"That would be nice." Emily gave Aria a small, watery smile that Aria recognized instantly. Back when they were part of Ali's clique, Aria had dubbed it Emily's Eeyore smile. She'd seen it on Emily's face a lot after Their Ali disappeared.

"What's the matter, Em?" Aria said softly.

Emily stared at her gray New Balance sneakers. Behind her, a bunch of soph.o.m.ore boys shoved each other playfully. Kirsten Cullen gazed into the trophy case gla.s.s, fixing her lipstick. "I drove by that house on Ship Lane yesterday," Emily finally said.

Aria blinked, remembering Ship Lane's significance. "How did it go?"

Emily swallowed hard. "There was a FOR SALE sign on the lawn, and the house looked empty. They moved." Her jaw trembled like she was going to cry.

"Oh, Em." Aria wrapped her arms around her friend. Words couldn't describe how shocked she'd felt last summer when Emily told her she was pregnant. She'd called Aria out of the blue and begged her not to tell the others. I've got it under control, she'd said. I've picked out a family for the baby once it's born. I just had to tell someone.

"I wish I knew why they left," Emily murmured.

"It makes sense, don't you think?" Aria asked. "I mean, they suddenly had a baby. It probably looked strange to the neighbors. Maybe they moved to avoid questions."

Emily considered this. "Where do you think they went?"

"Why don't we try to find out?" Aria suggested. "Maybe the realtor knows."

Emily's eyes lit up. "The FOR SALE sign did say there's an open house this weekend."

"If you want company, I'll go with you," Aria offered.

"Really?" Emily looked relieved.

"Of course."

"Thank you." Emily threw her arms around Aria again and squeezed her tight. Aria squeezed back, grateful that they were close again. They'd spent so much time avoiding each other, shying away from the secrets they shared, but it hadn't done them much good. It was better to fight A together. Plus, Aria missed having good friends.

Aria's cell phone rang, and Emily broke away, saying she had to get to cla.s.s. As she drifted down the hall, Aria looked at the screen and frowned. Call from Meredith. It was unusual for her father's fiancee to be calling her.

"Aria?" Meredith said when Aria answered. "Oh my G.o.d, I'm so glad I caught you." In the background, Meredith and Byron's toddler, Lola, was wailing. There were also sounds of banging pots and shattering dishes. "I really need your help," she went on. "I want to re-create this amazing pasta dish we had at an Italian restaurant in Philly for your dad tonight, but I just went to Fresh Fields, and they're out of tatsoi. The Fresh Fields in Bryn Mawr has it, but I can't go right now-Lola's super-fussy and I don't want to make it worse by lugging her out in public. Can you go for me after school?"

Aria slumped against the wall and stared absently at a poster reminding seniors to sign up for sh.o.r.e excursions on the upcoming Eco Cruise. "Can't you make it tomorrow?" Bryn Mawr wasn't exactly close.

"I really need it tonight."

"Why?" Aria asked. "Does Byron have visiting professors in town or something?"

Meredith made an uncomfortable noise at the back of her throat. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Now Aria was curious. "Seriously. What's the occasion?"

Another long pause. Meredith sighed. "Okay, it's the anniversary of our first kiss."

Nausea rippled through Aria's gut. "Oh," she said nastily. Her parents had still been married when Byron and Meredith had their first kiss.

"You asked!" Meredith protested. "I didn't want to tell you!"

Aria shoved her free hand into her blazer pocket. If Meredith really wanted to keep it from her, then why had she called up Aria in the first place?

"Aria?" Meredith's voice rang through the phone. "Are you there? Look, I'm sorry I told you. But I really do need your help. Can you do this for me just this once?"

Lola started to wail even louder in the background, and Aria shut her eyes. Even though she didn't support this anniversary, the more stressed out Meredith was, the more Lola would suffer. Saying no would probably get back to Byron, too, and she'd never hear the end of it.

"Fine," she said as the second bell rang. "Except you have to tell me what tatsoi is."

A few hours later, Aria pulled into Fresh Fields in Bryn Mawr. The town was about ten miles away, had a small liberal-arts college, an art house theater that produced avant-garde plays, and an old inn that with a sign that said GEORGE WASHINGTON SLEPT HERE. The cars in the grocery store's parking lot were covered with b.u.mper stickers beseeching people to SAVE THE WHALES, GO GREEN, LIVE IN PEACE, and KILL YOUR TELEVISION.

