Wicked (25 page)

“Forget it,” Spencer growled, wheeling around and heading down the back hall toward the media room. Her eyes burned with frustrated tears. It should’ve felt delicious, spouting out exactly what her parents deserved, but Spencer felt the same way she always did when her parents dissed her—like a Christmas tree after New Year’s, tossed to the curb for the trash truck to haul away. Spencer used to beg for her parents to rescue all the abandoned Christmas trees and plant them in their backyard, but they always said she was being silly.

“Spencer?” Andrew Campbell stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine in his hand. Snappy little shivers danced up and down Spencer’s back. All day, she’d considered texting Andrew to see if he was coming tonight. Not that she was covertly pining for him or anything.

Andrew noticed Spencer’s flushed face and his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer’s chin trembled as she glanced back toward the main ballroom. Her parents were gone. She couldn’t find Melissa, either. “My whole family hates me,” Spencer blurted out.

“Come on,” Andrew said, taking her arm. He led her into the media room, flipped on the little Tiffany lamp on the end table, and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Breathe.”

Spencer plopped down. Andrew sat too. She hadn’t been in this room since Tuesday afternoon, when she and her friends had watched Ian’s bail hearing on TV. To the right of the TV was a line of Spencer’s and Melissa’s school pictures, from their very first year in Rosewood Day pre-K up to Melissa’s formal senior portrait. Spencer stared at her picture from this year. It had been taken right before school started, before the Ali and A mess started. Her hair was combed perfectly off her face, and her navy blazer had been ironed to perfection. The self-satisfied gloat on her face said,
I’m Spencer Hastings, and I’m the best.

Ha,
Spencer thought bitterly. How quickly things could change.

Next to the school pictures was the big Eiffel Tower statue. The old photo they’d found the other day, the one of Ali the day Time Capsule was announced, was still propped up against it. Spencer narrowed her eyes at Ali. The Time Capsule flyer dangled from Ali’s fingers, and her mouth was open so wide that Spencer could see her small, square, white molars. At what moment had this photo been taken? Had Ali just announced that Jason was going to tell her where one of the pieces was? Had the idea to steal Ali’s piece crept yet into Spencer’s mind? Had Ian already approached Ali and told her that he was going to kill her? Ali’s wide blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at Spencer, and Spencer could almost hear Ali’s clear, chirpy little voice now.
Boo-hoo,
Ali would tease, if she were still alive.
Your parents hate you!

Spencer shuddered and turned away. It was eerie having Ali in here, gawking at her.

“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, chewing concernedly on his bottom lip. “What did your parents do?”

Spencer flicked the fringe detail on the hem of her dress. “They won’t even look at me,” she said, feeling numb. “It’s like I’m dead to them.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Andrew said. He took a sip of his wine and then put it down on the end table. “How could your parents hate you? I’m sure they’re really proud of you.”

Spencer quickly slid a coaster under the glass, not caring if she seemed OCD. “They’re not. I’m an embarrassment to them, an out-of-fashion
decoration.
Like one of my mom’s oil paintings in the basement. That’s it.”

Andrew cocked his head. “Are you talking about the…the Golden Orchid thing? I mean, maybe your parents are upset about that, but I’m sure they’re upset for
you
.”

Spencer bit back a sob, and something hard and sharp pressed down on her chest. “They knew I plagiarized the paper for the Golden Orchid,” she burst out, before she could control herself. “But they told me not to say anything. It would have been easier if I’d just lied and accepted it and lived with the guilt for the rest of my life, than for them to look like idiots.”

The leather couch groaned as Andrew sat back, aghast. He stared at Spencer for five long rotations of the overhead ceiling fan. “You’re kidding.”

Spencer shook her head. It felt like a betrayal to say it out loud. Her parents hadn’t exactly told her
not
to tell anyone that they’d known about the Golden Orchid mess, but she was pretty sure they thought she never would.

“And
you
were the one who admitted you plagiarized the paper, even though they told you not to?” Andrew sounded out. Spencer nodded. “Wow.” Andrew ran his hand through his hair. “You did the right thing, Spencer. I hope you know that.”

