Stunning pll-11

by Sara Shepard

  Hanna gritted her teeth. Couldn’t Colleen have chosen a slightly cheaper photographer? Begrudgingly, she traded the cash for the envelope of photos and bid the photographer good-bye, scurrying out of the apartment as fast as she could. Her eyes were starting to itch from all that cat hair.

  Her phone chirped when she stepped onto the porch, but it was just her father—he, Isabel, and Kate were at the event space, and he was wondering where Hanna was. Be there soon, Hanna typed back before slipping her phone into her bag and excitedly ripping open the envelope. She wondered if the various As had sometimes felt like this, too, when they’d gotten their hands on valuable evidence. There was something satisfying about it.

  She stared at the stack of photos under the street lamp. The first was of Colleen looking fresh-faced and oh-so-sweet, like an actress on a Disney Channel show. The next shots were pretty much the same, just with slightly different facial expressions and camera angles. Hanna flipped through the stack, gazing at Colleen looking elated, then brooding, then bookish. Before she knew it, Hanna was looking at the last photo, a shot of Colleen winking at the camera from over her shoulder. She riffled through them once more just to make sure she hadn’t missed any, but she hadn’t.

  They were exactly the same shots she’d seen from the window the day before. Nothing from a previous photo session, nothing she’d missed. They were all perfectly kosher and professional, and worse, Colleen looked really amazing in a lot of them, far more photogenic than Hanna was. Hanna kicked the streetlamp post. Why the hell had A told her to follow this stupid lead? Just to mess with her? For her to lose some cash? She should have known A was going to screw her over, not help her.

  Someone coughed across the street, and Hanna shot up. It was only a college-age couple walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, but she felt nervous all the same. She tottered to her Prius, her ankles already aching, wrenched the car door open, and tossed the envelope inside so hard that it careened off the door and landed in the footwell. Groaning, she slid into the driver’s seat and reached for it, but she grabbed the wrong end and all of the pictures spilled out onto the carpet.

  “Damn it.” Hanna leaned over and shoved the photos back into the slightly-too-small envelope once more. Her fingers grazed something behind the last photo. It didn’t feel glossy, like the photos, but more like a piece of computer paper.

  She pulled the paper from the envelope and held it to the light. Colleen Evelina Bebris, it said at the top in plain font, listing her address, e-mail, Twitter name, and blog. Below that was what looked like a list. Dramatic experience, it said in bold. There were descriptions of the various school plays Colleen had been in, culminating with her part in Macbeth last week. It was a resume, presumably for when Colleen went on auditions. Boring.

  Then, something at the bottom caught her eye. Commercial experience, a heading said. There was only one entry below it. Visiem Labak, Latvia, it said. Starring role in Latvian commercial for an important dietary supplement. According to the resume, the commercial had run last year on the most popular Latvian TV station.

  Rifling through her bag, Hanna grabbed her phone and punched Visiem Labak into Google. All better, a translation came up. A bunch of what she could only assume were Latvian websites also popped on the screen, and a few showed a smiling person eating yogurt. A YouTube link appeared at the bottom of the first search page. Visiem Labak Commercial, it said. There was a still shot of Colleen’s face.

  Hanna clicked the link. The commercial started with three girls sitting around a table at a café, drinking coffee and laughing. The camera then focused on Colleen, who rattled off something in a language Hanna couldn’t even begin to decipher, then clutched her stomach miserably. The other girls handed her a cup of yogurt, which Colleen began to eat with gusto. Next Colleen shut herself in the coffee bar’s bathroom, putting up a sign that surely said OCCUPIED in Latvian. Happy music played, there was a voice-over in Latvian, and Colleen emerged from the bathroom looking victorious. She held up a pot of the yogurt and grinned maniacally. The commercial ended with another shot of the yogurt.

  “Oh. My. God,” Hanna whispered. This was just like those stupid commercials where Jamie Lee Curtis pimped out Activia to bloated, constipated women. And here Colleen was, playing the Latvian girl who needed a yogurt laxative to get her regular again. No wonder she hadn’t bragged about it. Hanna guessed she hadn’t told anyone.

