Stunning (7 page)

Ew
, Spencer thought, purposely turning the opposite direction and pretending to be enamored with the endive salads the waiters were serving. It was just her luck to be seated next to this loser.

Reefer didn’t get the hint, though. He leaned closer, tapping her shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re shy. So get this: I was thinking of heading over to Independence Hall and checking out the Occupy Philly rally after this. Are you in? It’s supposed to be really inspiring.”

“Uh, that’s okay,” Spencer said, annoyed at how loud this guy was talking. What if everyone thought they were friends?

Reefer shoved a piece of endive into his mouth. “Your loss. Here, in case you change your mind.” He ripped a piece of paper from a ragged spiral-bound notebook in his bag, scribbled something down, and passed it to Spencer. She squinted at the words.
What a long, strange trip it’s been.
Huh?

“Jerry’s my guru,” Reefer said. Then he pointed to a bunch of digits below the quote. “Call anytime—day or night. I’m always up.”

“Uh, thanks.” Spencer slipped the paper into her bag. She noticed Harper watching her from across the room, met her eyes, and gave her an
Oh-my-God-I-think-he’s-gross
eye roll.

Thankfully, Steven, the other ambassador, started speaking, and his long, ego-stroking speech about how everyone in the room was wonderful and amazing and would surely change the world someday because they went to Princeton took up the rest of the hour. As soon as the waiters cleared the desserts, Spencer shot out of her seat as fast as her toned-from-field-hockey legs could carry her. She found Harper by the coffee urn and gave her a huge smile.

“I see you met Reefer.” Harper winked.

Spencer scrunched up her face. “Yeah, lucky me.”

Harper gave Spencer an inscrutable look, then moved in closer. “Listen, I know this is last minute, but do you have plans for this weekend?”

“I don’t think so.” Aside from helping her mom taste-test yet more confections for the wedding. Did a second wedding really need a cake
and
a cupcake tower?

Harper’s eyes glittered. “Great. Because there’s a party I’d love to bring you to. I think you’d really get along with my friends. You could stay with me in this big house I live in on campus. Get a sense of things.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Spencer said quickly, as though if she paused even a millisecond, Harper would rescind her offer. The
big house on campus
was the Ivy House—as Bicker Chair, Harper got to live there.

“Awesome.” Harper tapped something on her phone. “Give me your e-mail. I’ll send you my number and directions of where to find me. Be there by six.”

Spencer gave Harper her e-mail address and phone number, and soon enough, Harper’s e-mail appeared in her inbox. When she read it, she almost whooped aloud. Sure enough, Harper had given her directions to the Ivy House on Prospect Avenue.

She filed out of the room, walking on air. As she pushed through the revolving door to the street, her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse, let out a muffled chime. When she pulled it out and saw the screen, her heart plummeted like a stone.
New text message from Anonymous.

Hi Spence! Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appetite for murder? Kisses! —A

7

HANNA GETS STEAMED

The following night, Hanna stood outside the boys’ locker room, tugging down the curve-hugging dress she’d changed into after the final bell. All around her, students bustled to catch their after-school buses, rushed to activities, or climbed in their cars to head to the King James Mall.

Hanna’s cell phone beeped, and she quickly turned down the volume. It was yet another message from Isabel, reminding Hanna to be at her father’s town hall meeting that night a little early to meet and greet some of the donors.
Duh—
as if she didn’t already know that. She’d helped
organize
the whole thing. And she’d get there when she got there. The task at hand was the only thing on her mind right now.

The aromas of dirty socks and Axe body spray wafted into the hall. Muffled voices and hissing shower sounds echoed. It just so happened that the boys’ indoor track team had come in from a grueling workout of wind sprints around the iced-over parking lot. It also just so happened that Mike was on the indoor track team to keep in shape for lacrosse. Operation Get Mike Back was about to begin.

The blue door swished open, and two sophomores in track jackets emerged, giving Hanna strange looks as they passed. She glared at them in return, then edged toward the door again.

“It was genius of the gym to introduce a pole-dancing class,” Mason Byers’s telltale gravelly baritone rang out. “Have you seen the girls that take it?”

