by Sara Shepard
Spencer glanced at her reflection again. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Chapter 10
A star is born
The next afternoon, after the SEPTA R5 stopped at every possible local station, Hanna finally arrived in Philadelphia. As soon as the metal door slid open she slung her silver studded hobo bag over her shoulder and stepped onto the steel escalator. Two girls in Bryn Mawr College sweatshirts and boot-cut jeans stared at her.
For a moment, Hanna tensed, thinking of the postcard in Ali’s old mailbox last night. Then it hit her: They recognized her from the news reports last year. Rude stares happened to Hanna more than she liked.
She stuck her nose in the air, feigning her best aloof celebrity pose. After all, she was going to her very first photo shoot—what were they doing in the city? Bargain shopping for knockoffs at Filene’s Basement?
A tall figure with a camera around his neck stood outside the station’s McDonald’s. Hanna’s heart leapt. Patrick even looked like an up-and-coming photographer—he wore an army-green coat with a fur-lined hood, slim-cut jeans, and polished chukka boots.
Patrick turned and noticed Hanna approaching. He raised the long-lensed digital camera around his neck and pointed it at her. For a second, Hanna wanted to cover her face with her hands, but instead she threw back her shoulders and gave him a big smile. Maybe this was a test, an action shot of a model in the dingy train station, surrounded by overweight tourists with fanny packs.
“You made it,” Patrick said as Hanna walked up.
“Did you think I’d bail?” Hanna teased, trying to control her excitement.
He looked her up and down. “Great outfit. You look like a hotter Adriana Lima.”
“Thanks.” Hanna put her hands on her hips and tilted to the right and left. Damn right it was a great outfit—she’d agonized over the pink frilly dress, motocross jacket, chunky suede booties, and gold-accented bracelets and necklace all morning, trying on a zillion combinations before she found something that hit just the right note. Her bare legs would probably get frostbite, but it would be worth it.
“Then we’ll finish up with some indoor photos at my studio in Fishtown. Do you mind all that? It would be amazing for my portfolio. And like I said, I can help you pick out shots for agents.”
“It sounds perfect.”
As they climbed the stairs, Patrick pressed his arm against Hanna’s, pointing out a patch of ice. “Careful.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said, steering around the ice. Patrick removed his hand as soon as she’d crossed safely.
“So, have you always wanted to be a photographer?” Hanna asked as they headed along Market Street toward City Hall. It was freezing outside, and everyone was walking around with their heads down and their hoods up. Dirty, slushy snow piled at the curbs.
“Ever since I was little,” Patrick admitted. “I was that kid who never went anywhere without a disposable camera. Remember those—or are you too young?”
“Of course I remember them,” Hanna scoffed. “I’m eighteen—how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Patrick said, as if that were so much older. He gestured to the left, off to another section of the city. “I went to Moore College of Art. Just graduated.”
“Did you like it? I’m thinking of going to F.I.T. or Pratt for fashion design.” She’d just submitted applications a few weeks ago.
“I loved it.” Patrick ducked out of the way of a hot dog cart that was smack in the middle of the sidewalk. The smell of greasy sausages wafted through the air. “You’ll love New York, too—but I bet you won’t be going there for school. One of the modeling agencies will sign you. I’m sure of it.”
It felt like there were fairies dancing in Hanna’s stomach. “What makes you so sure?” she challenged nonchalantly, like she didn’t care one way or another.
“When I was in school, I worked as an assistant on a lot of fashion shoots.” Patrick paused for a red light. “You’ve got the unique look editors and designers love.”
“Really?” If only Hanna could record what he just said and upload it to her Twitter feed. Or, better yet, post it directly on Kate’s Facebook page.
“So how’d you get the gig for my dad’s commercial, anyway?” Hanna asked.
Patrick smiled wryly. “I was doing a favor for a friend. Normally I wouldn’t touch commercials—especially political ones. I don’t really follow politics.”
“Me neither,” Hanna said, relieved. She wasn’t even clear on her father’s opinions on the big issues. If he won the election and someone wanted to interview her, well, that’s what media coaches were for.
