Perfect (17 page)

“Didn’t you say your parents got divorced?” Aria asked, remembering a conversation they’d had at Ezra’s house. “Did your mom go off with Dr. Poole?”

“Nah.” Ezra reached over and grabbed a McNugget out of the box. “They got divorced a couple years later. Dr. Poole and the cancer were long gone.”

“God,” was all Aria could think to say.

“It sucks.” Ezra fiddled with one of the rocks in the mini zen rock garden that sat at the edge of his desk. “I idolized my parents’ marriage. It didn’t seem to me like they were having problems. My whole relationship ideal was shattered.”

“Mine too,” Aria said glumly, running her foot against a stack of paperbacks on the floor. “My parents seemed really happy together.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Ezra told her. “That’s a big thing I learned. It’s their thing. Unfortunately, you have to deal with it, and I think it makes you stronger.”

Aria groaned and clunked her head against the couch’s stiff back. “I hate when people say things like that to me. That things will make me a better person, even if the things themselves suck.”

Ezra chuckled. “Actually, I do too.”

Aria shut her eyes, finding this moment bittersweet. She had been waiting for someone to talk to about all this—someone who really, truly understood. She wanted to kiss Ezra for having as messed-up a family as she did.

Or maybe, she wanted to kiss Ezra…because he was Ezra.

Ezra’s eyes met hers. Aria could see her reflection in his inky pupils. With his hand, Ezra pushed the little Happy Meal car so that it rolled across his desk, over the edge, and onto her lap. A smile whispered across his face.

“Do you have a girlfriend in New York?” Aria blurted out.

Ezra’s forehead furrowed. “A girlfriend…” He blinked a few times. “I
did
. But we broke up this summer.”

“Oh.”

“Where did
that
come from?” Ezra asked.

“Some kids were talking about it, I guess. And I…I wondered what she was like.”

A devilish look danced in Ezra’s eyes, then escaped. He opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. “What?” Aria asked him.

“I shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“It’s just…” He glanced at her askance. “She was nothing compared to you.”

A hot feeling swished through Aria. Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, Ezra slid off the desk to stand. Aria inched toward the edge of the couch. The moment stretched on forever. And then, Ezra lunged forward, grabbed Aria at her shoulders, and pressed her to him. Her lips crashed onto his. She held the sides of his face, and he ran his hands up the length of her back. They broke away and stared at each other, then dove back in again. Ezra smelled delicious, like a mix of Pantene and mint and chai tea and something that was just…Ezra. Aria had never felt this way from kissing. Not with Sean, not with anyone.

Sean.
His image swam into her head. Sean letting Aria lean into him while they watched the BBC version of
The Office
last night. Sean kissing her before bio class, comforting her because they were starting dissections today. Sean holding her hand at dinner with his family. Sean was her
boyfriend.

Aria pushed Ezra away and jumped up. “I have to go.” She felt sweaty, as if someone had jacked up the thermostat about fifty degrees. She quickly gathered up her things, heart thumping and cheeks blazing.

“Thanks for the extension,” she blurted out, pushing clumsily through the door.

Out in the hall, she drew in a few deep breaths. Down the corridor, a figure slipped around the corner. Aria tensed.
Someone had seen.

She noticed something on Ezra’s door and widened her eyes. Someone had erased all the old white-board messages, replacing them with a new one in an unfamiliar hot pink marker.

Careful, careful! I’m always watching!

—A

And then, in smaller letters, down at the bottom:

Here’s a second hint: You all knew every inch of her backyard. But for one of you, it was so, so easy.

Aria pulled her blazer sleeve down and quickly wiped the letters away. When she got to the signature, she wiped extra hard, scrubbing and scrubbing until there was no trace of
A
left.

21

WHAT DOES H-O-L-Y C-R-A-P SPELL?

Thursday evening, Spencer settled into the red plushy seats at the Rosewood Country Club restaurant and looked out the bay window. On the golf course, a couple of older guys in V-neck sweaters and khakis were trying to get in a few more holes before the sun went down. Out on the deck, people were taking advantage of the last few warm days of the year, drinking gin and tonics and eating rock shrimp and bruschetta squares. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings stirred their Bombay Sapphire martinis, then looked at each other.

