Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic

by Sara Shepard

  She felt . . . stuck. And freaked. It seemed like whenever Aria shut her eyes, Ali’s face shimmered into her mind. She’d looked so creepy the last time they saw her, like a hollowed-out corpse. The image haunted her so completely that, in hopes of expunging it from her brain, she’d painted Ali’s likeness on a huge canvas in the back of the gallery. She’d painted two versions of Ali, actually: one of the most recent Ali, the girl she saw in the basement of that dilapidated building next to Hanna’s father’s office; the second a portrait of the old Ali, the unattainable, überpopular girl from the beginning of sixth grade. Aria had used an old sketch of Ali she’d drawn the day Ali tore down the Time Capsule poster outside Rosewood Day and announced that she was going to get a piece of the Time Capsule flag. It was from before the twin switch happened. Before Courtney DiLaurentis approached the four of them at the charity drive and asked them to be her besties.

  Once she’d finished helping Ella, Aria stepped into the back room and dared to examine both Ali paintings more closely. Usually, she had trouble with portraits—she’d painted a ton of Noel Kahn, her maybe-ex-boyfriend, and none of them quite captured his essence. But Ali’s Ali-ness had flowed from Aria’s brush, every feature chilling and precise. Just by looking at the canvases, she could almost smell Ali’s rotting breath and felt a shiver when she examined her wide, furious eyes. When Aria turned and peered at sixth-grade Ali, the girl’s condescending smirk made her feel as small and insignificant as that day Aria had sat alone on the wall at Rosewood Day sketching her.

  She backed out of the room and shut the door. Spending too much time with Ali’s portraits even freaked her out.

  She looked around the main gallery space for something to do, but it wasn’t her shift, and the two assistants on duty, Bernie and Sierra, were bored themselves. Suddenly, a figure out the window caught her eye. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Noel.

  “Be back in a sec,” she muttered to her mom, darting out the door.

  Noel was halfway up the block by the time Aria hit the sidewalk. “Hey!” she called out. “Noel?”

  He turned around. The bruises on his face from when Ali and Nick had trapped him in a storage shed behind Rosewood Day on prom night had healed, and his dark hair had grown out a little, curling below his ears. When he saw Aria, though, his expression became guarded.

  Heartbreak filled her. When they were together, Noel had always been so happy to see her, even if she interrupted him in the middle of lacrosse practice. He’d always run toward her, his arms outstretched. Did Aria want him to do that now? No. Yes. No. She’d been the one who’d told Noel they couldn’t be together—he’d lied to her for years about knowing the truth about Ali and even visiting her at The Preserve. But lately, she’d begun to second-guess that decision. Everyone made mistakes. Maybe she could forgive Noel.

  And God, did she miss him.

  “H-hey,” Aria said nervously as she approached. “Thanks for the text.” She had sent Noel a few texts lately, just saying hi, hoping to broach a conversation. Finally, Noel had written back, a simple hi. Maybe it was a sign.

  Noel’s brow crinkled for a moment. “Oh. Right. No problem.”

  An aching silence followed. Aria pretended to be interested in a bumper sticker on the back of a passing Honda Civic. “What are you doing in this neighborhood, anyway?” she asked finally. Say you came to see me, she willed.

  Noel shuffled his feet. “I’m taking an English class at Hollis so I can skip the course requirement next year. A bunch of kids are taking it. Mason, Riley Wolfe . . .”

  Aria started to giggle. “Remember the time you told me you thought Riley looked like a leprechaun?”

  Noel looked pained. “Um, I should get going.”

  Aria grabbed at him. “Wait!” she bleated, hating how desperate she sounded. “Um, maybe we could have coffee soon or something? Or there’s that fund-raiser at the country club—maybe we could go together?” A bunch of society ladies in Rosewood were throwing a party to benefit Rosewood’s disadvantaged and troubled youths, and the whole town was invited. It was kind of ironic, as wealthy, privileged Rosewood really didn’t have many disadvantaged or troubled youths. Ali had kind of been a one-off.

  Noel shifted. “I’m busy that night.”

  “Oh!” Aria cringed at how chirpy her voice came out. “Well, maybe a movie sometime?”

