Pretty Little Liars (8 page)

“Her. Definitely her,” Hanna whispered, pointing.

“Nah. They're too small!” Mona whispered back.

“But look at the way they puff up at the top! Totally fake,” Hanna countered.

“I think that woman over there has had her butt done.”

“Gross.” Hanna wrinkled her nose and ran her hands over the sides of her own toned, perfectly round butt to make sure it was still perfectly perfect. It was late afternoon on Wednesday, just two days until Noel Kahn's annual field party, and she and Mona were lounging on the outside terrace at Yam, the organic café at Mona's parents' country club. Below them, a bunch of Rosewood boys played a quick round of golf before dinner, but Hanna and Mona were playing another type of game: Spot the Fake Boobs. Or fake anything else, as there was lots of fake stuff around here.

“Yeah, it looks like her surgeon messed up,” Mona murmured. “I think my mom plays tennis with her. I'll ask.”

Hanna looked again at the pixieish, thirtysomething woman by the bar whose butt did look suspiciously extra-luscious for the rest of her toothpick-skinny figure. “I'd die before I got plastic surgery.”

Mona played with the charm on her Tiffany bracelet—the one she, evidently, didn't have to give back. “Do you think Aria Montgomery had hers done?”

Hanna looked up, startled. “Why?”

“She's really thin, and they're like, too perfect,” Mona said. “She went to Finland or wherever, right? I hear in Europe they can do your boobs for really cheap.”

“I don't think they're fake,” Hanna murmured.

“How do
you
know?”

Hanna chewed on her straw. Aria's boobs had always been there—she and Alison had been the only two of the friends who needed a bra in seventh grade. Ali always flaunted hers, but the only time Aria seemed to notice she even
had
boobs was when she knit everyone bras as Christmas gifts and had to make herself a larger size. “She just doesn't seem the type,” Hanna answered. Talking to Mona about her old friends was awkward territory. Hanna still felt bad about how she and Ali and the others used to tease Mona back in seventh grade, but it always seemed too weird to bring up now.

Mona stared at her. “Are you all right? You look different today.”

Hanna flinched. “I do? How?”

Mona gave her a tiny smirk. “Whoa! Somebody's jumpy!”

“I'm not jumpy,” Hanna said quickly. But she was: Ever since the police station and that e-mail she had gotten last night, she'd been freaking. This morning, her eyes even seemed more dull brown than green, and her arms looked disturbingly puffy. She had this horrible sense that she really was going to spontaneously morph back into her seventh-grade self.

A blond, giraffelike waitress interrupted them. “Have you decided?”

Mona looked at the menu. “I'll have the Asian chicken salad, no dressing.”

Hanna cleared her throat. “I want a garden salad with sprouts, no dressing, and an extra-large order of sweet potato fries. In a carry-out box, please.”

As the waitress took their menus, Mona pushed her sunglasses down her nose. “Sweet potato fries?”

“For my mom,” Hanna answered quickly. “She lives on them.”

Down on the golf course, a group of older guys teed up, along with one young good-looking guy in fatigue shorts. He looked a little out of place with his messy brown hair, cargos, and…was that a…
Rosewood Police
polo? Oh no. It was.

Wilden scanned the terrace and coolly nodded when he saw Hanna. She ducked.

“Who is
that
?” Mona purred.

“Um…,” Hanna mumbled, half under the table. Darren Wilden was a
golfer
? Come
on.
Back in high school, he was the type to flick lit matches at the guys on Rosewood's golf team. Was the whole world out to get her?

Mona squinted. “Wait. Didn't he go to our school?” She grinned. “Oh my God. It's the girls' diving team guy. Hanna, you little bitch! How does he know
you
?”

“He's…” Hanna paused. She ran her hand along the waistband of her jeans. “I met him on the Marwyn trail a couple of days ago when I was running. We stopped at the water fountain at the same time.”

“Nice,” Mona said. “Does he work around here?”

Hanna paused again. She really wanted to avoid this. “Um…I think he said he was a cop,” she said nonchalantly.

“You're kidding.” Mona took out her Shu Uemura lip moisturizer from her blue leather hobo bag and lightly dabbed her bottom lip. “That guy's hot enough to be in a policeman's calendar. I could just see it: Mr. April. Let's ask if we can see his nightstick!”

“Shhh,” Hanna hissed.

