Stunning (22 page)

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.

She widened her eyes. Actually, she
had
let them out of her sight—she’d fallen asleep while they were baking. Was it possible someone could have crept into the motel at that very moment and sabotaged her dish? There had also been more pans at the party than she remembered bringing—were some of the brownies smuggled in and passed off as hers?

“Spencer?” Reefer’s voice came through the line.

“Uh, I’ll call you back,” Spencer croaked, then hung up. Suddenly, it was so cold in the room that her skin broke out in goose bumps.

Her cell phone, which she was still holding, let out a bloop. She looked at the screen. Her vital signs on the monitor spiked again.
New message from Anonymous.

Talk about a bad trip, huh? That’s what you get for leaving your potluck goodies unattended. —A

27

STALKER FILES

“Are you
sure
there isn’t anything we can do to help?” Hanna asked her father as he restraightened his tie in the lobby of the Hollis Gemological Museum, the site of the fund-raiser ball. It was a huge, beautiful space with marble floors, mosaic-tiled walls, and tons of display cases full of priceless diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, meteorites, and geodes. The place was immaculate and gorgeous, with white linens on the two dozen tables set up around the room, massive bouquets of flowers everywhere, and a silent auction area featuring a Fabergé egg, a vintage Louis Vuitton sable coat, and a three-month-long sailboat charter around the world.

“Yes, Tom,
please
let us do something.” Kate, dressed in an aubergine gown and black velvet strappy heels, began preening in front of the mirror, too.

Mr. Marin smiled at the girls. “You two have done so much.” He thought for a moment, then raised one finger. “You
could
show Ms. Riggs a good time. You used to come to this museum all the time, didn’t you, Hanna? You could point out the displays.”

Hanna bit back a grimace. It was true she used to go to the museum with Ali in sixth grade, but playing tour guide with Gayle was just about the last thing she wanted to do. But it would give her an opening to steal Gayle’s phone and prove she was A. Now, there was even more of a reason to do so: Spencer had called on the way over, telling Hanna she was in the hospital—A had drugged her and a bunch of kids at Princeton, and if they could prove A was Gayle and that Gayle definitely spiked the brownies, they could put her away for a long time.

“So she’s coming?” Hanna tried to sound nonchalant.

“Of course.” Mr. Marin checked his Rolex. “Actually, I’m surprised she’s not here yet. I know she wants to talk to you, Hanna, before the festivities begin.”

“A-about what?” Hanna croaked. The idea of alone time with Gayle sounded terrifying.

“I was surprised, too.” Mr. Marin raised an eyebrow. “One of her charities is helping get teenagers involved in community activities. She said something about how she’s really impressed by your involvement in the campaign—especially organizing that flash mob. I think she wants to pick your brain.”

Hanna’s stomach churned. She was sure picking her brain wasn’t all Gayle wanted to do. She’d met Liam at the flash mob, and A—Gayle—knew that.

She threw back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and glanced at her phone again.
Plan of attack
, Aria had written in an e-mail to her and Emily.
Hanna, you distract Gayle by talking about the campaign. If that doesn’t work, Emily, you walk by and look Gayle straight in the eye. When she’s not paying attention, I’ll sneak up and grab her phone. We rendezvous at my car, check her messages, and download everything to our phones.

Hanna could only hope it was that easy.

The doors swung open, and people began to arrive. Hanna glued her I’m-a-politician’s-daughter smile on her face and greeted the VIPs. Rupert Millington, who was always in the society pages because his great-grandparents once owned half of Rosewood, walked over and shook Mr. Marin’s hand. Fletch Huxley, Rosewood’s mayor, gave Hanna a kiss on the cheek. A bunch of ladies from local charities and horse-riding clubs air kissed and fake hugged. She looked around for Gayle, but she still hadn’t arrived. Neither Aria nor Emily had, either. Then, gliding through the double doors like royalty, was a familiar black-haired boy in a fitted tuxedo and a girl in an annoyingly pretty pink bebe dress that didn’t look slutty in the slightest. It was Mike and Colleen, deep in conversation.

Hanna’s heart started to pound. There was something else she had to do tonight. She ducked behind a column to listen in.

“I don’t know what could have happened to those pictures,” Colleen was saying. “The photographer said someone picked them up for me, but that’s impossible!”

Hanna bit the inside of her cheek. She really didn’t want to own up to the fact that she’d stolen Colleen’s photos. Maybe she could just send them back anonymously and chalk up the money she’d paid for them as the price she had to pay for getting Mike back.

