Twisted pll-9

by Sara Shepard

  “Thank you, dear,” Mr. Pennythistle said, picking up his knife and fork.

  Spencer and Zach exchanged a glance, nearly bursting out laughing over the word tentacles. Zach covertly reached for his flask and poured some into his and Spencer’s glasses of sparkling water. They both took a big sip.

  “So what did you kids do today?” Mrs. Hastings dipped a piece of calamari into the bowl of marinara sauce.

  “Oh, we did the New York tourist thing,” Spencer said. “Saks, Bendel’s, Barneys. Amelia got a lot of great clothes.”

  “Oh, those stores are lovely,” Mrs. Hastings sighed wistfully.

  Mr. Pennythistle’s forehead wrinkled. “You didn’t go to any museums? You didn’t visit the stock exchange?”

  Amelia clamped her mouth shut. Zach wilted in his seat. Mr. Pennythistle shoved a calamari into his mouth with gusto. “What about the tour of Carnegie Hall I arranged for you, Amelia? I had to pull major strings to get that.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow, Daddy,” Amelia piped up quickly. Suck-up.

  “Good.” Mr. Pennythistle nodded, then glanced at Zach. “And are you telling me you didn’t meet with Douglas?”

  Spencer glanced at Zach—she’d forgotten about his meeting with the Harvard admissions guy. Zach shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”

  Mr. Pennythistle blinked hard. “But he was waiting for your call.” He pulled out his BlackBerry. “I’ll see if he can meet with you tomorrow morning . . .”

  It looked like Zach was going to explode. “You know, not all of us want to go to Harvard, Dad.”

  Mr. Pennythistle’s mouth dropped open slightly. “But . . . you’ll love it at Harvard, Zachary. Some of my best memories are from my time there.”

  “It is a lovely school,” Mrs. Hastings chimed in. Mr. Pennythistle squeezed her hand gratefully.

  But Zach folded his hands on top of the table, unblinking. “I’m not you, Dad. Maybe I want other things.”

  Mr. Pennythistle looked like he was going to say something else, but Mrs. Hastings quickly interrupted. “Now, now, let’s not fight!” She pushed the plate of calamari over to Zach like it was consolation. “We’re all having such a nice time in New York. Let’s just keep it that way.”

  A ping sounded from Mr. Pennythistle’s phone. “Ah,” he said, studying the screen. “Douglas can meet you at ten A.M. tomorrow. Problem solved.”

  A waiter approached to take their orders. Spencer turned to Zach. “Are you okay?”

  Zach’s jaw muscle twitched. Patches of red bloomed on his neck and cheeks. “Everything I say to him goes in one ear and out the other.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Zach shrugged and covertly added more vodka to their waters. “Story of my life. But listen, we have some catching up to do. My dad was totally throwing his weight around.”

  “We need to take at least five drinks, by my count,” Spencer whispered.

  There were plenty more drinking opportunities after that, too. Once they ordered, the conversation turned to Mr. Pennythistle and how he was such a loyal Smith and Wollensky customer that they’d put his name on a brass plaque on the wall—drink, drink, drink. When the food came, Mrs. Hastings scrambled to procure steak sauce for Mr. Pennythistle’s T-bone, mayo for his fries, and the wine list so he could choose another bottle—drink, drink, drink. Spencer was so dizzy with vodka that she barely tasted her filet—she wasn’t even sure why she’d ordered it. Zach kept bursting out laughing at random intervals. Amelia stared suspiciously at them from across the table but didn’t say a word. She hadn’t been this wasted since . . . well, since this past summer. But she closed off that part of her mind before she could think too carefully about that.

  As the dinner progressed, Zach’s father and Spencer’s mother moved closer and closer to each other until they were practically in each other’s laps. Mr. Pennythistle fed Mrs. Hastings a bite of creamed spinach. Mrs. Hastings wiped a dab of steak juice off Mr. Pennythistle’s cheek. Admittedly, Spencer hadn’t seen her mom look this happy in a long time—she and Spencer’s father weren’t very touchy-feely. Spencer and Zach had moved closer to one another, too, their feet bumping under the table, their hands touching as they drained Zach’s flask.