“He seems like a nice guy, though,” Patrick shouted over the noise of a passing city bus. “But what’s with your sister? She seemed really uptight.”
“Stepsister,” Hanna corrected him quickly.
“Ah.” Patrick grinned at her knowingly, his almost-black eyes crinkling. “I should’ve guessed you weren’t related.”
They reached City Hall, and Patrick got to business, directing Hanna to pose in the shadow of the grand archway. “Okay, think ‘girl who wants something so badly she can taste it,’” he instructed, pointing the lens at her. “You’re hungry, you’re yearning, and you’ll stop at nothing for your goal. Can you get into that mood?”
Uh, yeah. She was already in that mood. She posed against the wall, giving Patrick the most determined stare she could muster.
“Awesome,” Patrick said. Snap. Snap. “Your eyes look amazing.”
“Oh, a few.” The photo shoot for People after the Poconos scandal counted, right?
Patrick squinted into the lens again. “Okay, chin up a bit. Give me sultry.”
Hanna tried her best to make her eyes smolder. Snap. Snap.
A crowd of tourists gathered and whispered. “What magazine are you shooting for?” a middle-aged woman asked in a reverent voice.
“Vogue,” Patrick answered without missing a beat. The crowd clucked and oohed; a few people pushed closer to snap photos of Hanna themselves. She felt like a star.
After a few more shots at the Liberty Bell, Patrick suggested they head to his studio. The sun sank low in the sky as they walked back to Fishtown. He bounced up the steps of a pretty brownstone and opened the door for her. “Hope you don’t mind stairs.”
When Patrick opened the black-painted door on the fourth floor, Hanna let out a loud ooh! The studio was a giant room covered in photographs of all shapes and sizes. Three long windows looked out onto the street. A flat-screen Mac glowed in the corner. There was a tiny kitchen off to the right; on the counter were containers of darkroom chemicals. But instead of smelling like the photography classroom at Rosewood Day, the room was fragrant with Hanna’s favorite Delirium & Co candle, China Tea.
“Do you live here?” Hanna asked.
“Nah, just work.” Patrick dropped his bag on the floor. “I share it with a couple other photographers. Hopefully no one will bother us while we’re finishing up.”
He put on an old bossa nova CD, arranged a couple of lights, and positioned Hanna on a stool. Instantly, Hanna began to sway back and forth, entranced by the sound of the music. “Good,” Patrick murmured. “Move your body. Just like that.” Snap. Snap.
Hanna unzipped her leather jacket and undulated to the song, her eyes starting to hurt from so much sexy squinting. The lights beamed hotly on her skin, and in an impetuous moment, she flung off her leather jacket to reveal the thin scoop-neck dress underneath.
“Pretty!” Patrick murmured. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Now fling your hair back and forth! Good!”
Hanna did as she was told, making her hair spill over her shoulders and fall seductively into her eyes. A strap of her dress fell off her shoulder, revealing her bra strap, but she didn’t pause to fix it. Patrick’s high cheekbones and pink, kissable lips were beginning to mesmerize her. She loved how he made her feel like the most beautiful girl on earth. She wished everyone could see this.
It had been the most wonderful thing Hanna had ever heard. Ever since she’d made herself over, she’d dreamed Ali would somehow return from the dead and see how she was no longer the ugly, chubby, hanger-on in Ali’s clique. But in the end, the comment meant nothing. It was just a charade to get Hanna to trust her.
A cough made Hanna turn around. A blond girl in a yellow dress stood behind her. It was the same girl Emily had pointed out in the doorway. She looked nothing like Ali except for the similar hair color and the naughty glint in her eye, but she leaned forward and gazed at Hanna like she knew her.
“I heard that telescope’s awesome.” Her breath smelled slightly of rum.
“Um, yeah.” Hanna stepped aside. “Want to see?”
The girl peered through the eyepiece, then introduced herself as Tabitha Clark, adding that she was from New Jersey and this was her first night at the resort.
