Ruthless (9 page)

Aria shot Kirsten a smile. She was the only person besides Aria who actually tried in this class.

Mrs. Kittinger shut off the projector, turned the lights back on, and walked to the blackboard, her oxfords clacking loudly on the wood floor. “Our next project is going to be about psychology. I’m going to assign you an artist, and you’re going to investigate his mental state and link it to his work. The paper is due not this coming Monday, but next.”

Mason groaned. “But I have an indoor soccer tournament all next week.”

Mrs. Kittinger gave him an exasperated look. “Luckily for you, we’re working in pairs.”

Aria instantly turned to Kirsten, wanting to work with her. Other kids silently paired up, too. “Not so fast.” Mrs. Kittinger lifted a piece of chalk in the air. “
I’m
doing the pairing, not you.”

She pointed to Mason Byers and matched him with Delia Hopkins, who hadn’t said a word all semester. She paired Naomi Zeigler and Imogen Smith, a tall girl with large boobs who’d never shaken her reputation as the class slut.

Then Mrs. Kittinger pointed to Aria. “And Aria, you’ll report on Caravaggio. And you’ll work with . . .” She pointed at someone in the back. “What did you say your name was again, dear?”

“Is Klaudia Huusko,” chirruped a voice.

Aria’s blood went cold.
No. Please, please, no.

“Perfect.” Mrs. Kittinger wrote Aria’s and Klaudia’s names on the board. “You two are a team.”

Mason turned around and stared at Aria. Naomi let out a
mrow
. Even Chassey Bledsoe giggled. Clearly everyone knew that Noel had dumped Aria and was with Klaudia now.

Aria swiveled around and looked at Klaudia. Her uniform skirt barely skimmed her thighs, showing off every curve of her impossibly perfect Finnish legs. Her ankle was propped up against the back of Delia’s chair, but Delia was too much of a wuss to tell her to move it. A beat-up leather bomber jacket hung over her shoulders. Aria squinted at it, recognizing the eagle military patch on the arm. It was Noel’s jacket, a beloved hand-me-down from his great-grandfather, who’d fought in World War II. Once, Aria had asked to try it on, but Noel had refused—he didn’t let anyone wear it, he said. It was too special.

Guess the rules didn’t apply to his new Finnish girlfriend.

Klaudia met Aria’s gaze and smiled triumphantly. Then she turned to Naomi. “Guess what I plan for this weekend? I go with Noel to romantic dinner! We going to have wine, feed each other bites of meal, is going to be sexy time!”

“That sounds amazing.” Naomi smirked at Aria.

Aria faced front again, her cheeks on fire. She
hated
Klaudia. How could Noel fall for her ridiculous act? Everything about her was fake, even her choppy, I-don’t-know-English accent—when Klaudia had threatened Aria on the chair lift, all traces of it had vanished. It seemed the bimbos of the world always got the guys. Where did that leave Aria?

She looked around the classroom. Both art history and English classes met here, so there was a motley mix of Cézanne and Picasso prints and black-and-white photos of Walt Whitman, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Virginia Woolf. Tacked up in the corner was a poster labeled
GREAT SHAKESPEAREAN SAYINGS
. That poster had hung in Aria’s English classroom last year, too, the class that had briefly been taught by Ezra Fitz, with whom Aria had had a fling until A got him fired.

Ezra. Now
there
was someone who would have enjoyed going to an art gallery and commiserating about all the Typical Rosewoods. The first time Aria and Ezra had met, they’d had a real connection. Ezra understood what it was like to be part of a family that was falling apart. He got what it was like to be different.

Aria surreptitiously pulled out her phone and looked at her contacts list. Ezra’s name was still there.
Just wondering what you’re up to
, she typed in a new email.
Going through a hard time right now. Feeling lonely and in need of a good convo about poetry writing and the ridiculousness of the suburbs. Ciao, Aria.

And then, before she lost her nerve, she pressed
SEND
.

Chapter 8

THE STARS ALIGN

Later that Friday, Hanna and Kate pulled into a space next to Mr. Marin’s car on the Hyde campus, an old Jesuit college in the leafy suburbs a few miles outside Philadelphia. It was unseasonably warm, and kids walked across the street sans coats. Boys played Frisbee on the dry, greenish-yellow lawn, and preppy girls sipped lattes underneath the clock tower, which chimed out the hour in six deafening
bongs.
It was the perfect night for a flash mob.

