Wicked

Page 34

Spencer had been so hurt, she’d shoved Ali hard. Ali had gone flying, her head making a horrible crack against the rocks. It was a wonder the cops had never found the rock Ali hit—it must have had a trace of blood on it, or at least a hair. In fact, the cops barely investigated anything back here besides the inside of the barn those first crucial weeks after Ali went missing. They’d been pretty convinced Ali had run away. Had that just been a sloppy oversight? Or was there some reason they didn’t want to look more carefully?
There’s something you don’t know, Ian had said. The cops know it, but they’re ignoring it. Spencer gritted her teeth, chasing the words from her head. Ian was crazy. There wasn’t some secret the world was hiding. Just the truth: Ian had killed Ali because she was going to reveal that they were a couple.
Spencer hiked up her dress, knelt down, and plunged her hands into the soft, dug-up dirt. Finally, her hands touched the edge of the plastic garbage bag. Condensed water from the melted snow dripped off the ends as she pulled it out. She set the bag on a dry patch of dirt and undid the ties. Everything inside was still dry. The first thing she pulled out was the string bracelet Ali had made for them after The Jenna Thing. Next was Emily’s pink quilted purse. Spencer forced it open, feeling around the interior. The faux-patent leather squeaked. It was empty.
Spencer found the piece of paper Hanna had dropped in and shined the flashlight on it as best she could. It wasn’t a note from Ali, as she’d originally thought, but a student evaluation form Ali had filled out, ranking Hanna’s oral report on Tom Sawyer. All the Rosewood Day sixth-grade English classes had to rate their peers’ reports, sort of as a schoolwide experiment.
Ali’s assessment of Hanna’s report was fairly mild—nothing too nice, nothing too mean. It seemed like she’d dashed it off quickly, busy with something else. Spencer pushed it aside. She pulled out the last thing at the bottom of the bag, Aria’s drawing. Even back then, Aria had drawn people remarkably well. There was Ali, standing in front of Rosewood Day, a smirk on her face, as if she was laughing about someone behind their back. A few of her underlings stood in the background, snickering.
Spencer let it flutter to her lap, disappointed. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about this, either. Had she really expected a miracle answer? Was she really that big an idiot?
But she shined the flashlight over the drawing once more. Ali was holding something in her hands. It looked like…a piece of paper. Spencer pressed the flashlight right against the paper. Aria had sketched the headline. Time Capsule Starts Tomorrow.
This drawing and the photo propped up against the Eiffel Tower had both been from the same day. Just like the photo, Aria had captured the precise moment when Ali ripped down the flyer and announced that she was going to find a piece of the Time Capsule flag. Aria had sketched someone behind Ali, too. Spencer pressed her flashlight against the paper. Ian.
A chilly gust of wind danced across Spencer’s face. Her eyes kept tearing up from the cold, but she struggled to keep them open. Aria’s sketch of Ian wasn’t as diabolical or conniving as Spencer had thought it would be. Instead, Aria had made him look kind of…pathetic. He was gazing at Ali, his eyes wide, a dopey smile on his face. Ali, on the other hand, was turned away from him. Her expression was cocky, as if she was thinking, Aren’t I the shit? Even gorgeous upperclassmen are wrapped around my little finger.
The paper crinkled in Spencer’s hands. Aria had drawn this right as it was happening. She certainly hadn’t known anything about Ali or Ian back then, but had merely sketched what she saw—Ian looking lovesick and vulnerable. And Ali looking…like Ali. Like a bitch.
Ali and I flirted a lot, but that was all. She never seemed interested in taking it further than that, Ian had said. But then…suddenly…she changed her mind.
The trees around the pool made black, spidery shadows. The wooden wind chimes that hung from the eave of the barn knocked together, sounding like bones rattling. A shiver ran from the base of Spencer’s neck all the way to her coccyx. Could it be true? Had Ian and Ali harmlessly flirted with each other, merely having a little fun? What, then, had made Ali change her mind and decide to like him?
But that was so hard to accept. If Ian was telling the truth about Ali, then everything else he’d said to Spencer two days ago on her porch could possibly be true, too. That there was a secret he was on the verge of finding out. That there was something more to all this that they didn’t understand. And that Ian hadn’t killed her—someone else had.
Spencer pressed her hand to her chest, afraid her heart was about to stop. What notes? Ian had asked. But if Ian wasn’t sending A notes…who was?
The cold slush seeped right through Spencer’s riding boots, straight to her toes. Spencer stared at the bluestone path at the back of her yard, the very spot where she and Ali had fought. After Spencer shoved Ali to the ground, her memory had gone spotty. She’d only recently remembered that Ali had gotten up and continued down the path. What Spencer saw next flickered in front of her mind, blurring and sharpening. Ali’s thin legs poking out the bottom of her JV field hockey kilt, her long hair dripping down her back, the bottoms of her rubber flip-flops worn at the insteps. There was another person with her too, and they were arguing. A few months ago, Spencer had been positive that person was Ian. But now when she tried to access the memory, she couldn’t see the person’s face. Had she latched onto Ian because Mona had fed her that information? Because she just wanted it to be someone, so this would be over?
The stars twinkled peacefully. An owl hooted in one of the big oaks behind the barn. Spencer’s nose itched, and she thought she smelled a cigarette smoldering somewhere close. And then her Sidekick began to ring.