“I propose a toast.” Mrs. Hastings pushed her blond bobbed hair behind her ears, her three-carat diamond ring glinting against the setting sun streaming through the window. Spencer’s parents always toasted before they took a drink of anything—even water.

Mrs. Hastings raised her glass. “To Spencer making the Golden Orchid finals.”

Mr. Hastings clinked. “
And
to being on the front page of this Sunday’s
Sentinel.
”

Spencer raised her glass and clinked it with them, but the effort was halfhearted. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at home, protected and safe. She couldn’t stop thinking about her strange session with Dr. Evans this morning. The vision she’d seen—the forgotten fight with Ali the night she disappeared—was haunting. Why hadn’t she remembered it before? Was there more to it? What if she’d
seen
Ali’s killer?

“Congrats, Spencer,” her mother interrupted her thoughts. “I hope you win.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mumbled. She worked to fold her green napkin back into an accordion, then went around the table and folded all the others, too.

“Nervous about something?” Her mother nudged her chin at the napkins.

Spencer immediately stopped. “No,” she said quickly. Whenever she shut her eyes, she was right back in the Ali memory again. It was so clear now. She could smell the honeysuckle that grew in the woods that paralleled the barn, feel the early summer breeze, see the lightning bugs spatter-painting the dark sky. But it couldn’t be real.

When Spencer looked up, her parents were gazing at her peculiarly. They’d probably asked her a question she’d completely missed. For the first time ever, she wished Melissa were here monopolizing the conversation.

“Are you nervous because of the doctor?” her mother whispered.

Spencer couldn’t hide her smirk—she loved that her mom called Dr. Evans “the doctor” instead of “the therapist.” “No. I’m fine.”

“Do you think you’ve gotten a lot…” Her father seemed to search for his words, fiddling with his tie pin.

“…accomplished, with the doctor?”

Spencer rocked her fork back and forth.
Define accomplished,
she wanted to say.

Before she could answer, the waiter appeared. It was the same waiter they’d had for years, the short little baldish guy who had a Winnie-the-Pooh voice. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hastings.” Pooh shook her father’s hand. “And Spencer. You’re looking lovely.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mumbled, although she was pretty sure she wasn’t. She hadn’t washed her hair after field hockey, and the last time she’d looked in the mirror, her eyes had a wild, scared look to them. She kept twitching, too, and looking around the restaurant to see if someone was watching her.

“How is everyone tonight?” Pooh asked. He fluffed up the napkins Spencer had just refolded and spread them on everyone’s laps. “Here for a special occasion?”

“Actually, yes,” Mrs. Hastings piped up. “Spencer’s a finalist in the Golden Orchid competition. It’s a major academic prize.”

“Mom,”
Spencer hissed. She hated how her mother broadcast family accomplishments. Especially since Spencer had cheated.

“That’s wonderful!” Pooh bellowed. “It’s nice to have some
good
news, for once.” He leaned in closer. “Quite a few of our guests think they’ve seen that stalker everyone’s been talking about. Some even say they saw someone near the club last night.”

“Hasn’t this town been through enough?” Mr. Hastings mused.

Mrs. Hastings worriedly glanced at her husband. “You know, I swore I saw someone staring at me when I met Spencer at the doctor’s on Monday.”

Spencer jerked her head up, her heart racing. “Did you get a look at him?”

Mrs. Hastings shrugged. “Not really.”

“Some people are saying it’s a man. Others, a woman,” Pooh said.

Everyone
tsk
ed in distress.