Spencer started crying, hard—like a hand inside her head had just turned on a faucet. “I was just so stressed,” she blubbered. “I didn’t understand econ at all. I thought it wouldn’t matter, taking that one little paper from Melissa. I thought no one would know. I just wanted to get an A.” Her throat caught, and she buried her face in her hands.

“It’s okay.” Andrew tentatively patted Spencer’s back. “I totally get it.”

But Spencer couldn’t stop sobbing. She bent over, the tears running into her nose, her eyes puffing shut, her throat closing and her chest heaving. Everything seemed so bleak. Her academic life was ruined. It was her fault that Ali’s murderer had slipped away. Her family had disowned her. Ian was right—she
did
have a pathetic little life.

“Shhh,” Andrew whispered, making small circles on her back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, a noise came from the inside of Spencer’s silver clutch bag, which was sitting on the coffee table. Spencer raised her head. It was her phone.

She blinked through her tears.
Ian?

Her eyes flickered toward the window. There was a single, yellow spotlight on their backyard, illuminating the big deck. Beyond that, everything was pitch-black. She strained to listen for anyone scuttling around in the bushes by the window, but there was nothing.

The phone rang once more. Andrew took his hand off her back. “Are you going to see who that is?”

Spencer licked her lips, considering. Slowly, she reached for her purse. Her hands shook so much she could hardly undo the small metal clasp.

She didn’t have a new text, but a new e-mail. The sender’s name swam into view.
I Love U.
And then the subject line:
You might have a match!

“Oh my God.” Spencer shoved her Sidekick under Andrew’s nose. In the chaos of the last week, she’d almost forgotten about the Web site.
“Look!”

Andrew breathed in sharply. They opened the e-mail and squinted at the message.
We are pleased to inform you that someone in our database matches your personal birth information,
it said.
We are contacting her now, and she should be in touch in a few days. Thank you, The I Love U Team.

Spencer scrolled down frantically, skimming the rest of the note, but it didn’t offer much more information. I Love U hadn’t disclosed what this woman’s name was, or what she did, or where she lived.

Spencer let her Sidekick fall to her lap, her head spinning. “So…this is real?”

Andrew grabbed her hands. “Maybe.”

Spencer gradually smiled, tears still streaming down her face. “Oh my God,” she cried. “Oh my God!” She threw her arms around Andrew and gave him a huge hug. “Thank you!”

“For what?” Andrew sounded baffled.

“I don’t know!” Spencer answered giddily. “Everything!”

They pulled away, grinning at each other. And then, slowly and carefully, Andrew’s hand moved down and circled her wrist. Spencer froze. The party noises outside fell away, and everything in the room felt cozy and close. A few long, slow seconds ticked by, marked only by the flashing dots on the DVD player’s digital clock.

Andrew leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. His mouth tasted like cinnamon Altoids, and his lips were soft. Everything felt…right. He kissed her deeper, slowly pulling her closer to him. Where on earth had
Andrew Campbell
learned to kiss like this?

The whole thing took five seconds at the most. When Andrew pulled back, Spencer was too shocked to speak. She wondered if she’d tasted like salty tears. And her face probably looked hideous, all puffy and red from crying. “I’m sorry,” Andrew said quickly, his face paling. “I shouldn’t have done that. You just look so pretty tonight, and I’m so excited for you, and…”

Spencer blinked hard, hoping that the blood would soon return to her head. “Don’t apologize,” she finally said. “But…but I’m not sure I deserve this.” She let out a loud sniff. “I’ve been so nasty to you. Like…at Foxy. And in every class we’ve been in together. I’ve been nothing but a bitch.” She shook her head, a tear trickling down her check. “You should hate me.”

Andrew wound his pinkie around hers. “I was mad at you about Foxy, but that was just because I liked you. And everything else…we were just being competitive.” He poked Spencer’s bare knee. “I
like
that you’re competitive…and determined…and smart. I wouldn’t want you to change any of that.”

Spencer started to laugh, but her mouth contorted into a new batch of sobs. Why was she crying when someone was being so
nice
to her? She looked at her phone again and tapped the screen. “So you would like me even if I’m
not
a real Hastings?”

Andrew snorted. “I don’t care what your last name is. Besides, even Coco Chanel came from nothing. She was an orphan. And look what happened to her.”

One corner of Spencer’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Liar.” How did bookish Andrew know anything about haute fashion designers?

