by Sara Shepard
Finally, Melissa cleared her throat. “This is a lovely restaurant, Mr. Pennythistle.”
“Oh, absolutely!” Mrs. Hastings said, clearly grateful someone had broken the ice.
“Really Revolutionary War–esque,” Spencer added. “Let’s hope the food doesn’t date from then, too!”
Mrs. Hastings barked out a fake-laugh, but she stopped as soon as she saw the confused, almost hurt look on her boyfriend’s face. Amelia wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something rancid in the air. “Oh, Spencer didn’t mean it seriously,” Mrs. Hastings said quickly. “It was just a joke!”
Mr. Pennythistle tugged at his starched collar. “This has been my favorite restaurant for years. They have an award-winning wine list.”
Whoop-de-doo. Spencer glanced around, wishing she could sit with the table of tittering sixty-something ladies in the corner—at least they looked fun. She sneaked a peek at Melissa, hoping to commiserate, but Melissa was beaming at Mr. Pennythistle as though he were the Dalai Lama.
After the waitress delivered their drinks, Mr. Pennythistle turned to Spencer. Up close, he had little wrinkles around his eyes and wiry, out-of-control eyebrows. “So you’re a senior at Rosewood Day?”
Spencer nodded. “That’s right.”
“She’s very involved,” Mrs. Hastings bragged. “She’s on Varsity field hockey, and she was cast as Lady Macbeth in the senior production of Macbeth. Rosewood Day has a top-notch drama program.”
Mr. Pennythistle’s eyebrow arched at Spencer. “How are your grades this semester?”
The question caught Spencer off guard. Nosy, aren’t we? “They’re . . . fine. But I got into Princeton early decision, so it’s not such a big deal this term.”
She said Princeton with relish—surely that would impress Mr. Pennythistle and his snotty daughter. But Mr. Pennythistle just inched closer. “Princeton doesn’t like slackers, you know.” His kindly voice turned sharp. “Now isn’t the time to rest on your laurels.”
Spencer recoiled. What was with the reprimanding tone? Who did he think he was, her father? It was Mr. Hastings who’d told Spencer she should take it easy this semester—she’d worked hard, after all.
Spencer looked to her mother, but she was nodding along. “That’s true, Spence. Maybe you shouldn’t relax too much.”
“I’ve heard colleges are looking at your final term grades a lot more these days,” Melissa agreed. Traitor, Spencer thought.
“I’ve told my son that, too.” Mr. Pennythistle opened the restaurant’s wine list, which was the size of a dictionary. “He’s going to Harvard.” He said it in a haughty voice that seemed to say which is much, much better than Princeton.
Spencer ducked her head and arranged her fork, knife, and spoon so that they were exactly parallel with one another on the table. Organizing usually made her calm down, but not today.
Then Mr. Pennythistle turned to Melissa. “And I heard you got an MBA at Wharton. You’re working for Brice Langley’s hedge fund now, right? Impressive.”
Melissa, who had tucked her rose behind her ear, blushed. “I got lucky, I guess. Had a really good interview.”
“It must have taken more than luck and a good interview,” Mr. Pennythistle said admiringly. “Langley only hires the best of the best. You and Amelia have a lot to talk about. She wants to go into finance, too.”
Melissa beamed at Amelia, and Her Highness actually smiled back. Great. So this was going to be like any other family event Spencer had ever attended: Melissa was the shining star, the golden child, and Spencer was the second-rate freak no one quite knew how to handle.
Well, she’d had enough. Murmuring an excuse, she rose and placed her napkin on the back of her chair. She wove her way to the bathrooms at the bar area at the back of the restaurant.
The women’s bathroom, which was painted pink and had an antique brass knob, was locked, so Spencer slumped down on a cushy barstool at the bar to wait. The bartender, a handsome guy in his mid-twenties, swept over and set a Goshen Inn–embossed cocktail napkin in front of her. “What can I get you?”
The gleaming bottles of alcohol behind the bar winked temptingly. Neither Spencer’s mother nor Mr. Pennythistle could see Spencer from this angle. “Um, just coffee,” she decided at the last minute, not wanting to push her luck.
