“Spencer?” Her mother’s voice floated up. “Can you come downstairs?”
Spencer jumped and peeked at her reflection in her vanity mirror. Her eyes looked puffy and bloodshot, her lips were chapped, and her hair had leaves stuck in it from hiding in the woods last night. She couldn’t handle a family meeting right now.
The first floor smelled of fresh-brewed Nicaraguan Segovia coffee, Fresh Fields Danishes, and the fresh-cut calla lilies their housekeeper, Candace, bought every morning. Spencer’s father stood at the granite-topped island, decked out in his black spandex bike pants and U.S. Postal Service bike jersey. Perhaps that was a good sign—they couldn’t be too angry if her dad had gone for his regular 5 A.M. bike ride.
On the kitchen table was a copy of the Sunday Philadelphia Sentinel. At first Spencer thought it was there because it had news of Hanna’s accident. But then she saw her own face staring back at her from the paper’s front page. She wore a sleek black suit and was giving the camera a confident smirk. Move Over, Trumps! the headline said. Golden Orchid Essay Contest Nominee Spencer Hastings Is Coming!
Spencer’s stomach heaved. She’d forgotten. The paper was on everyone’s doorsteps right now.
A figure emerged from the pantry. Spencer stepped back in fear. There was Melissa, glaring at her, clutching a box of Raisin Bran so tightly Spencer thought she might crush it. There was a tiny scratch on her sister’s left cheek, a Band-Aid over her right eyebrow, a yellow hospital bracelet still around her left wrist, and a pink cast on her right wrist, clearly a souvenir of yesterday’s fight with Spencer.
Spencer lowered her eyes, feeling a whole mess of guilty feelings. Yesterday, A had sent Melissa the first few sentences of her old AP economics paper, the very one Spencer had pilfered from Melissa’s computer hard drive and disguised as her own AP economics homework. The same essay Spencer’s econ teacher, Mr. McAdam, had nominated for a Golden Orchid essay award, the most prestigious high school–level award in the country. Melissa had figured out what Spencer had done, and although Spencer had begged for forgiveness, Melissa had said horrible things to her—things way worse than Spencer thought she deserved. The fight had ended when Spencer, enraged by Melissa’s words, had accidentally shoved her sister down the stairs.
“So, girls.” Mrs. Hastings set her coffee cup on the table and gestured for Melissa to sit. “Your father and I have made some big decisions.”
Spencer braced for what was coming. They were going to turn Spencer in for plagiarizing. She wouldn’t get into college. She’d have to go to trade school. She’d end up working as a telemarketer at QVC, taking orders for ab rollers and fake diamonds, and Melissa would get off scot-free, just like she always did. Somehow, her sister always found a way to come out on top.
“First off, we don’t want you girls to see Dr. Evans anymore.” Mrs. Hastings laced her fingers together. “She’s done more harm than good. Understood?”
Melissa nodded silently, but Spencer scrunched up her nose in confusion. Dr. Evans, Spencer and Melissa’s shrink, was one of the few people who didn’t try to kiss Melissa’s ass. Spencer began to protest but noticed the warning looks on both her parents’ faces. “Okay,” she mumbled, feeling a bit hopeless.
“Second of all.” Mr. Hastings tapped the Sentinel, squashing his thumb over Spencer’s face. “Plagiarizing Melissa’s paper was very wrong, Spencer.”
“I know,” Spencer said quickly, terrified to look anywhere in Melissa’s direction.
“But after some careful thought, we’ve decided that we don’t want to go public with it. This family’s been through too much already. So, Spencer, you’ll continue to compete for the Golden Orchid. We will tell no one about this.”
“What?” Melissa slammed her coffee cup down on the table.
“That’s what we’ve decided,” Mrs. Hastings said tightly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “And we also expect Spencer to win.”
“To win?” Spencer repeated, shocked.
“You’re rewarding her?” Melissa shrieked.
“Enough.” Mr. Hastings used the tone of voice he typically reserved for underlings at his law practice when they dared call him at home.
“Third thing,” Mrs. Hastings said. “You girls are going to bond.”
Her mother pulled two snapshots out of her cardigan pocket. The first was of Spencer and Melissa at four and nine years old, respectively, lying on a hammock at their grandmother’s beach house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. The second photo was of them in the same beach house’s playroom, a few years later. Melissa wore a magician’s hat and cape, and Spencer had on her Tommy Hilfiger stars-and-stripes ruffled bikini. On her feet were the black motorcycle boots she’d worn until they’d gotten so small that they cut off all the circulation to her toes. The sisters were performing a magic show for their parents; Melissa was the magician, and Spencer was her lovely assistant.
“I found these this morning.” Mrs. Hastings passed the photos to Melissa, who glanced at them quickly and passed them back. “Remember how you girls used to be such good friends? You were always babbling in the backseat of the car. You never wanted to go anywhere without each other.”
“That was ten years ago, Mom,” Melissa said wearily.
Mrs. Hastings stared at the photo of Spencer and Melissa on the hammock. “You used to love Nana’s beach house. You used to be friends at Nana’s beach house. So we’ve decided to take a trip to Stone Harbor today. Nana isn’t there, but we have keys. So pack up your things.”
Spencer’s parents were nodding feverishly, their faces hopeful.
“That’s just stupid,” Spencer and Melissa said together. Spencer glanced at her sister, astounded they’d thought the same thing.
Mrs. Hastings left the photo on the counter and carried her mug to the sink. “We’re doing it, and that’s final.”
Melissa rose from the table, holding her wrist at an awkward angle. She glanced at Spencer, and for a moment, her eyes softened. Spencer gave her a tiny smile. Perhaps they’d connected just then, finding common ground in hating their parents’ naive plan. Perhaps Melissa could forgive Spencer for shoving her down the stairs and stealing her paper. If she did, Spencer would forgive Melissa for saying their parents didn’t love her.
Spencer looked down at the photo and thought of the magic shows she and Melissa used to perform. After their friendship had splintered, Spencer had thought that if she muttered some of her and Melissa’s old magic words, they’d be best friends again. If only it were that easy.
When she looked up again, Melissa’s expression had shifted. She narrowed her eyes and turned away. “Bitch,” she said over her shoulder as she sashayed down the hall.
Spencer curled her hands into fists, all of her anger gushing back in. It would take a whole lot more than magic for them to get along. It would take a miracle.
3 EMILY’S OWN AMERICAN GOTHIC
Late Sunday afternoon, Emily Fields followed an old lady with a walker onto the moving sidewalk of the Des Moines International Airport, dragging her ratty blue swim duffel behind her. The bag was stuffed with all her worldly goods—her clothes, shoes, her two favorite stuffed walruses, her journal, her iPod, and various carefully folded notes from Alison DiLaurentis that she couldn’t bear to part with. When the plane was over Chicago, she realized she’d forgotten underwear. But then, that was what she got for packing frantically this morning. She’d only gotten three hours of sleep, shell-shocked from seeing Hanna’s body fly up into the air when that SUV hit her.