She paused, waiting for Ella to jump in and say, No, that’s not what I want. But Ella stayed quiet. “Yes, maybe that’s a good idea,” she agreed quietly.
“Oh.” Aria’s shoulders sank and her chin trembled.
“Then I…I won’t come home from school tomorrow.” She didn’t have any idea where she’d go, but that didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was doing the one thing that would make her mom happy.
9
EVERYONE, A BIG ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR SPENCER HASTINGS!
On Tuesday afternoon, while most of the Rosewood Day junior class ate lunch, Spencer sat on top of the conference table in the yearbook room. Eight blinking Mac G5 computers, a whole bunch of long-lensed Nikon cameras, six eager sophomore and freshman girls, and a nerdy, slightly effeminate freshman boy surrounded her.
She tapped the covers of the past few Rosewood Day yearbooks. Each year, the books were named The Mule due to some apocryphal, inside joke from the 1920s that even the school’s oldest teachers had long forgotten. “In this year’s Mule, I think we should try to capture a slice of what Rosewood Day students are like.”
Her yearbook staff diligently wrote down slice of life in their spiral-bound notebooks.
“Like…maybe we could do some quickie interviews with random students,” Spencer went on. “Or ask people what’s on their favorite iPod playlist, and then publish it in boxes next to their photos. And how are the still lifes going?” Last meeting, they had planned to ask a couple kids to empty the contents of their bags to document what Rosewood Day girls and guys were carrying around.
“I got great photos of the stuff in Brett Weaver’s soccer bag and Mona Vanderwaal’s purse,” said Brenna Richardson.
“Fantastic,” Spencer said. “Keep up the good work.”
Spencer closed her leaf green leather-bound journal and dismissed her staff. Once they were gone, she grabbed her black fabric Kate Spade bag and pulled out her Sidekick.
There it was. The note from A. She kept hoping it wouldn’t be there.
As she slid the phone back into her bag, her fingers grazed against something in the inside pocket: Officer Wilden’s business card. Wilden wasn’t the first cop to ask Spencer about the night Ali went missing, but he was the only one who’d ever sounded so…suspicious.
The memory of that night was both crystal clear and incredibly muddled. She remembered a glut of emotions: excitement over getting the barn for their sleepover, annoyance that Melissa was there, giddiness that Ian was. Their kiss had been a couple weeks before that. But then Ali started talking about how Melissa and Ian made the cutest couple and Spencer’s emotions swung again. Ali had already threatened to tell Melissa about the kiss. Once Ian and Melissa left, Ali tried to hypnotize them, and she and Spencer got in a fight. Ali left, Spencer ran after her, and then…nothing. But what she never told the cops—or her family, or her friends—was that sometimes when she thought about that night, it felt like there was a black hole in the middle of it. That something had happened which she couldn’t remember.
Suddenly, a vision flashed in front of Spencer’s eyes. Ali laughing nastily and turning away.
Spencer stopped in the middle of the packed hallway and someone ran into her back.
“Will you move?” the girl behind her whined. “Some of us have to get to class.”
Spencer took a tentative step forward. Whatever she had just remembered had quickly disappeared, but it felt like there had been an earthquake. She looked around for shattered glass and scattering students, certain the rest of the world had felt it, too, but everything looked completely normal. A few steps away, Naomi Zeigler inspected her reflection in her mini locker mirror. Two freshmen by the Teacher of the Year plaque laughed at the pointy Satan beard and horns drawn over Mr. Craft’s smiling photo. The windows that faced the commons weren’t the tiniest bit cracked, and none of the vases in the Pottery III display case had fallen over. What was the vision Spencer had just seen? Why did she feel so…slithery?
She slipped into her AP econ classroom and slumped down at her desk, which was right next to a very large portrait of a scowling J. P. Morgan. Once the rest of the class filed in and everyone sat down, Squidward strode to the front of the room. “Before today’s video, I have an announcement.” He looked at Spencer. Her stomach swirled. She didn’t want everyone looking at her right now.
“For her first essay assignment, Spencer Hastings made a very eloquent, convincing argument on the invisible-hand theory,” Squidward proclaimed, stroking his tie, which had Benjamin Franklin’s C-note portrait stamped all over it. “And, as you may have heard, I have nominated her for a Golden Orchid award.”
Squidward began to applaud, and the rest of the class followed. It lasted an intolerable fifteen seconds.
“But I have another surprise,” Squidward continued.
“I just got off the phone with a member of the judges’ panel, and Spencer, you’ve made the finals.”
The class burst into applause again. Someone at the back even wolf-whistled. Spencer sat very still. For a moment, she lost all vision completely. She tried to paste a smile on her face.
Andrew Campbell, who sat next to her, tapped her on the shoulder. “Nice job.”
Spencer looked over. She and Andrew had hardly spoken since she’d been the world’s worst Foxy date and ditched him at the dance. Mostly, he’d been giving her dirty looks. “Thanks,” she croaked, once she found her voice.
“You must have really worked hard on it, huh? Did you use extra sources?”