  When the waitress brought giant slabs of cheesecake for dessert, Mr. Pennythistle clanged his fork against his glass. “Well, kids, I have an announcement to make.” He looked around the table. “We meant to keep this a secret until tomorrow, but we might as well tell you now.” He took Spencer’s mother’s hand. “I’ve asked Veronica to marry me. And she’s said yes.”

  Spencer stared at her mother, who was unveiling a Tiffany jewelry box from her purse. The box creaked as it opened, revealing an enormous diamond ring. “Wow.” Spencer breathed, always feeling a little cowed by diamonds. “Congratulations, Mom.”

  “Thanks!” Mrs. Hastings slid the ring on her finger. “We broke the news to Melissa before you guys arrived. She wants us to have the ceremony at the townhouse, but I’m thinking of something a little more fabulous.”

  “When are you getting married?” Zach asked tentatively.

  “We think the wedding will be in a few months,” Mr. Pennythistle said, his cheeks pink with pride.

  “Perhaps a destination wedding, we haven’t decided,” Mrs. Hastings added. “But for now, I’ve asked Nicholas if he’d move into the house with us, Spencer. Amelia and Zach will be your stepsiblings pretty soon—you might as well get used to one another.”

  Amelia let out a note of horror, but Spencer and Zach turned to each other and drunkenly grinned. “Hey, bro,” Spencer joked, punching Zach on the shoulder.

  “Nice to meet you, sis,” Zach said back in an utterly unbrotherly voice. He hid his hand under the table, entwined it with Spencer’s, and squeezed hard.

  “This definitely calls for a toast.” Mrs. Hastings flagged down the waiter. “I suppose the kids can have a glass of champagne, don’t you think, Nicholas?”

  “Just this once,” Mr. Pennythistle demurred.

  “A round of champagne for the table!” Mrs. Hastings trilled. Flutes arrived right away.

  Spencer and Zach glanced at one another once more, daring the other not to laugh. “Cheers!” they both cried. They knocked their flutes together and drank them down.

  Spencer’s mother and Zach’s father were off to the Met after dinner, so they bid their kids goodnight at the escalators at the Hudson. Amelia retreated to her room immediately, but Spencer and Zach took their time, giggling about the hotel’s faux-minimalist décor and the ubiquitous techno music.

  Their rooms were right next to each other, and they unlocked their doors with keycards in unison. “Holy shit,” Spencer said when she opened her door. “It’s like a Japanese sleeping pod!” A porter had brought up her stuff earlier today, so she hadn’t been inside the room until now. The whole thing was the size of her family’s first-floor powder room.

  “A hobbit should live here,” Zach called from his doorway. “Dad really pulled out all the stops for us.”

  Spencer joined him in his room. It was the same as hers—the bed barely fit in the tiny nook the hotel called a bedroom. “And look at the bathroom!” she cried, wedging herself into the minuscule space. “How does someone fit on this toilet?”

  “At least the bed’s comfy,” Zach called from five feet away. He kicked off his shoes and started bouncing. “Come jump with me, sis.”

  Spencer removed her stilettos and climbed up on the bed. Manhattan blinked at them out the huge picture window. “If you call me sis one more time I’ll kick your ass.”

  Zach kept bouncing. “You don’t look like you can kick anything.”

  “Oh yeah?” Spencer leapt up on the bed and tackled him, pushing him to the mattress and wrapping her arms around his head. Zach pushed her off easily, flipping her around so that he was on top of her. He hovered over her for a moment, his longish hair hanging in his face, his mouth twisted into a messy grin, and then he tickled her stomach.

 
“No!” Spencer flailed. “Stop it! Please!”

  “This is what brothers do!” Zach chanted. “Get used to it!”

  “I’ll kill you!” Spencer screamed, giggling uncontrollably.

  “You’re laughing!” Zach whooped. “That means you like it!”

  But then he stopped, slumping down on the mattress and propping his head on his arm. “You are so evil,” Spencer whispered, panting hard. “But I like you anyway.”

  “Would you like me even if I didn’t go to Harvard?” Zach asked.

  Spencer blew air out of her cheeks. “That school is for losers.”