“Dude, don’t even get me started,” James Freed answered. “I didn’t even work out the last time I was there—I just watched them the whole time.”

“That girl Mike’s dating takes it,” Mason said.

Hanna frowned. Colleen was pole dancing now? For an eighth grade talent show, Colleen had dressed in a Latvian costume and danced her ancestors’ native steps. Hanna and Mona had made fun of her for months afterward.

“I
know
.” James made a weird boy grunt. “No wonder he’s doing her.” He snickered. “Did you know Bebris means
beaver
in Latvian?”

Wait. The guys didn’t just say Mike was
doing
her, did they? Hanna felt a hurt twinge. She and Mike hadn’t done it, and they’d dated for over a year.

Two more guys emerged from the locker room, and Hanna peeked inside. James and Mason were nowhere to be seen, but Mike was at his locker. He was standing in his boxers, his black hair wet and matted against his head, little water droplets on his broad shoulders. Had he
always
been that muscled?

Hanna rolled back her shoulders.
Go time.
She sauntered into the steamy room. She’d never been inside the boys’ locker room before and was disappointed to find that it didn’t look all that different from the girls’, aside from the jockstrap lying on the floor in one of the aisles. The room smelled like talc and sweaty socks, and the trash can was overflowing with empty Gatorade bottles.

She tiptoed across the gray tiled floor until she was only a few feet away from Mike. On his back was the crescent moon–shaped scar he’d gotten from falling off his bike when he was little. They’d shown each other all their scars one afternoon at Hanna’s house, stripping down to their underwear but not going any further. In some ways, Hanna had been too afraid to have sex with Mike—she’d never slept with anyone before, and it seemed like such a big deal with him. And despite how Mike was always talking about how sex-crazed he was, Hanna had wondered if he had been a little afraid, too.

Hanna reached out and clapped her hands over Mike’s eyes. “Boo.”

Mike jumped, but then relaxed. “Heeeyy,” he said, drawing out the word. “What are
you
doing in here?”

Instead of saying anything, Hanna began to pepper the back of Mike’s neck with little kisses. Mike leaned into her, his bare skin warm against her tight dress. He reached back and raked his fingers through Hanna’s long ringlets. Suddenly, he whipped around, opened his eyes, and stared.

“Hanna!” Mike grabbed the towel from the bench and covered his bare torso. “What the hell?”

Hanna grabbed for the rope necklace Mike had worn ever since his family returned from Iceland and yanked him closer. “Don’t be shy. Just go with this. Isn’t this one of your sex fantasies?”

Mike stepped away from her, his eyes bulging. “Have you lost your mind?” He wasn’t checking out Hanna’s skintight dress or the super-high-heeled shoes that made her ankles ache. Instead, he was glaring at her like she was being wildly inappropriate. “You need to go.”

Hanna stiffened. “You seemed into it just a few seconds ago.”

“That’s because I thought you were someone else.” Mike pulled a T-shirt over his head and stepped into his pants.

Hanna leaned against the lockers, not budging. “Look, Mike, I want you back, okay? Things are over with me and my boyfriend. I know you want me back, too. So stop acting like an idiot and kiss me already!”

She punctuated this with a little laugh so that she didn’t sound complete pushy, but Mike just stared at her blankly. “You heard me at the mall the other night—I have a girlfriend now.”

Hanna rolled her eyes. “Colleen?
Please.
Don’t you remember how she had her head flushed in the Old Faithful toilet four times in sixth grade? And Mike, she’s a drama geek. You’re totally bringing down your popularity quotient by dating her.”

Mike crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, Colleen has an agent for her drama stuff. She’s been on auditions for some big stuff on TV. And I don’t care about popularity.”

Yeah, right.
“Is she easy or something?” Hanna was surprised by how bitter she sounded.

Mike’s face hardened. “I
like
her, Hanna.”

He stared at her unflinchingly, and the clouds in Hanna’s head began to lift. Mike wasn’t going out—and sleeping—with Colleen because she was willing, but because he cared about her.