“Uh-huh.” Spencer frantically pulled out all the loose handouts from her econ folder and started straightening them. She smoothed out any bent-down corners and folds and tried to organize them by date. Melissa’s paper was actually the only outside source Spencer had used. When she’d tried to do the necessary research for the essay, even Wikipedia’s simple definition of invisible hand had completely perplexed her. The first few sentences of her sister’s essay were clear enough—The great Scottish economist Adam Smith’s invisible-hand concept can be summed up very easily, whether it’s describing the markets of the nineteenth century or those of the twenty-first: you might think people are doing things to help you, but in reality, everyone is only out for themselves. But when she read the rest of the essay, her brain got as foggy as her family’s eucalyptus steam room.
“What kind of sources?” Andrew continued. “Books? Magazine articles?” When she looked over again, he seemed to have a smirk on his face, and Spencer felt dizzy. Did he know?
“Like the…like the books McAdam suggested on his list,” she fumbled.
“Ah. Well, congratulations. I hope you win.”
“Thanks,” she answered, deciding Andrew couldn’t know. He was just jealous. Spencer and Andrew were ranked number one and number two, respectively, in the class and were constantly shifting positions. Andrew probably monitored Spencer’s every achievement like a stockbroker watches the Dow Jones Industrial Average ticker. Spencer went back to straightening her folder, although it wasn’t making her feel any better.
As Squidward dimmed the lights and the video—Microeconomics and the Consumer, with cheesy, upbeat music—came on, Spencer’s Sidekick vibrated in her bag. Slowly, she reached in and pulled it out. Her phone had one new text.
Spence: I know what you did. But I won’t tell if you do EXACTLY what I say. Wanna know what happens if you don’t? Go to Emily’s swim meet…and you’ll see.
—A
Someone next to Spencer cleared his throat. She looked over, and there was Andrew, staring right at her. His eyes glowed against the flickering light of the movie. Spencer turned to face forward, but she could still feel Andrew watching her in the darkness.
10
SOMEONE DIDN’T LISTEN
During the break at the Rosewood Day–Drury Academy swim meet, Emily opened her team locker and pulled down the straps of her Speedo Fastskin racing suit. This year, the Rosewood Day swim team had splurged on full-body, drag-free, Olympian-caliber swimsuits. They’d had to special-order them, and they’d just arrived in time for today’s meet. The suits tapered to the ankles, clung to every inch of skin, and showed every bulge, reminding Emily of the photo in her bio textbook of a boa constrictor digesting a mouse. Emily grinned at Lanie Iler, her teammate. “I’m so happy to be getting out of this thing.”
She was also happy she’d decided to tell Officer Wilden about A. Last night, after Emily returned home from Hanna’s house, she’d called and arranged to meet Wilden at the Rosewood police station later tonight. Emily didn’t care what the others said or thought about A’s threat—with the police involved, they could put this drama behind them forever.
“You’re so lucky you’re done,” Lanie responded. Emily had already swum—and won—all of her events; now the only thing she had left to do was cheer along with the zillions of other Rosewood students who had showed up for the meet. She could hear the cheerleaders screaming from the locker room and hoped they wouldn’t slip on the natatorium’s wet tiled floor—Tracey Reid had taken a spill before the first event.
“Hey, girls.” Coach Lauren strode down their aisle of lockers. Today, as usual, Lauren was wearing one of her inspirational swimming T-shirts: TOP TEN REASONS I SWIM. (Number five: BECAUSE I CAN EAT 5,000 CALORIES AND NOT FEEL GUILTY.) She clapped a hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Great job, Em. Pulling ahead in the medley relay like that? Fantastic!”
“Thanks.” Emily blushed.
Lauren leaned over the chipped red bench in the middle of the aisle. “There’s a local recruiter from the University of Arizona here,” she said in a low voice, only to Emily. “She asked if she could speak to you during the second half. That okay?”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Of course!” The University of Arizona was one of the best swimming schools in the country.
“Great. You guys can talk in my office, if you want.” Lauren gave Emily another smile. She disappeared toward the hall that led to the natatorium, and Emily followed. She passed her sister Carolyn, who was coming from the other direction.
“Carolyn, guess what!” Emily bounced up and down.
“A University of Arizona recruiter wants to talk to me! If I went there and you went to Stanford, we’d be close!” Carolyn was graduating this year and had already been recruited by Stanford’s swim team.
Carolyn glanced at Emily and disappeared into a bathroom stall, shutting the door behind her with a slam. Emily backed away, feeling stunned. What just happened? She and her sister weren’t super-close, but she’d expected a little more enthusiasm than that.
As Emily walked toward the hall that led to the pool, Gemma Curran’s face peeped at her from the showers. When Emily met her eyes, Gemma snapped the curtain closed. And as she walked by the sinks, Amanda Williamson was whispering to Jade Smythe. When Emily met their eyes in the mirror, their mouths made small, startled O’s. Emily felt goose bumps rise to the surface of her skin. What was going on?
