by Sara Shepard
Even if it meant everyone in the class was now laughing at her, too.
A few hours later, Emily pulled into her family’s driveway, cut the engine of her parents’ Volvo station wagon, and ducked under the garage door, which was halfway open, probably in need of repair again. The garage door opened into the den, which smelled like potpourri. The first thing Emily saw was her mother sitting on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her legs and a knitting project in her lap. The TV flashed blue against her face. It was a show on HGTV about custom building a pimped-out doghouse.
Mrs. Fields turned and saw her. Emily froze and considered scurrying away. But then her mother smiled. “How was your first day back?” she asked weakly.
Emily slowly relaxed. Her mom’s acceptance and friendliness was still unexpected: Two weeks ago, her parents hadn’t been speaking to her. Emily hadn’t even been allowed to visit her mom in the hospital room when she had a mild heart attack.
Crazy how fast things could change.
“It was fine,” Emily said, sitting on the striped loveseat. “So, um, do you need anything?” The cardiologist had advised Mrs. Fields to take it easy for the next few weeks. Emily’s sisters, Carolyn and Beth, had been here, helping out, but they had both left for summer programs at their respective colleges yesterday.
“Maybe some ginger ale.” Mrs. Fields blew her a kiss. “Thanks, honey.”
“Sure,” Emily said, rising and padding into the kitchen.
Her smile dropped as soon as she turned her back. Déjà vu, she thought. Emily had lost count of all the times her family had disowned her and then, after a tragedy, welcomed her back with open arms. After Nick’s attack, when she opened her eyes in the hospital and saw her whole family standing there, she’d almost burst out laughing. Could they really go through this again? But her father had leaned down and said in a heartfelt voice, “We will never let you go, honey.” Her siblings had hugged her tight, all of them crying. And her mother had said, “We love you so much.”
Emily was grateful that they’d come around again, of course. But she also felt jaded. Would something else happen to make them drop her once more? Should she bother to get attached? And Emily didn’t dare bring up that she believed Ali was still alive—her family would think she was nuts.
It was sad not having her family as her touchstone anymore. Something huge was missing from her life, a hole she needed to fill. But she didn’t know what would satisfy her. Finding Ali? Definitely. But she had a feeling that wasn’t entirely it.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Mrs. Fields’s voice floated in from the den. “There’s mail for you on the kitchen table. Who do you know from the Ulster Correctional Facility?”
Emily almost dropped the ginger ale she’d taken from the fridge. She walked over to the table, which was covered in a creaseless, chicken-print tablecloth. The daily mail was tucked under the chicken-shaped napkin holder. There was a white, wrinkled, square envelope with Emily’s name right on top. Sure enough, the stamp on it said ULSTER CORRECTIONAL FACILITY in smeared letters.
Her mind scattered in several different directions. She sure did know someone at the Ulster Correctional Facility. Only, that person wasn’t speaking to her . . . was she? Emily squinted at the handwriting on the envelope. Could it be? Emily had a postcard upstairs of the Bermuda international airport with the same loopy Es and spiky Fs. We’ll find each other someday, the love of her life, Jordan Richards, had written.
This couldn’t be from Jordan. There was no way.
Jordan’s presence swooped back to her. Her long, dark hair and soulful green eyes. Her bow-shaped lips, the way she smelled like tangerines, the eyelet dress she’d worn when Emily first saw her on the deck of the cruise ship. It’d felt so good to kiss her and hold her, and it had been so easy to talk to Jordan about her life, her worries, her fears. But Jordan had a checkered past: She had been wanted by the FBI because she stole cars, boats, and even an airplane in her former, bad-girl life. A had called the police on Jordan, but Jordan escaped the FBI at the last moment. Emily had reached out to Jordan afterward, desperate to maintain a connection, but somehow her Twitter messages had tipped the police off to Jordan’s hiding place in Florida. The worst part was that Jordan blamed her arrest on Emily’s foolishness. But Emily knew that A—Ali—had tipped the cops off to those Twitter messages. Ali was behind everything.