“Mine, too,” Hanna said quickly. “It’s awesome. We went cliff diving this afternoon. And tomorrow I’m taking a yoga class,” she went on, blabbering nervously. Hanna couldn’t help but stare at the burns on the girl’s arms. What had happened to her?
Tabitha licked her pink lips.
The world began to spin. It was possible Tabitha recognized Hanna from the news reports, and there were a lot of things about her that had come out in the press—how Mona had hit her with her car, how she’d gotten caught shoplifting, how all of them swore they’d seen Ian’s dead body in the woods. But Hanna’s chubby, ugly past had remained a deep, dark secret from the world. No photos of her pre-makeover circulated on the blogs or in gossip mags—Hanna checked religiously. How could Tabitha know about Hanna’s ugly duckling past?
When Hanna stared at the girl again, it was as though her features had been completely rearranged. Suddenly, there was more than just an Ali-like sparkle in her eye. Her Cupid-bow lips looked just like Ali’s. It was as though Ali’s ghost shone through Tabitha’s marred skin.
“Hanna?” Patrick’s voice cut through the memory.
Hanna blinked, struggling to break free. Tabitha’s voice still echoed in her ears. I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?
Patrick gazed at her uncomfortably. “Um, you might want to . . .” He gestured to her collarbone.
When Hanna looked down, her pink dress had fallen down her chest, and half of her left boob was somehow hanging out of her strapless bra. “Oops.” She pulled it up.
Patrick lowered his camera. “You went dead on me. Everything okay?”
The image of Tabitha blazed in Hanna’s brain. But she wouldn’t think about it. She’d made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t let last night’s A message open Pandora’s box.
Hanna straightened her shoulders and shook out her palms. “Sorry. Everything’s perfect now, I promise.” The latest Black Eyed Peas song came on next, and she made a twisting motion with her fingers so Patrick would crank up the stereo. “Let’s keep going.”
And that was exactly what they did.
Chapter 11
Emily’s got a swimfan
“Ten one hundreds on a minute-thirty, leave on the sixty!” Raymond, the coach of Emily’s year-round club team, yelled at a lane from the edge of the pool on Tuesday. Raymond had been Emily’s coach ever since she was a kid, and he’d never diverged from his standard uniform of Adidas shower flip-flops and shiny black TYR warm-up suits. He also had the gorilla-thick arm hair of someone who used to regularly shave their arms for swim competitions, and the broad shoulders of a backstroker.
The clock edged to the sixty. Raymond lurched forward. “Ready . . . go!”
Emily pushed off the wall, her body in a tight, dartlike streamline, her legs dolphin-kicking frantically. The water was cool on her skin, and she could hear strains of the oldies station on the radio in the coach’s office. Her muscles relaxed as she stroked through the water. It felt good to be swimming again after such a long break.
She did a flip turn at the other wall and pushed off again. The other kids in her lane paddled behind her. All of them were serious swimmers, too, kids who hoped to get scholarships to choice colleges. Some high-school seniors on the team had already been recruited; they proudly brought Raymond their acceptance letters as soon as they got them.
Paddling strongly, Emily tried to let her mind go blank, which Raymond said would help her swim her fastest. But she kept thinking about the postcard in Ali’s mailbox. Who sent it? Had someone seen what they did? No one had witnessed what they’d done in Jamaica. There had been no couples kissing on the sand, no faces peering out of windows, no hotel staff cleaning the back deck. Either A had taken a wild guess—or else A was the person Emily feared most.
Emily touched the wall to finish, breathing hard. “Good time, Emily,” Raymond said from the edge of the pool. “It’s nice to see you back in the water.”
“Thanks.” Emily wiped her eyes and looked around the natatorium. It, too, hadn’t changed since Emily started here as a six-year-old. There were bright yellow bleachers in the corner and a big mural of water polo players. Motivational sayings covered the walls, and gold plaques of pool records lined the hallway just beyond the doors. When Emily was little, she’d ogled the records, hoping to one day break one of them. Last year, she’d broken three. But not this year . . .