Their salads came. Hanna pushed the Styrofoam container of sweet potato fries to the side and took a bite of an undressed grape tomato.

Mona leaned closer. “I bet you could hook up with him.”

“Who?”

“Mr. April! Who else?”

Hanna snorted. “Right.”

“Totally. You should bring him to the Kahn party. I heard some cops came to the party last year. That's how they never get busted.”

Hanna sat back. The Kahn party was a legendary Rosewood tradition. The Kahns lived on twenty-some acres of land, and the Kahn boys—Noel was the youngest—held a back-to-school party every year. The kids raided their parents' extremely well-stocked liquor supply in the basement, and there was
always
a scandal. Last year, Noel shot his best friend James in the bare ass with his BB gun because James had tried to make out with Noel's then-girlfriend, Alyssa Pennypacker. They were both so drunk they laughed the whole way to the ER and couldn't remember how or why it happened. The year before that, a bunch of stoners smoked too much and tried to get Mr. Kahn's Appaloosas to take hits from a bong.

“Nah.” Hanna bit into another tomato. “I think I'm going with Sean.”

Mona scrunched up her face. “Why waste a perfectly good party night on Sean? He took a virginity pledge! He probably won't even go.”

“Just because you sign a virginity pledge doesn't mean you stop partying, too.” Hanna took a big bite of her salad, crunching the dry, unappetizing vegetables in her mouth.

“Well, if you're not gonna ask Mr. April to Noel's, I will.” Mona stood up.

Hanna grabbed her arm. “No!”

“Why not? C'mon. It'd be fun.”

Hanna dug her fingernails into Mona's arm. “I said no.”

Mona sat back down and stuck out her lip. “Why not?”

Hanna's heart galloped. “All right. You can't tell
anyone
, though.” She took a deep breath. “I met him at the police station, not the trail. I was called in for questioning for the Tiffany's thing. But it's not a big deal. I'm not busted.”

“Oh my
God
!” Mona yelled. Wilden looked up at them again.

“Shhh!” Hanna hissed.

“Are you all right? What happened? Tell me everything,” Mona whispered back.

“There isn't much to tell.” Hanna threw her napkin over her plate. “They brought me to the station, my mom came with me, and we sat for a while. They let me off with a warning. Whatever. The whole thing took like twenty minutes.”

“Yikes.” Mona gave Hanna an indeterminate look; Hanna wondered for a second if it was a look of pity.

“It wasn't, like, dramatic or anything,” Hanna said defensively, her throat dry. “Not much happened. Most of the cops were on the phone. I text-messaged the whole
time.” She paused, considering whether she should tell Mona about that “not it” text message she'd received from A, whoever A was. But why waste her breath? It couldn't have actually meant anything, right?

Mona took a sip of her Perrier. “I thought you'd never get caught.”

Hanna swallowed hard. “Yeah, well…”

“Did your mom totally kill you?”

Hanna looked away. On the drive home, her mom had asked Hanna if she'd meant to steal the bracelet and earrings. When Hanna said no, Ms. Marin answered, “Good. It's settled then.” Then she flipped open her cell to make a call.

Hanna shrugged and stood up. “I just remembered—I gotta go walk Dot.”

“Are you sure you're okay?” Mona asked. “Your face looks kind of splotchy.”

“No biggie.” She smacked her lips glamorously at Mona and turned for the door.

Hanna sauntered coolly out of the restaurant, but once she got to the parking lot, she broke into a run. She climbed inside her Toyota Prius—a car her mom had bought for herself last year but had recently handed off to Hanna because she'd grown tired of it—and checked her face in the rearview mirror. There were hideous bright red patches on her cheeks and forehead.

After her transformation, Hanna had been neurotically
careful about not only looking cool and perfect at all times, but
being
cool and perfect, too. Terrified that the tiniest mistake would send her spiraling back to dorkdom, she labored over every last detail, from little things like the perfect IM screen name and the right mix for her car's built-in iPod, to bigger stuff like the right combo of people to invite over before someone's party and choosing the perfect
it
boy to date—who, luckily, was the same boy she'd loved since seventh grade. Had getting caught for shoplifting just tarnished the perfect, controlled, über-cool Hanna everyone had come to know? She hadn't been able to read that look on Mona's face when she said “yikes.” Had the look meant,
Yikes, but no big deal?
Or,
Yikes, what a loser?

