“Hanna Marin?” blared a voice once Hanna said a tentative hello. “My name is Felicia Silver. I’m the executive producer of Burn It Down. It’s the true story about your terrible ordeal with Alison DiLaurentis.”
Hanna suppressed a groan. That sounded like another Pretty Little Killer, the made-for-TV movie that documented Hanna and the others’ first struggle with Ali. God, that movie was awful. Every part of it: the sets, the script, the frumpy girl who had been cast as Hanna. For a while, it had been on every week. Hanna used to have to endure kids quoting scenes in the locker room and at lunch. Did the world really need another movie about her life?
“I know what you’re thinking—that made-for-TV thing was crap.” Felicia chomped on gum as she talked. “But this one is going to be different. In theaters. With serious actors and a great script. And we’re filming right here in Rosewood, so we’re going to get the ambience just right.”
“Huh,” Hanna said, surprised. She hadn’t seen any film trucks or equipment.
“Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because of you, Hanna,” Felicia said. “I’ve seen you in the commercials with your father. The camera loves you.”
Hanna blushed. Before her father disowned her, they’d filmed some campaign ads together, including a “Don’t Drink and Drive” public service announcement. Hanna didn’t want to brag, but she thought she’d nailed it, too.
“I want to offer you a part in the movie,” Felicia went on. “It would be amazing publicity for us—and a fun experience for you, we hope. We were thinking of you as Naomi Zeigler—someone small but still crucial. She has a big role in the cruise ship scenes.”
Uh, yeah, Hanna almost blurted—she’d lived those scenes. But then she realized what Felicia had offered. “You want me to have an actual speaking role?”
“That’s right. Here’s your chance to show the world that you’ve put that nonsense behind you, and now you’re a fabulous actress. What do you say?”
Hanna’s mind whirled. She wanted to tell Felicia that maybe they hadn’t put the nonsense behind them . . . but Felicia would probably think she was nuts. Should she do it? Spencer had always been the drama girl, starring in every school play, memorizing Ibsen monologues just for the hell of it, and always wanting to do improv exercises during sleepovers. But it was tempting. Would this movie have a red-carpet premiere in Hollywood? Would she get to go?
Still, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Actually, we have to know now,” Felicia said, suddenly sounding impatient. “C’mon, Hanna. It’ll be an amazing experience. Hank Ross is directing. And guess who’s playing you! Hailey Blake!”
Hanna’s mouth dropped open. Hailey Blake was a beautiful, glittering, überfamous young starlet who’d been a presence in Hanna’s consciousness for years, starting with her starring role as Quintana in Abracadabra, Hanna’s favorite Disney show. After that, she’d gone on to do a slew of cool teen movies. Most recently, she’d hosted the Teen Choice Awards and shared a kiss onstage with her cohost, the sexy guy from Bitten, a hot vampire movie. And if this movie was good enough for Hailey . . .
“I guess I can give it a try,” she heard herself say.
“Fabulous!” Felicia crowed. “I’ll email you the details.”
Hanna hung up, still in a daze. She was going to be in a movie . . . with Hailey Blake. A real movie, with a red-carpet premiere. Red-carpet premieres also meant film festivals in Sundance and Cannes, didn’t they? And all that meant interviews with Ryan Seacrest and all those people on E! Maybe she could do a guest spot on Fashion Police! She and Hailey, together!
All at once, her future unfurled before her, bright and glittering. For the first time, something actually positive might come out of the A nightmare.
2
TORTURED ARTIST
Aria Montgomery steered her family’s rattling, sputtering, rusty Subaru into a parking space in Old Hollis, an artsy neighborhood resplendent with uneven sidewalks, shabby-chic Victorian houses, and out-of-control gardens (some of which yielded nothing but marijuana plants). The sun streamed across the leafy street in bright, broad stripes. A child’s bicycle was tipped over one lawn, and across the street was an abandoned lemonade stand with a sign that said ALL ORGANIC INGREDIENTS!
“Hey!” Aria’s mom, Ella, crowed as Aria walked through the door of the Olde Hollis Gallery, where she’d worked since the family moved back from Iceland two years ago. Ella’s dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore a long, gauzy skirt and a ribbed tank top that showed off her toned arms. Bracelets jangled on her wrist, and huge turquoise earrings swung from her earlobes. She hugged Aria tight, giving off a strong scent of patchouli oil. Ella had really been into hugging lately. She’d been into giving long, meaningful looks, too. Aria had a feeling her latest attack by A had really thrown her mom for a loop.
“Want to help me set up this show?” Ella asked, gesturing at a bunch of paintings tipped against the walls around the room. The artist, an old, hairy-eared guy named Franklin Hodgewell, had shown at the gallery a zillion times before, and his works of eastern Pennsylvania landscapes, flocks of geese, and Amish buggies were tried-and-true big sellers. “I mean, only if you want to,” Ella added quickly. “If you have something else to do, that’s okay, too.”
“Nope, I can help.” Aria picked up a painting of a barn and placed it on a hook. “I can help with the cocktail party, too, if you want.”