Stunning. Part 8

"Now?" Isaac asked. He gestured to his plate. "I'm in the middle of dinner."

"Have them wrap it up." Mrs. Colbert turned on her heel and stormed toward the bar, clearly expecting Isaac to follow.

Isaac looked at Emily, his eyes big and sad. "I'm so sorry. Can we take a rain check? Do something later in the week?"

"Uh, sure," Emily said dazedly, staring at Mrs. Colbert as she typed something on her cell phone.

They flagged down the waitress, who brought them the check and a Styrofoam carryout container. Then Isaac pushed cash into the bill envelope and handed it back to the waitress.

"You were saying something before we got interrupted." He touched Emily's hand lightly. "Is it important?"

Emily's mouth went dry. "It doesn't matter," she said quietly.

"Are you sure?" Isaac looked worried.

Emily nodded. "Absolutely. I promise."

Isaac gave Emily a hug. As he squeezed her tight, so many emotions flooded her. She'd forgotten how soft his hair was, the feel of his slightly scratchy face against her neck, and how he smelled like freshly squeezed oranges. Long-repressed feelings awoke inside her, those tingles growing stronger.

He pulled away too soon. "Let me make it up to you. I'm off Sat.u.r.day-we could go to the ice cream shop in Hollis." His soft blue eyes beseeched her.

After a moment, Emily nodded, and Isaac left her to join his mother at the counter. Mrs. Colbert shot Emily one last nasty look, then flounced out of the restaurant.

Emily sank back into the booth, relief settling over her. All at once she was glad Mrs. Colbert had interrupted them-and that she hadn't told Isaac her secret. If Mrs. Colbert ever found out, she'd call Emily's parents immediately, and probably tell the entire church that Emily was a s.l.u.t.

And Isaac might not want to go to ice cream with you if he knew what you did, a tiny, selfish voice whispered in her ear. But Emily couldn't change the past. What was done was done, and what Isaac didn't know would hurt him.

Right?

15.

IVY OR BUST.

Late Friday afternoon, Spencer got out of a cab at the Princeton University gates, zipped up her leather jacket, and looked around. Students in stadium-cloth coats and Burberry-plaid scarves bustled to and fro. Professors wearing wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and blazers with corduroy patches on the elbows strolled together, no doubt having n.o.bel prizequality conversations. The bells in the clock tower struck six, the sound bouncing off the cobblestones.

A thrill went through Spencer. She'd been to Princeton plenty of times for debate compet.i.tions, field trips, summer camps, and college tours, but the campus felt very, very different today. She was going to be a student here next year. It was going to be such a dream to get the h.e.l.l out of Rosewood and have a whole new start. Even this weekend felt like a fresh start. As soon as the train had pulled out of Rosewood, her shoulders had fallen from her ears. A wasn't here. Spencer was safe . . . at least for a little while.

She looked at the directions Harper had sent her to the Ivy Eating Club. It was on Prospect Avenue, which everyone at Princeton simply called "The Street." As she turned left and walked up the tree-lined boulevard, her phone chimed. Have you done any research on you-know-who? Hanna wrote.

That was code for Gayle. Nothing that's led anywhere, Spencer wrote back. She'd scoured the Internet for details on Gayle, seeing if there was any possible way she could be A. The first order of business was to figure out if Gayle could have been in Jamaica last year at the same time the girls were-maybe, like they'd hypothesized about Kelsey, Gayle had seen what they'd done and then, later, after Emily screwed her over, she connected the dots and used it against them.

The Cliffs wasn't the kind of place a cla.s.sy, middle-aged woman would have stayed, but Spencer phoned a few resorts near The Cliffs, identifying herself as Gayle's personal a.s.sistant and asking when Gayle had vacationed there. None of the reservations a.s.sociates had any record of Gayle staying with them-ever. She'd fanned out her search, calling resorts ten, fifteen, even fifty miles away, but as far as Spencer could tell, Gayle had never even been to Jamaica.

So how could Gayle know about what they'd done to Tabitha? How would she have gotten that photo of Emily and Tabitha or of Tabitha lying twisted and broken on the sand? Had Gayle gone to Jamaica under a fake name? Was she working with someone else? Had she hired a PI, like Aria had suggested?

Furthermore, even if Gayle was A, the issue of Tabitha was still puzzling. Why had she acted so Ali-like at The Cliffs? Had she and Ali been friends when they were at The Preserve, and had she been trying to get revenge for Ali's death? Or was it all an awful coincidence?

Before she knew it, she'd arrived at the address Harper had given her. It was a large, Gothic-style brick house with gorgeous leaded-gla.s.s windows, manicured bushes, and an American flag protruding from the front porch. Spencer walked up the stone path and rang the front doorbell, which let out a few impressive bongs to the opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. There were footsteps, and then the door flung open. Harper appeared, looking fresh-faced in a purple top with dolman sleeves, skinny jeans, and leather ankle boots. A navy cashmere blanket was draped around her shoulders.

