Aria squeezed her eyes closed. You’re not thinking about it, she thought. She poured some grapefruit juice into a glass. “Ella?” she asked. “I need some love advice.”
“Love advice?” her mother teased, securing her jet-black bun with a take-out chopstick that had been lying on the table.
“Yeah,” Aria said. “I like this guy, but he’s kind of…unattainable. I’m out of ideas on how to convince him he should like me.”
“Be yourself!” Ella said.
Aria groaned. “I’ve tried that.”
“Go out with an attainable boy, then!”
Aria rolled her eyes. “Are you going to help or not?”
“Ooh, someone’s sensitive!” Ella smiled, then snapped her fingers. “I just read this study in the paper.” She held up the Times. “It was a survey about what men find most attractive in women. You know what was the number-one thing? Intelligence. Here, let me find it for you….” Sherifled through the paper and handed the page to Aria.
“Aria likes a guy?” Mike swept into the kitchen and grabbed a glazed donut from the box on the island.
“No!” Aria quickly responded.
“Well, someone likes you,” Mike said. “Gross as that is.” He made a barfing sound.
“Who?” Ella asked in an excited voice.
“Noel Kahn,” Mike answered, talking with a huge, chewed-up bite of donut in his mouth. “He asked about you at lacrosse practice.”
“Noel Kahn?” Ella echoed, looking back and forth from Mike to Aria. “Which one is he? Was he here three years ago? Do I know him?”
Aria groaned and rolled her eyes. “He’s nobody.”
“Nobody?” Mike sounded disgusted. “He’s, like, the coolest guy in your grade.”
“Whatever,” Aria said, kissing her mother on the top of her head. She headed to the hallway, staring at the newspaper clipping in her hands. So men liked brains? Well, Icelandic Aria could certainly be brainy.
“Why don’t you like Noel Kahn?” Mike’s voice made Aria jump. He stood a few feet away from Aria with a carton of orange juice in his hand. “He’s the man.”
Aria groaned. “If you like him so much, why don’t you go out with him?”
Mike drank straight from the carton, wiped his mouth, and stared at her. “You’ve been acting freaky. Are you high? Can I have some if you are?”
Aria snorted. In Iceland, Mike had been constantly trying to score drugs and freaked when some guys at the harbor sold him a dime bag of pot. The stuff turned out to be skunky, but Mike proudly smoked it anyway.
Mike started stroking his chin. “I think I know why you’re acting freaky.”
Aria turned back to the closet. “You’re full of crap.”
“You think so?” Mike answered. “I don’t. And you know what? I’m going to find out if my suspicions are true.”
“Good luck, Sherlock.” Aria pulled at her jacket. Even though she knew Mike was probably full of shit, she hoped he hadn’t noticed the quiver in her voice.
As the other kids filed into English—most of the boys sporting a few days’ growth of stubble and most of the girls in copycat Mona-and-Hanna platform sandals and charm bracelets—Aria reviewed her just-scrawled stack of note cards. Today, they had to give an oral report about a play called Waiting for Godot. Aria adored oral reports—she had the perfect, sexy, gravelly voice for them—and she happened to know the play really well. Once, she’d spent a whole Sunday in a Reykjavík bar, vehemently arguing with an Adrien Brody look-alike about its theme…between swilling delicious apple vodka martinis and playing footsie with him under the table, that is. So not only was this an excellent day to become über student, it was also a great opportunity to show everyone how cool Icelandic Aria was.
Ezra strolled in, looking rumpled, bookish, and completely edible, and clapped his hands. “Okay, class,” he said. “We have a lot of stuff to get through today. Quiet down.”
Hanna Marin turned around and smirked at Aria. “What kind of underwear do you think he’s wearing?”
Aria smiled blandly—striped cotton boxers, of course—but snapped her attention back to Ezra.
“All right.” Ezra walked to the chalkboard. “Everyone did the reading, right? Everyone has a report? Who wants to go first?”
Aria’s hand shot up. Ezra nodded at her. She walked to the podium at the front of the room, arranged her black hair around her shoulders so that it looked extra gorgeous, and made sure that her chunky coral necklace wasn’t caught in the collar of her shirt. Quickly, she reread the first few scene-setting sentences on her index cards.
“Last year, I attended a performance of Waiting for Godot in Paris,” she began.
She noticed Ezra raise his eyebrow just the tiniest bit.
“It was a small theater off the Seine, and the air smelled like the cheese brioche baking next door.” She paused. “Picture the scene: a huge line of people waiting to go in, a woman toting her two little white poodles, the Eiffel Tower in the distance.”
She briefly looked up. Everyone seemed so transfixed! “I could feel the energy, the excitement, the passion in the air. And it wasn’t just the beer they were selling to everyone—even my little brother,” she added.
“Nice!” Noel Kahn interjected.