The bartender pivoted to the carafe and poured her a cup. As he set it in front of her, she noticed an image on the TV screen. A recent photo of Ali—the real Ali, the one who’d tried to kill Spencer and the others—dominated the top right corner. Across the bottom ran a headline that said DILAURENTIS POCONOS FIRE ANNIVERSARY: ROSEWOOD REMINISCES. Spencer shuddered. The last thing she wanted to do was reminisce about Real Ali trying to burn them alive.
A few weeks after it happened, Spencer made a conscious decision to look on the bright side—at least the terrible ordeal was over. They finally had closure, and they could begin the process of forgetting. She’d been the one to propose the Jamaica trip to her friends, even offering to help pay Emily’s and Aria’s way. “It’ll be a way for us to start fresh, forget everything,” she urged, spreading the resort brochures across the cafeteria table at lunch. “We need a trip that we can always remember.”
Famous last words. They’d never forget the trip—but not in a good way.
Someone groaned a few feet down. Spencer looked over, expecting to see an old codger in the middle of a heart attack, but instead saw a young guy with wavy brown hair, broad shoulders, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.
He glanced at Spencer and gestured to the iPhone in his hand. “You don’t know what to do when this thing freezes, do you?”
One corner of Spencer’s mouth twisted into a smile. “How do you know I have an iPhone?” she challenged.
The guy lowered his phone and gave her a long, curious once-over. “No offense, but you don’t look like the kind of girl who’d walk around with anything but the best and the latest.”
“Oh really?” Spencer pressed her hand to her chest, mock-offended. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know.”
The guy stood up and dragged his barstool over to her. Up close, he was even cuter than she’d originally thought: His cheekbones were well defined, his nose ended in a cute bump on the end, and a dimple on his right cheek appeared whenever he smiled. Spencer liked his white, even, square teeth, untucked white-button down, and Converse All-Stars. Messy prepster was her favorite look.
“Okay, truth?” he said. “I asked you because you look like the only person in this place who actually owns a cell phone.” He glanced covertly at the aged population around the bar. There was a whole table of old guys in power scooters. One of them even had an oxygen tube under his nose.
Spencer snickered. “Yeah, they’re more of a rotary-dial crowd.”
“They probably still use the operator to make a call.” He pushed his phone in Spencer’s direction. “Seriously, though, do I restart or what?”
“I’m not sure . . .” Spencer stared at the screen. It was frozen on the stream for 610 AM, the local sports station. “Oh, I listen to this all the time!”
The boy looked at her skeptically. “You listen to sports radio?”
“It calms me down.” Spencer sipped her coffee. “It’s nice to hear people talking about sports instead of politics.” Or Alison, she silently added in her head. “Plus I’m a Phillies fan.”
“Did you listen to the World Series?” the guy asked.
Spencer leaned toward him. “I could have gone to the World Series. My dad has season tickets.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you?”
“I donated them to a charity that helps inner-city kids.”
The boy scoffed. “Either you’re an extreme do-gooder or you’ve got a really guilty conscience.”
Spencer flinched, then straightened up. “I did it because it looks good on college applications. But if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll take you next season.”
The guy’s eyes twi
nkled. “Let’s hope they make it.”
Spencer held his gaze for a moment, her pulse speeding up. He was definitely flirting, and she definitely liked it. She hadn’t felt this much of a spark for anyone since she’d broken up with Andrew Campbell last year.
Her companion sipped from his glass of beer. When he set the glass back on the bar, Spencer quickly grabbed a coaster and placed it under it. Then she wiped the edge of the glass with a napkin to keep it from dripping.
The guy watched with amusement. “Do you always tidy glasses of people you don’t know?”
“It’s a pet peeve,” Spencer admitted.
“Everything has to be just so, doesn’t it?”
“I like things done my way.” Spencer appreciated the double-entendre. Then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Spencer.”
He shook, his grip strong. “Zach.”