Emily had never loved someone like she loved Jordan, not even the girl she’d thought of as Ali. But because of Jordan’s troubling past, Emily hadn’t shared their relationship with many people. Her friends knew, obviously, and so did Iris, Ali’s old roommate from The Preserve. But there was no way she could tell her parents. They wouldn’t understand.
Her fingers shook as she opened the envelope. It’s a joke, she told herself. Someone else had contacted her, pretending to be Jordan. Maybe it was from Ali herself.
She unfolded a piece of lined paper.
Dear Emily,
I’m writing to you from prison. It’s taken me a while to work through my feelings, but I’ve watched your horrible ordeal on TV. My lawyer has told me about it, too. I feel awful for what you’ve gone through. I also understand why you were so desperate to leave and why you reached out even when you knew it was dangerous. I forgive you for those tweets, and I know now you never meant to hurt me. I would love for you to visit me here if you’re up for it. We have a lot to talk about. But I understand if you’ve moved on.
Much love,
Jordan
Emily read the letter three times before it sank in. It was Jordan’s handwriting. Jordan’s tone. Jordan’s everything. Emily’s nose felt peppery and hot. She fumbled for her cell phone in her pocket and dialed the number Jordan had written at the bottom of the piece of paper for the Ulster Correctional Facility. When a tired-sounding woman answered, Emily spoke in a shaky, quiet voice so her mother wouldn’t hear. “I’d like to schedule a visit.”
She gave Jordan’s name. Sure enough, Jordan had listed Emily as one of the guests she was willing to see. Emily was so overcome with emotion she almost couldn’t speak. It was incredible: Ten minutes ago, there hadn’t even been a possibility that Jordan would ever be back in her life. This felt like the fulfillment she needed.
She hung up, her smile stretching from ear to ear. But when her phone beeped again, she flinched, alarmed by the timing. ONE NEW TEXT MESSAGE, said the screen.
Emily’s heart started to pound. Was Ali lurking outside the window, listening? But the backyard was silent and still. Nothing moved in the cornfields; there wasn’t even traffic on the road.
She looked at her phone. ALERT FROM VERIZON WIRELESS: YOU HAVE USED 90% OF YOUR MOBILE DATA FOR THE MONTH.
Emily set her phone down and ran her hands down the length of her face. Maybe, just maybe, the others were right: Ali wasn’t watching.
And maybe Emily should try to live her life, like they’d said. She should try to be free.
5
A STAR IS BORN
“You have amazing skin.”
Hanna closed her eyes as a makeup artist named Trixie brushed blush over her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“And really pretty eyes, too,” Trixie added, her breath smelling like violet candies.
Hanna giggled. “Do you work on commission or something?”
“Nah.” There was a sharp click sound as Trixie closed a compact. “I just tell it like it is.”
It was Wednesday, and Hanna was sitting in the very same soundstage in West Rosewood where she and her father had filmed the drunk-driving PSA. Now the place was bustling with different interior sets, a million lights, cables, and microphones, and tons of writers, directors, and crew members. It was day three of Burn It Down production, and they were filming a scene where Spencer and Aria received a creepy postcard from New A about Jamaica. Hanna’s big scene as Naomi Zeigler was coming up soon.
The director, a portly man named Hank Ross who was apparently the guy in the movie business—Hanna hadn’t
seen his latest conspiracy thriller, but she was definitely going to check it out—stood. “Cut!” he yelled. “I think we got it!”
Hanna watched on a video screen as Amanda, the girl who played Spencer, and Bridget, the girl who played Aria, relaxed. Hanna agreed with the director: The girls had nailed it, perfectly embodying her best friends’ personalities and mannerisms and expertly conveying how scary the situation with Ali had been without resorting to camp or melodrama. All the actresses in this movie were awesome, in fact. The woman who played Spencer’s mom had even won a Golden Globe.
Then Hank noticed Hanna behind him and gave her a big smile. “Doing okay?”
“Great.” Hanna smiled, adjusting her short blond wig. It was styled to look exactly like Naomi’s pixie cut, and it actually looked amazing on Hanna. That wasn’t the only amazing thing. When Hanna had arrived on the set, Hank had given her a script of a few lines, stuck a camera in her face, and asked her to “be natural.” If it had been a test, Hanna knew she’d aced it when she saw Hank’s toothy grin after she said her lines. “Yep, the camera loves you,” he’d said generously.
