Twisted (6 page)

Aria glanced at Noel, who emphatically shook his head. Thaddeus was Ella’s boyfriend—they’d met at the art gallery where Ella worked. He was a raw foodist, which meant Ella had become one, too. Aria liked her pasta cooked, thanks very much.

Then, Noel’s phone, which was perched on the coffee table, let out a loud foghorn noise.

Noel untangled himself from Aria, checked the screen, and scowled. “Shit. I forgot. I have to pick up someone at the airport in an hour.”

“Who?” Aria sat up and pulled her cardigan around her shoulders.

“Just this loser foreign exchange student who’s coming for the semester. My parents dropped the bomb on me yesterday after the Hastingses’ party. It’s going to be so lame.”

Aria’s jaw dropped. “Why haven’t you told me yet? Foreign-exchange students are so interesting!” In fifth grade, a girl named Yuki had come on exchange from Japan, staying with Lanie Iler’s family. Most kids thought she was weird, but Aria found Yuki fascinating—she wrote her name in strange characters, folded origami shapes out of her spelling tests, and had the straightest, blackest hair Aria had ever seen.

Noel shoved his feet into his ratty driving loafers. “Are you kidding? It’s going to suck. Do you know where he’s from? Finland! He’s probably going to be such a freak, like one of those guys who wears girls’ jeans and plays the recorder.”

Aria smiled to herself, remembering how Noel had called her
Finland
the first few weeks after her family had returned from Iceland.

“This dude probably is a huge dork.” Noel strode toward the hall.

“Do you want company?” Aria called after him as he stomped down the stairs.

“Nah.” Noel waved his hand. “I’ll spare you from freak-Finn and his wooden shoes.”

That’s Holland
, Aria wanted to say. She quickly pulled on her coat and slipped on her boots. “Seriously. I don’t mind.”

Noel chewed on his lip, thinking. “If you insist. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The Philadelphia airport teemed with families hauling suitcases, businessmen running to catch planes, and bedraggled travelers removing their shoes in the security line. The arrivals board said that the plane from Helsinki had just landed. Noel pulled a small cardboard square from his backpack and unfolded it.
HUUSKO
, it said in large red letters.

“That’s his last name,” Noel said wearily, staring at the poster as though it were a decree for his execution. “Doesn’t it sound like a brand of grannie panties? Or maybe some kind of unidentifiable meat spread?”

Aria giggled. “You’re terrible.”

Noel plopped morosely on one of the benches by the security gate and stared at the line of people snaking toward the metal detectors. “This is our senior year, Aria. The only time we’ll have to just chill before college. The last thing I want is some loser hanging on me. I swear my mom did this to torture me.”

Aria made an
mmm
of sympathy. Then, she noticed something on the TV hanging overhead.
ANNIVERSARY OF ROSEWOOD MURDERESS’S DEATH
, said the yellow-lettered headline on the screen.

A brunette reporter stood in front of the DiLaurentises’ old house, the wind blowing her hair around her face. “A year ago this Saturday, Alison DiLaurentis, whose killing spree baffled an entire nation, died in a horrific self-ignited fire in the Pocono Mountains,” she announced. “A whole year has passed since the bizarre events, but the town of Rosewood still hasn’t recovered.”

Images of Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas, two of Real Ali’s victims, flashed on the screen. Then there was the seventh-grade portrait of Courtney DiLaurentis—the girl who’d taken the real Ali’s place in sixth grade, the girl whom Real Ali killed during their seventh-grade sleepover. “Many are still puzzled that Ms. DiLaurentis’s body was never found in the rubble. Some have speculated Ms. DiLaurentis survived, but experts have claimed that there’s no possibility of that.”

A shiver ran down Aria’s spine.

Noel covered Aria’s eyes with his hands. “You shouldn’t watch that.”

Aria wriggled free. “It’s hard not to.”

“Have you been thinking about it much?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you want to watch the movie together?”

“Oh God,
no
.” Aria groaned. Noel was referring to
Pretty Little Killer
, a biopic condensing the events of last year into two TV-ready hours. It was beyond tacky.

Suddenly, an influx of people flowed through the door from immigration. Many were tall, blond, and pale, surely from the Helsinki flight. Noel grumbled. “Here we go.” He waved the
HUUSKO
sign.

Aria peered through the crowd. “What’s his first name, anyway?”

“Klaudius?” Noel mumbled. “Something like that.”