  “Yes,” she whispered, placing the resume and envelope into the glove compartment. After all this went down, she’d charge Colleen for the pictures, if she still wanted them. It wasn’t like Hanna needed them anymore. Those pictures didn’t tell a story. But a certain video did.

  25

  SECRETS, OPEN AND CLOSED

  As dusk was falling, Aria pulled into the circular driveway at Noel’s house and shut off the engine. The house was dark, with only one of the porch lights lit. She checked the text on her phone again. Come at six, Noel had said—and it was six on the dot.

  She stepped out of the car and walked toward the door, careful not to trip in her high heels. She was going to Mr. Marin’s fund-raising ball after this, an event she and Noel were supposed to attend together. Obviously, that was off. Aria wasn’t sure if Noel was planning to go anyway. A lot of kids from Rosewood Day would be there, after all.

  Footsteps sounded from inside after she rang the bell. Noel opened the door quietly, not looking her in the eye. Aria almost gasped at his appearance. His face was puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed that morning, and he had the exhausted, heavy-lidded look of someone who hadn’t slept.

  “I got your stuff together,” Noel said woodenly, turning and heading toward the den. Aria followed. The house was unusually quiet and still, with no TVs blaring or music playing or Patrice humming jovially in the kitchen.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  Noel sniffed, walking stiffly to a cardboard box that was sitting on the couch. “My mom went to that fund-raiser. My dad’s . . . somewhere.” He eyed her. “Why do you care, anyway?”

  Aria flinched. It was weird to see Noel angry, especially at her. “I was just making conversation,” she said sheepishly. She grabbed the box and hefted it into her arms. “I’ll go, okay?”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Noel growled.

  But then he awkwardly swallowed. Aria turned around and met his gaze. She stared at him for a long moment, trying to convey that breaking up was the only way she could make things right.

  Noel looked away. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, heading downstairs. He held the door open for her, and Aria mumbled good-bye and scuttled out. As she stepped off the porch, the box slipped from her grasp and spilled onto the brick path. She scrambled to pick up the spilled CDs, books, and T-shirts, and then felt a hand on her arm.

  “Here.” Noel leaned down, his voice softening. “I’ll get that.”

  Aria allowed him to gather up her things and load them back into the box. When she stood up, she saw something move at the back of the Kahns’ property. Someone was skulking around by the guest house. At first, she feared it was A, but then a spotlight beamed down on the figure’s tall blond hairdo, frilly dress, and clunky heels.

  The figure turned in the light, revealing her face. Aria tensed. It wasn’t Mrs. Kahn . . . it was Noel’s father. In drag. At home.

  Aria gasped before she could stop herself and, as if in slow motion, watched Noel’s head turn in the direction she was looking. “No!” she shouted, throwing herself in front of Noel to obstruct his view.

  “What are you doing?” Noel asked.

  “Um, I was . . .” Aria peeked over her shoulder. Mr. Kahn was gone. “I, um, thought I saw a bat swoop for your head.”

  Noel stared at her like she was nuts. A long, tense few seconds passed. Shrugging, he helped put Aria’s stuff in the back of her car, then turned toward the house. At the same time, the front door creaked open. Mr. Kahn had gotten through the house and to the fron
t door, and now he stood on the porch in his lipstick and dress. He gawked at Noel, then Aria. The blood drained from his face.

  “D-Dad,” Noel stammered.

  “Oh,” he croaked, his voice gruff and deep. “I-I thought no one was home.”

  Mr. Kahn did an about-face and marched back into the house. Aria covered her face in her hands. But surprisingly, Noel was making no noise at all. No gasps, no violent freak-outs, nothing. She peeked at him through her fingers. Instead of staring at the front door, which Mr. Kahn had just gone through, he was gaping at her.

  “You blocked my way,” he said. “You were trying to stop me from seeing my dad, weren’t you?”

  Aria shifted her weight. “Well, yeah.”

  Noel studied her for a long time. His eyes widened. “You knew, didn’t you? Before just now, I mean. You knew about how my dad dresses like . . . that. And you thought I didn’t know. You were keeping it from me.”

