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.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hastings said. “It’s not even eight yet. Parties don’t start this early, do they?”
Spencer felt trapped. They were all staring at her. “I…I guess not,” she said.
She dragged a chair back, sat down, and kicked off her shoes. Her father got a bottle of Moët out of the fridge, popped the cork, and took out four Riedel glasses from the cabinet. He poured a whole glass for himself, Spencer’s mother, and Melissa, and a half glass for Spencer. Melissa put a Scrabble rack in front of her.
Spencer plunged her hand into the velvet bag and selected letters. Her father selected his letters next. Spencer was amazed he knew how to do it—she’d never seen him play a game, not even on vacation. “When do you hear what the judges’ final decision is?” he asked, taking a sip of his champagne.
Spencer shrugged. “I don’t know.” She glanced at Melissa, who gave her a brief, indecipherable smile. Spencer hadn’t talked to Melissa since their hot-tub session last night, and she felt a little strange around her sister. Apprehensive, almost.
“I had a chance to read it yesterday,” Mr. Hastings continued, folding his hands. “I love how you updated the concept for modern times.”
“So who goes first?” Spencer asked shrilly. There was no way they were talking about the content of the essay. Not around Melissa.
“Didn’t 1996’s Golden Orchid winner win a Pulitzer last year?” Mrs. Hastings asked.
“No, it was a National Book Award,” Melissa said.
Please stop talking about the Golden Orchid, Spencer thought. Then, she realized: for once, they were talking about her—not Melissa.
Spencer looked at her tiles. She had I, A, S, J, L, R, and H. She rearranged the letters and almost choked on her tongue. LIAR SJH. SJH, as in Spencer Jill Hastings.