“The whole lax team had a bet going to see who Mike could get to take him to the prom,” Noel explained. “You or your hottie stepsister. We made the bet after you started throwing yourselves at him. I’m going to give Mike half my winnings for being such a good sport.”
Hanna ran her hands along the piece of her Time Capsule flag, which she’d tied to the chain of her Chanel purse. She felt the color drain from her face.
Noel nudged his head toward the door. “If you don’t believe me, ask Mike yourself.”
Hanna turned. Mike was leaning against one of the Grecian-style columns, smiling at a girl from Tate Prep. Hanna let out a low growl and made a beeline to him. When Mike saw her, he grinned sheepishly.
“Your teammates bet on us?” Hanna screeched. The Tate girl quickly skittered away.
Mike sipped his wine, shrugging. “It’s no different than what you girls were doing. Except the other guys on the lax team were playing for money. What were you playing for? Tampons?”
Hanna ran her hand over her forehead. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Mike was supposed to be vulnerable and weak, a victim. And all along, he’d known they’d been competing. All along, he’d been playing her.
She sighed, weary. “So I guess our prom date is off?”
Mike looked surprised. “I don’t want it to be.”
Hanna searched his face. “Really?” Mike shook his head. “So then…you don’t care that you were just some…bet?”
Mike glanced at her bashfully, then looked away. “Not if you don’t.”
Hanna tried her best to hide her smile—and her relief. She nudged him hard in the ribs. “Well, you’d better give me half your winnings.”
“And you’d better give me half your…” Mike stopped, making a face. “Never mind. I don’t need half your tampons. We’ll use the winnings for a bottle of Cristal for the prom, how’s that?” And then, he brightened even more. “And for a motel room.”
“A motel?” Hanna glared at him. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Honey, with me, you won’t care where we’re at,” Mike said in the slimiest voice Hanna had ever heard. She stifled a groan, leaning into him. He leaned into her too, until their foreheads touched. “Honestly?” Mike whispered, his voice softening and becoming almost tender. “I always liked you better.”
Hanna’s insides turned over. Giddy shivers scampered up her back. Their faces were very close, with only a small column of air hanging between them. Then Mike reached forward and pushed the hair out of Hanna’s eyes. Hanna giggled nervously. Their lips met. Mike’s mouth was warm, and he tasted like red wine. Tingles shot from Hanna’s head to all ten toes.
“Yeah!” Noel Kahn bellowed from across the room, nearly tumbling off the throne. Hanna and Mike shot apart. Mike pumped his fist, his blazer sliding down his arm. He was still wearing his yellow rubber Rosewood Day lacrosse bracelet. Hanna sighed, resigned. There were all kinds of queer things she’d have to get used to, now that she was dating a lacrosse boy.
There was a loud crunch of static, and a fast, upbeat song blared over the loudspeakers. Hanna peeked into the ballroom. The orchestra section had vanished, and there was a DJ booth in its place. The DJ was dressed up in a long, Louis XIV–style curly wig, pantaloons, and a long robe. “Shall we?” Mike asked, offering his hand.
Hanna stood up and followed him. Across the ballroom, Naomi, Riley, and Kate were lined up on a chaise, watching. Naomi looked annoyed, but Kate and Riley had little smiles on their faces, almost as if they were happy for Hanna. After a moment, Hanna shot Kate a small smile back. Who knew, maybe Kate really did want to be friends. Maybe Hanna could let bygones be bygones too.
Mike started writhing around her, practically humping her leg, and she kicked him away, laughing. When the song ended, the DJ leaned into the microphone. “I’m taking requests,” he said in a smooth voice. “Here’s one right now.”
Everyone froze in anticipation. A few chords filled the air. The beat was slower, more subdued. Mike waved his hand. “What loser requested this?” he scoffed, marching toward the DJ booth to find out.
A few notes filled the room. Hanna stopped, cocking her head. She recognized the singer, but she didn’t know why.
Mike was back. “It’s someone called Elvis Costello,” he announced. “Whoever that is.”
Elvis Costello. At the same time, the chorus began. Alll-i-son, I know this world is killing you…
Hanna’s mouth dropped open. She knew why this song was familiar: A few months ago, someone had been singing it in her shower.
Al-i-son, my aim is true…
When Hanna emerged in the hall that day, she saw Wilden wrapped in her favorite white Pottery Barn towel. Wilden had looked startled. When Hanna asked why he was singing that song—only a crazy person would sing that within a hundred square miles of Rosewood these days—Wilden had reddened. “Sometimes, I don’t notice I’m singing.”
A spark caught fire in Hanna’s brain. Sometimes, I don’t notice I’m singing! Ali had said that in the dream this morning. She’d also said, If you find it, I’ll tell you all about it. The two of them. Was Ali trying to say that Wilden was somehow linked with Ali’s murder?
And then the déjà vu feeling she’d had when Wilden had backed out of the driveway slammed back to her. It was because of Wilden’s car, the old black thing he was driving around while his cruiser was in the shop. She’d seen that car before, many years ago. It was the car parked at the DiLaurentises’ the day Hanna and the others had tried to steal Ali’s flag.