The name resonated in Spencer’s mind. She took in his high cheekbones, his cultured way of speaking, and his suddenly familiar steel-blue eyes. “Wait. Zach as in Zachary?”
He curled his lip. “Only my dad calls me that.” Then he retracted, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m having dinner with you tonight. My mom and your dad are . . .” She opened her palms, too weirded out to say the word dating.
It took Zach a moment to digest what she said. “You’re one of the daughters?”
“Yep.”
He stared at her. “Why do you look familiar?”
“I knew Alison DiLaurentis,” Spencer admitted, gesturing toward the TV. The story about Ali’s death was still on the screen. Wasn’t there more important news to obsess over?
Zach snapped his fingers. “Right. My friends and I thought you were the hot one.”
“Really?” Spencer squeaked. Even compared to Hanna?
“Wow.” Zach ran his hands through his hair. “This is wild. I really wasn’t looking forward to this dinner. I thought the girlfriend’s daughters would be . . .”
“Snobbier?” Spencer provided. “Blander?”
“Kind of.” Zach smiled guiltily. “But you’re . . . cool.”
Spencer felt another flutter. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Then she pointed at his glass of beer, remembering something. “Have you been here the whole time? Your dad said you were at a study group.”
Zach ducked his head. “I needed to unwind before I went in there. My dad kind of stresses me out.” He raised a brow. “So you’ve already met him? Is my sister there, too? Are they being enormous douche bags?”
Spencer giggled. “My mom and sister were equally as lame. They were all trying to out-impress one another.”
The bartender set Zach’s bill face-down on the bar. Spencer noticed that the clock on the wall said 6:45. She’d been gone for almost fifteen minutes. “We should go back, don’t you think?”
Zach shut his eyes and groaned. “Do we have to? Let’s run away instead. Hide out in Philly. Hop a plane for Paris.”
“Or maybe Nice,” Spencer suggested.
“The Riviera would work,” Zach said excitedly. “My dad has a villa in Cannes. We could hide there.”
“I knew there was a reason we met,” Spencer teased, shoving Zach playfully on the arm.
Zach shoved her back, letting his hand linger on her skin. He leaned forward and slightly moistened his lips. For a moment, Spencer thought he was going to kiss her.
Her feet barely touched the ground as she waltzed back into the dining room. But as she passed through the archway, something made her turn around. Ali’s face flashed on the TV screen again. For a moment, the picture seemed to come to life, grinning at Spencer as though Ali was looking out from inside the small, square box and seeing just what Spencer was up to. Her smile seemed even more sinister than usual.
Zach’s comment suddenly rang in her ears. Either you’re an extreme do-gooder or you’ve got a guilty conscience. He was right: Last fall, Spencer had donated her World Series tickets because she felt she didn’t deserve to go, not after what she’d done. And in the first few moments after she’d gotten into Princeton, she’d considered declining, not sure she deserved that either, until she realized how insane that sounded.
And it was crazy to think that the girl on the screen was anything more than an image, too. Ali was gone for good. Spencer gazed squarely at the TV screen and narrowed her eyes. Later, bitch. Then, rolling back her shoulders, she turned and followed Zach to the table.
Chapter 6
Oh, those insecure pretty girls
“Surprise!” Mike whispered on Monday afternoon as he slid into an auditorium seat next to Hanna. “I got us Tokyo Boy!”
He unveiled a large plastic bag full of sushi rolls. “How did you know?” Hanna cried, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. She hadn’t eaten anything at lunch, having deemed everything in the Rosewood Day cafeteria inedible. Her stomach was growling something fierce.
“I always know what you want.” Mike teased, pushing a lock of black hair out of his eyes.
They ripped into the sushi quietly, wincing at a sophomore rehearsing a song from West Side Story on the stage. Normally, study hall was held in a classroom in the oldest wing of Rosewood Day, but a leak had sprung in the ceiling last week, so somehow they’d ended up in the auditorium—at the same time the Rosewood Day junior girls’ choir rehearsed. How was anyone supposed to get any homework done amid the horrible singing?
