Sara Shepard - Wicked

Thankful tears came to Emily’s eyes. “Not much of a chance of that,” she blurted.

Isaac snorted. “I guess not, huh?” He took Emily into his arms, kissing the side of her head.

As they were hugging, Lanie Iler, one of Emily’s swimming teammates, stuck her head into the bathroom, thinking it was unoccupied. “Oops,” she said. When Lanie saw Emily in the bathroom, hugging a guy, her eyes grew wide. But Emily no longer cared. Let them see, she thought. Let Lanie go back and tell everyone. Her days of hiding things were officially over.

The Hastingses’ doorbell rang for the umpteenth time, and Spencer watched from the corner as her parents welcomed the Pembrokes, one of the oldest families in the area. Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke were notorious for always bringing their animals everywhere with them, and it looked as if they’d brought two of their pets tonight: Mimsy, their yapping Pomeranian, and the stole around Hester Pembroke’s neck, which still had the fox’s head attached. As the couple stampeded hungrily for the bar, Spencer’s mother whispered something to Melissa and then drifted away. Melissa caught Spencer looking. Her hand fluttered against her dark red satin dress; then she lowered her eyes and turned away. Spencer hadn’t been able to ask Melissa how she felt about Ian’s disappearance—Melissa had made herself scarce all day.

Spencer was still unsure why they were even having the benefit, although everyone seemed to be having a fantastic time. Heavy drinking, apparently, was Rosewood’s salve for a scandal. Wilden had already had to escort Mason Byers’s parents out to their Bentley because Binky Byers had downed too many Metropolitan cocktails. Spencer had walked in on Olivia Zeigler, Naomi’s mom, throwing up in the powder room, her tanned arms clutching the sides of the sink. If only vodka could numb Spencer, too, but no matter how many Lemon Drops she covertly shot back, she remained clear-eyed and aware. It was as if some karmic force was punishing her, making her suffer through this whole ordeal sober.

She’d made a dreadful mistake, keeping the secret about Ian private. But how was she supposed to know Ian was planning to escape? She thought of the dream she’d had yesterday morning— it’s almost too late . Well, now it was.

She’d promised her friends that she would tell the cops about Ian’s visit, but as soon as Wilden had turned up on the doorstep, ready to guard the party, Spencer just…couldn’t. She couldn’t bear to hear someone else give her yet another scathing lecture about how terribly she’d screwed up—again. What good would telling Wilden do, anyway? It wasn’t as if Ian had tipped Spencer off to where he was planning to hide. The only interesting hint Ian had given was that he was on the verge of a secret that would blow her mind.

“Spencer, dear,” said a voice to the right. It was Mrs. Kahn, looking gaunt in her emerald green sequined gown. Spencer had heard her tell the society photographers that it was a vintage Balenciaga. Everything about Mrs. Kahn sparkled, from her ears to her neck to her wrists to her fingers. It was common knowledge that last year, when Noel’s father had gone to L.A. to finance yet another golf course, he’d bought out half of Harry Winston for his wife. The bill had been posted on a local gossip blog.

“Do you know if there are any more of those delicious mini petit fours?” Mrs. Kahn asked. “Why the hell not, right?” She patted her flat stomach and shrugged, as if to say, There’s a killer on the loose, so let us eat cake.

“Uh…” Spencer spied her parents across the room, next to the string quartet. “I’ll be back.”

She wove around the partygoers until she was a few feet away from her parents. Her father wore a dark Armani suit, but her mom had on a short black number with bat-wing sleeves and a ruched waist. Maybe it was all over the Milan runways, but in Spencer’s opinion, it looked like something Dracula’s wife would wear when she cleaned the house.

She tapped her mom on her shoulder. Mrs. Hastings turned, a big, rehearsed smile on her face, but when she saw it was Spencer, her eyes narrowed. “Uh, we’re running low on petit fours,” Spencer reported dutifully. “Should I go check in the kitchen? I noticed the bar is out of champagne, too.”

Mrs. Hastings wiped her hand over her brow, obviously flustered. “I’ll do it.”

“It’s no trouble,” Spencer offered. “I can just—”

“I’m handling it ,” her mother whispered icily, spitting as she spoke. Her eyebrows arched down, and the little lines around her mouth stood out prominently. “Would you please just go to the library with the rest of the kids?”

Spencer stepped back, her heel twisting on the highly polished wood floor. It felt like her mother had just slapped her. “I know you’re thrilled I’ve been disinherited,” Spencer blurted loudly, before she was quite aware of what she was saying. “But you don’t have to make it so obvious .”

Her mother stopped, her mouth dropping open in shock. Someone close by gasped. Mrs. Hastings eyed Mr. Hastings, who had gone as pale as the eggshell-white walls. “Spencer…,” her father rasped.

“Forget it,” Spencer growled, wheeling around and heading down the back hall toward the media room. Her eyes burned with frustrated tears. It should’ve felt delicious, spouting out exactly what her parents deserved, but Spencer felt the same way she always did when her parents dissed her—like a Christmas tree after New Year’s, tossed to the curb for the trash truck to haul away. Spencer used to beg for her parents to rescue all the abandoned Christmas trees and plant them in their backyard, but they always said she was being silly.

“Spencer?” Andrew Campbell stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine in his hand. Snappy little shivers danced up and down Spencer’s back. All day, she’d considered texting Andrew to see if he was coming tonight. Not that she was covertly pining for him or anything.

Andrew noticed Spencer’s flushed face and his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer’s chin trembled as she glanced back toward the main ballroom. Her parents were gone. She couldn’t find Melissa, either. “My whole family hates me,” Spencer blurted out.

“Come on,” Andrew said, taking her arm. He led her into the media room, flipped on the little Tiffany lamp on the end table, and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Breathe.”

Spencer plopped down. Andrew sat too. She hadn’t been in this room since Tuesday afternoon, when she and her friends had watched Ian’s bail hearing on TV. To the right of the TV was a line of Spencer’s and Melissa’s school pictures, from their very first year in Rosewood Day pre-K up to Melissa’s formal senior portrait. Spencer stared at her picture from this year. It had been taken right before school started, before the Ali and A mess started. Her hair was combed perfectly off her face, and her navy blazer had been ironed to perfection. The self-satisfied gloat on her face said, I’m Spencer Hastings, and I’m the best.

Ha, Spencer thought bitterly. How quickly things could change.

Next to the school pictures was the big Eiffel Tower statue. The old photo they’d found the other day, the one of Ali the day Time Capsule was announced, was still propped up against it. Spencer narrowed her eyes at Ali. The Time Capsule flyer dangled from Ali’s fingers, and her mouth was open so wide that Spencer could see her small, square, white molars. At what moment had this photo been taken? Had Ali just announced that Jason was going to tell her where one of the pieces was? Had the idea to steal Ali’s piece crept yet into Spencer’s mind? Had Ian already approached Ali and told her that he was going to kill her? Ali’s wide blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at Spencer, and Spencer could almost hear Ali’s clear, chirpy little voice now. Boo-hoo, Ali would tease, if she were still alive. Your parents hate you!