After pa.s.sing through the grocery store's automatic doors and between at least thirty barrels of olives, she headed to the greens section of the produce department. Apparently, tatsoi was like spinach. Why Meredith couldn't have just used spinach for the stupid let's-celebrate-our-affair dinner was beyond her.

The whole thing still made Aria squeamish. She'd been the one who caught Byron and Meredith kissing in a back alley in seventh grade. Byron had begged her not to say anything to Ella, and even though Aria wanted to tell, she'd thought that by keeping her dad's secret, her parents would stay together.

For a long time, Their Ali was the only one who knew about her dad's dalliances, and Aria had wished she didn't. Ali used to tease her about it all the time, asking if Byron had had affairs with other girls, too. When Ali disappeared, Aria had been partly relieved-at least she couldn't taunt her about the secret anymore. But it was lonely keeping the secret to herself, too. She'd tried to bury it deep, telling herself she was making a sacrifice for her family. In the end, though, her sacrifice didn't matter. A had revealed the affair to Ella, and her parents had separated.

Aria pa.s.sed a hanging scale and touched it lightly with her fingertips. Maybe this wasn't worth dwelling on. It wasn't like Ella and Byron were the perfect couple, anyway, even long before Meredith. They were nothing like, say, Noel's parents. Nothing like what Aria wanted her and Noel to be.

She pa.s.sed a bunch of bulbous, dark-purple eggplants and huge, fragrant bins of Thai basil and apple mint, and sampled a bite of sauteed Swiss chard from a woman in a Fresh Fields ap.r.o.n. At the end of the aisle, there was a small bin full of greens marked TATSOI. Aria grabbed a plastic bag from the dispenser and started to fill it up. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman by the heirloom tomatoes. She wore a swirled-print, Pucci-style dress, and had tanned skin, bushy eyebrows, and lots of makeup. There was something about her that reminded Aria of Noel's father. This woman could be his sister.

As Aria moved closer, considering asking the woman where she got her dress-Ella would love it-the woman pivoted, revealing more of her face. Something suddenly soured inside Aria, and she ducked around the corner. After a moment, she snuck another peek at the woman's face and gasped.

The woman wasn't Mr. Kahn's sister. She was Mr. Kahn.

6.

SPENCER'S IN That night, shortly after six, Spencer walked into Striped Ba.s.s, a restaurant on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. The place had echoing high ceilings, Brazilian cherry floors polished to a glossy shine, and Corinthian columns around the perimeter. Huge, barrel-shaped lights swung overhead, waiters swirled around white tableclothdraped tables, and the air smelled like melted b.u.t.ter, grilled swordfish, and red wine.

PRINCETON EARLY ADMISSIONS WELCOME DINNER read a small sign just past the maitre d' stand, pointing to a small room off to the right. Inside, thirty eager kids her age were standing around tables. The guys were all dressed in khakis, b.u.t.ton-downs, and ties, and had that slightly nerdy, overconfident look of every cla.s.s valedictorian Spencer had ever met. The girls wore sweater sets, knee-length skirts, and demure, I'm-going-to-join-a-law-firm-someday high heels. Some of them were whip-thin and looked like models, others were chubbier or wore dark-framed gla.s.ses, but they all looked like they had 4.0 GPAs and perfect SAT scores.

A flashing TV screen above the main bar caught Spencer's eye. THIS FRIDAY, AN ENCORE PERFORMANCE OF PRETTY LITTLE KILLER, a banner announced in bold yellow letters. The girl playing Alison DiLaurentis appeared, telling the Spencer, Aria, Hanna, and Emily actresses that she wanted to be their BFF again. "I've missed all of you," she simpered. "I want you back."

Spencer turned away, heat rising to her face. Wasn't it time they stopped showing that stupid docudrama? Anyway, the movie didn't tell the whole story. It left out the part about all of the girls thinking Real Ali had surfaced in Jamaica.

Don't think about Ali-or Jamaica, Spencer scolded herself silently, squaring her shoulders and marching into the dining room. The last thing she needed was to freak out, Lady Macbethstyle, at her first Princeton fete.

As soon as she swept through the double doors, a girl with blond hair and wide, violet eyes gave her an enormous smile. "Hi! Are you here for the dinner?"

"Yes," Spencer said, straightening up. "Spencer Hastings. From Rosewood." She prayed no one would recognize her name-or notice that a slightly heavier, twenty-something version of her was on TV in the room behind them.

