Sara Shepard - Wicked

“Your grandmother died?” Andrew’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Spencer blinked, thrown off track. Why would she tell Andrew her grandmother died? It wasn’t as if they were friends. “I don’t know. But anyway, she left a will, and I wasn’t in it,” she went on. “At first I thought it was because of this Golden Orchid mess, but then my sister was talking about how the will said natural-born grandchildren. I didn’t believe her right away, but then I started thinking about it. It makes perfect sense. I should’ve known.”

“Slow down,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. You should’ve known…what?”

Spencer took a breath. “Sorry,” she said softly. “ Natural-born grandchildren means that one of us is not naturally born. It means I’m…adopted.”

Spencer tapped her nails against the wood-grain patterns in the study room’s big mahogany desk. Someone had etched Angela is a slut into the surface. It felt weird for Spencer to say the words out loud— I’m adopted.

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Spencer mused, stretching her long legs under the table. “Maybe my real mother would actually care about me. And maybe I could get out of Rosewood.”

Andrew was silent. Spencer glanced at him, wondering if she’d said something offensive. Finally he turned and looked straight into her eyes.

“I love you,” Andrew announced.

Spencer’s eyes popped out. “Ex cuse me?”

“It’s a Web site,” Andrew went on, unfazed. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “I love you dot com. Or maybe you is just the letter u, I’m not sure. It matches adopted kids to their birth mothers. This girl I met on the trip to Greece told me about it. She wrote me the other day saying it worked. She’s meeting her birth mother next week.”

“Oh.” Spencer pretended to smooth down her already perfectly ironed skirt, feeling a little flustered. Of course she hadn’t thought Andrew was actually saying he loved her or anything.

“Do you want to register for it?” Andrew began to load his books into his backpack. “If you’re not adopted, they just won’t find a match. If you are…maybe they will.”

“Um…” Spencer’s head spun. “Okay. Sure.”

Andrew made a beeline through the library for the computer lab, and Spencer followed. The main reading room was mostly empty save for a few late-night studiers, two boys hovering around the copier, no doubt contemplating whether to copy their faces or their butts, and what looked like a cult meeting—every single middle-aged woman was in some sort of blue hat. Spencer thought she saw someone quickly duck behind one of the autobiography shelves, but when she looked again, no one was there.

The computer lab was at the front of the library, surrounded on all sides by large glass windows. Andrew sat down at a console and Spencer pulled out a chair next to him. He wiggled the mouse, and the screen flickered on. “Okay.” Andrew started typing and tilted the screen toward Spencer. “See?”

Reconnecting families, announced flowery pink script at the top of the page. On the left of the screen were a series of pictures and testimonials from people who had already used the service. Spencer wondered if Andrew’s little Greece friend was pictured—and if she was pretty. Not that she would have been jealous or anything.

Spencer clicked on a link that said, Sign up here. A new page popped up, asking her to answer various questions about herself, which the site would then use to match Spencer with her potential mother.

Spencer’s eyes floated back to the testimonials. I thought I would never find my son! Sadie, age forty-nine, wrote. Now we’re reunited and best friends! A girl named Angela, twenty-four, exclaimed, I always wondered who my true mother was. Now I’ve found her, and we’re starting an accessories business together! Spencer knew the world wasn’t this innocent and naïve—things didn’t work out this easily. But she couldn’t help but hope all the same.

She swallowed hard. “What if it actually works?”

Andrew pushed his hands into his blazer pockets. “Well, that’s good, right?”

Spencer rubbed her jaw, took a deep breath, and started to type her name, cell phone number, and e-mail address. She filled in the blanks of where and when she’d been born, any health problems she’d had, and her blood type. When she got to the question that asked, Please explain why you’re conducting this search, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, searching for the appropriate answer. Because my family hates me, she wanted to type. Because I mean nothing to them.

Andrew shifted over her shoulder. Curiosity, Spencer finally typed. Then she took a deep breath and hit Send.

“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” tinkled over the computer’s tiny speakers, and onto the screen floated an animated picture of a stork flying around the world, as if diligently searching for Spencer’s match.

Spencer cracked her knuckles, numb to what she’d just done. As she looked around, everything suddenly seemed unfamiliar. She’d been coming to this library all her life, but she’d never noticed that all the oil paintings on the computer room’s walls were of woodsy landscapes. Or that the big sign on the back of the door said, LIBRARY USERS: WHEN ON INTERNET, NO FACEBOOK OR MYSPACE, EVER! She’d never really looked at the sand-colored wood floors, or the huge, pentagon-shaped lamps that hung majestically from the library ceiling.

When she glanced at Andrew, he was kind of unfamiliar too—in a good way. Spencer blushed, feeling vulnerable. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Andrew stood up and leaned against the doorjamb. “So, you feel less stressed?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good.” Andrew smiled and checked his watch. “I have to go, but I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

Spencer watched as he strode through the library, waved to Mrs. Jamison, the librarian, and pushed out through the turnstile. She then turned back to the computer, logging into her e-mail. The adoption site had sent her a welcome message, stating that she would most likely hear results in anywhere from the next few days to six months. As she was about to log out, a new e-mail popped up in her inbox. The sender’s name was a jumble of letters and numbers, and the subject line read, I’m watching.

Prickles ran up Spencer’s back. She opened the e-mail and squinted at the words.

I thought we were friends, Spence. I send you a sweet little note, and you call the cops…. What do I have to do to keep you girls quiet? Actually, don’t tempt me!

—A

“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered.

A thumping noise sounded behind her. Spencer turned, her muscles rigid. No one else was in the computer room. A spotlight shone on the courtyard behind the library, but there wasn’t a single footprint in the bright white snow. Then Spencer noticed something on the outside of one of the windowpanes—a quickly fading smudge from someone’s breath.

Spencer’s blood turned cold. I’m watching . Someone had been right there just seconds ago…and she hadn’t had any idea.

The next morning, Aria walked downstairs, rubbing her eyes. The smell of the organic coffee Ella bought at the farmer’s market—one of the few items she paid premium price for without complaining—lured her to the kitchen. Ella had already left for work, but Mike was at the table, inhaling a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and Twittering on his iPhone. When Aria saw who was sitting next to Mike, she let out a startled cry.