Then she’d been shown her trailer—her own movie-star trailer, complete with a small bed for naps, a vanity with three types of flattering lighting options, and a refrigerator for the two coconut waters she’d brought after reading in Us Weekly that Angelina Jolie drank coconut water, too. A production assistant had whisked her off to wardrobe, where a talkative costume designer put her in a fabulous patchwork dress and studded booties. The outfit was way too cool for the real Naomi, but Hanna looked so good she wasn’t going to quibble.
She’d barely had time to memorize her lines for the first scene—a quick one where she and Jared Diaz, the admittedly gorgeous boy who played Mike, gave each other suspicious looks across the cruise deck. But she’d sailed through that, too. Maybe it was easy to get into Naomi’s character since she’d known her for so long.
Or maybe it was because she was a natural and her next stop was definitely Hollywood.
Hank slid off his chair and went to talk to the actresses on the other side of the wall. Hanna reached for her fringed leather bag hanging from the back of one of the chairs and removed her cell phone, eager to send some updates. First, she checked Twitter: Two hundred people had retweeted her post about how awesome the craft services spread was. Her stepsister, Kate, reposted the tweet with a series of exclamation points. The real Naomi Zeigler, whom Hanna had made sure had seen the news that she was playing her part in the movie, replied dislike in all caps.
Hanna composed a new text to Spencer, Aria, and Emily. You guys really should be down here, she wrote. You could so score a part.
Spencer replied after a beat. I don’t think I’m ready to reenact my worst nightmare, she wrote. But I’m glad you’re having a good time. Break a leg!
Aria sent a congratulatory note as well, and Emily said there was no way she was getting in front of a camera—she’d break out in hives. But hey, did I tell you Jordan wrote me from prison? Emily added at the end of her text. I’m going to visit her in a few days!
Hanna grinned. She was glad Emily had something amazing going on in her life, too. They all deserved good things.
She wrote Mike next. A star is born!
He pinged back an answer. Are there any hot girls there? Take pics!
Hanna snickered and looked around. There were tons of hot girls in the cast, on the crew, and even in catering. Suddenly, she clapped eyes with the only person in the cast she hadn’t met yet. Her long, dark hair was unmistakable. It was Hailey Blake. The Hailey Blake.
Hailey’s eyes widened when she saw Hanna across the room. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she said, pushing her stylists aside and rushing over. “It’s you! Hanna Marin!”
Hanna tried to answer, but Hailey grabbed her hands and rushed on. “I have been dying to meet you all day, but I had this thing this morning that I couldn’t get out of.” She rolled her eyes and mouthed the word overslept. “Anyway, it is so awesome that you’re here! Are you loving it? Has everyone been nice to you? If anyone’s mean, I’ll kick their ass.”
Hanna’s mouth fell open. Hailey’s public persona was a sugary-sweet girl next door, but in person, she was whip-thin, her dark hair was cut in funky layers, and she wore a pair of over-the-thigh boots Hanna could never pull off without looking slutty. And what was this about ass-kicking?
Hailey turned to one of Hank’s assistants, a pale, vampire-esque guy named Daniel. “Hey. Does Hanna have a few minutes to hang before our next scene?”
“Well, I’m still working on her.” Trixie rushed forward with her makeup kit. “I needed to get a different blush color.” She held up a compact full of pink powder.
Hailey sniffed. “That new color is hideous. She looks fantastic already.” She linked elbows with Hanna. “Come on.”
Daniel gave Hanna a strange look. “I’d be careful, if I were you,” he said, his sunken eyes wide.
“Oh, please.” Hailey rolled her eyes and yanked Hanna around the set. “I swear everyone who works with Hank has a vagina,” she whispered loudly to Hanna before they were out of earshot. Hanna glanced apologetically back at Daniel, hoping he didn’t think she’d said it.
They crossed the soundstage, climbed a set of stairs, and walked down a narrow hallway that overlooked a few cruise ship sets. Halfway down the hall, Hailey opened a door with her name on the front. Inside was a room with furry pink wallpaper, a couch in the shape of pursed red lips, a mini-fridge, a SoulCycle spinning bike, and a bookcase filled with trashy magazines. Hanna glanced at a vanity, where pictures of three different guys were arranged. Each one was cuter than the last. She was pretty sure she’d seen one of them in the latest Jake Gyllenhaal blockbuster.
