Emily stared down at the place mats of the Chinese zodiac, eager to get her mind off Maya. Along the place mat margins was the regular zodiac too. “What’s your sign?” she blurted.
“Virgo,” Isaac answered promptly. “Generous, shy, and a perfectionist. What are you?”
“Taurus,” Emily answered.
“That means we’re compatible.” Isaac gave her a little smile.
Emily raised an eyebrow, startled. “You know about astrology?”
“My aunt’s into it,” Isaac explained, running the hot towel over his palms. “She’s at our house all the time, and she does my chart a couple times a year. I’ve known all about my moon and rising sign since I was six. She’ll do your chart, if you want.”
Emily grinned, thrilled. “I’d love that.”
“But actually, did you know we’re not really the astrological signs we think we are?” Isaac took a sip of his green tea. “I saw something about it on the Science Channel. People created the zodiac thousands of years ago, but between then and now, the earth has slowly moved on its axis. The zodiac constellations and the months in which they appear in the sky are out of synch by one whole astrological sign. I didn’t quite get all the logistics, but technically, you’re not a Taurus. You’re an Aries.”
Emily’s mind boggled. Aries? That was impossible. Her whole life lined up perfectly with what was right for a Taurus, from choosing what colors to wear to what her best swimming stroke was. Ali used to tease that dependable, stubborn Tauruses always had the most boring horoscopes, but Emily liked her sign. The only thing she knew about Aries people was that they were impatient, had to be the center of attention, and were sometimes kind of slutty. Spencer was an Aries. Ali had been, too. Or were they really Pisceans?
Isaac leaned forward, pushing his menu to the side. “And I’m a Leo. And we’re still compatible.” He laid down his menu. “So now that we’ve gotten the whole astrology thing out of the way, what else should I know about you?”
A niggling little voice inside of Emily’s head said there were lots of things he should know, but she just shrugged. “Why don’t you tell me about you first?”
“Okay…” Isaac took a sip of water, thinking. “Well, besides playing the guitar, I also play the piano. I’ve taken lessons since I was three.”
“Wow,” Emily exclaimed. “I took lessons when I was younger, but I found it way too boring. My parents used to yell at me because I never practiced.”
Isaac smiled. “My parents forced me to practice, too. So…what else? Well, my dad owns a catering company. And because I’m a nice guy and his son and therefore cheap labor, I work a lot of his events.”
Emily grinned. “So you can cook?”
Isaac shook his head. “Nope, I’m pathetic—I can’t even make toast. All I do is serve. Next week I’m working a fund-raiser at this burn rehab place. It’s a plastic surgery hospital too, but hopefully the party isn’t to raise money for any of that.” He made a face.
Emily widened her eyes. There was only one burn rehab/plastic surgery clinic around here. “You mean the William Atlantic?”
Isaac nodded, smiling questioningly.
Emily looked away, gazing blankly at the big bronze gong near the hostess stand. Some little boy with two missing front teeth was trying desperately to kick it while his dad held him back. The William Atlantic—or Bill Beach, as a lot of people called it—was where Jenna Cavanaugh had been treated for her burns after Ali accidentally blinded her with the firework. Or maybe Ali burned her on purpose…Emily didn’t know what was true anymore. Mona Vanderwaal had been treated there for the burns she’d received that same night.
Isaac’s eyebrows lowered. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
Emily shrugged. “I, uh, I know the kid whose dad founded the burn clinic.”
“You know David Ackard’s son?”
“He goes to my school.”
Isaac nodded. “Right. Rosewood Day.”
“I’m on partial scholarship,” Emily said quickly. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was one of the privileged, spoiled rich kids.
“You must be really smart,” Isaac said.
Emily ducked her head. “Nah.”
A waitress passed by, balancing multiple plates of General Tso’s Chicken. “My dad is catering a Rosewood Day fundraiser on Saturday. It’s at some ten-bedroom farmhouse.”
“Oh yeah?” Emily’s stomach burbled. Isaac was obviously talking about the event at Spencer’s house—there’d been an announcement about the fund-raiser that morning in homeroom. Nearly every parent attended school fund-raisers, and most students went too, as no one could resist an opportunity to dress up and sneak glasses of champagne while their parents weren’t watching.
“So will I see you there?” Isaac’s face lit up.
Emily pressed the tines of her fork into her palm. If she went, people were bound to ask questions about why they were together. But if she didn’t go and Isaac asked around about her, someone might tell him the truth about her past. Like Noel Kahn or Mike Montgomery, or maybe even Ben, Emily’s old boyfriend. Maybe New A would be there, too.
“I guess you will see me there,” she decided.
“Great.” Isaac smiled. “I’ll be the one in the caterer’s tuxedo.”
Emily blushed. “Maybe you can serve me personally,” she flirted.
“Done,” Isaac said. He squeezed her hand, and Emily’s heart did a somersault.
Suddenly, Isaac looked beyond Emily’s head, smiling at something behind her. When Emily swiveled around, her heart dropped to her knees. She blinked several times, hoping the girl standing there was just a mirage.
