But then Jamaica happened.
Emily had been so excited to go. Spencer made the plans, picking The Cliffs resort in Negril and booking them massages, yoga classes, snorkeling trips, and sunset dinners in the caves. It was going to be the perfect escape, an ideal place to slough off all the horrible stuff that had happened. Emily had hoped the tropical air would cure the stomach flu that she hadn’t been able to kick, too.
The first afternoon had been perfect—the warm water, the welcoming fish-fry lunch, the soothing sun. But then she’d seen that girl on the stairs of the roof deck that first night.
When the girl stepped in the doorway, her blond hair blowing, her yellow halter dress fluttered around her legs. Emily’s vision tunneled. The girl was the only thing she saw. Her oval face, pointed nose, and slightly chunkier frame looked nothing like Ali’s, but Emily just . . . knew. In the back of her mind, she’d somehow known she and Ali would meet again, and here she was. Alive. Staring straight at her.
She’d turned to her friends. “That’s Ali,” she whispered.
They just stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Spencer said. “Ali’s dead, Em.”
“She died in the fire, remember?” Aria urged. She watched Emily suspiciously, like she worried Emily might make a scene.
“Did she?” Emily thought back to that night in the Poconos, guilt and anxiety rising inside of her. “What if she escaped? No one found her body.”
Hanna turned to the girl in yellow. She had moved off the landing and was walking over to the bar. “Em, that looks nothing like her. Maybe you have a fever.”
But Emily wasn’t going to give up that easily. She watched as the girl ordered a drink, shooting one of the bartenders an I’m-Ali-and-I’m-fabulous smile. How many times had Emily cherished that smile? Yearned for it? Her heart sped up even more. “If Ali survived the fire, she would’ve had reconstructive surgery for the burns,” she whispered. “That could be why she looks totally different. And that’s why she has those marks on her arms.”
“Emily . . .” Aria clutched Emily’s hands. “You’re making something out of nothing. It’s not Ali. You have to get over her.”
“I am over her!” Emily roared.
Emily snapped back to the present, reaching into the pocket of her corduroys and feeling for the silky orange tassel. If anyone ever asked, if anyone recognized it, she would say she’d found it on the lawn of the DiLaurentises’ Poconos house after the explosion, even though it wasn’t the truth.
Suddenly, Chloe leapt to her feet. “Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?”
A young couple appeared in the hall. Chloe’s father, an athletic, dark-haired guy with smooth, flawless skin, wore a gray suit and polished leather shoes. Her mother, who had an angular brown bob and wore dark-framed hipster glasses, had on a tight pencil skirt, a shiny pink blouse, and pointy patent-leather heels. There was something edgy about them, like they went to buttoned-up jobs all day but attended indie bands and poetry readings at night. It was a nice change from the stuffy horsey types that overran Rosewood.
“We live here, remember?” Chloe’s dad joked. Then he noticed Emily and smiled. “Hello . . . ?”
“Hi, I’m Emily Fields.” Emily stepped forward and offered her hand.
“The coat check girl, right?” Mrs. Roland asked, shaking Emily’s hand next. She wore a huge diamond ring Emily recognized from the party.
“And the swimmer,” Mr. Roland added.
“And the babysitter while I go to my Villanova interview,” Chloe told them. “She’s wonderful with Grace, I promise.”
Mr. Roland leaned on the banister. “Actually, Chlo, I don’t think we really need a babysitter. We’re both in for the night.” He turned to Emily. “We’ll still pay you for your trouble, of course.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Emily said quickly. “It was nice to come over.” As soon as she said it, she realized it was true. She’d spent the past fall and winter holed up in her room without anyone to talk to. Worrying. Brooding. She felt like she was waking up from a long nap.
“We insist!” Mrs. Roland cried. “Henry, go get your wallet.”
Chloe’s mom retreated to the master bedroom, and Chloe and her dad started down the stairs. Emily followed them. “What lunch period do you have?” Chloe asked over her shoulder.
“First on Tuesdays and Thursdays, second on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” Emily answered.
“I have second lunch on Wednesdays and Fridays, too!” Chloe grabbed her coat from the closet. “Want to eat together? If you’re not busy, of course.”
“I would love that,” Emily breathed. Lately, she’d been eating lunch off-campus—seniors were allowed to leave for the hour. But it was awfully lonely.
They made a plan to meet in front of Steam on Wednesday. Then Chloe rushed off to her interview, and Emily faced Mr. Roland again. He had pulled out a sleek leather wallet. “Really. You don’t have to pay me.”
Mr. Roland waved away her offer. “So Chloe told me about your swimming conundrum. You’re serious about competing at the college level?”
“Of course.”
He paused on her for a moment, studying her face. “Good. I have a lot of pull at UNC. If you give me your times, I can get in touch with the recruiter. I know they’re still looking for kids to fill out the team.”
Emily pressed her hand to her chest. “Thank you so much.”