“It’s true!” Andrew nodded fervidly. “Look it up!”

Spencer drank in Andrew’s thin, angular face, how his longish, wheat-colored hair curled sweetly over his ears. All this time, Andrew had been right in front of her, sitting next to her in classes, rushing to finish math problems at the board before she did, campaigning against her for class president and leader of Model UN—and she’d never noticed how damn cute he was. Spencer melted into his arms again, wishing they could stay like this all night.

As she nestled her chin into Andrew’s shoulder, her eyes drifted back to the picture of Ali propped up against the Eiffel Tower. All of a sudden, the photo looked completely different. Although Ali’s mouth was still open in mid-laugh, there was a worried, urgent look behind her eyes. It was almost like she was crying out to the photographer, trying to send an unspoken message.
Help me,
a glimmer in her eyes said.
Please.

Spencer thought of her Ali dream again. She’d been standing right next to Ali by those very same bike racks. Younger Ali had turned to her, this same fragile expression on her face. Both Alis wanted Spencer to uncover something. Maybe something that was very close.

You shouldn’t have thrown it away, Spencer,
both of them chanted.
It was all there. Everything you need. It’s up to you, Spencer. You have to fix this.

But what had she recently thrown away? How could she fix it?

Suddenly, Spencer pulled away from Andrew. “The trash bag.”

“Wha—?” Andrew seemed disoriented.

Spencer looked out the back window. The grief counselor had made them bury all that Ali crap last Saturday—essentially
throwing it away.
Was that what the two Alis in her dream had meant? Could there be something in there that would solve everything?

“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered, jerkily standing.

“What?” Andrew asked again, standing up too. “What is it?”

Spencer glanced at Andrew, then out the window toward the barn, where they’d buried the Ali trash bag. It was a long shot, but she had to make sure. “Tell Officer Wilden to come look for me if I’m not back in ten minutes,” she said hurriedly as she tore out of the room, leaving a very bewildered Andrew behind.

27

HANNA MARIN, QUEEN BEE

By the time Hanna and Lucas got to the Hastingses’ house, the grand living room was packed with people. A string quartet had just finished playing, and a jazz band was setting up. Waitresses offered appetizers, and bartenders poured Scotches, G&Ts, and big glasses of red wine. Hanna could smell alcohol on almost everyone’s breath. They were all probably horrified that this Ian thing was even happening. Before Ali had disappeared, the most crime anyone in Rosewood ever saw was when one of their neighbors quietly got audited by the IRS.

Lucas undid the lens cap on his Olympus SLR camera—he was covering the event for the Rosewood Day newspaper. “Do you want me to get you a drink?”

“Not yet,” Hanna said, thinking about all the empty calories in alcohol. She ran her fingers nervously over her lipstick-red, chiffon-and-silk Catherine Malandrino party dress. Last week, the silk band around her waist had fit perfectly, but now it was the teensiest bit snug. She’d made herself scarce all day, trying to ignore Kate, Naomi, and Riley’s constant calls and texts, all invitations to the pre-party primping session at Naomi’s house. Finally, Hanna had answered, saying she was too upset about Ian skipping town to pre-party.

“Oh, kids, hi.” Mrs. Hastings rushed over to them, looking irritated that they were here. “The young people are in the library. This way.”

She began steering them toward the library, as if they were pesky clutter that needed to be stuffed into a closet. Hanna shot Lucas a helpless look. She wasn’t ready to face Kate. “Don’t you need to take photos of the adults?” she squeaked desperately.

“We have a society photographer for that,” Mrs. Hastings snapped. “You just take pictures of your friends.”

As soon as Mrs. Hastings threw open the library’s big double doors, someone cried, “Oh, shit.” There were whispers and a flurry of activity, and then the entire room looked up at Spencer’s mom with big
I’m not drinking
smiles on their faces. A Quaker school girl quickly slid off Noel Kahn’s lap. Mike Montgomery tried to hide his wineglass behind his back. Sean Ackard—who probably
wasn’t
drinking—was talking to Gemma Curran. Kate, Naomi, and Riley were holding court in the corner. Kate was in a white strapless gown; Naomi wore a multicolored, knee-length halter dress; and Riley wore the green Foley + Corinna Hanna had picked out for her in
Teen Vogue
.