“I did.” Dr. Evans stretched her arms into the air and two silver bangle bracelets slid to her elbow. “Fascinating stuff.”
And then she winked.
Spencer felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest. Apparently Dr. Evans didn’t care about the merits of sisal versus jute either. Yes.
They talked a while longer, Spencer enjoying it more and more, and then Dr. Evans motioned to the Salvador Dalí melting-clocks clock that hung above her desk to indicate that their time was up. Spencer said good-bye and opened the office door, rubbing her head as if the therapist had cracked it open and tinkered around in her brain. That actually hadn’t been as torturous as she’d thought it would be.
She shut the therapist’s office door and turned around. To her surprise, her mother was sitting in a pale-green wing chair next to Melissa, reading a Main Line style magazine.
“Mom.” Spencer frowned. “What are you doing here?”
Veronica Hastings looked like she’d come straight from the family’s riding stables. She was wearing a white Petit Bateau T-shirt, skinny jeans, and her beat-up riding boots. There was even a little bit of hay in her hair. “I have news,” she announced.
Both Mrs. Hastings and Melissa had very serious looks on their faces. Spencer’s insides started to whirl. Someone had died. Someone—Ali’s killer—had killed again. Perhaps A was back. Please, no, she thought.
“I got a call from Mr. McAdam,” Mrs. Hastings said, standing up. Mr. McAdam was Spencer’s AP economics teacher. “He wanted to talk about some essays you wrote a few weeks ago.” She took a step closer, the scent of her Chanel No. 5 perfume tickling Spencer’s nose. “Spence, he wants to nominate one of them for a Golden Orchid.”
Spencer stepped back. “A Golden Orchid?”
The Golden Orchid was the most prestigious essay contest in the country, the high school essay equivalent of an Oscar. If she won, People and Time would do a feature story on her. Yale, Harvard, and Stanford would beg her to enroll. Spencer had followed the successes of Golden Orchid winners the way other people followed celebrities. The Golden Orchid winner of 1998 was now managing editor of a very famous fashion magazine. The winner from 1994 had become a congressman at 28.
“That’s right.” Her mother broke into a dazzling smile.
“Oh my God.” Spencer felt faint. But not from excitement—from dread. The essays she’d turned in hadn’t been hers—they were Melissa’s. Spencer had been in a rush to finish the assignment, and A had suggested she “borrow” Melissa’s old work. So much had gone on in the past few weeks, it had slipped her mind.
Spencer winced. Mr. McAdam—or Squidward, as everyone called him—had loved Melissa when she was his student. How could he not remember Melissa’s essays, especially if they were that good?
Her mother grabbed Spencer’s arm and she flinched—her mother’s hands were always corpse-cold. “We’re so proud of you, Spence!”
Spencer couldn’t control the muscles around her mouth. She had to come clean with this before she got in too deep. “Mom, I can’t—”
But Mrs. Hastings wasn’t listening. “I’ve already called Jordana at the Philadelphia Sentinel. Remember Jordana? She used to take riding lessons at the stables? Anyway, she’s thrilled. No one from this area has ever been nominated. She wants to write an article about you!”
Spencer blinked. Everyone read the Philadelphia Sentinel newspaper.
“The interview and photo shoot are all scheduled,” Mrs. Hastings breezed on, picking up her giant saffron-colored Tod’s satchel and jingling her car keys.
“Wednesday before school. They’ll provide a stylist. I’m sure Uri will come to give you a blowout.”
Spencer was afraid to make eye contact with her mom, so she stared at the waiting-room reading material—an assortment of New Yorkers and Economists, and a big book of fairy tales that was teetering on top of a Dubble Bubble tub of Legos. She couldn’t tell her mom about the stolen paper—not now. And it wasn’t as if she was going to win the Golden Orchid, anyway. Hundreds of people were nominated, from the best high schools all over the country. She probably wouldn’t even make it past the first cut.
“That sounds great,” Spencer sputtered.
Her mom pranced out the door. Spencer lingered a moment longer, transfixed by the wolf on the cover of the fairy tale book. She’d had the same one when she was little. The wolf was dressed up in a negligee and bonnet, leering at a blond, naïve Red Riding Hood. It used to give Spencer nightmares.
Melissa cleared her throat. When Spencer looked up, her sister was staring.
“Congrats, Spence,” Melissa said evenly. “The Golden Orchid. That’s huge.”
“Thanks,” Spencer blurted. There was an eerily familiar expression on Melissa’s face. And then Spencer realized: Melissa looked exactly like the big bad wolf.
2
JUST ANOTHER SEXUALLY CHARGED DAY IN AP ENGLISH
Aria Montgomery sat down in English class on Monday morning, just as the air outside the open widow started to smell like rain. The PA crackled, and everyone in the class looked at the little speaker on the ceiling.
“Hello, students! This is Spencer Hastings, your junior class vice president!” Spencer’s voice rang out clear and loud. She sounded perky and assured, as if she’d taken a course in Announcements 101. “I want to remind everyone that the Rosewood Day Hammerheads are swimming against the Drury Academy Eels tomorrow. It’s the biggest meet of the season, so let’s all show some spirit and come out and support the team!” There was a pause. “Yeah!”