"Welcome!" she cried. "You made it!"

She ushered Spencer inside. The foyer was drafty and smelled like a mixture of leather and jasmine perfume. Blond-wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and stained-gla.s.s windows decorated the walls. Spencer could just picture past Pulitzer Prize winners standing by the roaring fire or sitting in the wing chairs, having important discussions.

"This is amazing," she gushed.

"Yeah, it's okay," Harper said nonchalantly. "I have to apologize in advance, though. My bedroom upstairs is really drafty and kind of small."

"I don't mind," Spencer said quickly. She'd sleep in the Ivy broom closet if she had to.

Harper took Spencer's hand. "Let me introduce you to the others."

She led Spencer through a long hallway lit by chrome and gla.s.s lamps to a larger, more modern room in the back of the house. A wall of windows faced the woods behind the property. Another boasted a flat-screen TV, bookshelves, and a large papier-mache statue of the Princeton tiger mascot. Blanket-swaddled girls lounged on suede couches, tapping their iPads and laptops, reading books, or, in one blond girl's case, playing an acoustic guitar. Spencer was almost positive the Asian girl fiddling with her phone had won the Golden Orchid a few years ago. The girl in bottle-green jeans by the window was a dead ringer for Jessie Pratt, the girl who'd gotten her memoir about living in Africa with her grandparents published at sixteen.

"Guys, this is Spencer Hastings," Harper said, and everyone looked up. She pointed at the girls around the room. "Spencer, this is Joanna, Marilyn, Jade, Callie, Willow, Quinn, and Jessie." So it was Jessie Pratt. Everyone waved happily. "Spencer is an early admit," Harper went on. "I met her at the dinner I hosted, and I think she's a natural for us."

"Nice to meet you." Quinn set aside her acoustic guitar and shook Spencer's hand. Her fingernails were painted a preppy pink. "Any friend of Harper's is a friend of ours."

"I like your guitar," Spencer said, nodding at it. "It's a Martin, right?"

Quinn raised her perfectly plucked blond eyebrows. "You know guitars?"

Spencer shrugged. Her dad was into guitars, and she used to go to some of the vintage expos with him, searching for new ones to add to his collection.

"How do you like that?" Jessie Pratt said, pointing to the book Spencer was carrying. It was a copy of V. by Thomas Pynchon.

"Oh, it's great," Spencer said, even though she didn't really get the gist of the story. The writer barely used any punctuation.

"We'd better get going." Harper grabbed a sweater from the back of one of the couches.

"Going where?" Spencer asked.

Harper gave her a cryptic smile. "A party at this guy Daniel's house. You'll love him."

"Awesome." Spencer dropped her duffel by the front door, waited as Harper, Jessie, and Quinn put on their coats and gathered their purses, and followed them into the cold night. They trudged down the snowy sidewalks, careful not to slip on patches of ice. The moon was out, and aside from a few cars swis.h.i.+ng down the main avenue, the world was very quiet and still. Spencer eyed a hulking SUV parked at the curb, its motor running, but couldn't see its driver through the tinted gla.s.s.

They turned up the walkway of a big, Dutch-style mansion on the corner. Ba.s.s thundered from inside, and shadows pa.s.sed in front of the brightly lit windows. There were a bunch of cars parked in the driveway, and more kids were making their way up the front lawn. The front door was open, and a handsome guy with thick eyebrows and longish chestnut-colored hair stood in the foyer, the official welcoming committee.

"Greetings, ladies," he said in a smarmy voice, sipping from a plastic cup.

"Hey, Daniel," Harper gave him an air kiss. "This is Spencer. She's going to be a freshman next fall."

"Ah, new blood." Daniel looked Spencer up and down. "I approve."

Spencer followed Harper into the house. The living room was packed, and a 50 Cent track blared loudly. The guys were drinking Scotch; the girls were in dresses and heels and wore diamond studs in their ears. In the corner, people were sitting around a hookah, bluish smoke wafting around their heads.

When someone grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, Spencer figured it was a hot guy-there were so many of them to choose from. But then she looked at the guy's droopy eyes, dirty dreadlocks, crooked smile, and tie-dyed Grateful Dead 1986 Tour T-s.h.i.+rt.

"Spencer, right?" The guy's smile stretched wide. "You missed an amazing time the other night. The Occupy Philly rally rocked."

Spencer squinted at him. "Excuse me?"

"It's Reefer." The guy raised his arms in a ta-da! gesture. "From the Princeton dinner last week. Remember?"

Spencer blinked. "What are you doing here?" she barked.

Reefer looked around the room. "Well, a professor invited me to lunch. And then I met Daniel in the dining hall, and he told me about tonight's s.h.i.+ndig."

It was the most preposterous thing Spencer had ever heard. "A professor invited you here?"

"Yeah, Professor d.i.n.kins," Reefer said, shrugging. "He's in the quantum physics department. That's what I'm majoring in next year."

