Flawless (9 page)

9

SOMEONE’S ALLOWANCE JUST GOT A WHOLE LOT SMALLER

On Wednesday afternoon, Mr. McAdam, Spencer’s AP economics teacher, strolled up and down the aisles, peeling papers off a stack and putting them facedown on each student’s desk. He was a tall man with bulging eyes, a sloped nose, and a paunchy face. A few years ago, one of his top students had remarked that he looked like Squidward from
SpongeBob SquarePants
, and the name stuck. “A lot of these quizzes were very good,” he murmured.

Spencer straightened up. She did what she always did when she wasn’t sure how she’d done on a test: She thought of the rock-bottom grade she could get, a grade that would still ensure she had an A for the class. Usually, the grade in her mind was so low—although low for Spencer was a B plus or, at the very worst, a B—that she ended up being pleasantly surprised.
B plus,
she told herself now, as Squidward put the test on her desk.
That’s rock-bottom.
Then she turned it over.

B
minus
.

Spencer dropped the paper to her desk as if it were on fire. She scanned the quiz for answers that Squidward had graded incorrectly, but she didn’t know the answers to the questions that had big red X marks next to them.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t studied enough.

When they’d taken the quizzes yesterday, all she’d been able to think about while filling in the multiple choice bubbles were a) Wren and how she could never see him, b) her parents and Melissa and how she could get them to love her again, c) Ali, and d), e), f), and g), her festering Toby secret.

The Toby torture was insane. But what could she do—go to the cops? And tell them…what?
Some kid said,
I’ll get you,
to me four years ago, and I think he killed Ali and I think he’s going to kill me? I got a text that said my friends and I were in danger?
The cops would laugh and say she’d been snorting too much Ritalin. She was afraid, too, to tell her friends what was going on. What if A was serious and something happened to them if she did?

“How’d you do?” a voice whispered.

Spencer jumped. Andrew Campbell sat next to her. He was as big an overachiever as she was. He and Spencer were ranked number one and number two in the class, and they were always switching positions. His quiz was proudly faceup on his desk. A big red A plus was at the top of it.

Spencer pulled her own quiz to her chest. “Fine.”

“Cool.” A lock of Andrew’s long lion’s mane of blond hair fell in his face.

Spencer gritted her teeth. Andrew was notoriously nosy. She’d always thought it was just a symptom of his über-competitiveness, and then last week, she wondered if he might be A. But while Andrew’s earnest interest in the minutiae of Spencer’s life was suspect, she didn’t think he had it in him. Andrew had helped Spencer the day the workers discovered Ali’s body, covering her up with a blanket when she was in shock. A wouldn’t do something like that.

As Squidward gave them their homework assignment, Spencer looked at her notes. Her handwriting, which was normally squeezed neatly in the lines, had wavered all over the page. She began to quickly recopy the notes, but the bell interrupted her, and Spencer sheepishly rose to leave. B
minus
.

“Miss Hastings?”

She looked up. Squidward was gesturing her toward his desk. She walked over, straightening her navy Rosewood Day blazer and taking extra caution not to trip in her caramel-colored kidskin riding boots. “You’re Melissa Hastings’s sister, yes?”

Spencer felt her insides wilt. “Uh-huh.” It was obvious what was coming next.

“This is quite a treat for me, then.” He tapped his mechanical pencil on his desk. “It was such a pleasure to have Melissa in class.”

I’m sure,
Spencer growled to herself.

“Where is Melissa now?”

Spencer gritted her teeth.
At home, hogging up all our parents’ love and attention.
“She’s at Wharton. Getting her MBA.”

Squidward smiled. “I always knew she’d go to Wharton.” Then he gave Spencer a long look. “The first set of essay questions is due next Monday,” he said. “And I’ll give you a hint: the supplemental books I’ve mentioned on the syllabus will help.”

“Oh.” Spencer felt self-conscious. Was he giving her a tip because she’d gotten a B minus and he felt sorry for her, or because she was Melissa’s sister? She squared her shoulders. “I was planning to get them anyway.”

Squidward looked at her evenly. “Well, good.”

Spencer trudged into the hall, feeling unhinged. Normally, she could kiss ass with the best of them, but Squidward made her feel like she was at the bottom of the class.