Someone snickered from near the sinks, and Hanna spied James and Mason hiding behind the wall, hanging on every word. She wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly feeling exposed. They were laughing at her. Dorky Hanna, throwing herself at her ex. Dorky Hanna, making an idiot out of herself. She might as well have been fat again, with poop-brown hair and braces on her teeth. The ultimate chubby, ugly loser who nobody loved.

Without another word, she whipped around and marched out of the locker room, not even stopping when her ankle twisted beneath her.
This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening
, she silently repeated over and over. There was no way she had been beaten by someone as milquetoast as Colleen.

She slammed the locker room door hard and emerged into the silent hall. Suddenly, a new laugh rang through the corridor, high-pitched and even more sinister than the boys’. Hanna froze and listened. Was she crazy, or did that sound like Ali’s laugh? She cocked her head to the side, waiting. But just like that, the sound disappeared.

8

HELLO, MY NAME IS HEATHER

That night, Emily walked into the Rosewood Arms, a hotel near Hollis that was half quaint B&B, half fancy resort. The old mansion was once owned by a railroad baron, and each room was decorated with priceless antique cabinetry and a smattering of deer, bison, and lion heads. One of the wings had been converted into a spa. The baron’s old garage, which used to house dozens of top-of-the-line carriages and early race cars, was now the banquet hall.

On this particular night, the space had been rented out for Mr. Marin’s town hall talk. There were long rows of chairs facing a stage. A lone microphone stood in the center, and there were banners proclaiming messages like TOM MARIN FOR CHANGE and PENNSYLVANIA NEEDS MARIN. It was weird to see Hanna’s dad’s face on campaign posters. Emily still thought of him as the guy who’d once reprimanded Ali for throwing her Bubble Yum out his car window. Later, Ali had made them all go around in a circle, calling Hanna’s dad Mr.
Moron
—even Hanna, who had done it with tears in her eyes.

Emily scanned the crowd. There were people here she hadn’t seen in years—Mrs. Lowe, her old piano teacher, whose angular face always reminded Emily of a greyhound’s, was sipping from a Starbucks thermal mug in the corner. Mr. Polley, who used to emcee Emily’s swim team banquets, was looking at his BlackBerry near one of the windows. Mr. and Mrs. Roland, who had moved into the Cavanaughs’ old house, sat on folding chairs that had been set up near the stage, their daughter, Chloe, perched next to them. Emily ducked. Mr. Roland had gotten her the scholarship to UNC, but his lascivious behavior had cost Emily her friendship with Chloe.

The only people Emily didn’t see were her friends. As she turned mid-stride to look for them in a different room, she smacked into a caterer who was carrying a silver tray loaded with appetizers. The caterer shot forward, but he miraculously caught the tray before it fell to the floor. “I’m so sorry!” Emily cried.

“No worries,” he answered breezily. “Luckily, I have lightning-quick reflexes.” Then he turned around and did a double take. “
Emily?
”

Emily blinked. Staring back at her, dressed in a caterer’s tuxedo, was Isaac Colbert, her ex-boyfriend—
and
the father of her child. She hadn’t seen him since they’d broken up over a year ago.

“H-hey.” Emily’s heart pounded. Isaac looked taller than she remembered—broader, too. His brown hair was down to his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from under his collar. She stared at the black spiral pattern on his skin. What did his overprotective mother have to say about that? Given that Mrs. Colbert had cut Emily’s head out of all the photos of her and Isaac together and called her a whore, Emily couldn’t imagine she was thrilled her son had gotten inked.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted.

Isaac gestured to the logo on his breast pocket. COLBERT CATERING. “My dad’s company is providing refreshments. He’s a Tom Marin fan.” Then he stood back and looked Emily up and down. “You look . . . different. Have you lost weight?”

“I doubt that. I still feel like I’m hanging onto some weight from being—” She caught herself before she could say
being pregnant
and almost swallowed her tongue. What was
wrong
with her?

She’d almost called Isaac to confess a few times while she was pregnant—Isaac had been wonderful to her before that stuff happened with his mom. They used to talk for hours, and he’d been so accepting when she told him that she’d dated girls in the past. Then one wintery afternoon, they’d undressed slowly in his bedroom. He had been so sweet about wanting to make their first time meaningful.