  “Would you like me if I was gay?” Zach’s long-lashed eyes were very wide.

  Spencer blinked at him. “Are you?”

  Zach’s lips parted. His eyes shifted to the right. He moved closer to her without answering. All of a sudden, he was kissing her softly on the lips. Spencer shut her eyes, tasting vodka and steak sauce. But the kiss was more friendly than romantic, more drunken and hyped-up than truly lustful. Spencer thought she’d feel disappointed, but she was surprised to find she didn’t care. Zach had a lot of figuring out to do. Maybe Spencer should help him through it, not confuse him even more.

  They broke apart, smiling at each other without having to say a word. “Want to snuggle?” Spencer asked.

  “Sure,” Zach said. And then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him. It immediately calmed Spencer, and in moments, she fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Things get steamy at the pool

  Emily stroked hard, dolphin-kicking with all her might. The blurry pool wall loomed just ahead, and she lunged for the electronic timing pad on the wall. When she turned around, everyone else was still finishing their race. Yes. She’d won. And when she glanced at her time on the clock, she saw it was four tenths of a second faster than last year’s best.

  Amazing.

  “Congratulations,” one of the judges said as Emily climbed out. “You almost beat the course record.”

  Raymond, her coach, barreled over to her and gave her a big hug, not even caring that she was soaking wet. “Outstanding for your first meet back!” he whooped. “I knew you had it in you!”

  Emily peeled off her goggles and cap, her muscles throbbing and her heart still thudding hard. The crowd cheered. The other competitors climbed out of the pool and glared enviously at her. Various teammates slapped her on the back as she returned to her gear and towels. “Awesome!” said a girl named Tori Barnes, who Emily had been BFF with one summer in second grade. “They ate your wake,” added Jacob O’Reilly, Tori’s boyfriend, who’d crushed on Emily during swim season in fourth grade and put a gumball machine diamond ring in her locker.

  Emily grinned back at them, dropping her goggles by her gear bag. She’d forgotten how good it felt to win a race. But she wanted to share the special moment with someone . . . well, special, and the kids on the team didn’t quite suffice. Rummaging through her bag, she found her phone and composed a new text to Chloe. Just won my race! So excited to hang out tonite! Emily couldn’t wait to celebrate—non-alcoholically, of course.

  “Emily?”

  A man in a University of North Carolina sweatshirt wove through the knot of swimmers. He had a clean-shaven face, crinkly blue eyes, thinning brown hair, and carried a leather-bound clipboard and a video camera. Mr. Roland walked beside him. Mixed feelings instantly filled Emily. As much as she wanted to see the recruiter, she wished Mr. Roland wouldn’t have come with him.

  “Emily, this is Marc Lowry from the University of North Carolina,” Mr. Roland said.

  “Nice to meet you.” Emily shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mr. Lowry answered. “Amazing race. Great stroke. You show real promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Lowry has some news for you,” Mr. Roland announced. “Can you talk with us in private?”

  He gestured toward the small, empty room off the pool that the team used for dry land practice. Emily followed them through the doors. A Pilates machine sat in the corner, a box of medicine balls and resistance bands in another. A spilled puddle of something neon-yellow, Gatorade probably, welled by the door. An empty wrapper that had once contained a Speedo swim cap lay abandoned by the fogged-up window.

  Mr. Lowry let his clipboard fall to his side and studied Emily. “Based on your times and your performance both today and the past four years, we’d like to offer you a full scholarship to our school.”

  Emily clapped her hands over her mouth. “Really?”

  Mr. Lowry nodded. “It’s not a done deal yet—we’ll have to interview you, review your transcripts, all of that. And Henry said you took some time off last year because of the Alison DiLaurentis incident, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Emily said. “But I’m fully committed to swimming now. I promise.”

  “Great.” When Mr. Lowry smiled, Emily could see a gold filling in the back of his mouth. “Well, I’d better get going—I have a couple other kids in the area to speak to. We’ll be in touch early this week. Definitely celebrate, though. This is huge.”

  “Thank you so much,” Emily said, trembling with happiness. Then Mr. Lowry turned on his heel and marched back through the door. Emily expected Mr. Roland to follow him, but he didn’t. His eyes were on Emily.