Older men lugged suitcases past as they spoke on iPhones. Three lanky girls giggled together. A blond family carrying a towheaded child struggled to open a baby stroller. No one looked like a Klaudius.

Then, a voice floated through the crowd of travelers. “Mr. Kahn?”

Aria and Noel stood on their tiptoes, trying to locate the speaker. Just then, Aria noticed a boy with a drawn, elongated face, fleshy lips, zits on his cheeks and forehead, and an Adam’s apple that protruded at least an inch from his neck. It was Klaudius, all right. He was even carrying a small instrument case that might just be a recorder. Poor Noel.

“Mr. Kahn?” the voice called again, but the boy Aria thought was Klaudius hadn’t opened his mouth.

The crowd parted. A figure in a trapper hat, a down jacket, and fur lined boots emerged. “Hallo! It’s you! I am your new exchange! Klaudia Huusko!”

Klaudia.
Noel’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Aria stared at the figure in front of them, nearly choking on her gum. Noel’s exchange student certainly wasn’t a tall, gangly, pock-marked, flute-playing boy. Instead, Klaudia was a girl. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, throaty-voiced, large-breasted, tight-jeans-wearing Scandinavian wet dream.

And she’d be living just down the hall from Noel.

Chapter 5

Meet the Pennythistles

“Spencer.” Mrs. Hastings leaned across the restaurant table. “Don’t touch the bread. It’s rude to start eating before everyone is seated.”

Spencer’s fingers released the squishy, buttery piece of ciabatta back into the basket. If she died from starvation before the others got here, it would be her mother’s fault.

It was Sunday night, and Spencer, Melissa, and her mother were sitting at the Goshen Inn, a stuffy restaurant inside an old 1700s house that had allegedly once been a boarding house for redcoat soldiers. Mrs. Hastings kept clucking about how nice the surroundings were, but Spencer thought the restaurant was as gloomy as a funeral home. It was definitely Colonial Philadelphia chic, with lots of Revolutionary War muskets mounted on the wall, three-cornered hats tucked into window boxes, and candles in old-timey glass lanterns on the tables. And because the clientele looked as old as the décor, the room smelled like an unpleasant mix of musty basement, slightly overdone filet mignon, and Vicks VapoRub.

“What’s this Nicholas guy do, anyway?” Spencer folded and refolded the cloth napkin on her lap.

Mrs. Hastings stiffened. “He’s Mr. Pennythistle until further notice.”

Spencer snickered.
Mr. Pennythistle
sounded like the name of a pornographic clown.

“I know what he does,” Melissa volunteered. “I didn’t make the connection at the party, but we totally studied him in my entrepreneurs class. He’s the biggest real estate developer in the area. The Donald Trump of the Main Line.”

Spencer made a face. “So he bulldozes farmland and wildlife sanctuaries to make way for ugly tract homes?”

“He created Applewood, Spence,” Melissa gushed happily. “You know, those beautiful carriage houses on the golf course?”

Spencer turned her fork over in her hands, unimpressed. Whenever she drove around Rosewood, it seemed like a new development was springing up. Apparently it was this Nicholas guy’s fault.

“Girls,
shh
.” Mrs. Hastings snapped suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. Two people walked toward their table. One was a tall, burly man who looked like he could’ve been a rugby player in a past life. He had neatly combed graying hair, steel blue eyes, a regal, slanting nose, and the beginnings of jowls. His navy blue blazer and khaki pants looked freshly ironed, and he wore gold cuff links embossed with the tiny initials
NP.
In his hand were three long-stemmed, dethorned, blood-red roses.

A girl of about fifteen was with him. A velvet headband held back her short, curly black hair, and she wore a gray jumper that looked like a chambermaid’s uniform. There was a bitter scowl on her face as though she’d been constipated for days.

Mrs. Hastings rose clumsily, bumping her knee on the underside of the table and making their water glasses wobble. “Nicholas! It’s so lovely to see you!” She blushed happily as he handed her one of the flowers. Then she gestured around the table. “These are my daughters, Melissa and Spencer.”

Melissa stood, too. “So nice to meet you,” she said, pumping Nicholas’s—er, Mr. Pennythistle’s—hand. Spencer said hello, too, though less enthusiastically. Ass-kissing just wasn’t her style.

“Very nice to meet you both,” Mr. Pennythistle said in a startlingly kind, gentle voice. He handed each of the girls a rose, too. Melissa cooed with delight, but Spencer just twirled it in her fingers suspiciously. There was something about the whole thing that was very
The Bachelor.