On cue, Mike turned his head and noticed Hanna behind the column. Hanna looked away, but then Colleen saw her, too, and she let out a happy squeal. “Kiss kiss!” she said ecstatically, running over and kissing Hanna on both cheeks before Hanna could stop her. “This is
so
amazing. Thank you so much for inviting me!”

Hanna sniffed. “I
didn’t
invite you,” she said, the words like bile in her mouth.

Colleen’s face fell. Mike gave Hanna a withering look, then shrugged and drifted over to a bunch of guys on the soccer team, who’d no doubt spiked their ginger ales with vodka from someone’s flask.

Colleen watched Mike go, then turned back to Hanna. Her eyes widened slightly. “Uh, Hanna?” She leaned forward. “You have something stuck to your shoe.”

Hanna’s head shot down. A long piece of toilet paper was affixed to her back heel. Heat shot through her body. How long had it been there? Had she really greeted the mayor of Rosewood like this? Had Mike seen it?

Hanna bent down and pulled the piece, which was disgustingly soggy, off her foot. When she looked up again, Colleen had joined Mike at a table with his friends. She felt more infuriated than ever.

As the room filled and the volume swelled, Hanna ducked down a hallway that featured carved banded agate from Brazil and reached for her phone. She pulled up the yogurt commercial and watched it once more, smirking at Colleen’s constipated face.
Priceless.
Then she copied and pasted the link into a new text and selected everyone in her Rosewood Day address book as the recipients.

Once that was finished, Hanna’s finger hovered over the SEND button. She looked into the room, watching as the band set up and partygoers schmoozed. Colleen and Mike were sitting at a table with Mike’s lacrosse buddies. Mike was deep in conversation with the goalie, who Hanna always called Frankenstein because of his square head. Colleen was sitting next to him, sipping her sparkling water and looking a little lost.
The perfect little actress doesn’t know how to socialize
, she thought with satisfaction.
I guess insta-popularity is a little harder than it looks, huh?

But suddenly, Colleen’s fish-out-of-water expression sparked a memory. Hanna saw herself and Mona sitting at the best table in the cafeteria. Colleen came up and asked if she could join them, and both of them laughed. “We don’t sit with girls who wear Hobbit shoes,” Mona said, pointing to the square-toed Mary Janes on Colleen’s feet. And Hanna crooned, “The
cir-
cle of life,” because Colleen had carried a
Lion King
lunch bag to school until eighth grade.

For a split second, the hurt was obvious on her face, but then she shrugged and chirped, “Okay! Well, have a fun lunch, guys!” Mona and Hanna had collapsed into giggles when she walked away.

The thing was, not that long before that, Hanna had laughed at Mona when she was in Ali’s clique. And not long before
that,
Real Ali had laughed at Hanna. At the way her rolls of fat spilled over her jeans. At how she couldn’t do a cartwheel in gym. Hanna remembered how humiliated and ashamed she’d felt. And yet, when it was her turn to wear the Queen Bee crown, she’d teased people so effortlessly, like she’d never been on the other side.

Popularity had turned Ali, Mona, and Hanna into remorseless bitches. It hadn’t affected Colleen at all, though—even dating Mike, she’d remained exactly the same girl as before. And now Hanna was being tormented by the worst popular bitch of all—A. Did Hanna really want to do that to someone else?

Her phone suddenly beeped, shrill and loud in the quiet hall. A new text envelope appeared on the screen. Frowning, Hanna exited out of the text she was planning to write and opened the new one. The sender was a series of jumbled letters and numbers.

C’mon, Hanna. Send that video. You know you want to.

Hanna’s stomach felt like it was on fire.
Did
she want to? She missed Mike desperately. She wanted him to be
her
date here, not Colleen’s, and for them to go on runs and sneak into the movies and play hours and hours of
Gran Turismo
like they used to. But could she live with herself if the only way she accomplished that was to send around the video? It reminded her of the way she felt when she wore a pair of shoes or a bracelet she had shoplifted: It was amazing to have a Tiffany toggle around her wrist, but something about it made her feel a little dirty, too. Colleen might have been annoying, but she didn’t deserve her own personal A.

Hanna returned to the text with the video link, took a deep breath, and pressed DELETE. Doing so felt cleansing. Almost . . .
good.
Like she’d beaten A at A’s game.

A high-pitched giggle swirled from one of the corners, and she whipped around. Footsteps rang out behind her. Suddenly, Naomi Zeigler and Riley Wolfe sauntered up to Hanna, their phones in their hands.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Hanna,” Naomi snickered.

“Nice one,” Riley added, pushing a lock of bright-red hair behind her ear.

“What are you talking about?” Hanna snapped.

“That video.” Naomi waved her phone back and forth. “It’s priceless.”