"Welcome! I'm Harper, one of the student amba.s.sadors." The girl shuffled through a bunch of name tags and found one with Spencer's name written in all caps. "Hey, did you get that at the D.C. Leadership Conference two years ago?" she asked, eyeing the silver Washington Monumentshaped keychain that hung from Spencer's oversize leather tote.

"I did!" Spencer said, glad she'd stuck the keychain on the zipper pull at the last minute. She'd hoped someone would recognize it.

Harper smiled. "I have one of those somewhere. I thought they only asked college students to that."

"Normally they do," Spencer said with mock-bashfulness. "You were there, too?"

Harper nodded eagerly. "It was pretty great, don't you think? Meeting all those senators, doing those mock-UN meetings, although that opening dinner was kind of . . ." Harper trailed off, making an awkward face.

"Weird?" Spencer ventured, giggling. "You're talking about that mime, right?" The event coordinators had hired a mime as entertainment. He'd spent the entire dinner pretending he was trapped in an invisible box or walking his imaginary dog.

"Yes!" Harper snickered. "He was so creepy!"

"Remember how that senator from Idaho loved him?" Spencer t.i.ttered.

"Totally." Harper's smile was warm and genuine. Her gaze moved to Spencer's name tag. "You go to Rosewood Day? One of my best friends went there. Did you know Tansy Gates?"

"She was on my field hockey team!" Spencer cried, thrilled for another connection. Tansy was one of the girls who'd pet.i.tioned Rosewood Day to let seventh graders on the JV field hockey team, hoping that Spencer would be chosen. Ali had been picked instead, and Spencer had been relegated to the lame sixth-grade squad, which let anyone play.

Then Spencer looked at Harper's name tag. It listed the activities she was involved in at Princeton. Field Hockey. The Daily Princetonian. At the very end, in small letters, were the words Bicker Chair, Ivy Eating Club.

She almost gasped. She'd done a ton of research about Eating Clubs since she'd been caught unaware at the cake-tasting. The coed Ivy, which boasted heads of state, CEOs of major companies, and literary giants as alums, was at the top of her must-join list. If Harper ran Bicker, that meant she was in charge of picking new members. She was definitely the person to know.

Suddenly, someone started clapping at the front of the room. "Welcome, incoming freshmen!" a gangly guy with curly reddish-blondish hair yelled. "I'm Steven, one of the amba.s.sadors. We're going to start dinner, so could everyone take their seats?"

Spencer looked at Harper. "Want to sit together?"

Harper's face fell. "I'd love to, but our seats are a.s.signed." She pointed to Spencer's name tag. "That number on your name tag is the table you're sitting at. I'm sure you'll meet some awesome early admits, though!"

"Yeah," Spencer said, trying to hide her disappointment. And then, before she could say anything else, Harper flounced away.

Spencer found her way to table four and sat down across from an Asian boy with spiky hair and angular gla.s.ses who was glued to his iPhone screen. Two guys in matching Pritchard Prep jackets were talking about a golf tournament they'd competed in the summer before. A pet.i.te girl in a Hillary Clintonesque pantsuit was screaming into a cell phone about selling stock. Spencer raised an eyebrow, wondering if the girl already had a job. These Princeton kids didn't mess around.

"Hola."

A guy with a billy-goat chin-beard, s.h.a.ggy brown hair, and sleepy bedroom eyes gazed at Spencer from the adjacent seat. His gray dress pants had a ragged hem, his shoes were thick-soled and surely made of hemp, and he smelled like the enormous bong Mason Byers had brought back from Amsterdam.

The stoner kid stuck out his hand. "I'm Raif Fredricks, but most people call me Reefer. I'm from Princeton, so I feel like I'm going to the local community college. My folks are begging me not to board, but I'm like, 'h.e.l.l no! I need my freedom! I want to hold drum circles in my room at four in the morning! I want to have killer protest meetings during dinner!'"

Spencer blinked at him. He'd said everything so fast she wasn't sure she caught it all. "Wait, you got into Princeton?"

Reefer-G.o.d, that was a stupid nickname-grinned. "Isn't that why we're all here?" His hand was still hanging in front of Spencer. "Uh, normally, this is the part where people shake. And you say, 'Hi, Reefer, my name is . . . '"

"Spencer," Spencer said dazedly, clasping Reefer's enormous palm for a split second. Her mind reeled. This dude belonged on a gra.s.sy knoll at Hollis with the other kids who'd graduated from their high schools in the middle of the pack. He didn't look like the type who agonized over AP exams and made sure he'd fulfilled enough community service hours.