She wondered if maybe she shouldn't have told Mona at all. But then…someone else already knew. A.

Know what Sean's going to say? Not it!

Hanna's field of vision went blurry. She squeezed the steering wheel for a few seconds, then jammed the key into the ignition and rolled out of the country club parking lot to a gravelly, dead-end turn-off a few yards down the road. She could hear her heart pounding at her temples as she turned off the engine and took deep breaths. The wind smelled like hay and just-mown grass.

Hanna shut her eyes tight. When she opened them, she stared at the container of sweet potato fries.
Don't,
she thought. A car swished by on the main road.

Hanna wiped her hands on her jeans. She snuck another peek at the container. The fries smelled delicious.
Don't, don't, don't.

She reached over for them and opened the lid. Their sweet, warm smell wafted into her face. Before she could stop herself, Hanna shoved handful after handful of fries into her mouth. The fries were still so hot that they burned her tongue, but she didn't care. It was such a relief; this was the only thing that made her feel better. She didn't stop until she'd eaten them all and even licked the sides of the container for the salt that had gathered at the bottom.

At first she felt much, much calmer. But by the time she pulled into her driveway, the old, familiar feelings of panic and shame had welled up inside her. Hanna was amazed how, even though it had been years since she'd done this, everything felt exactly the same. Her stomach ached, her pants felt tight, and all she wanted was to be rid of what was inside of her.

Ignoring Dot's excited cries from her bedroom, Hanna bolted to the upstairs bathroom, slammed the door, and collapsed onto the tiled floor. Thank God her mom wasn't home from work yet. At least she wouldn't hear what Hanna was about to do.

Okay. Spencer had to calm down.

Wednesday night, she pulled her black Mercedes C-Class hatchback—her sister's castoff car, since she got the new, “practical” Mercedes SUV—into the circular driveway of her house. Her student council meeting had gone extra late and she'd been on edge driving through Rosewood's dark streets. All day, she'd felt like someone was watching her, like whoever had written that “covet” e-mail could jump out at her at any second.

Spencer kept thinking uneasily about that familiar ponytail in Alison's bedroom window. Her mind kept going back to Ali—all the things she knew about Spencer. But no, that was crazy. Alison had been gone—and most likely dead—for three years. Plus, a new family lived in her house now, right?

Spencer ran to the mailbox and pulled out a pile, tossing everything back that wasn't hers. Suddenly, she saw it. It was a long envelope, not too thick, not too thin, with Spencer's name typed neatly in the windowpane. The return address said,
The College Board
. It was here.

Spencer ripped open the envelope and scanned the page. She read the PSAT results six times before it sunk in.

She'd gotten a 2350 out of 2400.

“Yessssss!”
she screamed, clutching the papers so tightly they wrinkled.

“Whoa! Someone's happy!” called a voice from the road.

Spencer looked up. Hanging out the driver's-side window of a black Mini Cooper was Andrew Campbell, the tall, freckly, long-haired boy that beat out Spencer for class president. They were number-one and number-two in the class in practically every subject. But before Spencer could brag about her score—telling Andrew about her PSATs would feel
so
good—he peeled away.
Freak.
Spencer turned back to her house.

As she excitedly scampered inside, something stopped her: she remembered her sister's near-perfect score and quickly converted it from the 1600-scale they used to use into the 2400-scale the College Board used nowadays. It was a full 100 points lower than Spencer's. And weren't they supposed to be harder these days, too?

Well,
now
who's the genius?

 

An hour later, Spencer sat at the kitchen table reading
Middlemarch
—a book on the English AP “suggested reading” list—when she began to sneeze.

“Melissa and Wren are here,” Mrs. Hastings said to Spencer as she bustled into the kitchen, carrying in the mail Spencer had left in the box. “They've brought all of their luggage to move in!” She opened the oven a crack, checking on the rotisserie chicken and seven-grain rolls, and then bustled into the living room.

Spencer sneezed again. A cloud of Chanel No. 5 always preceded her mom—even though she spent the whole day working around horses—and Spencer was certain she was allergic. She considered announcing her PSAT news, but a twinkly voice from the foyer stopped her.

“Mom?” Melissa called. She and Wren strolled into the kitchen. Spencer pretended to study
Middlemarch
's boring back cover.

