrooms and kitchens and offices. They were so giddy about it. We all had Swedish furniture names for the party—Byron’s was Ektorp, I think, and Ella’s was Klippan. They seemed so…together.”
Tears dotted Aria’s eyes. Her birthday was in April; Aria had found Bryon with Meredith in May, and then Ali had vanished in June. It seemed like that party had been the last perfect, uncomplicated night of her life. Everyone had been so happy, even Ali—especially Ali. At one point in a cavern of Ikea shower curtains, Ali had grabbed Aria’s hands and whispered, “I’m so happy, Aria! I’m so happy!”
“Why?” Aria had asked.
Ali grinned and wiggled. “I’ll tell you soon. It’s a surprise.”
But she’d never had the chance.
Aria traced her finger around the top of the Scotch glass. The news had just come on the TV. They were talking about Ali—again. Murder investigation, the banner at the bottom of the screen said. Ali’s seventh-grade school picture was in the left-hand corner: Ali flashing her brilliant smile, the diamond hoops glinting in her ears, her blond hair wavy and lustrous, her Rosewood Day blazer perfectly fitted and lint-free. It was so odd that Ali would be a seventh grader forever.
“So,” Ezra said. “Have you spoken to your dad?”
Aria turned away from the TV. “Not really. He wanted to talk to me, although he probably doesn’t now. Not after the Scarlet A thing.”
Ezra frowned. “Scarlet A thing?”
Aria picked at a loose thread in her favorite APC jeans from Paris. This was not something she could explain to someone who had a degree in English literature. But Ezra was learning forward, his beautiful lips parted in expectation. So she took another sip of Scotch and told him all about Meredith, Hollis, and the dripping red A.
To her horror, Ezra burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You really did that?”
“Yes,” Aria snapped. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, no, it’s great. I love it.” Ezra impetuously grabbed Aria’s hands. His palms were warm and big and slightly sweaty. He met her eyes…then kissed her. First lightly, then Aria leaned in and kissed him harder. They stopped for a moment, and Aria slumped back on the couch.
“You okay?” Ezra asked softly.
Aria had no idea if she was okay. She’d never felt so much in her life. She couldn’t quite figure out what to do with her mouth. “I don’t—”
“I know we shouldn’t be doing this,” Ezra interrupted.
“You’re my student. I’m your teacher. But…” He sighed, pushing back a lock of hair. “But…I wish that maybe…somehow…this could work.”
How badly had she wanted Ezra to say these things weeks ago? Aria felt perfect with him—more alive, more herself. But then Sean’s face appeared in Aria’s mind. She saw him leaning over to kiss her the other day in the cemetery when he saw a rabbit. And she saw A’s note: Careful, careful! I’m always watching.
She glanced at the television again. The familiar video clip came on for the billionth time. Aria could read Spencer’s lips: Want to read her texts? The girls crowded around the phone. Ali swam into the picture. For a moment, Ali looked squarely into the camera, her eyes round and blue. It seemed like she was staring out of the TV screen into Ezra’s living room…straight at Aria.
Ezra turned his head and noticed what was on. “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He rooted around in the pile of magazines and Thai takeout menus on his coffee table and finally found the remote. He switched one channel up, which was QVC. Joan Rivers was selling a giant dragonfly-shaped brooch.
Ezra pointed at the screen. “I’ll buy that for you, if you want.”
Aria giggled. “No thanks.” She put her hand on Ezra’s and took a deep breath. “So, what you said…about making this work. I…I think I want it to work with you, too.”
He brightened and Aria could see her reflection in his glasses. The old grandfather clock near Ezra’s dining room table chimed out the hour. “R-really?” he murmured.
“Yes. But…but I also want to do it right.” She swallowed hard. “I have a boyfriend right now. So…I have to take care of that, you know?”
“Sure,” Ezra said. “I understand.”
They stared at each other for at least a minute more. Aria could have reached over, torn his glasses off, and kissed him a billion times. “I think I should go now,” she said wistfully.
“Okay,” Ezra answered, his eyes not leaving hers. But when she slid off the couch and tried to put on her shoes, he pulled at the edge of her T-shirt. Even though she’d wanted to leave, she just…couldn’t.
“Come here,” Ezra whispered, and Aria fell back into him. Ezra reached out his arms and caught her.
28 SOME OF HER LETTERS ALSO SPELL JAIL
A little before eight on Saturday night, Spencer was lying on her bed, watching her palm-leaf ceiling fan go around and around. The fan cost more than a decent-running car, but Spencer had begged her mom to buy it because it looked identical to the fan in her private cabana the time her family stayed at the Caves in Jamaica. Now, however, it looked so…Spencer at thirteen.
She got out of bed and slid her feet into her black Chanel sling-backs. She knew she should muster up some enthusiasm for Mona’s party. She would have last year—then again, everything had been different last year. All day, she’d been having strange visions—fighting with Ali outside the barn, Ali’s mouth moving but Spencer not hearing the words, Spencer taking a step toward her, a crack. It was as if the memory,
pent up for all these years, wanted to be the star.
She swiped more toasted almond-colored gloss on her lips, straightened her kimono-sleeve black dress, and clomped downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, she was surprised to see that her mother, father, and Melissa were sitting at the table around an empty Scrabble board. The two dogs snuggled at their feet. Her father wasn’t wearing his standard uniform of either a suit or cycling clothes, but a soft white T-shirt and jeans. Her mom was in yoga pants. The room smelled like steamed milk from the Miele espresso maker.
“Hey.” Spencer couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her parents home on a Saturday night. They were all about being seen—whether it was at a restaurant opening or at the symphony or at one of the dinner parties the partners at her father’s firm were always having.
“Spencer! There you are!” Mrs. Hastings cried. “Guess what we just got?” With a flourish, she presented a printout she had been holding behind her back. It had the Philadelphia Sentinel ’s gothic-script logo on the top. Underneath was the headline, Move Over, Trump! Spencer Hastings Is Coming! Spencer stared at the photo of herself sitting at her father’s desk. The battleship gray Calvin Klein suit with the raspberry silk camisole underneath had been a good choice.
“Jordana just e-mailed us the link,” her mother chirped. “Sunday’s front page won’t be ready until tomorrow morning, of course, but your story is already up online!”
“Wow,” Spencer said shakily, too unfocused to actually read the story. So this was really happening. How far was this going to go? What if she actually won?
“We’re going to open a bottle of champagne to celebrate,” Mr. Hastings said. “You can even have some, Spence. Special occasion and all.”
“And maybe you want to play Scrabble?” Mrs. Hastings asked.
“Mom, she’s all dressed up for a party,” Melissa urged.
“She doesn’t want to sit here and drink champagne and play Scrabble.”