"So, Spencer." Reefer sat back and eyed Spencer up and down. "I think it's fate that we got seated together. You look like you get it, you know? You look like you aren't a prisoner to the system." He nudged her side. "Plus, you're totally cute."

Ew, Spencer thought, purposely turning the opposite direction and pretending to be enamored with the endive salads the waiters were serving. It was just her luck to be seated next to this loser.

Reefer didn't get the hint, though. He leaned closer, tapping her shoulder. "It's okay if you're shy. So get this: I was thinking of heading over to Independence Hall and checking out the Occupy Philly rally after this. Are you in? It's supposed to be really inspiring."

"Uh, that's okay," Spencer said, annoyed at how loud this guy was talking. What if everyone thought they were friends?

Reefer shoved a piece of endive into his mouth. "Your loss. Here, in case you change your mind." He ripped a piece of paper from a ragged spiral-bound notebook in his bag, scribbled something down, and pa.s.sed it to Spencer. She squinted at the words. What a long, strange trip it's been. Huh?

"Jerry's my guru," Reefer said. Then he pointed to a bunch of digits below the quote. "Call anytime-day or night. I'm always up."

"Uh, thanks." Spencer slipped the paper into her bag. She noticed Harper watching her from across the room, met her eyes, and gave her an Oh-my-G.o.d-I-think-he's-gross eye roll.

Thankfully, Steven, the other amba.s.sador, started speaking, and his long, ego-stroking speech about how everyone in the room was wonderful and amazing and would surely change the world someday because they went to Princeton took up the rest of the hour. As soon as the waiters cleared the desserts, Spencer shot out of her seat as fast as her toned-from-field-hockey legs could carry her. She found Harper by the coffee urn and gave her a huge smile.

"I see you met Reefer." Harper winked.

Spencer scrunched up her face. "Yeah, lucky me."

Harper gave Spencer an inscrutable look, then moved in closer. "Listen, I know this is last minute, but do you have plans for this weekend?"

"I don't think so." Aside from helping her mom taste-test yet more confections for the wedding. Did a second wedding really need a cake and a cupcake tower?

Harper's eyes glittered. "Great. Because there's a party I'd love to bring you to. I think you'd really get along with my friends. You could stay with me in this big house I live in on campus. Get a sense of things."

"That sounds wonderful," Spencer said quickly, as though if she paused even a millisecond, Harper would rescind her offer. The big house on campus was the Ivy House-as Bicker Chair, Harper got to live there.

"Awesome." Harper tapped something on her phone. "Give me your e-mail. I'll send you my number and directions of where to find me. Be there by six."

Spencer gave Harper her e-mail address and phone number, and soon enough, Harper's e-mail appeared in her inbox. When she read it, she almost whooped aloud. Sure enough, Harper had given her directions to the Ivy House on Prospect Avenue.

She filed out of the room, walking on air. As she pushed through the revolving door to the street, her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse, let out a m.u.f.fled chime. When she pulled it out and saw the screen, her heart plummeted like a stone. New text message from Anonymous.

Hi Spence! Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appet.i.te for murder? Kisses! -A

7.

HANNA GETS STEAMED.

The following night, Hanna stood outside the boys' locker room, tugging down the curve-hugging dress she'd changed into after the final bell. All around her, students bustled to catch their after-school buses, rushed to activities, or climbed in their cars to head to the King James Mall.

Hanna's cell phone beeped, and she quickly turned down the volume. It was yet another message from Isabel, reminding Hanna to be at her father's town hall meeting that night a little early to meet and greet some of the donors. Duh-as if she didn't already know that. She'd helped organize the whole thing. And she'd get there when she got there. The task at hand was the only thing on her mind right now.

The aromas of dirty socks and Axe body spray wafted into the hall. m.u.f.fled voices and hissing shower sounds echoed. It just so happened that the boys' indoor track team had come in from a grueling workout of wind sprints around the iced-over parking lot. It also just so happened that Mike was on the indoor track team to keep in shape for lacrosse. Operation Get Mike Back was about to begin.

The blue door swished open, and two soph.o.m.ores in track jackets emerged, giving Hanna strange looks as they pa.s.sed. She glared at them in return, then edged toward the door again.