  Aria felt heat creep to her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that!” she cried. Then she stepped back. “Wait. You knew?”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve known for years.” Noel’s eyes blazed. “How long have you known?”

  Aria’s chin wobbled. “Only a few days. I saw your dad at Fresh Fields last week. I was afraid to tell you.”

  “So you decided to break up with me instead?” Noel’s mouth was tight, and his eyes were wild. “Or was there some other mysterious reason why you did that?”

  “Of course not!” Aria protested. “Please calm down! We can talk about this, can’t we?”

  Suddenly, she was filled with hope. Maybe there was a silver lining to this. If Noel already knew about his dad, if this wasn’t some big, ruinous, earth-shattering revelation, A had nothing on her. It was just a bluff. “I’ve changed my mind. I was confused. I want to stay together.”

  Noel barked out a cold, sinister laugh, the likes of which Aria had never heard before. “That train has left the station. I knew something was on your mind, Aria. I asked you a million times about it, and you told me you were fine. Just days ago I begged you to be honest with me about everything, and instead you lie?”

  “You lied, too!” Aria said, grasping at straws. “You never told me that your dad . . . you know!”

  Noel’s eyes narrowed, as though he didn’t particularly like this shift of gears. “You never asked me. And, for the record, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t want to do it when we were at my house, and lately you’ve seemed so distracted, and . . .” He trailed off, his mouth dropping open. “Do you think it’s weird? Is that why you broke up with me?”

  “Noel, no!” Aria cried, grabbing for his hands.

  Noel wrenched away from her, a horrible twist of anger on his face. “And here I thought you were open-minded.” He spun around and went back inside, slamming the door so hard the house shook. A dreadful silence followed.

  Aria stared at her shaking hands, questioning if what had just happened was real. She waited for Noel to come back, but he didn’t. How had this happened? She thought she’d done the right thing, when she’d just made things a million times worse.

  And then it hit her: Maybe A had meant for things to play out this way. Maybe A had known that Mr. Kahn’s cross-dressing was an open secret all along but led her to believe it would destroy Noel’s family. After all, the only thing that was worse than A ruining a relationship was Aria sabotaging it all on her own.

  26

  OD-NO SHE DIDN’T

  “ Spencer. Psst! Spencer!”

  Spencer opened her eyes. She was lying on a small cot in the middle of a room that smelled pungently of antiseptic. Her limbs felt welded to the mattress, and she was certain someone had stuffed a torch down her throat. As her vision cleared, she saw a pretty girl with blond hair and big eyes standing at the foot of the bed. She was wearing a familiar yellow dress and had a knowing smile on her face.

  Spencer shot up, recognizing her instantly. “Tabitha?”

  Tabitha spread out her arms. “Nice to see you again. How are you feeling?”

  Spencer touched her forehead. It felt wet, as though covered in sweat—or blood. “Not great. Where am I?”

  Tabitha giggled. “Don’t you remember what happened?”

  Spencer tried to think, but her mind was a deep, black hole. “I don’t remember anything.”

  Tabitha’s heels rang out on the cold, hard floor as she stepped closer to Spencer. Her skin smelled like the same vanilla soap Ali used to use. “You’re here because of what you did,” she whispered, her breath hot on Spencer’s face. “What all of you did. She told me you’d pay for this, and she was right.”

  “What do you mean, she? Who?”

  Tabitha pretended to zip her lips and throw away the key. “I swore I wouldn’t tell.”

  “What happened to me?” Spencer tried to move her legs under the covers, but they were strapped down with thick leather belts. “Where am I?”

  Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Do I have to spell everything out for you? I thought you were smart. You got into Princeton, after all. Not that you’ll be going there now.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “W-why not?”

  Tabitha’s smile was crooked and strange. “Because you’re dead.” And then she leaned over and touched Spencer’s eyes, as if to close them. “Say good-bye!”

  Spencer shrieked and fought to keep her eyes open, kicking against the leather restraints. When she opened her eyes again, she was in a different room. The walls were green, not pink. An IV pole and a bunch of whirring machines stood next to her bed, measuring her blood pressure and pulse. Just within reach was a small tray table containing a yellow plastic pitcher, her cell phone, and three round white pills. When Spencer looked at the cotton gown she was wearing, it was printed with the words PROPERTY OF PRINCETON GENERAL HOSPITAL.

