Sara Shepard: Toxic

And God , did she miss him.

“H-hey,” Aria said nervously as she approached. “Thanks for the text.” She had sent Noel a few texts lately, just saying hi, hoping to broach a conversation. Finally, Noel had written back, a simple hi . Maybe it was a sign.

Noel’s brow crinkled for a moment. “Oh. Right. No problem.”

An aching silence followed. Aria pretended to be interested in a bumper sticker on the back of a passing Honda Civic. “What are you doing in this neighborhood, anyway?” she asked finally. Say you came to see me , she willed.

Noel shuffled his feet. “I’m taking an English class at Hollis so I can skip the course requirement next year. A bunch of kids are taking it. Mason, Riley Wolfe . . .”

Aria started to giggle. “Remember the time you told me you thought Riley looked like a leprechaun?”

Noel looked pained. “Um, I should get going.”

Aria grabbed at him. “Wait!” she bleated, hating how desperate she sounded. “Um, maybe we could have coffee soon or something? Or there’s that fund-raiser at the country club—maybe we could go together?” A bunch of society ladies in Rosewood were throwing a party to benefit Rosewood’s disadvantaged and troubled youths, and the whole town was invited. It was kind of ironic, as wealthy, privileged Rosewood really didn’t have many disadvantaged or troubled youths. Ali had kind of been a one-off.

Noel shifted. “I’m busy that night.”

“Oh!” Aria cringed at how chirpy her voice came out. “Well, maybe a movie sometime?”

He kept his eyes on the pavement. “Actually, I think I just need some space right now, Aria. I’m sorry.”

Aria blinked. “Sure. Okay.” A feeling of hurt surged through her chest. She thought about when she’d seen Noel in the hospital after her attack. I believe you , he’d said, referring to them seeing Ali. I’ll always believe you . He’d seemed so loving and concerned. But that was two weeks ago. It was as if he’d forgotten it happened.

“Well, see ya,” was all she could manage now.

“See ya.” Noel waved. A few paces away, he pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen.

She counted to ten, but Noel didn’t turn around. Her throat itched, and she could feel that the tears were imminent. The bells that Jim, the gallery owner, had purchased on a trip to India jingled as she stepped back inside.

Ella lowered the canvas in her hands. “Aria?” Her voice cracked. “Was that Noel? Are you okay?”

“I just . . .” Aria put her head down and stomped past her. The humiliation was probably clear on her face, but she did not want to talk about it.

She disappeared into the back room, shut the door, and locked it, then let the tears fall. She glared at the Ali paintings through blurred vision. This was all her fault. Everything was her fault.

She grabbed the sixth-grade Ali one, enraged by her taunting expression. You’ll always be under my thumb , Ali seemed to tease. With jerky, hurried movements, Aria rammed the thing onto an easel and grabbed her oil paints from the windowsill. She squirted some black paint on a wooden palette and made broad, obsidian slashes with her fattest brush, covering Ali’s shiny hair, her flawless skin, and that hateful smile. She painted and painted until the entire canvas was black except for one small triangle around Ali’s eye. A single blue eyeball stared out at Aria. But even that was too Ali. Too much.

So Aria painted over it, too.

Monday night, a valet in a white shirt and red pants extended his hand as Spencer Hastings climbed out of her stepfather’s Range Rover. “Welcome to the Four Seasons, miss,” he said in a smooth voice. “Do you need help with anything?”

Spencer smiled. She loved luxury hotels. “I’m fine,” she said, turning to watch as her mother; her stepfather, Mr. Pennythistle; her fifteen-year-old stepsister, Amelia; her older sister, Melissa; and Melissa’s boyfriend, Darren Wilden, climbed out of the car next. They looked like a Brooks Brothers advertisement, the men in dark suits, the ladies in tasteful black cocktail dresses—even Amelia, who usually dressed like an American Girl doll.

The family headed toward the grand ballroom, where they were attending a fete honoring the Fifty Most Prominent Philadelphians. Mr. Pennythistle was on the list because his homebuilding company had put up so many new developments in the suburbs. Spencer wasn’t a fan of her stepfather’s cookie-cutter, Stepford Wife–esque housing plans, but it was awesome to see his name on a large plaque and in Philadelphia magazine. And after the hellish few months she’d had, a fancy party with dancing and drinks might take her mind off things.

“Cocktail?” a waitress holding a tray of martinis said to the group.

Spencer glanced at her mother. Mrs. Hastings nodded. “Only one.”

Spencer grinned and grabbed a glass from the tray. To her delight, Mr. Pennythistle shook his head before Amelia could ask.

Then Spencer turned to Melissa, about to ask her if she’d like a drink, too. Melissa was scowling at something on her cell phone.

“What is it?” Spencer asked, moving closer.

Melissa’s face creased with worry. “It’s an article talking about how there are numerous fake As all over the country.”

Darren scowled. “I told you to stop reading that stuff.”

Melissa swished him away, squinting at the little screen. “It says here that a group of girls in Ohio got so many A notes that one of them killed the girl who was doing it.”

“Ugh.” Spencer leaned over to look, too. There was a sidebar about the Ali Cats, Ali’s psycho fan club. MEMBERS OF THE ALI CATS HAVE BEEN HOLDING CANDLELIGHT VIGILS IN VARIOUS LOCATIONS, PRAYING THAT ALISON DILAURENTIS IS STILL ALIVE. “THE MEDIA HAS SPUN THIS STORY ONLY ONE WAY, JUST LIKE THEY ALWAYS DO,” SAID A WOMAN WHO ASKED TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS. “BUT ALISON IS A BRAVE, UNIQUE INDIVIDUAL WHO IS A VICTIM OF STIGMA, PREJUDICE, AND INTOLERANCE. SHAME ON ALL THOSE WHO CANNOT SEE THAT.”

An oily feeling filled her. A victim of prejudice and intolerance? What was that lady smoking?

It was so frustrating. Spencer had told her friends she wanted to let Ali go—before this mess, she’d been accepted to Princeton, and she’d recently heard from the Princeton admissions committee that there was a good chance she could still attend as long as she aced her final exams. But forgetting Ali was easier said than done; Ali kept popping up. And those Ali Cats—it was insane. How could they worship someone who had murdered practically half of Rosewood?

As soon as Spencer had discovered the Ali Cats, she’d felt an itch to retaliate. Taking them down didn’t seem like an option—they had a right to form whatever weirdo group they wanted. Instead, she’d created a website for other people who’d been bullied, a safe forum for kids to share their experiences and feelings. So far, it had gotten pretty decent traction; she had almost two thousand “likes” on the blog’s Facebook link. Every heartbreaking new bullying response she received on Facebook, Twitter, or email just reaffirmed how necessary a site like this was. There were so many people who’d suffered from bullying, some at much worse a cost than Spencer. Maybe putting these stories out there would stop it from happening, somehow. Or at least slow it down.

“I wish people would find something else to obsess over,” Melissa said angrily, slipping her phone back into her purse.

Spencer nodded. She wanted to talk to her sister about Ali still being alive, but so far, Melissa hadn’t seemed open to the conversation. Spencer could understand. Melissa was probably sick of thinking about it, too.