It echoed loudly across the vast, empty yard. Spencer plunged her hand into her bag, hitting Mute. She felt numb as she pulled it out. Her screen announced that she had a new e-mail from someone called Ian_T.
Her stomach swooped.
Spencer. Meet me in the woods, where she died. I have something to show you.
Spencer sucked in her teeth. The woods where she died. That was just on the other side of the barn. She stuffed the drawing into her purse and hesitated for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and started to run.
30
FRAILTY, THY NAME IS WOMAN!
Hanna was finishing her third thorough round of the Hastings house, looking for Lucas. She’d passed and re-passed the jazz band, the drunks at the bar, and the snooty Main Liners talking smack about the priceless artwork that lined the walls. She saw Melissa Hastings slip upstairs, talking on her cell phone. When she pushed into Spencer’s father’s office, she interrupted what looked like an argument between Mr. Hastings and Principal Appleton. But no Lucas, anywhere.
Finally, she wandered into the kitchen, which was thick with steam and smelled like shrimp, duck, and heavy glaze. The caterers were busy unpacking appetizers and mini desserts from foil-lined carriers. Hanna half-expected to see Lucas helping them out, feeling bad that they were so overworked—that would be just like him. But he wasn’t there, either.
She tried Lucas’s phone again, but it went straight to voice mail. “It’s me,” Hanna said quickly at the beep. “There was a good reason I did what I did. Please let me explain.”
When she hit End, the phone’s screen went dark. Why hadn’t she just told Lucas about the notes from A when she’d had the chance? But she knew why: She wasn’t sure they were real. When she’d begun to think they were real, Hanna had worried that if she said anything to anyone, something horrible might happen.
And so she’d kept her mouth shut. But now it seemed like horrible things were happening anyway.
Hanna reached for the door to the media room and poked her head inside, but the room was disappointingly empty. The red afghan that was usually lying neatly on top of the couch was flung across the cushions, and there were a few empty cocktail glasses and crumpled-up napkins on the coffee table. Beyond it, that big, weird wire Eiffel Tower teetered on the credenza, so tall it almost grazed the ceiling. The old photo of Ali from sixth grade was still propped up against it.
Hanna stared at it warily. Ali held the Time Capsule flyer in her hand, her mouth open in mid-laugh. Noel Kahn stood behind her, laughing too. A shadowy figure loomed in the background, mostly out of focus. Hanna leaned forward, her stomach dropping like it was weighted down with lead. It was Mona. She was leaning on the handlebars of her pink Razor scooter, her eyes on Ali’s back. It was like seeing a ghost.
Hanna sank into the couch, staring hard at Mona’s blurry shape. Why did you do this to me? she wanted to scream. Hanna had never gotten to ask Mona that question—by the time she’d realized that Mona was A, Mona and Spencer had already been on their way to Falling Man Gorge. There were so many things Hanna wanted to ask Mona, things that would forever go unanswered. How could you have secretly hated me all that time? Was anything we did together real? Were we ever really friends? How could I have been so wrong about you?
Her eyes focused again on Ali’s wide, open mouth. When Hanna and Mona had become friends in eighth grade, Hanna had poked fun at Ali and the others to show Mona that they weren’t really that great. She told Mona the story about how she’d shown up in Ali’s backyard the Saturday after Time Capsule was announced, determined to steal Ali’s piece of the flag. “And Spencer, Emily, and Aria were there, too,” Hanna remembered saying, rolling her eyes. “It was so weird. And even weirder, Ali came storming out of her back door, all the way across the yard to us. ‘You guys are too late,’ she said.” Hanna had even squeakily imitated Ali’s voice, ignoring the shameful twinge inside her. “And then she said some asshole already stole her piece, even though she’d already decorated it and everything.”
“Who took it?” Mona asked, hanging on every word.
Hanna shrugged. “Probably some freak who built a shrine to Ali in his bedroom. I bet that’s why he never turned the piece in to be buried with the Time Capsule—he probably still sleeps with it every night. And maybe he tucks it in his underwear every day.”
“Ewww,” Mona squealed, writhing.
That conversation with Mona had taken place at the beginning of eighth grade, right as that year’s Time Capsule game started. Three days later, Hanna and Mona jointly found a piece of the Time Capsule flag stuffed into the W volume of an encyclopedia set in the Rosewood library. It was like finding a golden ticket in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—a sure omen that their lives were going to change. They’d decorated the piece together, putting Mona and Hanna 4-EVAH in big, bold letters all over the fabric. Their names were buried now, a metaphor for their farce of a best-friendship.
Hanna wilted against the couch, tears pricking her eyes. If only she could run out to the practice fields behind Rosewood Day, dig up that year’s capsule, and burn her and Mona’s piece. If only she could burn every other memory they’d created as friends, too.
The recessed lights above Hanna’s head reflected off the picture. When she looked at the photo again, she frowned. Ali’s eyes seemed so almond-shaped, and her cheeks were awfully puffy. All at once, the girl in the photo looked like a knockoff Ali instead, an Ali turned a few degrees to the left. But when Hanna blinked, it was Ali again who was staring back at her. Hanna ran her hands over her face, feeling like her skin was crawling with worms.