“So is the band definitely coming?” Hanna said to Kate, scanning the parking lot. After Mr. Marin informed Kate about the flash mob plan, Kate had offered to hire some band called Eggplant Supercar from Hollis College. Apparently they drove an Astro van with flames painted on the sides, but Hanna didn’t see it anywhere.

Kate rolled her eyes. “Yeh-
hes
. That’s like the twentieth time you’ve asked.”

“Is someone nervous?” Naomi cackled from the backseat.

“Maybe someone realizes that a flash mob is a stupid idea,” Riley chimed in.

“Seriously,” Kate mumbled. “When I heard about it, I thought Tom was joking.”

Riley and Naomi snickered. Klaudia, who was squeezed in the bitch seat, barked out a horsey, slutty laugh.

Hanna glanced at her dad’s car to her left, wishing he’d overheard, but Mr. Marin was talking animatedly on his cell phone. When Kate told her she’d recruited her friends to help with the flash mob today, Hanna should’ve put her foot down. Now that Mona Vanderwaal, Hanna’s old BFF, was dead, and Hanna wasn’t hanging out with Emily, Aria, or Spencer anymore, she felt Kate, Naomi, and Riley’s insults much more acutely. It was like she was back where she started in sixth grade: a loser. Except thinner. And a lot prettier.

“There they are,” Kate said, pointing triumphantly. A van rolled into the parking space on the other side of them, and a bunch of ragged guys spilled out, carrying music equipment. One had a patchy beard and greasy skin. Another had an elongated head and a prominent chin. The others looked like they could be in a police lineup. Hanna sniffed. Couldn’t Kate have hired a cuter band?

Mr. Marin finally climbed out of the car and strode up to the band. “Thanks for helping us out tonight,” he said, shaking each of their hands.

“Okay, let’s get them set up, ladies,” Kate said to her friends, grabbing a bunch of neon-green
TOM
MARIN
FOR
SENATE
flyers from the backseat. “You do your Twitter thing, Hanna.”

Naomi sniffed. “Like it’s really going to work,” she said under her breath. The four girls whirled around and led the guys toward a band shell to the left of the clock tower. Everyone moved deferentially out of their way.

Mr. Marin clapped his hand on Hanna’s shoulder as she climbed out of the car, too. “You all set?”

“Of course,” Hanna answered. She grabbed her phone, opened her email, and sent Gregory, a computer science major at Hyde who claimed to know how to tap into everyone’s Twitter and email accounts on campus, a message.
I’m ready.
Seconds later, Gregory replied that the flash mob tweet had been posted. Hanna had crafted it last night:
Something huge is happening in the band shell. Be there or be a nobody
. Short and sweet. Elusive yet intriguing.

“I sent the tweet,” Hanna told her dad. “You should probably head up to the stage and wait. I’ll watch from below.”

Mr. Marin kissed the top of Hanna’s head. “Thank you so much.”

Don’t thank me quite yet
, Hanna thought uneasily. She walked into the square, looking around. Kids were still playing Frisbee. Girls giggled over a magazine, not even glancing at their phones. What if Kate was right? What if nothing
did
happen? She could picture it: Kate, her evil cronies, and the band standing on the pavilion, staring out at an empty courtyard. Her father looking disappointedly at Hanna, losing all faith in her. Tomorrow Hanna would be the laughingstock of Rosewood Day—and her dad’s campaign.

When she was almost to the band shell, three girls wandered into the square, holding their phones and looking around. A couple of the guys slammed their textbooks shut and meandered over, curious looks on their faces. Two kids rolled up on skateboards. Hanna caught snippets of their conversation:
Is something happening?
Did you see that on Twitter?
Who posted it?
Someone get Sebastian. He’ll know.

Suddenly it was like a stampede. Kids poured out of the dining hall, emerged from the dorms, streamed in from late classes. A group of girls in sorority sweatshirts gathered under a big oak tree plastered with carvings. Some guys chugging beers from inside paper bags shoved one another by a board covered in advertisements for roommates, yoga lessons, and free tutoring services. Everyone was staring at their phones, their fingers moving over the keyboards. Retweeting. Asking what was up. Gathering more people.

Yes.

