twisted-9

should go back, don’t you think?”
Zach shut his eyes and groaned. “Do we have to? Let’s run away instead. Hide out in Philly. Hop a plane for Paris.”
“Or maybe Nice,” Spencer suggested.
“The Riviera would work,” Zach said excitedly. “My dad has a villa in Cannes. We could hide there.”
“I knew there was a reason we met,” Spencer teased, shoving Zach playfully on the arm.
Zach shoved her back, letting his hand linger on her skin. He leaned forward and slightly moistened his lips. For a moment, Spencer thought he was going
to kiss her.
Her feet barely touched the ground as she waltzed back into the dining room. But as she passed through the archway, something made her turn around.
Ali’s face flashed on the TV screen again. For a moment, the picture seemed to come to life, grinning at Spencer as though Ali was looking out from
inside the small, square box and seeing just what Spencer was up to. Her smile seemed even more sinister than usual.
Zach’s comment suddenly rang in her ears. Either you’re an extreme do-gooder or you’ve got a guilty conscience. He was right: Last fall, Spencer had
donated her World Series tickets because she felt she didn’t deserve to go, not after what she’d done. And in the first few moments after she’d gotten into
Princeton, she’d considered declining, not sure she deserved that either, until she realized how insane that sounded.
And it was crazy to think that the girl on the screen was anything more than an image, too. Ali was gone for good. Spencer gazed squarely at the TV
screen and narrowed her eyes. Later, bitch. Then, rolling back her shoulders, she turned and followed Zach to the table.
Chapter 6
Oh, those insecure pretty girls
“Surprise!” Mike whispered on Monday afternoon as he slid into an auditorium seat next to Hanna. “I got us Tokyo Boy!”
He unveiled a large plastic bag full of sushi rolls. “How did you know?” Hanna cried, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. She hadn’t eaten anything at lunch,
having deemed everything in the Rosewood Day cafeteria inedible. Her stomach was growling something fierce.
“I always know what you want.” Mike teased, pushing a lock of black hair out of his eyes.
They ripped into the sushi quietly, wincing at a sophomore rehearsing a song from West Side Story on the stage. Normally, study hall was held in a
classroom in the oldest wing of Rosewood Day, but a leak had sprung in the ceiling last week, so somehow they’d ended up in the auditorium—at the
same time the Rosewood Day junior girls’ choir rehearsed. How was anyone supposed to get any homework done amid the horrible singing?
Despite the bad voices, the auditorium was one of Hanna’s favorite places at school. A wealthy donor had paid for the place to look as tricked-out as any
theater on Broadway, and the seats were plush velvet, the ceilings were high and adorned with ornate plasterwork, and the lighting on the stage definitely
made some of the chunkier choir girls look at least five pounds thinner. Back when Hanna was BFFs with Mona Vanderwaal, the two of them used to
sneak on the stage after school and flounce around, pretending they were famous actresses in Tony-winning musicals. That was before Mona turned
crazy-town and tried to run her over, of course.
Mike skewered a California roll and popped it into his mouth whole. “So. When’s your big TV debut?”
Hanna stared at him blankly. “Huh?”
“The commercial for your dad?” Mike reminded her, chewing.
“Oh, that.” Hanna ate a bite of wasabi, and her eyes began to water. “I’m sure my lines were edited out immediately.”
“That might not be true. You looked great.”
On the stage, a bunch of girls were now trying a harmony. It was like listening to a gang of wailing cats. “The commercial is going to be all about my dad,
Isabel, and Kate,” Hanna mumbled. “That’s exactly what my dad wants. His perfect nuclear family.”
Mike wiped a piece of rice from his cheek. “He didn’t actually say that.”
His optimism was getting on Hanna’s nerves. How many times had she told Mike about her daddy issues? How many times had he been up close and
personal with Kate? That was the thing about guys, though: Sometimes, they had the emotional depth of a flea.
Hanna took a deep breath and stared blankly at the heads of the study hall students in front of them. “The only way I’m going to end up in a commercial is
if I do it on my own. Maybe I should call that photographer.”
Mike’s chopsticks fell to his lap. “That poseur who was drooling all over you at the shoot? Are you serious?”
“His name’s Patrick Lake,” Hanna said stiffly. He’d said she was amazing on camera, and had badmouthed Kate right in front of her. That part was her
favorite.
“Why would you say he’s a poseur?” she asked after a moment. “He’s totally professional. He wants to take pictures of me and hook me up with a
modeling agency.” She’d googled Patrick on her iPhone during lunch, gazing at his Flickr photos and Facebook links. On his website, Patrick listed that
he’d taken photos for several Main Line magazines as well as a fashion insert for the Philadelphia Sentinel. Plus, he shared a first name with Patrick
Demarchelier, Hanna’s favorite fashion photographer.
“More like professionally sleazy. He doesn’t want to turn you into a model, Hanna. He wants to do you.”