Despair rolled over Emily like a strong ocean wave. It was painful to think about the past. If only she could box up those memories, mail them to the South Pole, and be free of them for good.
“You’re slouching,” hissed a voice.
Emily looked up. Her mother stood in front of her, her brow wrinkled and the corners of her lips crumpled into a scowl. She wore a blue dress that hit at an unattractive spot between her knees and her calves, and she carried a fake-snakeskin bag under her arm like it was a loaf of French bread.
“And smile,” Mrs. Fields added. “You look miserable.”
Emily shrugged. What was she supposed to do, grin like a maniac? Burst into song? “This job isn’t exactly fun,” she pointed out.
Mrs. Fields’s nostrils flared. “Mrs. Hastings was very nice to give you this opportunity. Please don’t quit this like you quit everything else.”
Ouch. Emily hid behind a curtain of reddish-blond hair. “I’m not going to quit.”
“Just do your job, then. Make some money. Lord knows every bit counts.”
Mrs. Fields marched away, putting on a friendly face for the neighbors. Emily slumped in the chair, fighting back tears. Don’t quit this like you quit everything else. Her mom had been furious when Emily walked off the swim team last June without any explanation, spending the summer in Philadelphia instead. Emily hadn’t rejoined the Rosewood Day team in the fall, either. In the world of competitive swimming, missing a couple of months spelled trouble, especially during college scholarship time. Missing two seasons equaled doom.
Her parents were devastated. Don’t you realize we can’t pay for college if you don’t get a scholarship? Don’t you realize you’re throwing your future away?
Emily didn’t know how to answer them. There was no way she could tell them why she’d quit the team. Not for as long as she lived.
She’d finally rejoined her old club team a couple of weeks ago and hoped that a college scout might take pity on her and give her a last-minute spot. A recruiter from the University of Arizona had been interested in her last year, and Emily had clung to the notion that he would still want her for the team. But earlier today, she’d had to let go of that dream, too.
Pulling her phone from her bag, she once again checked the rejection email that had come in from the scout. Sorry to say . . . just not enough room . . . good luck. Looking at the words, Emily’s stomach swirled.
Suddenly, the room smelled pungently of roasted garlic and cinnamon Altoids. The string quartet sawing away in the corner sounded hideously out of tune. The walls closed in around Emily’s sides. What was she going to do next year? Get a job and live at home? Go to community college? She had to get out of Rosewood—if she stayed here, the terrible memories would swallow her up until there was nothing left of her.
A tall, black-haired girl near the china cabinet caught her eye. Aria.
Emily’s heart began to pound. Spencer had acted like she’d seen a ghost when they’d locked eyes, but maybe Aria would be different. As she watched Aria gazing at the knickknacks in the cabinet—acting like the objects in the room mattered more than the people, something she’d always done when she was left alone at parties—Emily was suddenly overtaken by nostalgia. She stepped out from behind the coat-check table and moved toward her old friend. If only she could rush over to Aria and ask her how she was. Tell her what had happened with the swimming scholarship. Solicit a sorely needed hug. If only the four of them hadn’t gone to Jamaica together, she could have.
To her surprise, Aria looked up and focused on Emily. Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed.
Emily straightened and offered her a small smile. “H-hey.”
Aria flinched. “Hey.”
“I can take that for you if you want.” Emily gestured to Aria’s purple trench coat, which was still knotted tightly around her waist. Emily had been with Aria when she’d bought it at a thrift shop in Philly last year, shortly before they went on spring break together. Spencer and Hanna had told Aria that the coat smelled like an old lady, but Aria bought it anyway.
Aria placed her hands in the coat pockets. “That’s okay.”
“The coat looks really good on you,” Emily added. “Purple has always been your color.”
A muscle at Aria’s jaw twitched. She looked like she wanted to say something, but closed her mouth tightly. Then her eyes brightened at something across the room. Noel Kahn, her boyfriend, swooped over to Aria and wrapped his arms around her. “I was looking for you.”
Aria kissed him hello, then wheeled away without giving Emily another word.
A group of people in the middle of the room burst into laughter. Mr. Kahn, who was staggering as though he’d had too much to drink, started fiddling on the Hastingses’ piano, playing the right hand part to the “Blue Danube Waltz.” All at once, Emily couldn’t bear to watch the party any longer. She tumbled through the front door just before the tears started to fall.
Outside, the air was unseasonably warm for February. She trudged around the side of the house to the Hastingses’ backyard, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.
The view in Spencer’s backyard was so different now. The historic barn that had stood at the back of the property was gone—Real Ali had burned it down last year. Only scorched, black dirt remained. Emily doubted anything would ever grow in that spot again.
Next door was the DiLaurentises’ old house. Maya St. Germain, whom Emily had had a thing with junior year, still lived there, though Emily hardly saw Maya anymore. In the front yard, the Ali Shrine, which had stood for so long after Courtney’s—her Ali’s—death on the DiLaurentises’ old curb, was gone, too. The public was still obsessed—the newspapers were already running Alison DiLaurentis Fire Anniversary features, and then there was Pretty Little Killer, that awful Alison biopic—but no one wanted to eulogize a murderer.