“Hey,” Wren said above her.

“Hey,” she answered coolly.

“Whatcha reading?”

Spencer hesitated. It was better to steer clear of Wren, especially now that he was moving in.

Melissa brushed by without saying hello and began to unpack purple pillows from a Pottery Barn bag. “These are for the couch in the barn,” she practically yelled.

Spencer cringed. Two could play at this game. “Oh,
Melissa!” Spencer cried. “I forgot to tell you! Guess who I ran into!”

Melissa continued to unpack the pillows. “Who?”

“Ian Thomas! He's coaching my field hockey team now!”

Melissa froze. “He…what? He is? He's
here
? Did he ask about me?”

Spencer shrugged and pretended to think. “No, I don't think so.”

“Who's Ian Thomas?” Wren asked, leaning against the marble island counter.

“No one,” Melissa snapped, turning back to the pillows. Spencer slapped her book shut and skipped off to the dining room. There. That felt better.

She sat down at the long, mission-style farmhouse table, running her finger around the stemless wineglass Candace, the family's housekeeper, had just filled with red wine. Her parents didn't care if their kids drank while they were at home as long as no one was driving, so she grabbed the glass with both hands and greedily took a large gulp. When she looked up, Wren was smirking at her from across the table, his spine very straight in his dining chair.

“Hey,” he said. She raised her eyebrows in answer.

Melissa and Mrs. Hastings sat down, and Spencer's father adjusted the chandelier lights and took a seat as well. For a moment everyone was quiet. Spencer felt for the PSAT score papers in her pocket. “So guess what happened to me,” she began.

“Wren and I are so happy you're letting us stay here!” Melissa said at the same time, grabbing Wren's hand.

Mrs. Hastings smiled at Melissa. “I'm always happy when the family's all here.”

Spencer bit her lip, her stomach nervously gurgling. “So, Dad. I got my—”

“Uh-oh,” Melissa interrupted, staring down at the plates Candace had just brought in from the kitchen. “Do we have anything other than chicken? Wren's trying not to eat meat.”

“It's all right,” Wren said hastily. “Chicken is perfect.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hastings stood up halfway. “You don't eat meat? I didn't know! I think we may have some pasta salad in the fridge, although it might have ham in it….”

“Really, it's okay.” Wren rubbed his head uncomfortably, making his messy black hair stand up in peaks.

“Oh, I feel terrible,” Mrs. Hastings said. Spencer rolled her eyes. When the whole family was together, her mom wanted all meals—even sloppy cereal breakfasts—to be perfect.

Mr. Hastings eyed Wren suspiciously. “I'm a steak man, myself.”

“Absolutely.” Wren lifted his glass so forcefully that a little wine spilled on the tablecloth.

Spencer was considering a good segue into her big announcement when her father laid down his fork.

“I've got a brilliant idea. Since we're all here, why don't we play Star Power?”

“Oh, Daddy.” Melissa grinned. “No.”

Her father smiled. “Oh yes. I had a terrific day at work. I'm going to kick your butt.”

“What's Star Power?” Wren asked, his eyebrows arched.

A nervous glow grew in Spencer's stomach. Star Power was a game her parents had made up when Spencer and Melissa were little kids that she'd always suspected they'd pilfered from some company power-retreat. It was simple: Everyone shared their biggest achievement of the day, and the family would select one Star. It was supposed to make people feel proud and accomplished, but in the Hastings family, people just got ruthlessly competitive.

But if there was one perfect way for Spencer to announce her PSAT results, Star Power was it.

“You'll catch on, Wren,” Mr. Hastings said. “I'll start. Today, I prepared a defense so compelling for my client, he actually offered to pay me
more
money.”

“Impressive,” her mother said, taking a tiny bite of a golden beet. “Now me. This morning, I beat Eloise at tennis in straight sets.”

“Eloise is tough!” her father cried before taking another sip of wine. Spencer peeked at Wren across the table. He was carefully peeling the skin off his chicken thigh, so she couldn't catch his eye.

Her mother dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Melissa?”

Melissa laced her stubby-nailed fingers together.
“Well, hmm. I helped the builders tile the entire bathroom—the only way it'd be perfect is if I did it myself.”

“Good for you, dear!” her father said.

Spencer jiggled her legs nervously.

Mr. Hastings finished sipping his wine. “Wren?”