  He kept his eyes on the pavement. “Actually, I think I just need some space right now, Aria. I’m sorry.”

  Aria blinked. “Sure. Okay.” A feeling of hurt surged through her chest. She thought about when she’d seen Noel in the hospital after her attack. I believe you, he’d said, referring to them seeing Ali. I’ll always believe you. He’d seemed so loving and concerned. But that was two weeks ago. It was as if he’d forgotten it happened.

  “Well, see ya,” was all she could manage now.

  “See ya.” Noel waved. A few paces away, he pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen.

  She counted to ten, but Noel didn’t turn around. Her throat itched, and she could feel that the tears were imminent. The bells that Jim, the gallery owner, had purchased on a trip to India jingled as she stepped back inside.

  Ella lowered the canvas in her hands. “Aria?” Her voice cracked. “Was that Noel? Are you okay?”

  “I just . . .” Aria put her head down and stomped past her. The humiliation was probably clear on her face, but she did not want to talk about it.

  She disappeared into the back room, shut the door, and locked it, then let the tears fall. She glared at the Ali paintings through blurred vision. This was all her fault. Everything was her fault.

  She grabbed the sixth-grade Ali one, enraged by her taunting expression. You’ll always be under my thumb, Ali seemed to tease. With jerky, hurried movements, Aria rammed the thing onto an easel and grabbed her oil paints from the windowsill. She squirted some black paint on a wooden palette and made broad, obsidian slashes with her fattest brush, covering Ali’s shiny hair, her flawless skin, and that hateful smile. She painted and painted until the entire canvas was black except for one small triangle around Ali’s eye. A single blue eyeball stared out at Aria. But even that was too Ali. Too much.

  So Aria painted over it, too.

  3

  THE WRITE STUFF

  Monday night, a valet in a white shirt and red pants extended his hand as Spencer Hastings climbed out of her stepfather’s Range Rover. “Welcome to the Four Seasons, miss,” he said in a smooth voice. “Do you need help with anything?”

  Spencer smiled. She loved luxury hotels. “I’m fine,” she said, turning to watch as her mother; her stepfather, Mr. Pennythistle; her fifteen-year-old stepsister, Amelia; her older sister, Melissa; and Melissa’s boyfriend, Darren Wilden, climbed out of the car next. They looked like a Brooks Brothers advertisement, the men in dark suits, the ladies in tasteful black cocktail dresses—even Amelia, who usually dressed like an American Girl doll.

  The family headed toward the grand ballroom, where they were attending a fete honoring the Fifty Most Prominent Philadelphians. Mr. Pennythistle was on the list because his homebuilding company had put up so many new developments in the suburbs. Spencer wasn’t a fan of her stepfather’s cookie-cutter, Stepford Wife–esque housing plans, but it was awesome to see his name on a large plaque and in Philadelphia magazine. And after the hellish few months she’d had, a fancy party with dancing and drinks might take her mind off things.

  “Cocktail?” a waitress holding a tray of martinis said to the group.

  Spencer glanced at her mother. Mrs. Hastings nodded. “Only one.”

  Spencer grinned and grabbed a glass from the tray. To her delight, Mr. Pennythistle shook his head before Amelia could ask.

  Then Spencer turned to Melissa, about to ask her if she’d like a drink, too. Melissa was scowling at something on her cell phone.

  “What is it?” Spencer asked, moving closer.

  Melissa’s face creased with worry. “It’s an articl
e talking about how there are numerous fake As all over the country.”

  Darren scowled. “I told you to stop reading that stuff.”

  Melissa swished him away, squinting at the little screen. “It says here that a group of girls in Ohio got so many A notes that one of them killed the girl who was doing it.”

  “Ugh.” Spencer leaned over to look, too. There was a sidebar about the Ali Cats, Ali’s psycho fan club. MEMBERS OF THE ALI CATS HAVE BEEN HOLDING CANDLELIGHT VIGILS IN VARIOUS LOCATIONS, PRAYING THAT ALISON DILAURENTIS IS STILL ALIVE. “THE MEDIA HAS SPUN THIS STORY ONLY ONE WAY, JUST LIKE THEY ALWAYS DO,” SAID A WOMAN WHO ASKED TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS. “BUT ALISON IS A BRAVE, UNIQUE INDIVIDUAL WHO IS A VICTIM OF STIGMA, PREJUDICE, AND INTOLERANCE. SHAME ON ALL THOSE WHO CANNOT SEE THAT.”