It was the end of the day. Rosewood students were bustling around their lockers, dragging books into their bags, making plans on their cell phones, or getting their gear for sports practice. Spencer had field hockey at three, but she wanted to hit Wordsmith’s for Squidward’s books first. Then, after that, she had to check in with the yearbook staff, see what was up with the Habitat for Humanity volunteer list, and say hi to the drama club advisor. She might be a couple minutes late to hockey, but what could she do?

As she pushed through the door of Wordsmith’s Books, she instantly felt calmer. The store was always quiet, with no obsequious salespeople shooing you out. After Ali disappeared, Spencer used to come in here and read
Calvin and Hobbes
comic books just to be alone. The staff didn’t get pissy when cell phones rang, either, which was exactly what Spencer’s was doing right now. Her heart pounded…and then pounded in a different way when she saw who it was.

“Wren,” she whispered into her phone, sinking against the travel shelf.

“Did you get my e-mail?” he asked in his sexy British accent when she answered.

“Um…yeah,” Spencer responded. “But…I don’t think you should be calling me.”

“So you want me to hang up?”

Spencer looked around cagily, eyeing two freshman dorks giggling by the self-help sex books and an old woman who was leafing through a Philadelphia Streetwise map. “No,” she whispered.

“Well, I’m dying to see you, Spence. Can we meet somewhere?”

Spencer paused. It ached how much she wanted to say yes. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea right now.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Wren laughed. “C’mon, Spence. It was hard enough to wait this long before calling.”

Spencer shook her head. “I…I can’t,” she decided. “I’m sorry. My family…they hardly even look at me. I mean, maybe we could try this in…in a couple months?”

Wren was quiet for a moment. “You’re serious.”

Spencer sniffed uncertainly in response.

“I just thought…I don’t know.” Wren’s voice sounded tight. “Are you sure?”

She pushed her hand through her hair and looked out Wordsmith’s big front windows. Mason Byers and Penelope Waites, two kids from her class, were kissing outside Ferra’s, the cheesesteak place across the street. She hated them. “I’m sure,” she said to Wren, the words choked in her throat. “I’m sorry.” She hung up.

She heaved a sigh. Suddenly, the bookstore felt too quiet. The classical CD had stopped. The hair on the back of her neck rose. A could have heard her conversation.

Shaking, she walked to the economics section, suspiciously eyeing a guy as he paused at the World War II shelf and a woman as she thumbed through a bulldog-of-the-month calendar. Could one of them be A? How did A know
everything
?

She quickly found the books on Squidward’s list, walked to the counter, and handed over her credit card, nervously fidgeting with the silver buttons on her navy blue school blazer. She so didn’t want to go to her activities and hockey after this. She just wanted to go home and hide.

“Hmm.” The checkout girl, who had three eyebrow rings, held up Spencer’s Visa. “Something’s wrong with this card.”

“That’s impossible,” Spencer snapped. Then she fished out her MasterCard.

The salesgirl ran it through, but the card machine made the same disapproving beep. “This one’s doing the same thing.”

The salesgirl made a quick phone call, nodded a few times, then hung up. “These cards have been canceled,” she said quietly, her heavily lined eyes wide. “I’m supposed to cut them up, but…” She shrugged meekly and handed them back to Spencer.

Spencer snatched the cards from her. “Your machine must be broken. Those cards, they’re…” She was about to say,
They’re linked to my parents’ bank account.

Then it hit her. Her parents had canceled them.

“Do you want to pay with cash?” the salesgirl asked.

Her parents had
canceled
her credit cards. What was next, putting a lock on the refrigerator? Cutting off the A/C to her bedroom? Limiting her use of oxygen?

Spencer pushed her way out of the store. She’d used her Visa to buy a slice of soy-cheese pizza on her way home from Ali’s memorial. It had worked then. Yesterday morning, she had apologized to her family, and now her cards were no good. It was a slap in the face.

Rage filled her body. So that was how they felt about her.

Spencer stared sadly at her two credit cards. They’d gotten so much use, the signature strip was almost worn off. Setting her jaw, she slapped her wallet shut and whipped out her Sidekick, scrolling through her received calls list for Wren’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“What’s your address?” she asked. “I changed my mind.”