  Tabitha’s voice reverberated in Spencer’s mind. It’s because of what you did. What all of you did. She told me you’d pay for this, and she was right. Was Tabitha talking about Gayle? But how did she and Gayle know each other? Or did she mean Real Ali?

  More importantly, what the hell was she doing in a hospital? All she remembered was wandering to Ivy’s backyard and hearing something in the woods. There had been footsteps . . . someone had grabbed her . . . and then what?

  Her monitor chirped. As if on cue, a nurse wearing blue scrubs and a terry-cloth headband entered the room. “Ah, you’re up.” The nurse looked at the machines, then shone a light in Spencer’s eyes. “Your name’s Spencer Hastings, right? Your driver’s license says you’re from Pennsylvania. Do you know what day it is?”

  Spencer blinked. Everything was moving too quickly. “Um, Sunday?”

  “That’s right.” The nurse wrote something down on the clipboard she was holding.

  “W-what happened to me?” Spencer squeaked.

  The nurse placed a blood pressure cuff on Spencer’s arm. “You overdosed on a dangerous mix of drugs. We had to pump your stomach about an hour ago.”

  “What?” Spencer sat up in bed. “That’s impossible!”

  The nurse sighed. “Well, your blood tested positive for marijuana, Ritalin, and LSD. The tox screen for the twenty-six other kids at the same party also tested positive for those substances, but they keep telling me they didn’t do any drugs, either.” She rolled her eyes. “I wish one of you would have just admitted it when we brought you in. It would’ve made our lives a lot easier.”

  Spencer licked her lips, which were so dry they hurt. More people from the party were here? “Is everyone okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine, but you all had a serious scare.” The nurse wrote something down on her clipboard, then patted Spencer’s leg. “You rest now, okay? Your body has been through a lot.”

  The door clicked closed, and Spencer was alone once more. She shifted around in the bed, making sure her legs weren’t strapped to the bed like they were in her dream. How did all of those other drugs get into her system? Not just hers, but twenty-six other kids, as well?

 
; Spencer closed her eyes and thought of the bizarre debauchery that had taken place at the potluck. How so many kids had paired up and disappeared upstairs. Straight-A students had stripped off their clothes and run naked through the house. Harper had started to trash the place, and others had followed. Even Spencer had done things she wouldn’t normally do. The whole experience was so . . . unhinged. Bizarre.

  “Oh my God,” Spencer blurted, a crack suddenly opening in her brain. Could it have been because of the brownies? They were the only thing she’d eaten. She pictured Reefer proffering her an enormous clump of pot, claiming it was really mellow and perfect for baking. He’d smiled at her, as though completely guileless and honest, then said all that stuff about Ivy. Maybe this was his idea of civil disobedience. He was sticking it to those old-fart-y institutions for being so staid, boring, and exclusionary.

  Spencer twisted her body to reach the cell phone on the little table and dialed Reefer’s phone number. It rang a few times, and then Reefer picked up, letting out a cautious hello.

  “You almost killed us,” she growled.

  “Um, excuse me?” Reefer said.

  “We’re all in the hospital because of you! Do you really hate Ivy that much?”

  There was a pause on the line. “What are you talking about?” Reefer sounded confused.

  “I’m talking about the LSD and Ritalin that was in your mellow pot,” Spencer said through her teeth, noting that her pulse on the monitor was rising. “You spiked it to screw with us, right?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Reefer interrupted. “I don’t do that stuff. And I certainly wouldn’t lace it into my pot. I gave you the tamest thing I had, Spencer. I swear.”

  Spencer frowned. Reefer sounded blindsided by the accusation. Was he telling the truth? Could someone else have tampered with the brownies? The food at the party was out in plain sight, though—it would have been difficult for someone to stealthily sprinkle various poisons into the brownie dish. And Spencer hadn’t let the pot or the brownies out of her sight since she’d baked them the night before.