Quantum physics? Spencer stared again at Reefer's dirty jeans and beat-up hemp shoes. He didn't even look capable of using a was.h.i.+ng machine. And was it normal for professors to invite incoming freshmen to tour the campus? No one from the faculty had invited Spencer to visit. Did it mean she wasn't special?

"There you are." Harper grabbed Spencer's arm. "I've been looking all over for you! Wanna keep me company outside?"

"Please," Spencer said, relieved.

"You can ask Reefer if he wants to come, too," Harper stage-whispered.

Spencer glanced over her shoulder at Reefer. Luckily, he was now talking to Daniel and paying no attention to either of them. Maybe Daniel would realize how much of a dork Reefer was and ask him to leave.

"Uh, I think he's busy," Spencer said, turning back to Harper. "Let's go."

Harper kicked open the back door and led Spencer across a brick patio to a small gazebo. Several kids were sitting around a fire pit, drinking wine. A couple was making out near the hedges. Harper settled down on a bench, pulled a cigarette from her jacket pocket, and lit it. Smelly smoke swirled around her head. "Want some?"

It took Spencer a few seconds for her to realize it was a joint. "Um, that's okay. Pot makes me sleepy."

"Come on." Harper inhaled hard. "This stuff is amazing. It gives you the best high."

Snap. A twig broke in the woods. A whoos.h.i.+ng sound filled the air, and then soft, feathery whispers. Spencer looked around nervously. After what had happened last summer with Kelsey, the last thing she wanted was to get caught with drugs.

"Do you really think you should do that?" Spencer said, eyeing the joint. "I mean, couldn't you get in trouble?"

Harper flicked a bit of ash off the tip. "Who's going to tell on me?"

There was another snap. Spencer gazed into the dark woods, feeling more and more nervous. "Um, my drink's running low," she mumbled, holding up her empty cup.

She ran into the house, feeling relieved as soon as she returned to the overheated room. Refilling her cup with lemon-infused vodka, she strutted onto the dance floor. Quinn and Jessie invited her into their dancing circle, and she let three songs go by without thinking, trying to lose herself in the music. A junior boy named Sam cut in, dipping Spencer dramatically. The vodka zoomed through her veins, fiery and potent.

When she saw the flas.h.i.+ng lights reflecting across the window, she thought someone had been pulled over on the street outside the house. But then, two uniformed cops opened the front door and poked their heads inside. Most of the guests hid their drinks behind their backs. The music stopped dead.

"What's going on in here?" One of the officers shone a flashlight into the room.

Everyone scattered. Doors slammed. The other cop raised his megaphone to him mouth. "We're looking for Harper Ess.e.x-Pembroke," his m.u.f.fled voice boomed. "Miss Ess.e.x-Pembroke? Are you here?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. At that very moment, Harper appeared at the back door, her hair mussed, and a startled look on her pale face. "I-I'm Harper. What's the problem?"

The cop stepped toward her and grabbed her arm. "We got an anonymous tip that you're in possession of marijuana, with the intent to sell."

Harper's mouth dropped. "W-what?"

"That's a serious offense." The corner of the cop's mouth turned down.

Everyone watched as Harper was escorted through the room. Quinn shook her head in horror. "How the h.e.l.l did the cops find out Harper had weed?"

As if she'd heard Quinn's question, Harper turned around and glared at Spencer. "Nice job," she hissed. "You ruined this party for everyone-and yourself."

Spencer's eyes bulged. "I didn't say anything!"

Harper just gave her an incredulous look as the cops escorted her out the door. Jessie and Quinn gaped at Spencer. "You told?" Quinn exclaimed.

"Of course not!" Spencer said.

Jessie's brown eyes were wide. "But you were outside with her, weren't you? None of us would tell."

"It wasn't me!" Spencer exclaimed. "I swear!"

But her words fell on deaf ears. Within seconds, everyone else at the party was looking at her suspiciously. Spencer slipped out of the room, her face burning. What the h.e.l.l had just happened? How was she suddenly to blame?

Bzz.

She pulled out her phone. One new text from Anonymous. She looked around at the towering trees and the silent stars. It was so quiet out, yet she felt distinctly like someone was lurking close, trying hard to keep from laughing. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her phone's screen.

Just be happy I didn't call the cops about YOUR secrets. -A

16.

RUNNING FOR HER LIFE.

"Looking good, everyone!" Hanna called to the crowds thundering down Rosewood's main drag in the annual Rosewood Hospital 10k race. It was Sat.u.r.day morning, and a steady rain was falling. Hanna's hair looked like c.r.a.p and her makeup was smudged, but she'd promised her dad she'd hand out Tom Marin b.u.t.tons and treats.

"Have a banana!" she said to a skinny older man who was puffing along in a see-through rain slicker, pa.s.sing him a banana with a VOTE FOR TOM MARIN sticker on the peel. "Vote for Tom Marin!" She handed water cups printed with TOM MARIN to two chubby middle-aged women who were walking the race, huddling together under an umbrella. "Go, go, go!"