Wren looked up, startled. “Yes?”

“It's your turn.”

Wren fiddled with his wineglass. “I don't know what I should say….”

“We're playing Star Power,” Mrs. Hastings chirped, as if Star Power were as common a game as Scrabble. “What wonderful thing did you, Mr. Doctor, achieve today?”

“Oh.” Wren blinked. “Well. Um, nothing, really. It was my day off from school and the hospital, so I went down to the pub with some hospital friends and watched the Phillies game.”

Silence. Melissa shot Wren a disappointed look.

“I think that's awesome,” Spencer offered. “The way they've been playing, it's a feat to watch the Phillies all day.”

“I know, they're kind of crap, aren't they?” Wren smiled at her gratefully.

“Well, anyway,” her mother interrupted. “Melissa, when do you start class?”

“Wait a minute,” Spencer piped up. They were
not
about to forget her! “I have something for Star Power.”

Her mother's salad fork hung in the air. “I'm sorry.”

“Oops!” her father agreed jocularly. “Go ahead, Spence.”

“I got my PSAT results,” she said. “And, well…here.” She pulled out the scores and shoved them at her father.

As soon as he took them, she knew what would happen. They wouldn't care. What did PSATs matter, anyway? They'd go back to their Beaujolais and to Melissa and Wharton and that would be that. Her cheeks felt hot. Why did she even bother?

Then her dad put down his wineglass and studied the paper. “Wow.” He motioned Mrs. Hastings over. When she saw the paper, she gasped.

“You can't get much higher than this, can you?” Mrs. Hastings said.

Melissa craned her neck to look too. Spencer could hardly breathe. Melissa glared at her over the lilac and peony centerpiece. It was a look that made Spencer think that maybe Melissa
had
written that creepy e-mail yesterday. But when Spencer met her eye, Melissa broke into a smile. “You really studied, didn't you?”

“It's a good score, yeah?” Wren asked, glancing at the page.

“It's a fantastic score!” Mr. Hastings bellowed.

“This is wonderful!” cried Mrs. Hastings. “How would you like to celebrate, Spencer? Dinner in the city? Is there something you've had your eye on?”

“When I got my SAT scores, you got me a Fitzgerald first edition at that estate auction, remember?” Melissa beamed.

“That's right!” Mrs. Hastings trilled.

Melissa turned to Wren. “You would've loved it. It was so amazing to bid.”

“Well, why don't you give it some thought.” Mrs. Hastings said to Spencer. “Try to think of something memorable, like what we got for Melissa.”

Spencer slowly sat up. “Actually, there is something that I have in mind.”

“What's that?” Her father leaned forward in his chair.

Here goes
, Spencer thought. “Well, what I'd really, really,
really
love, right now, not a few months from now, would be to move into the barn.”

“But—,” Melissa started, before stopping herself.

Wren cleared his throat. Her father furrowed his brow. Spencer's stomach made a loud, hungry growl. She covered it with her hand.

“Is that what you
really
want?” her mother asked.

“Uh-huh,” Spencer answered.

“Okay,” Mrs. Hastings said, looking at her husband. “Well…”

Melissa loudly laid down her fork. “But, um, what about Wren and me?”

“Well, you said yourself the renovations wouldn't take too long.” Mrs. Hastings put her hand to her chin. “You guys could stay in your old bedroom, I suppose.”

“But it has a twin bed,” Melissa said in an uncharacteristically childish voice.

“I don't mind,” Wren said quickly. Melissa scowled sharply at him.

“We could move the queen bed from the barn to Melissa's room and put Spencer's bed out there,” Mr. Hastings suggested.

Spencer couldn't believe her ears. “You would do that?”

Mrs. Hastings raised her eyebrows. “Melissa, you can survive, can't you?”

Melissa pushed her hair back from her face. “I guess,” she said. “I mean, I personally got much more out of the auction and the first edition, but that's just me.”

Wren discreetly took a sip of his wine. When Spencer caught his eye, he winked. Mr. Hastings turned to Spencer. “Done, then.”

Spencer jumped up and hugged her parents. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Her mother beamed. “You should move in tomorrow.”

“Spencer, you're certainly the Star.” Her father held up her scores, now slightly stained with red wine. “We should frame this as a memento!”

Spencer grinned. She didn't need to frame anything. She'd remember this day for as long as she lived.