Then Mr. Pennythistle gestured at the girl next to him. “And this is my daughter, Amelia.”

Amelia, whose own red rose was peeking out of the top of her ugly messenger bag, shook everyone’s hands, though she didn’t look very happy about it. “I like your headband,” Spencer offered, trying to be magnanimous. Amelia just stared at her blankly, her lips still a tight, straight line, her eyes canvassing Spencer’s long blond hair, gray cashmere sweater dress, and black Frye boots. After a moment, she let out a sniff and turned away, as if Spencer was the fashion faux pas, not her.

“Zachary will be along soon,” Mr. Pennythistle said as he sat down. “He had an Advanced Placement study group that ran late.”

“Understandable.” Mrs. Hastings lifted her water glass. She turned to her girls. “Both Zachary and Amelia go to St. Agnes.”

The ice cube Spencer had been sucking on slipped down her throat. St. Agnes was the snootiest school in the Main Line, so uptight that it made Rosewood Day look like juvie. Spencer had met a girl named Kelsey from St. Agnes this summer, while she was in an accelerated AP program at Penn. At first they’d been best friends, but then . . .

Spencer inspected Amelia carefully. Did Amelia know Kelsey? Had she heard what happened to her?

Then there was a long silence. Spencer’s mom kept sighing at her rose, looking around, and smiling awkwardly. Innocuous classical music tinkled softly over the stereo. Mr. Pennythistle politely ordered a Delamain cognac from the waitress. He kept making these irritating little coughs at the back of his throat.
Just spit out your phlegm already,
Spencer wanted to snap.

Finally, Melissa cleared her throat. “This is a lovely restaurant, Mr. Pennythistle.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Mrs. Hastings said, clearly grateful someone had broken the ice.

“Really Revolutionary War–esque,” Spencer added. “Let’s hope the food doesn’t date from then, too!”

Mrs. Hastings barked out a fake-laugh, but she stopped as soon as she saw the confused, almost hurt look on her boyfriend’s face. Amelia wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something rancid in the air. “Oh, Spencer didn’t mean it seriously,” Mrs. Hastings said quickly. “It was just a joke!”

Mr. Pennythistle tugged at his starched collar. “This has been my favorite restaurant for years. They have an award-winning wine list.”

Whoop-de-doo.
Spencer glanced around, wishing she could sit with the table of tittering sixty-something ladies in the corner—at least
they
looked fun. She sneaked a peek at Melissa, hoping to commiserate, but Melissa was beaming at Mr. Pennythistle as though he were the Dalai Lama.

After the waitress delivered their drinks, Mr. Pennythistle turned to Spencer. Up close, he had little wrinkles around his eyes and wiry, out-of-control eyebrows. “So you’re a senior at Rosewood Day?”

Spencer nodded. “That’s right.”

“She’s
very
involved,” Mrs. Hastings bragged. “She’s on Varsity field hockey, and she was cast as Lady Macbeth in the senior production of
Macbeth.
Rosewood Day has a top-notch drama program.”

Mr. Pennythistle’s eyebrow arched at Spencer. “How are your grades this semester?”

The question caught Spencer off guard.
Nosy, aren’t we?
“They’re . . . fine. But I got into Princeton early decision, so it’s not such a big deal this term.”

She said
Princeton
with relish—surely that would impress Mr. Pennythistle and his snotty daughter. But Mr. Pennythistle just inched closer. “Princeton doesn’t like slackers, you know.” His kindly voice turned sharp. “Now isn’t the time to rest on your laurels.”

Spencer recoiled. What was with the reprimanding tone? Who did he think he was, her father? It was Mr. Hastings who’d told Spencer she should take it easy this semester—she’d worked hard, after all.

Spencer looked to her mother, but she was nodding along. “That’s true, Spence. Maybe you shouldn’t relax too much.”

“I’ve heard colleges are looking at your final term grades a lot more these days,” Melissa agreed.
Traitor
, Spencer thought.

“I’ve told my son that, too.” Mr. Pennythistle opened the restaurant’s wine list, which was the size of a dictionary. “He’s going to Harvard.” He said it in a haughty voice that seemed to say
which is much, much better than Princeton.

Spencer ducked her head and arranged her fork, knife, and spoon so that they were exactly parallel with one another on the table. Organizing usually made her calm down, but not today.