Hailey noticed her looking. “My three boyfriends. Adorable, aren’t they?”
Hanna frowned. “You’re dating them all at the same time?”
“Uh, yeah,” Hailey said. She dug out a pack of Parliaments from a corduroy pouch atop the fridge. Lighting one up, she flopped onto the lip-shaped couch and exhaled blue smoke. Then she extended the pack to Hanna. “Want one?”
Hanna hesitated, not having smoked since she was best friends with Mona Vanderwaal. She took one but didn’t light it.
Then Hailey’s phone bleated the ominous, two-note theme from Jaws. “Ugh, sorry,” she said, looking at the screen. “What do you want now, Mom?” she screamed into the phone. She paused, then sighed. “I told you they were lying about that. Who are you going to believe, me or him?”
Hanna started for the door, figuring Hailey wanted privacy, but Hailey signaled her back, making a winding-up gesture that she’d be off soon. “You are being such a bitch today,” she yelled into the phone. “Your shrink needs to up your meds.”
Then she hung up and smiled at Hanna. “Sorry about that!”
Hanna gaped. “Was that really your mom?”
Hailey shrugged. “She so isn’t in my corner sometimes.”
Hanna blinked hard. If only she had the balls to talk to her father like that.
Hailey took another drag of the cigarette. “So. Hanna Marin. I’ve watched all your interviews.”
Hanna felt her cheeks grow red. “You have?”
Hailey shrugged. “I had to figure out who you are since I’m playing you.” She leaned forward. “You are the most poised of the group. Definitely the coolest. I feel so lucky to play you.”
Hanna lowered her eyes. She certainly hadn’t felt cool or poised in the past few months—in the past two years, actually. “I’m the one who should feel lucky. It’s a dream that you’re playing me.”
“You really think so?” Hailey clutched her hand to her chest. “You are so, so sweet!”
Hanna was about to say that Hailey probably heard that stuff all the time—she’d won a zillion People’s Choice Awards, after all. But Hailey leapt off the couch and moved closer to Hanna, suddenly pumped with even more enthusiasm. “We should really get to know each other. Maybe you cou
ld show me around Rosewood? Or wait, we’re not that far from NYC, are we?” She squeezed Hanna’s hands hard. “I can get us into any club in Manhattan. Tons of bouncers owe me favors.”
“Okay,” Hanna said breathily, trying to imagine the jealous looks on everyone’s faces when she walked into a club with the Hailey Blake.
“We should take Jared, too.” Hailey looked excited. “He’s hot, don’t you think? And so nice. I could totally fix the two of you up.”
It took Hanna a moment to realize she was talking about Jared Diaz, the boy who played Mike. “Um, I already have a boyfriend,” she said, laughing. “The real Mike.”
All at once, someone exhaled behind them. Hailey’s door was open now, and Daniel, the director’s assistant, stood in the dressing room. Hanna nearly yelped. There was something definitely creepy about his almost translucent skin and thin lips, and the way he’d slipped soundlessly into Hailey’s room. Hanna wondered how someone like him could have gotten such a plum job.
“Ladies?” he said, his eyes narrowing at the swirling smoke. “We actually need you downstairs for the cruise scene.”
Hailey’s face soured. “Already? My contract specifically states downtime. I’m calling my agent to complain.” She reached for her phone, then rolled her eyes and let it drop. “Oh, whatever. I’ll let you slide this once.”
She stubbed out her cigarette on the floor. Daniel led them down the stairs, and Hailey squeezed Hanna’s hand. “Always remember, you’re the talent,” she whispered. “Don’t let them push you around. They’re supposed to cater to you.”
Hanna couldn’t help but giggle.
Hank was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. “About time,” he said, glowering at Hailey. “Marissa wants to get you in a different outfit. She’s been looking for you for a while.”
“I told Daniel I was in my dressing room,” Hailey snapped. “It’s not my fault he doesn’t give you messages.”