  An oily feeling filled her. A victim of prejudice and intolerance? What was that lady smoking?

  It was so frustrating. Spencer had told her friends she wanted to let Ali go—before this mess, she’d been accepted to Princeton, and she’d recently heard from the Princeton admissions committee that there was a good chance she could still attend as long as she aced her final exams. But forgetting Ali was easier said than done; Ali kept popping up. And those Ali Cats—it was insane. How could they worship someone who had murdered practically half of Rosewood?

  As soon as Spencer had discovered the Ali Cats, she’d felt an itch to retaliate. Taking them down didn’t seem like an option—they had a right to form whatever weirdo group they wanted. Instead, she’d created a website for other people who’d been bullied, a safe forum for kids to share their experiences and feelings. So far, it had gotten pretty decent traction; she had almost two thousand “likes” on the blog’s Facebook link. Every heartbreaking new bullying response she received on Facebook, Twitter, or email just reaffirmed how necessary a site like this was. There were so many people who’d suffered from bullying, some at much worse a cost than Spencer. Maybe putting these stories out there would stop it from happening, somehow. Or at least slow it down.

  “I wish people would find something else to obsess over,” Melissa said angrily, slipping her phone back into her purse.

  Spencer nodded. She wanted to talk to her sister about Ali still being alive, but so far, Melissa hadn’t seemed open to the conversation. Spencer could understand. Melissa was probably sick of thinking about it, too.

  Then Melissa’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God, there’s Kim from Wharton! We have to say hi!”

  She clutched Darren’s hand, and they flitted off into the crowd. Spencer gazed around the room once more. Someone giggled behind her, and she suddenly felt an eerie prickle on the skin of her arms. This place was so crowded, and there was barely any security. It seemed like a perfect place for Ali to hide.

  Stop thinking about her, Spencer scolded silently, smoothing down her hair and taking another sip of the martini. She drifted toward the bar. Only one barstool was free, and Spencer settled into it and grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a small bowl. She gazed at her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. Her blond hair shone, her blue eyes were bright, and her skin was a golden color from the week she’d spent in Florida. But it was pretty much wasted here—everyone was over forty. Besides, Spencer didn’t want to get mixed up in another relationship. All guys ever gave her were trouble and heartbreak.

  “Excuse me, are you Spencer Hastings?”

  Spencer turned and stared into the eyes of a young woman in a gray pin-striped suit and brown pumps. “Yes, but I’ve forgotten your name,” she said, figuring the woman was one of Mr. Pennythistle’s business associates. He had a rotating cast of businesspeople over for cocktails.

  “That’s because I haven’t told you yet.” The woman smiled. “It’s Alyssa Bloom.” She set her glass of white wine on the counter. “My goodness, my dear. You’ve been through so much.”

  “Oh, well, you know.” Spencer felt her cheeks redden.

  “How does it feel for everything to actually be over?” Alyssa Bloom said. “You must be so thrilled, I would think.”

  Spencer bit her lip. It’s not over, she wanted to say.

  Ms. Bloom took a tiny sip of her wine. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about the Alison groupies? What do they call themselves again?”

  “The Ali Cats,” Spencer groaned automatically.

  “And the copycat As all over the country?” The woman sniffed. “It’s dreadful. It’s not the lesson people should be learning.”

  Spencer nodded. “No one should have to go through what I did,” she admitted. It was the response she often gave the kids who wrote to her blog with their stories.

  The look in the woman’s eyes indicated she wanted Spencer to say more. But suddenly, Spencer felt paranoid. Who was this Alyssa Bloom? Lately, Spencer had received a lot of calls from insidious, gotcha-journalism types who tried to lure her into a conversation just to get her to say something stupid.

  “I’m sorry, what is it you do?” Spencer blurted.

  Ms. Bloom reached into her jacket pocket and handed her a card. Spencer stared down at it. Alyssa Bloom, it said. Editor. HarperCollins Publishing, New York.

  Spencer was speechless for a few beats. “You work in publishing?”