Despite the bad voices, the auditorium was one of Hanna’s favorite places at school. A wealthy donor had paid for the place to look as tricked-out as any theater on Broadway, and the seats were plush velvet, the ceilings were high and adorned with ornate plasterwork, and the lighting on the stage definitely made some of the chunkier choir girls look at least five pounds thinner. Back when Hanna was BFFs with Mona Vanderwaal, the two of them used to sneak on the stage after school and flounce around, pretending they were famous actresses in Tony-winning musicals. That was before Mona turned crazy-town and tried to run her over, of course.
Mike skewered a California roll and popped it into his mouth whole. “So. When’s your big TV debut?”
Hanna stared at him blankly. “Huh?”
“The commercial for your dad?” Mike reminded her, chewing.
“Oh, that.” Hanna ate a bite of wasabi, and her eyes began to water. “I’m sure my lines were edited out immediately.”
“That might not be true. You looked great.”
On the stage, a bunch of girls were now trying a harmony. It was like listening to a gang of wailing cats. “The commercial is going to be all about my dad, Isabel, and Kate,” Hanna mumbled. “That’s exactly what my dad wants. His perfect nuclear family.”
Mike wiped a piece of rice from his cheek. “He didn’t actually say that.”
His optimism was getting on Hanna’s nerves. How many times had she told Mike about her daddy issues? How many times had he been up close and personal with Kate? That was the thing about guys, though: Sometimes, they had the emotional depth of a flea.
Hanna took a deep breath and stared blankly at the heads of the study hall students in front of them. “The only way I’m going to end up in a commercial is if I do it on my own. Maybe I should call that photographer.”
Mike’s chopsticks fell to his lap. “That poseur who was drooling all over you at the shoot? Are you serious?”
“His name’s Patrick Lake,” Hanna said stiffly. He’d said she was amazing on camera, and had badmouthed Kate right in front of her. That part was her favorite.
“Why would you say he’s a poseur?” she asked after a moment. “He’s totally professional. He wants to take pictures of me and hook me up with a modeling agency.” She’d googled Patrick on her iPhone during lunch, gazing at his Flickr photos and Facebook links. On his website, Patrick listed that he’d taken photos for several Main Line magazines as well as a fashion insert for the Philadelphia Sentinel. Plus, he shared a first name with Patrick Demarchelier, Hanna’s favorite fashion photographer.
“M
ore like professionally sleazy. He doesn’t want to turn you into a model, Hanna. He wants to do you.”
Hanna’s mouth dropped. “You don’t think I’m capable of getting signed by a modeling agency?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You pretty much did.” Hanna angled her body away from Mike, feeling a flush of anger. “So basically, anyone who approaches me just wants to bone me, right? I’m not pretty enough to take seriously.”
Mike shut his eyes like he suddenly had a migraine. “Would you listen to yourself? Only pretty girls get hit on—and that’s you. If you were a dog, he wouldn’t be after you. But that dude was nasty. He reminded me of that artist freak who had a thing for Aria on our trip to Iceland.”
Hanna stiffened, knowing immediately what artist Mike was talking about—he’d plunked down next to them at a bar in Reykjavik and deemed Aria his new muse. “Let me text Aria,” Mike went on, pulling out his phone. “I bet she’ll tell you the same thing.”
Hanna caught his hand. “You’re not texting your sister about this,” she blurted. “We’re not really friends anymore, okay?”
Mike lowered his phone, not even flinching. “I already figured that out, Hanna,” he said evenly. “I just didn’t think it would take you so long to admit it.”
Hanna swallowed, surprised. She’d figured he just hadn’t noticed. He probably wanted to know why Hanna and Aria weren’t speaking, too—but she couldn’t tell him that.
Suddenly, Hanna couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Mike. When she stood up and grabbed her bag off the floor, Mike touched her elbow. “Where are you going?”
“Bathroom,” Hanna answered haughtily. “Am I allowed?”
Mike’s eyes turned cold. “You’re going to call that photographer, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” She tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.
“Hanna, don’t.”