Pooh took their orders. Spencer mumbled that she wanted the ahi tuna—the same thing she’d been getting ever since she stopped ordering off the kids’ menu. As the waiter trundled away, Spencer looked blearily around the dining room. It was done up in a ramshackle-Nantucket-boat theme, with dark wicker chairs and lots of life buoys and bronze figureheads. The far wall still had the ocean mural, complete with a hideous giant squid, a killer whale, and a merman that had flowing blond hair and a broken, Owen Wilson–style nose. When Spencer, Ali, and the others used to come here to eat dinner alone—a huge deal, back in sixth and seventh grades—they loved sitting next to the merman. Once, when Mona Vanderwaal and Chassey Bledsoe came in here by themselves, Ali demanded that Mona and Chassey both give the merman a big French kiss. Tears of shame had run down their cheeks as both girls stuck their tongues to the painted merman’s lips.

Ali was so mean,
Spencer thought. Her dream floated back.
You can’t have this,
Ali had said. Why did Spencer get so angry? Spencer thought Ali was going to tell Melissa about Ian that night. Was that why? And what did Dr. Evans mean when she said that some people edit out things that happen to them? Had Spencer ever done that before?

“Mom?” Suddenly Spencer was curious. “Do you know if I ever, like, randomly forgot a whole bunch of stuff? Like…experienced temporary amnesia?”

Her mother held her drink in midair. “W-why are you asking?”

The back of Spencer’s neck felt clammy. Her mother had the same disturbed,
I don’t want to deal with this
look she’d had the time her brother, Spencer’s uncle Daniel, got too drunk at one of their parties and prattled off a few deeply protected family secrets. That was how Spencer found out her grandmother had a morphine addiction, and that her aunt Penelope had given away a child for adoption when she was seventeen. “Wait, I
have
?”

Her mom felt the plate’s scalloped edge. “You were seven. You had the flu.”

The cords in her mother’s neck stood out, which meant she was holding her breath. And that meant she wasn’t telling Spencer everything.
“Mom.”

Her mother ran her hands around the martini glass edge. “It’s not important.”

“Oh, tell her, Veronica,” her father said gruffly. “She can handle it.”

Mrs. Hastings took a deep breath. “Well, Melissa, you, and I went to the Franklin Institute—you both loved that walk-through heart exhibit. Remember?”

“Sure,” Spencer said. The Franklin Institute heart exhibit spanned five thousand square feet, had veins the size of Spencer’s forearm, and throbbed so loudly that when you were inside its ventricles, the beating was the only sound you could hear.

“We were walking back to our car,” her mother went on, her eyes on her lap. “On our way, this man stopped us.” She paused, and took Spencer’s father’s hand. They both looked so solemn. “He…he had a gun in his jacket. He wanted my wallet.”

Spencer widened her eyes.
“What?”

“He made us get down on our stomachs on the sidewalk.” Mrs. Hastings’s mouth wobbled. “I didn’t care that I gave him my wallet, but I was so scared for you girls. You kept whimpering and crying. You kept asking me if we were going to die.”

Spencer twisted the end of the napkin in her lap. She didn’t remember this.

“He told me to count to one hundred before we could get up again,” her mother said. “After the coast was clear, we ran to our car, and I drove us home. I drove nearly thirty miles over the speed limit, I remember. It’s a wonder I didn’t get stopped.”

She paused and sipped her drink. Someone dropped a bunch of plates in the kitchen, and most of the diners craned their necks in the direction of the shattering china, but Mrs. Hastings acted as if she hadn’t even heard it. “When we got home, you had a horrible fever,” she went on. “It came on suddenly. We took you to the ER. We were afraid you had meningitis—there had been a case of it a few towns over. We had to stay close to home while we waited for the test results, in case we had to rush you back to the hospital. We had to miss Melissa’s national spelling bee. Remember when she was preparing for that?”

Spencer remembered. Sometimes, she and Melissa would play Bee—Melissa as the contestant, Spencer as the judge, lobbing Melissa words to spell from a long list. That was back when Melissa and Spencer used to like each other. But the way Spencer remembered it, Melissa had opted out of the competition because she had a field hockey game that same day. “Melissa went to the bee after all?” she sounded out.

“She did, but she went with Yolanda’s family. Remember her friend Yolanda? She and Melissa were in all those knowledge bowls together.”