  Ms. Bloom smiled. “That’s right.”

  “Meaning you publish books?” Spencer wanted to smack herself for sounding so idiotic. “I’m sorry,” she backtracked. “It’s just that I’ve never spoken to an editor before. And actually, I’ve always seen myself as an author.” She’d thought that ever since she came up with a book series idea with Courtney years ago. It was about field hockey–playing fairies who shape-shifted into supermodels, and Spencer and Courtney had written almost half of the first novel. Well, Spencer had written it. Courtney had directed from the sidelines.

  Ms. Bloom leaned into one hip. “Well, if you have any ideas, I’d love to hear them. I’d love to talk about your blog sometime, too.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of my blog?”

  Ms. Bloom nodded. “Sure. Bullying’s a hot topic, and you’ve started something very interesting.” Then her phone rang, and she shot Spencer a tight smile. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this.” She pointed to the card in Spencer’s hand. “Call me sometime. Nice to meet you.”

  Then the editor whirled away, her phone pressed to her ear. Spencer’s mind started to race. Princeton would have to let her in if she wrote a book. Even Melissa hadn’t done that.

  “Can I get you something?”

  The bartender was smiling at her from behind the counter. Spencer felt her spirits lift even higher. All at once, everything felt so shiny and new. Possible. Amazing.

  “You can get me another martini.” She slid her empty glass toward him. What the hell? She’d just gotten a business card from an editor of a huge publishing house.

  That was totally a reason to celebrate.

  4

  ORANGE IS THE NEW ROMANTIC

  On Tuesday morning, Emily Fields sat at a high table in a Rosewood Day chemistry classroom. A periodic table hung on the wall, along with a poster describing the electron arrangements of various basic molecules. Bunsen burners were lined up in a glass cabinet, and the drawers along the back held flasks, beakers, and other lab equipment. The teacher, a frizzy-haired woman named Ms. Payton whom Emily had never met before—she suspected Rosewood Day’s regular staff wouldn’t set foot in the place during the summer—stood at the board, turning a silver ring on her finger around and around. All the students except for Emily were talking, texting, or rooting through their bags, and one girl was even sitting on the windowsill, an entire Chick-fil-A meal spread out on her lap.

  “Now, if you look at the next item on the syllabus,” Ms. Payton said in a wavering voice, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses on her nose, “it talks about lab work. It’s going to be very important in this class, at least thirty percent of your grade, so I suggest you take it seriously.”

  Several boys from the JV crew team snorted. Vera, Emily’s lab partner
, whose military jacket was faded and ripped but had a tiny tag on the back that said DOLCE & GABBANA, looked at the teacher with stoned eyes. Hanna had warned Emily about how freaky summer school was—“I didn’t recognize, like, anyone,” she’d said dramatically.

  Emily didn’t think it was that bad. Hanna was right about two things, though. One, Rosewood Day did seem eerie without its normal hustle and bustle. Emily had never noticed how creaky the doors were, or that there were so many long, ominous shadows around corners, or that so many of the overhead lights flickered. And two, no one particularly cared about passing the class.

  Don’t you realize how lucky we are to get to graduate? Emily wanted to yell at her classmates. But maybe you didn’t appreciate that sort of thing until it was taken away.

  Then Vera tapped Emily’s arm. “Hey. What was it like to almost, like, die?”

  Emily looked away. Sometimes she forgot that her classmates knew everything about her. “Um . . .”

  “I remember Alison,” Vera went on. “She told me I looked like a troll.” She curled and uncurled her fists. “But hey, at least she’s dead, right?”

  Emily didn’t know what to say. It was always a shock that her classmates remembered Ali, too—Emily had spent so much time obsessing over her it sometimes felt as if Ali were a figment of her imagination, unknown and unknowable to everyone else. But actually, her classmates had known both Alis: Courtney, their old friend, and the sociopathic real Ali, who’d tried to kill them twice.

  And who was definitely still alive.

  “So here are your books,” Ms. Payton said, handing a stack to the front row and asking them to pass them back. “Would someone like to read the introduction page for the class?”

  A bunch of kids snickered, and Ms. Payton looked like she was going to cry. Poor thing, Emily thought. Didn’t she know that the reading-aloud thing stopped in elementary school?