Raymond’s whistle made a short, sharp tweet, and Emily pushed off the wall for one hundred number two. The laps flew by, Emily’s arms feeling strong, her turns steady and sure, her times slowly dropping. When the set was over, Emily noticed someone videotaping her from the bleachers. He lowered the camera and met her eyes. It was Mr. Roland.
He strolled over to Emily’s lane. “Hey, Emily. Have a sec?”
A swimmer flip-turned right next to Emily, sending a plume of water into the air. Emily shrugged and pushed out of the pool. She felt naked in her tank suit, bare arms, and bare legs, especially next to Mr. Roland’s gray wool suit and black loafers. And she still couldn’t shrug off the other night. Had he meant to touch her hip, or was it an accident?
Emily grabbed her towel and sat on the other. “I sent your times to the UNC recruiter and coach. His name’s Marc Lowry. He asked me to stop by and watch you practice. I hope that’s okay.” He raised the video camera and smiled sheepishly.
“Uh, it’s fine.” Emily crossed her arms over her boobs.
“You have really beautiful form.” Mr. Roland stared at a paused frame on the video camera. “Lowry’s really impressed by your times, too. But he wonders why they’re last year’s times, not this year’s.”
“I had to take some time off last summer and this fall,” Emily said uneasily. “I wasn’t able to compete with my school team.”
A wrinkle formed on Mr. Roland’s brow. “And why is that?”
Emily turned away. “Just . . . personal stuff.”
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but the recruiter is going to ask,” Mr. Roland prodded gently.
Emily fiddled with a loose loop on her towel. It was from Junior Swimming Nationals, which she’d competed in last year before she went to Jamaica. Even back then, she’d felt like something was wrong with her. She’d felt shaky in the locker room, then nearly passed out in the folding chair waiting for her heat. Her times had been decent, only one or two tenths of a second slower than her personal bests, but she’d felt exhausted afterward, like someone had filled her arms and legs with sand. That night, she went home and slept for fifteen hours straight.
As time progressed, she felt worse, not better. When she told her mother she was going to take the summer off swimming to do an internship in Philadelphia, Mrs. Fields had looked at her like she’d sprouted a few extra eyeballs
. But Emily played the Ali card—she needed a break from Rosewood, too many awful things had happened here—and her mom relented. She’d stayed with her sister Carolyn, who was taking part in a summer program at Penn before she went to Stanford in the fall. She’d entrusted Carolyn with a secret, too, and amazingly Carolyn had kept it. Not happily, though.
When Emily returned to school that next year and told her mom she wasn’t up to swimming on the school team, Mrs. Fields had been livid. She’d offered to take Emily to a sports psychologist, but Emily was firm: She wasn’t swimming this season. “You have to get over Alison,” Mrs. Fields insisted. “This isn’t about Alison,” Emily answered tearfully. “Then what is it about?” Mrs. Fields demanded.
But Emily couldn’t tell her. If she did, her mother would never speak to her again.
Mr. Roland folded his hands in his lap, still waiting for Emily’s answer.
Emily cleared her throat. “Can we just leave it that I took a personal leave of absence? I . . . I was stalked by someone I thought was my best friend last year. Maybe you heard about it? Alison DiLaurentis?”
Mr. Roland’s eyebrows rose. “That was . . . you?”
Emily nodded grimly.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I knew we bought the house where one of the murdered girls lived, but . . .” Mr. Roland pressed his hand to his eyes. “I think that’s all you need to say. Lowry will understand.”
At least the Ali mess was good for something.
“I’m fully committed to swimming now,” Emily promised.
“Good.” Mr. Roland stood up. “It looks like you are. If you’re game, I can probably have him or someone on his recruiting team up here by this Saturday.”
Emily did a mental check of her schedule. “Actually, I have a meet this Saturday.”
“All the more reason for him to come.” Mr. Roland tapped something into his BlackBerry. “He’ll see you in action. It’s perfect.”
“Thank you so much,” Emily gushed. She felt the urge to wrap her arms around Mr. Roland, but resisted.