“Hey, Emily.” Maya St. Germain pushed a curly lock of hair out of her tiger yellow eyes. She was wearing a heavy white sweater, a denim skirt, and white cable-knit tights. Her eyes kept ping-ponging back and forth from Emily to Isaac, trying to figure out what they were doing together.
Emily pulled her hand away from Isaac’s. “Isaac,” she croaked, “this is Maya. We go to school together.”
Isaac stood up halfway, offering his hand. “Hi. I’m Emily’s date.”
Maya widened her eyes and took a step back, as if Isaac had just said that he was made of cow manure. “Right,” she joked. “Her date. Good one.”
Isaac’s eyebrows knitted together. “I’m…sorry?”
Maya’s forehead furrowed. And then time seemed to slow down. Emily saw the precise moment when the realization rolled over Maya’s face—it wasn’t a joke. A slow, amused smile grew across her lips. You’re on an actual date with him. Maya’s eyes gleamed nastily. And you haven’t told him what you are, just like you didn’t tell Toby Cavanaugh. Emily realized how angry Maya must be with her—Emily had jerked Maya around all autumn, cheated on her with Trista, a girl she’d met in Iowa, accused Maya of being A, and hadn’t said a word to her for months. Here was Maya’s big chance to get Emily back for all of that.
As Maya opened her mouth to speak, Emily leapt up, ripped her jacket off the back of her chair, grabbed her purse, and began weaving around the tables toward the door. There was no point being here when Maya told Isaac. She didn’t want to see the disappointment—and most certainly disgust—on Isaac’s face.
The freezing air whipped around her. When she reached her car, she leaned over the hood, trying to regain her balance. She didn’t dare look back inside the restaurant. It would be best if she just got in the car, drove away, and never came to this shopping village again.
Wind swirled around the desolate parking lot. A big streetlight above Emily’s head flickered and swayed. Then something rustled behind a massive Cadillac Escalade. Two spots down Emily stood on her tiptoes. Was that a shadow? Was someone there? She rifled for her car keys, but they were lost in the depths of her purse.
Her cell phone beeped, and Emily let out a muffled scream. She fumbled for it in her pocket, her hands trembling. One new text message. She stabbed at her keypad, opening it up.
Hi Em—Don’t you just hate it when your ex shows up and ruins your romantic night? I wonder how she knew where to find you…. Let this be a warning. Talk, and your past will be the least of your problems.
—A
Emily ran her hands over her hair. It made perfect sense—A had sent Maya a text that she was at the restaurant, and Maya, wanting revenge, had taken the bait. Or, even worse, maybe Maya was New A.
“Emily?”
She whirled around, her heart racing. Isaac stood behind her. He wasn’t wearing his coat, and his cheeks flared red from the cold. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
Emily stared at the fluorescent lines that demarcated the parking spaces, unable to meet his eyes. “I-I thought it would be better if I left.”
“Why?”
She paused. Isaac didn’t sound angry. He sounded…confused. She glanced through the windows of the restaurant, watching as the waitresses walked up and down the rows of tables. Was it possible Maya hadn’t said anything?
“I’m sorry about what I said in there,” Isaac went on, shivering. “That I was your date. I didn’t mean to define tonight like that.”
His face was full of earnest shame. Suddenly, Emily saw it from his perspective—what he’d blurted out, the delicate mistake he thought he’d made. “Don’t apologize,” she burst out, steadying his chilled hands. “God, please don’t apologize!”
Isaac blinked. One corner of his mouth pulled up into a tentative smile.
“I wanted this to be a date,” Emily breathed. As soon as she said it, she knew it was the absolute truth. “In fact, that Rosewood Day fund-raiser you’re working? You should see if your dad will let you off for the night. I’d love it if you could come with me…as my date.”
Isaac grinned. “I think he could let me off work just this once.” Then he squeezed her hands hard and pulled her close. Then, as an afterthought, he murmured, “So who was that girl in the restaurant, anyway?”
Emily stiffened, a sharp feeling of guilt prodding her side. She should just tell Isaac the truth before A did. Would it really be so bad? Hadn’t she spent the entire fall coming to terms with being out in the open about this?
But no—the deal was if Emily kept her mouth shut about A, A would keep quiet to Isaac. Right? The hug was so cozy and warm, and it seemed a shame to ruin the moment. “Oh, just this girl who goes to my school,” she finally answered, pushing the truth down deep. “No one important at all.”
20
SO MUCH FOR A NEW FATHER FIGURE
An hour later on Thursday, Aria sat rigidly on the couch in her den. Mike sat beside her, clicking through the setup windows of his Wii, which Byron had bought him for Christmas as an attempt to apologize for wrecking the family and impregnating Meredith. Mike was making yet another Mii character, flipping through the options for eyes, ears, and noses. “Why can’t I make my biceps bigger?” he grumbled, assessing his character. “I look so puny.”