Aria put her head in her hands. This was the three-thousandth instance she wished she were back in Reykjavík, hiking to a glacier, riding her Icelandic pony, Gilda, along a dried-up volcano bed, or even eating whale blubber, which everyone in Iceland seemed to adore.
She shut off the TV, and the house became eerily silent. When she heard a rustling at the door, she jumped. In the hall, she saw her mother, lugging in several large canvas shopping bags from Rosewood’s organic market.
Ella noticed Aria and smiled wearily. “Hey, sweetie.” Since she’d kicked Byron out, Ella seemed more disheveled than usual. Her black gauzy tunic was baggier than ever, her wide-leg silk pants had a tahini stain on the thigh, and her long, brownish-black hair sat in a rat’s nest at the crown of her head.
“Let me help.” Aria took a bunch of bags from Ella’s arms. They walked into the kitchen together, hefted the bags onto the island, and started unpacking.
“How was your day?” Ella murmured.
Then Aria remembered. “Oh my God, you’ll never believe what I did,” she exclaimed, feeling a surge of giddiness. Ella glanced at her before putting the organic peanut butter away. “I went down to Hollis. Because I was looking for…you know. Her.” Aria didn’t want to say Meredith’s name. “She was teaching an art class, so I ran inside, grabbed a paintbrush, and painted a scarlet A across her chest. You know, like that woman in The Scarlet Letter? It was awesome.”
Ella paused, holding a bag of whole-wheat pasta midair. She looked nauseated.
“She didn’t know what hit her,” Aria went on. “And then I said, ‘Now everyone will know what you’ve done.’” She grinned and spread her arms out. Taa-daa!
Ella’s eyes darted back and forth, processing this. “Do you realize that Hester Prynne is supposed to be a sympathetic character?”
Aria frowned. She was only on page eight. “I did it for you,” Aria explained quietly. “For revenge.”
“Revenge?” Ella’s voice shook. “Thanks. That makes me look really sane. Like I’m really handling this well. This is hard enough for me as it is. Don’t you realize you’ve made her look like…like a martyr?”
Aria took a step toward Ella. She hadn’t considered that. “I’m sorry….”
Then Ella crumpled against the counter and started to sob. Aria stood motionless. Her limbs felt like Sculpey clay straight out of the oven, all hardened and useless. She couldn’t fathom what her mom was going through, and she’d gone and made it worse.
Outside their kitchen window, a hummingbird landed on the replica of a whale penis Mike had bought at Reykjavík’s phallological museum. In any other circumstance, Aria would’ve pointed it out—hummingbirds were rare here, especially ones that landed on fake whale penises—but not today.
“I can’t even look at you right now,” Ella finally stammered.
Aria put her hand to her chest, as if her mother had speared her with one of her Wüsthof knives. “I’m sorry. I wanted Meredith to pay for what she’s done.” When Ella didn’t answer, the searing, acidic feeling in Aria’s stomach grew stronger. “Maybe I should get out of here for a while then, if you can’t stand the sight of me.”
She paused, waiting for Ella to jump in and say, No, that’s not what I want. But Ella stayed quiet. “Yes, maybe that’s a good idea,” she agreed quietly.
“Oh.” Aria’s shoulders sank and her chin trembled.
“Then I…I won’t come home from school tomorrow.” She didn’t have any idea where she’d go, but that didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was doing the one thing that would make her mom happy.
9
EVERYONE, A BIG ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR SPENCER HASTINGS!
On Tuesday afternoon, while most of the Rosewood Day junior class ate lunch, Spencer sat on top of the conference table in the yearbook room. Eight blinking Mac G5 computers, a whole bunch of long-lensed Nikon cameras, six eager sophomore and freshman girls, and a nerdy, slightly effeminate freshman boy surrounded her.
She tapped the covers of the past few Rosewood Day yearbooks. Each year, the books were named The Mule due to some apocryphal, inside joke from the 1920s that even the school’s oldest teachers had long forgotten. “In this year’s Mule, I think we should try to capture a slice of what Rosewood Day students are like.”
Her yearbook staff diligently wrote down slice of life in their spiral-bound notebooks.
“Like…maybe we could do some quickie interviews with random students,” Spencer went on. “Or ask people what’s on their favorite iPod playlist, and then publish it in boxes next to their photos. And how are the still lifes going?” Last meeting, they had planned to ask a couple kids to empty the contents of their bags to document what Rosewood Day girls and guys were carrying around.
“I got great photos of the stuff in Brett Weaver’s soccer bag and Mona Vanderwaal’s purse,” said Brenna Richardson.
“Fantastic,” Spencer said. “Keep up the good work.”
Spencer closed her leaf green leather-bound journal and dismissed her staff. Once they were gone, she grabbed her black fabric Kate Spade bag and pulled out her Sidekick.
There it was. The note from A. She kept hoping it wouldn’t be there.
As she slid the phone back into her bag, her fingers grazed against something in the inside pocket: Officer Wilden’s business card. Wilden wasn’t the first cop to ask Spencer about the night Ali went missing, but he was the only one who’d ever sounded so…suspicious.