  “Amazing, huh?” he said.

  “This is truly, truly, incredible,” she answered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  One of Mr. Roland’s eyebrows arched. A sly smile curled across his lips. The harsh fluorescent light made his skin look ghoulish. Suddenly, Emily felt like one of those animals in the wild who sensed danger before she saw it. He inched closer to her, his breath hot on her cheek. “Well, I have some ideas . . .” His fingers danced lightly across the skin of her slightly damp arm.

  Emily pulled away. “Mr. Roland . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Roland murmured. His body moved even closer to her, trapping her against the wall. He smelled like Head & Shoulders shampoo and Tide laundry detergent, such innocent scents. His fingers slipped under the straps of her swimsuit. He made a horrible grunting sound as he pressed against her.

  “Stop, please,” Emily said, wrenching away.

  “What’s the matter?” Mr. Roland whispered, covering her mouth with a kiss. “You were into it on Thursday, Emily. You kissed me. I felt it.”

  “But—”

  She made a break for the other side of the room, but Mr. Roland caught her wrist and pulled her back. He kept pawing at her, kissing her neck, her lips again, her throat. The starting gun beeped through the door, followed by the splash of swimmers. The crowd roared, oblivious, as Emily struggled to push him off once more.

  “Oh my God.”

  Mr. Roland turned around at the figure who’d appeared in the doorway. Relief burst through Emily at the welcome interruption. But then Mr. Roland’s face went eggshell-white. “Ch-Chloe?”

  Emily’s heart dropped to her feet. Sure enough, Chloe was standing there, a big, hand-lettered poster that said GO, EMILY! pressed against her chest. “Chloe!” Emily cried.

  Mr. Roland pushed his hands into his pockets and walked to the other side of the room from Emily, as far away from her as he could get. “I didn’t know you were coming, honey. But did you hear about Emily? She got the scholarship!”

  Chloe let the poster drop to the tile floor. By the devastated look on her face, it was clear she’d seen everything. “I was going to surprise you,” she said tonelessly to Emily. “I saw your race. I saw my dad and that recruiter take you in here to talk to you. And I thought . . .” Her eyes flickered from her father, then back to Emily again. A horrified expression crossed her face. Emily looked down. Her swimsuit strap was halfway off her shoulder. It looked like she wanted this.

  “Chloe, no!” Emily protested, quickly pulling the strap back up. “This isn’t . . . I didn’t . . . he . . .”

  But Chloe backed out of the room, shaking her head sil
ently. Myriad emotions washed across her face at once—disgust, betrayal, abhorrence. A half sob, half growl emerged from the back of her throat, and she turned and ran.

  “Chloe, wait!” Emily cried, barreling out the office door, slipping on the wet floor. “Please!”

  But it was too late. Chloe was gone.

  Chapter 27

  Ahh, vacation memories

  “Hey, guys!” a voice called softly. “I guess you got my note!”

  Hanna stood motionless by the stairs of the crow’s nest. Nerves snapped and crackled under her skin. Tabitha, the girl at the end of the roof deck, suddenly looked different. More Ali-like than usual. All of a sudden, she could believe it. Emily was right. It was Ali.

  “Come closer, Hanna!” Ali teased, beckoning with one curled finger. “I won’t bite!”

  Hanna’s eyes flew open. Sweat poured down the back of her neck. Her thumb was firmly between her lips. Ever since Jamaica, whenever she felt really scared, she sucked her thumb in her sleep.

  She had been thinking of it again. Dreaming of it again.

  “Hanna?” Her mother knocked on Hanna’s bedroom door. “Hanna? Get up!”

  Dot, Hanna’s miniature Doberman, licked Hanna’s face enthusiastically. Hanna peered at the digital clock next to her bed. It was 10 A.M.; normally, Hanna slept until noon on weekends. She sat up and groaned. “Mom, I don’t want to do Bikram with you!” Ever since her mom had returned from Singapore last year, she’d been obsessed with doing ninety minutes of intense yoga poses in a 100-degree room on Saturday mornings.

  “This isn’t about Bikram.” Ms. Marin sounded exasperated. “Your father’s on the phone. He wants you to meet him at his office. Now.”