twisted-9

Spencer blinked. Immediately, she thought of the biggest fight she’d gotten into over a guy. It had been with Ali—their Ali—over Ian Thomas, whom they
both liked. The night Ali went missing in seventh grade, Ali stormed out of the barn, and Spencer followed her. Ali spun around and told Spencer that she
and Ian were secretly together. The only reason Ian kissed Spencer, she added, was because Ali had told him to—he did everything she wanted.
Spencer had pushed Ali—hard.
There was a knowing smile on Tabitha’s face like she was referring to that exact story. But there was no way she could know that . . . right? An overhead
bulb flickered, and suddenly Spencer noticed that Tabitha’s lips turned up at the corners, just like their Ali’s. Her wrists were just as thin, and she could just
picture those long-fingered, square-palmed hands grappling with Spencer on the path outside her barn.
Tabitha’s phone played the Hallelujah chorus, scaring them both. She glanced at the screen, then scampered toward the door. “Sorry, I gotta take this.
See you later?”
Before Spencer could answer, the door swung shut. She stayed in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.
She wasn’t sure what made her pull out her phone and do a Google search for Jamaican hotels. And she told herself it was just the strong homemade rum
that made her heart pound as she perused the resorts nearby The Cliffs. But when Google finished tabulating the results, Spencer began to accept the
uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was really messed up here.
There wasn’t a Royal Plantain resort nearby. In fact, there wasn’t a hotel called Royal Plantain—or anything like it—in all of Jamaica. Whoever Tabitha
was, she was a liar.
Spencer glanced at her reflection again. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Chapter 10
A star is born
The next afternoon, after the SEPTA R5 stopped at every possible local station, Hanna finally arrived in Philadelphia. As soon as the metal door slid open
she slung her silver studded hobo bag over her shoulder and stepped onto the steel escalator. Two girls in Bryn Mawr College sweatshirts and boot-cut
jeans stared at her.
For a moment, Hanna tensed, thinking of the postcard in Ali’s old mailbox last night. Then it hit her: They recognized her from the news reports last year.
Rude stares happened to Hanna more than she liked.
She stuck her nose in the air, feigning her best aloof celebrity pose. After all, she was going to her very first photo shoot—what were they doing in the
city? Bargain shopping for knockoffs at Filene’s Basement?
A tall figure with a camera around his neck stood outside the station’s McDonald’s. Hanna’s heart leapt. Patrick even looked like an up-and-coming
photographer—he wore an army-green coat with a fur-lined hood, slim-cut jeans, and polished chukka boots.
Patrick turned and noticed Hanna approaching. He raised the long-lensed digital camera around his neck and pointed it at her. For a second, Hanna
wanted to cover her face with her hands, but instead she threw back her shoulders and gave him a big smile. Maybe this was a test, an action shot of a
model in the dingy train station, surrounded by overweight tourists with fanny packs.
“You made it,” Patrick said as Hanna walked up.
“Did you think I’d bail?” Hanna teased, trying to control her excitement.
He looked her up and down. “Great outfit. You look like a hotter Adriana Lima.”
“Thanks.” Hanna put her hands on her hips and tilted to the right and left. Damn right it was a great outfit—she’d agonized over the pink frilly dress,
motocross jacket, chunky suede booties, and gold-accented bracelets and necklace all morning, trying on a zillion combinations before she found
something that hit just the right note. Her bare legs would probably get frostbite, but it would be worth it.
“Then we’ll finish up with some indoor photos at my studio in Fishtown. Do you mind all that? It would be amazing for my portfolio. And like I said, I can
help you pick out shots for agents.”
“It sounds perfect.”
As they climbed the stairs, Patrick pressed his arm against Hanna’s, pointing out a patch of ice. “Careful.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said, steering around the ice. Patrick removed his hand as soon as she’d crossed safely.
“So, have you always wanted to be a photographer?” Hanna asked as they headed along Market Street toward City Hall. It was freezing outside, and
everyone was walking around with their heads down and their hoods up. Dirty, slushy snow piled at the curbs.
“Ever since I was little,” Patrick admitted. “I was that kid who never went anywhere without a disposable camera. Remember those—or are you too
young?”
“Of course I remember them,” Hanna scoffed. “I’m eighteen—how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Patrick said, as if that were so much older. He gestured to the left, off to another section of the city. “I went to Moore College of Art. Just
graduated.”
“Did you like it? I’m thinking of going to F.I.T. or Pratt for fashion design.” She’d just submitted applications a few weeks ago.