Kate turned around on the stage. When she saw the crowd, her mouth settled into a straight, annoyed line. Hanna gave her a triumphant three-fingered wave, then sent out a text telling her dad’s aides that they could start circulating with voter registration forms and flyers. A few minutes later, the band began to play. Thankfully, despite their ugliness, they were pretty good, and everyone started to bounce to the music. A green banner that advertised Mr. Marin’s campaign rose in the air. When Eggplant Supercar—they
seriously
needed a new name—finished a song, the lead singer roared into the microphone: “Let’s hear it for Tom Marin!” and Mr. Marin walked onto the stage and waved, the crowd actually
cheered
.

Hanna let the sound wash over her body. Maybe this would win her dad the election. Maybe Hanna had a future in campaign management. She pictured herself on the cover of
Vanity Fair
in a sleek Armani suit. Visiting the White House. Riding on Air Force One, wearing big Jackie O sunglasses . . .

“This band is decent,” said a voice.

Hanna jumped. A tall, lanky guy with wavy brown hair, dark eyebrows that framed kind, sparkling brown eyes, and a square, superhero-esque jaw stood beside her. He wore a faded navy T-shirt that said
HYDE
across the chest, slim-cut jeans, and a beat-up pair of Sperry Top-Siders. He was also standing close enough to Hanna that she could smell his Tom Ford Azure Lime cologne, her absolute favorite. He looked familiar for some reason, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d had a dream about him or something. He was definitely hot.

“Do you know the band’s name?” the guy asked, his eyes still fixed on Hanna.

“Um, Eggplant Supercar,” Hanna answered, absently twirling a piece of auburn hair around her finger. Thank God she’d recently had it highlighted at Henri Flaubert at the King James.

“I like them.” The guy pushed his hands into his pockets. “Hyde doesn’t usually do cool stuff like this. I think we’ve been voted Most Boring Campus in a bunch of magazines, actually.”

Hanna took a breath, about to tell him that he could thank her for setting the whole thing up, when suddenly three burly guys holding beer cans cut between them. After they passed, the boy pushed around a couple of bodies to stand next to Hanna again. “Doesn’t the singer look exactly like Bert from
Sesame Street
?” he asked, pointing to the guy with the elongated head. He was fondling the microphone like he was in love with it.

“Totally.” Hanna giggled. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Of course, I shouldn’t talk,” the boy said sheepishly. “People used to call me Harry Potter when I was growing up.”

“Really?” Hanna cocked her head and inspected him. He was tall but not too tall, and his limbs were long and lanky without being too skinny. “I don’t really see a resemblance.”

“I used to wear these goofy wire-rimmed glasses when I was younger. I picked them out at the eye doctor myself. You would’ve thought my mom would have been a little smarter, but instead she was like,
Get them!
”

Hanna giggled. “When I wore glasses, I chose fuchsia plastic frames and pink lenses. I looked like I had a disease. My third-grade school picture was horrific.”

“Don’t even get me
started
on school pictures.” The guy winced. “In my fifth-grade photo, I had black rubber bands on my braces. It looked like there was tar oozing from my mouth.”

“I had pink and green rubber bands on my braces. Disaster.” The words were out of Hanna’s mouth before she could stop them, and her confession surprised even her. Never had she willingly volunteered information about what a loser she used to be, especially to someone so good-looking. But there was something warm and inviting about this guy that actually made it fun to commiserate.

He straightened up and gave her a challenging look. “Well, I was way too skinny as a kid. Concave chest, knobby knees, picked last for every team in gym class. Top that.”

“
I
was chubby.” Hanna laughed self-consciously. “More like fat, actually. I looked like a beast next to my friends. My dad even called me a piggie once—like it was funny.” She shut her eyes.

“I got called scarecrow. Anorexic boy. Freak.”

“So? I was Chubby Couture. Hanna Fat-Assa.” Hanna felt a hurtful twinge. Actually, Their Ali had made up those nicknames when they were friends.

The guy reached out and touched the inside of Hanna’s wrist. It felt electrifying. “I bet no one calls you a loser anymore, huh?”

She swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. “Or you.”

The crowd moved again, this time pushing them into each other. Hanna tipped sideways, and the guy slipped his arm around her waist. When the mob shifted again, they didn’t break apart. Hanna breathed in his spicy, soapy smell, her pulse in her throat. He rested his chin in her hair. His hipbone pressed against her waist. She could feel his smooth, hard chest beneath his thin T-shirt. Something stirred deep inside her, filling her with heat. When he leaned down to kiss her, Hanna was struck with shock. But the kiss felt so good, so
right
, that she couldn’t help kissing him back.