Aria smiled. “The seats were very velvety and purple, and smelled like this type of butter in France that’s sweeter than American butter. It’s what makes the pastries so delicious.”
“Aria,” Ezra said.
“It’s the kind of butter that even makes escargot taste good!”
“Aria!”
Aria stopped. Ezra leaned against the chalkboard with his arms crossed over his Rosewood blazer. “Yes?” She smiled.
“I have to stop you.”
“But…I’m not even halfway done!”
“Well, I need less about velvet seats and pastries and more about the play itself.”
The class snickered. Aria shuffled back to her seat and sat down. Didn’t he know she was creating ambiance?
Noel Kahn raised his hand.
“Noel?” Ezra asked. “You want to go next?”
“No,” Noel said. The class laughed. “I just wanted to say I thought Aria’s report was good. I liked it.”
“Thanks,” Aria said quietly.
Noel swiveled around. “Is there really no drinking age?”
“Not really.”
“I might go with my family to Italy this winter.”
“Italy’s amazing. You’re going to love it.”
“Are you two through?” Ezra asked. He shot Noel an exasperated look. Aria dug her hot-pink nails into the wood grain of her desk.
Noel turned back to her again. “Did they have absinthe?” he whispered.
She nodded, amazed Noel had even heard of absinthe.
“Mr. Kahn,” Ezra interrupted sternly. A little too sternly. “That’s enough.”
Was this jealousy she detected?
“Damn,” Hanna twisted around. “What crawled up his ass?”
Aria stifled a giggle. It seemed to her like a certain über student was making a certain teacher a little twitchy.
Ezra called on Devon Arliss next and she started her speech. As Ezra turned to the side and put his finger on his chin, listening, Aria throbbed. She wanted him so badly it made her whole body buzz.
No, wait. That was just her cell phone, which was nestled in her oversize lime-green tote next to her foot.
The thing kept buzzing. Aria slowly reached down and pulled it out. One new text message:
Aria,
Maybe he fools around with students all the time. A lot of teachers do…. Just ask your dad! —A
Aria quickly snapped her cell phone shut. But then she opened it and read the message again. And again. As she did, the little hairs on her arms stood straight up.
No one in the room had their phones out—not Hanna, not Noel, nobody. And no one was looking at her, either. She even looked up on the ceiling and out the classroom door, but nothing seemed out of place. Everything was quiet and still.
“This can’t be happening,” Aria whispered.
The only person who knew about Aria’s dad was…Alison. And she’d sworn on her grave she wouldn’t tell a soul. Was she back?
14
THAT’LL TEACH YOU TO GOOGLE-STALK WHEN YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE STUDYING
During her free period Thursday afternoon, Spencer strode into the Rosewood Day reading room. With its ceiling-high stacks of reference books, giant pedestal globe in the corner, and stained-glass window on the far wall, it was her favorite place on campus. She stood in the middle of the empty room, closed her eyes, and inhaled the old, leather-bound book smell.
Everything had gone her way today: The unusual cold snap had allowed her to wear her brand-new Marc Jacobs pale blue wool coat, the Rosewood Day café barista had made her a perfect double skim latte, she’d just aced a French oral exam, and tonight she would be moving into the barn, while Melissa had to sleep in her old, cramped bedroom.
Despite all that, an uneasy haze hung over her. It was a cross between a bothersome feeling she sometimes had when she’d forgotten to do something and the sense that someone was…well, watching her. It was obvious why she was feeling so off: that creepy “covet” e-mail. The flash of blond hair in Ali’s old window. The fact that only Ali knew about Ian…
Trying to shake it off, she sat down at the computer, adjusted the waistband of her navy blue Wolford patterned stockings, and logged on to the Internet. She began research for her upcoming AP bio project, but after scrolling through a list of Google results, she typed, Wren Kim, into the search engine.
Trolling through the results, she stifled a giggle. On a site called Mill Hill School, London, there was a photo of a longer-haired Wren standing next to a Bunsen burner and a bunch of test tubes. Another link was to Oxford University’s Corpus Christi College student portal; there was a photo of Wren looking gorgeous in Shakespearean garb, holding a skull. She hadn’t known Wren was into drama. As she tried to magnify the photo to check out the fit of his tights, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“That your boyfriend?”
Spencer jumped, knocking her crystal-studded Sidekick cell phone to the floor. Andrew Campbell grinned awkwardly behind her.
She quickly closed the window. “Of course not!”
Andrew bent down to pick up her Sidekick, pushing a lock of straight, shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. Spencer noticed that he might actually have a chance at being cute if he cut off that lion’s mane.
“Oops,” he said, handing the Sidekick back to her. “I think a jewel thing fell off.”
Spencer grabbed it from him. “You scared me.”
“Sorry about that.” Andrew smiled. “So your boyfriend’s an actor?”
“I said he wasn’t my boyfriend!”
Andrew stepped back. “Sorry. Just making conversation.”
Spencer eyed him suspiciously.