“Of course it isn’t another guy.” Aria hugged him from behind. “I just need some more time. Everything’s fine, I promise.”
“Well, you better watch out,” Noel said in a slightly more playful voice. “I’m going to find a slutty freshman to satisfy my needs.”
“You wouldn’t,” Aria threatened, slapping him lightly.
Noel twisted his mouth. “You’re right. All the freshman girls are skanks, anyway.”
“Not that that’s ever stopped you.”
Noel turned, buried Aria’s head in his armpit, and gave her a noogie. “I hope you count yourself in the skank category, woman!”
Aria squealed. “Stop!” They fell back to the sofa and started kissing again.
“Ahem.”
Aria shot up and saw her mother standing in the doorway. Ella’s long, black hair was wound on top of her head, and she wore a long, flowing caftan tunic and black leggings. There was a scolding frown on her face. “Hello, Aria,” she said evenly. “Hello, Noel.”
“H-hey, Ella,” Aria said, her face reddening. Despite her mom’s liberal attitude about most things, she was still pretty strict about not letting Aria be in the house alone with Noel. Aria hadn’t exactly told Ella she and Noel would be here today. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “We were just . . . talking. I swear.”
“Uh-huh.” Ella pursed her boysenberry-stained lips knowingly. Then, with a shake of her head, she padded off to the kitchen. “What are you two doing for dinner?” she asked over her shoulder. “I’m making raw turnip ravioli for Thaddeus and me. You’re welcome to stay.”
Aria glanced at Noel, who emphatically shook his head. Thaddeus was Ella’s boyfriend—they’d met at the art gallery where Ella worked. He was a raw foodist, which meant Ella had become one, too. Aria liked her pasta cooked, thanks very much.
Then, Noel’s phone, which was perched on the coffee table, let out a loud foghorn noise.
Noel untangled himself from Aria, checked the screen, and scowled. “Shit. I forgot. I have to pick up someone at the airport in an hour.”
“Who?” Aria sat up and pulled her cardigan around her shoulders.
“Just this loser foreign exchange student who’s coming for the semester. My parents dropped the bomb on me yesterday after the Hastingses’ party. It’s going to be so lame.”
Aria’s jaw dropped. “Why haven’t you told me yet? Foreign-exchange students are so interesting!” In fifth grade, a girl named Yuki had come on exchange from Japan, staying with Lanie Iler’s family. Most kids thought she was weird, but Aria found Yuki fascinating—she wrote her name in strange characters, folded origami shapes out of her spelling tests, and had the straightest, blackest hair Aria had ever seen.
Noel shoved his feet into his ratty driving loafers. “Are you kidding? It’s going to suck. Do you know where he’s from? Finland! He’s probably going to be such a freak, like one of those guys who wears girls’ jeans and plays the recorder.”
Aria smiled to herself, remembering how Noel had called her Finland the first few weeks after her family had returned from Iceland.
“This dude probably is a huge dork.” Noel strode toward the hall.
“Do you want company?” Aria called after him as he stomped down the stairs.
“Nah.” Noel waved his hand. “I’ll spare you from freak-Finn and his wooden shoes.”
That’s Holland, Aria wanted to say. She quickly pulled on her coat and slipped on her boots. “Seriously. I don’t mind.”
Noel chewed on his lip, thinking. “If you insist. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The Philadelphia airport teemed with families hauling suitcases, businessmen running to catch planes, and bedraggled travelers removing their shoes in the security line. The arrivals board said that the plane from Helsinki had just landed. Noel pulled a small cardboard square from his backpack and unfolded it. HUUSKO, it said in large red letters.
“That’s his last name,” Noel said wearily, staring at the poster as though it were a decree for his execution. “Doesn’t it sound like a brand of grannie panties? Or maybe some kind of unidentifiable meat spread?”
Aria giggled. “You’re terrible.”
Noel plopped morosely on one of the benches by the security gate and stared at the line of people snaking toward the metal detectors. “This is our senior year, Aria. The only time we’ll have to just chill before college. The last thing I want is some loser hanging on me. I swear my mom did this to torture me.”
Aria made an mmm of sympathy. Then, she noticed something on the TV hanging overhead. ANNIVERSARY OF ROSEWOOD MURDERESS’S DEATH, said the yellow-lettered headline on the screen.
A brunette reporter stood in front of the DiLaurentises’ old house, the wind blowing her hair around her face. “A year ago this Saturday, Alison DiLaurentis, whose killing spree baffled an entire nation, died in a horrific self-ignited fire in the Pocono Mountains,” she announced. “A whole year has passed since the bizarre events, but the town of Rosewood still hasn’t recovered.”
Images of Jenna Cavanaugh and Ian Thomas, two of Real Ali’s victims, flashed on the screen. Then there was the seventh-grade portrait of Courtney DiLaurentis—the girl who’d taken the real Ali’s place in sixth grade, the girl whom Real Ali killed during their seventh-grade sleepover. “Many are still puzzled that Ms. DiLaurentis’s body was never found in the rubble. Some have speculated Ms. DiLaurentis survived, but experts have claimed that there’s no possibility of that.”