Sara Shepard: Toxic

Then Melissa’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God, there’s Kim from Wharton! We have to say hi!”

She clutched Darren’s hand, and they flitted off into the crowd. Spencer gazed around the room once more. Someone giggled behind her, and she suddenly felt an eerie prickle on the skin of her arms. This place was so crowded, and there was barely any security. It seemed like a perfect place for Ali to hide.

Stop thinking about her , Spencer scolded silently, smoothing down her hair and taking another sip of the martini. She drifted toward the bar. Only one barstool was free, and Spencer settled into it and grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a small bowl. She gazed at her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. Her blond hair shone, her blue eyes were bright, and her skin was a golden color from the week she’d spent in Florida. But it was pretty much wasted here—everyone was over forty. Besides, Spencer didn’t want to get mixed up in another relationship. All guys ever gave her were trouble and heartbreak.

“Excuse me, are you Spencer Hastings?”

Spencer turned and stared into the eyes of a young woman in a gray pin-striped suit and brown pumps. “Yes, but I’ve forgotten your name,” she said, figuring the woman was one of Mr. Pennythistle’s business associates. He had a rotating cast of businesspeople over for cocktails.

“That’s because I haven’t told you yet.” The woman smiled. “It’s Alyssa Bloom.” She set her glass of white wine on the counter. “My goodness, my dear. You’ve been through so much.”

“Oh, well, you know.” Spencer felt her cheeks redden.

“How does it feel for everything to actually be over ?” Alyssa Bloom said. “You must be so thrilled, I would think.”

Spencer bit her lip. It’s not over , she wanted to say.

Ms. Bloom took a tiny sip of her wine. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about the Alison groupies? What do they call themselves again?”

“The Ali Cats,” Spencer groaned automatically.

“And the copycat As all over the country?” The woman sniffed. “It’s dreadful. It’s not the lesson people should be learning.”

Spencer nodded. “No one should have to go through what I did,” she admitted. It was the response she often gave the kids who wrote to her blog with their stories.

The look in the woman’s eyes indicated she wanted Spencer to say more. But suddenly, Spencer felt paranoid. Who was this Alyssa Bloom? Lately, Spencer had received a lot of calls from insidious, gotcha-journalism types who tried to lure her into a conversation just to get her to say something stupid.

“I’m sorry, what is it you do?” Spencer blurted.

Ms. Bloom reached into her jacket pocket and handed her a card. Spencer stared down at it. Alyssa Bloom , it said. Editor. HarperCollins Publishing, New York .

Spencer was speechless for a few beats. “You work in publishing?”

Ms. Bloom smiled. “That’s right.”

“Meaning you publish books?” Spencer wanted to smack herself for sounding so idiotic. “I’m sorry,” she backtracked. “It’s just that I’ve never spoken to an editor before. And actually, I’ve always seen myself as an author.” She’d thought that ever since she came up with a book series idea with Courtney years ago. It was about field hockey–playing fairies who shape-shifted into supermodels, and Spencer and Courtney had written almost half of the first novel. Well, Spencer had written it. Courtney had directed from the sidelines.

Ms. Bloom leaned into one hip. “Well, if you have any ideas, I’d love to hear them. I’d love to talk about your blog sometime, too.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of my blog?”

Ms. Bloom nodded. “Sure. Bullying’s a hot topic, and you’ve started something very interesting.” Then her phone rang, and she shot Spencer a tight smile. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this.” She pointed to the card in Spencer’s hand. “Call me sometime. Nice to meet you.”

Then the editor whirled away, her phone pressed to her ear. Spencer’s mind started to race. Princeton would have to let her in if she wrote a book. Even Melissa hadn’t done that.

“Can I get you something?”

The bartender was smiling at her from behind the counter. Spencer felt her spirits lift even higher. All at once, everything felt so shiny and new. Possible. Amazing .

“You can get me another martini.” She slid her empty glass toward him. What the hell? She’d just gotten a business card from an editor of a huge publishing house.

That was totally a reason to celebrate.

On Tuesday morning, Emily Fields sat at a high table in a Rosewood Day chemistry classroom. A periodic table hung on the wall, along with a poster describing the electron arrangements of various basic molecules. Bunsen burners were lined up in a glass cabinet, and the drawers along the back held flasks, beakers, and other lab equipment. The teacher, a frizzy-haired woman named Ms. Payton whom Emily had never met before—she suspected Rosewood Day’s regular staff wouldn’t set foot in the place during the summer—stood at the board, turning a silver ring on her finger around and around. All the students except for Emily were talking, texting, or rooting through their bags, and one girl was even sitting on the windowsill, an entire Chick-fil-A meal spread out on her lap.

“Now, if you look at the next item on the syllabus,” Ms. Payton said in a wavering voice, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses on her nose, “it talks about lab work. It’s going to be very important in this class, at least thirty percent of your grade, so I suggest you take it seriously.”

Several boys from the JV crew team snorted. Vera, Emily’s lab partner, whose military jacket was faded and ripped but had a tiny tag on the back that said DOLCE & GABBANA, looked at the teacher with stoned eyes. Hanna had warned Emily about how freaky summer school was—“I didn’t recognize, like, anyone ,” she’d said dramatically.

Emily didn’t think it was that bad. Hanna was right about two things, though. One, Rosewood Day did seem eerie without its normal hustle and bustle. Emily had never noticed how creaky the doors were, or that there were so many long, ominous shadows around corners, or that so many of the overhead lights flickered. And two, no one particularly cared about passing the class.

Don’t you realize how lucky we are to get to graduate? Emily wanted to yell at her classmates. But maybe you didn’t appreciate that sort of thing until it was taken away.

Then Vera tapped Emily’s arm. “ Hey . What was it like to almost, like, die ?”

Emily looked away. Sometimes she forgot that her classmates knew everything about her. “Um . . .”

“I remember Alison,” Vera went on. “She told me I looked like a troll.” She curled and uncurled her fists. “But hey, at least she’s dead, right?”

Emily didn’t know what to say. It was always a shock that her classmates remembered Ali, too—Emily had spent so much time obsessing over her it sometimes felt as if Ali were a figment of her imagination, unknown and unknowable to everyone else. But actually, her classmates had known both Alis: Courtney, their old friend, and the sociopathic real Ali, who’d tried to kill them twice.

And who was definitely still alive.

“So here are your books,” Ms. Payton said, handing a stack to the front row and asking them to pass them back. “Would someone like to read the introduction page for the class?”

A bunch of kids snickered, and Ms. Payton looked like she was going to cry. Poor thing , Emily thought. Didn’t she know that the reading-aloud thing stopped in elementary school?