“It’s cool—I don’t mind riding,” Ali answered. Then she looked at Aria, who’d rescued Pigtunia from the roof and was cradling her in her arms. “Are we still on for tonight?”
Aria glanced at her parents, who were now sitting in the front seats of the car, staring straight ahead. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Um, I actually don’t think my parents are going out after all.”
“Oh.” Ali shrugged. “That’s okay. We don’t have to . . .” She mouthed the word drink.
“Actually . . .” Aria spun her blue string bracelet around her wrist, then glanced warily at her parents. “It’s not a good night to come over.”
Ali stepped back. “Why?” Aria stared at her feet, not answering. “Is something going on with your parents?” Ali demanded.
Aria looked wounded, almost like Ali had slapped her. I’m just trying to be nice! Ali almost protested, but Aria got into the car before she could. “I’ll call you later, okay? Sorry.”
Aria shut the door, leaving Ali standing next to the car, her arms dumbly at her sides. Ali stared at the bumper stickers on the car’s back fender as it pulled away. PLANNED PARENTHOOD. VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS. A Darwin fish. Aria didn’t even look out the window to wave good-bye.
Ali walked away as the car pulled out of the lot. As she reached into her bag, her fingers closed on something familiar. The silver mirror. She pulled it out and stared into the glass. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the girl looking back—she looked sad, bereft, confused. Nothing like herself at all.
7
SO MUCH FOR BEING A MATCHMAKER
A few hours later, Ali and Emily lay on the long leather sectionals in Ali’s den. Ali was flipping through prom issues of Teen Vogue, CosmoGirl, and Seventeen, and Emily was leafing through a dog-eared copy of Horoscope Birthday Book, which she seemed to never tire of. MTV’s My Super Sweet 16 blared in the background, and the house smelled like the baked chicken and corn on the cob Mrs. DiLaurentis had fixed for dinner. Jason stomped around upstairs, slamming his bureau drawers and opening and closing his closet door. Miserable rock music hummed through the ceiling.
“All these girls look hideous in mint green,” Ali declared as she turned a page of a prom-dress fashion spread. “Any dress that’s the same shade of a scoop of ice cream is not sexy.”
Emily placed the birthday book on the ottoman. The spine was so worn that the pages splayed open without any encouragement. Emily had been reading the entry for June 6, Ali’s birthday, for probably the billionth time. “I think you’d look pretty good in mint green,” she decided after studying the picture of the dress.
“That’s because I look good in any color,” Ali said, only half joking.
“You do,” Emily said earnestly, and Ali wanted to hug her. Emily was always good for a pick-me-up. After Aria had mysteriously canceled, Ali had called up Emily asking if she wanted to come over here instead. Naturally, Emily had given her an emphatic yes.
Emily doodled a picture of a girl in a prom dress on the cover of one of her notebooks. Instead of keeping a diary, Emily displayed her thoughts, likes, and dislikes in doodles on her notebooks: On this particular one, she’d penned her favorite swimmer’s name, Michael Phelps, in bubble letters; a picture of the Rosewood Day shark mascot in blue Sharpie; and Ali’s, Spencer’s, Aria’s, and Hanna’s names in calligraphy, followed by the letters BFF.
The air conditioner kicked on again, fluttering the curtains on the bay window. Ali stood up and pushed the curtains back, revealing the view of the Cavanaughs’ house across the street. It had been through this very window that Toby Cavanaugh had spied on them last year on the night everything happened.
Emily must have been thinking the same thing, because she cleared her throat. “I think I saw Jenna today. Maybe she’s home from school.”
“I saw her, too,” Ali said.
Emily twirled her pen between her fingers. “Do you ever . . . think about her?”
“Not really,” Ali lied.
“Do you ever think it’s weird that Toby confessed to something he didn’t do?”
Ali yanked the curtains shut. “He did do it, Em. End of story.”
“But—”
“End. Of. Story.” Ali pointed to the string bracelet on both of their wrists. There were a lot of things she’d considered telling Emily since that night. What she’d seen just before the firework went off. The discussion she’d had with Jenna even before that night. But she’d been lying for so long that she couldn’t start over now. And anyway, the truth wouldn’t change what had happened.
She tugged at Emily’s ponytail. “I’m so glad you could come over tonight, Em.”
“Totally.” Emily ducked her head bashfully. “We haven’t had a night alone since February.”
Ali smirked. “Of course you’d keep track of something like that.” Emily was like the friendship secretary, keeping minutes of exactly how much time they spent together. Sometimes, she’d announce that they’d been friends for two hundred and thirteen days, or that they’d spent four hundred minutes on the phone the past week, or that they’d exchanged sixty-seven emails or written a hundred and nine texts, or that they’d shared fourteen secrets.
Emily looked worried. “Is it weird?”
“Nah.” Ali hugged a pillow. “Well, maybe weird in a cute way.” If the others were around, Ali might have dogged Emily a little more for it, but when it was just the two of them, she could tell her what she really thought. When Ali was with Emily and only Emily, being so polished and perfect didn’t matter as much.