10

ABSTINENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

That same Wednesday afternoon, Hanna stood at the entrance of the Rosewood YMCA, a restored, Colonial-style mansion. The façade was redbrick, it had two-story-high white pillars, and the moldings around the eaves and the windows looked like they belonged on a gingerbread house. The Briggses, a legendary eccentric, wealthy family, built the place in 1886, populating it with ten Briggs family members, three live-in guests, two parrots, and twelve standard poodles. Most of the building’s historical details had been torn down to make way for the Y’s six-lane swimming pool, fitness center, and “meeting” rooms. Hanna wondered what the Briggses would think about some of the groups that now met in their mansion. Like the Virginity Club.

Hanna threw her shoulders back and walked down the slanted wood hall to room 204, where V Club was meeting. Sean still wasn’t returning her calls. All she wanted to say was that she was sorry,
God
. How were they supposed to get back together if she couldn’t apologize to him? The one place she knew Sean went—and Sean thought she’d
never
be—was Virginity Club.

So maybe it was a violation of Sean’s personal space, but it was for a worthy cause. She missed Sean, especially with everything that was happening with A.

“Hanna?”

Hanna whirled around. Naomi Zeigler was on an elliptical trainer in the exercise room. She was dressed in dark red Adidas terry-cloth short-shorts, a tight-fitting pink sports bra, and matching pink socks. A coordinated red hair tie held her perfect blond ponytail in place.

Hanna fake-smiled, but inside she was wincing. Naomi and her best friend, Riley Wolfe, hated Hanna and Mona. Last spring, Naomi stole Mona’s crush, Jason Ryder, and then dumped him two weeks later. At last year’s prom, Riley learned that Hanna was wearing a sea-foam-green Calvin Klein dress…and bought the exact same dress, except in lipstick red.

“What are you doing here?” Naomi yelled, still cycling. Hanna noticed that the elliptical’s LED screen said Naomi had burned 876 calories. Bitch.

“I’m just meeting someone,” Hanna mumbled. She pressed her hand against room 204’s door, trying to seem casual, only she didn’t realize the door was ajar. It tipped open, and Hanna lost her balance and toppled halfway over. Everyone inside turned to look at her.

“Yoo-hoo?” A woman in a hideous plaid knockoff Burberry jacket called. She stuck her head out the door and noticed Hanna. “Are you here for the meeting?”

“Uh,” Hanna sputtered. When she glanced back at the elliptical, Naomi was gone.

“Don’t be afraid.” Hanna didn’t know what else to do, so she followed the woman inside and took a seat.

The room was wood-paneled, dark, and airless. Kids sat on high-backed wooden chairs. Most of them looked normal, if a bit on the goody-goody side. The boys were either too pudgy or too scrawny. She didn’t recognize anyone from Rosewood Day except for Sean. He was sitting across the room next to two wholesome-looking blond girls, staring at Hanna in alarm. She gave him a tiny wave, but he didn’t react.

“I’m Candace,” the woman who’d come to the door said. “And you are…”

“Hanna. Hanna Marin.”

“Well! Welcome, Hanna,” Candace said. She was in her mid-forties, had short blondish hair, and had drowned herself in Chloé Narcisse perfume—ironic, since Hanna had spritzed herself with Narcisse last Friday night, when she was supposed to do it with Sean. “What brings you here?”

Hanna paused. “I guess I’ve come to…to hear more about it.”

“Well, the first thing I want you to know is, this is a safe space.” Candace curled her hands around the back of a blond girl’s chair. “Whatever you tell us is in the strictest confidence, so feel free to say anything. But you have to promise not to repeat anything anyone else says, too.”

“Oh, I promise,” Hanna said quickly. There was no way she’d repeat what anyone said. That would mean telling someone she’d come here in the first place.

“Is there anything you’d like to know?” Candace asked.

“Well, um, I’m not sure,” Hanna stuttered.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?”

Hanna sneaked a peek at Sean. He gave her a look that seemed to say,
Yes, what
would
you like to say?

She straightened up. “I’ve been thinking a lot about sex. Um, I mean, I was really curious about it. But now…I don’t know.” She took a deep breath and tried to imagine what Sean would want to hear. “I think it should be with the right person.”

“The right person you
love
,” Candace corrected. “And marry.”

“Yes,” Hanna added quickly.