Sara Shepard: Perfect

Sean gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re going to meet him?”

“Not exactly.” She smiled devilishly.

“Ohhhhkay…” Sean drove a few blocks through the Hollis section of town, which was filled with brick and stone buildings, old bronze statues of the college founders, and tons of shabby-chic students on bicycles. It seemed like it was permanently fall at Hollis—the colorful cascading leaves looked perfect here. As Sean pulled into a two-hour parking spot on campus, he looked worried. “You’re not going to do anything illegal, are you?”

“Nah.” Aria gave him a quick kiss. “Don’t wait. I can walk home from here.”

Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the Arts Building’s main entrance. Her father’s text flashed before her eyes. I’m on campus waiting for Meredith to finish teaching . Meredith had told Aria herself that she taught studio art at Hollis. She slid by a security guard, who was supposed to be checking IDs but was instead watching a Yankees game on his portable TV. Her nerves felt jangled and snappy, as if they were ungrounded wires.

There were only three studio classrooms in the building that were big enough for a painting class, which Aria knew, because she’d attended Saturday art school at Hollis for years. Today, only one room was in use, so it had to be the one. Aria burst noisily through the doors of the classroom and was immediately assaulted by the smell of turpentine and unwashed clothes. Twelve art students with easels set up in a circle swiveled around to stare at her. The only person who didn’t move was the wrinkly, hairless, completely naked old drawing model in the center of the room. He stuck his bandy little chest out, kept his hands on his hips, and didn’t even blink. Aria had to give him an A for effort.

She spied Meredith perched on a table by the far window. There was her long, luscious brown hair. There was the pink spiderweb tattoo on her wrist. Meredith looked strong and confident, and there was an irritating, healthy pink flush to her cheeks.

“Aria?” Meredith called across the drafty, cavernous room. “This is a surprise.”

Aria looked around. All of the students had their brushes and paints within easy reach of their canvases. She marched over to the student closest to her, snatched a large, fan-shaped brush, swiped it in a puddle of red paint, and strode over to Meredith, dribbling paint as she went. Before anyone could do anything, Aria painted a large, messy A on the left breast of Meredith’s delicate, cotton eyelet sundress.

“Now everyone will know what you’ve done,” Aria snarled.

Giving Meredith no time to react, she whirled around and strode out of the room. When she got out onto Hollis’s green lawn again, she started gleefully, crazily laughing. It wasn’t a “husband-stealer” brand across her forehead, but it might as well have been. There, Meredith. Take that.

Monday afternoon at field hockey practice, Spencer pulled ahead of her teammates on their warm-up lap around the field. It had been an unseasonably warm day and the girls were all a little slower than usual. Kirsten Cullen pumped her arms to catch up. “I heard about the Golden Orchid,” Kirsten said breathlessly, readjusting her blond ponytail. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” Spencer ducked her head. It was amazing how fast the news had spread at Rosewood Day—her mother had only told her six hours ago. At least ten people had come up to talk to her about it since then.

“I heard John Mayer won a Golden Orchid when he was in high school,” Kirsten continued. “It was, like, an essay for AP music theory.”

“Huh.” Spencer was pretty sure John Mayer hadn’t won it—she knew every winner from the past fifteen years.

“I bet you’ll win,” Kirsten said. “And then you’ll be on TV! Can I come with you for your debut on the Today show?”

Spencer shrugged. “It’s a really cutthroat competition.”

“Shut up.” Kirsten slapped her on the shoulder. “You’re always so modest.”

Spencer clenched her teeth. As much as she’d been trying to downplay this Golden Orchid thing, everyone’s reaction had been the same— You’ll definitely win it. Get ready for your close-up! —and it was making her crazy. She had nervously organized and reorganized the money in her wallet so many times today that one of her twenties had split right down the center.

Coach McCready blew the whistle and yelled, “Crossovers!” The team immediately turned and began running sideways. They looked like dressage competitors at the Devon Horse Show. “You hear about the Rosewood Stalker?” Kirsten asked, huffing a little—crossovers were harder than they looked. “It was all over the news last night.”

“Yeah,” Spencer mumbled.

“He’s in your neighborhood. Hanging out in the woods.”

Spencer dodged a divot in the dry grass. “It’s probably just some loser,” she huffed. But Spencer couldn’t help but think of A. How many times had A texted her about something that it seemed no one could have seen? Now she looked out into the trees, almost certain she’d see a shadowy figure. But there was no one.

They started running normally again, passing the Rosewood Day duck pond, the sculpture garden, and the cornfields. When they looped toward the bleachers, Kirsten squinted and pointed toward the low metal benches that held the girls’ hockey equipment. “Is that your sister ?”

Spencer flinched. Melissa was standing next to Ian Thomas, their new assistant coach. It was the very same Ian Thomas Melissa had dated when Spencer was in seventh grade— and the same Ian Thomas who had kissed Spencer in her driveway years ago.

They finished their loop and Spencer came to a halt in front of Melissa and Ian. Her sister had changed into an outfit that was nearly identical to what their mother had been wearing earlier: stovepipe jeans, white tee, and an expensive Dior watch. She even wore Chanel No. 5, just like Mom. Such a good little clone, Spencer thought. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, out of breath.

Melissa leaned her elbow on one of the Gatorade jugs resting on the bench, her antique gold charm bracelet tinkling against her wrist. “What, a big sister can’t watch her little sister play?” But then her saccharine smile faded, and she snaked an arm around Ian’s waist. “It also helps that my boyfriend’s the coach.”

Spencer wrinkled her nose. She’d always suspected Melissa had never gotten over Ian. They’d broken up shortly after graduation. Ian was still as cute as ever, with his blond, wavy hair, beautifully proportioned body, and lazy, arrogant smile. “Well, good for you,” Spencer answered, wanting out of this conversation. The less she spoke to Melissa, the better—at least until the Golden Orchid thing was over. If only the judges would hurry the hell up and knock Spencer’s plagiarized paper out of the running.

She reached for her gear bag, pulled out her shin guards, and fastened one around her left shin. Then she fastened the other around her right. Then she unfastened both, refastening them much tighter. She pulled up her socks and then pulled them down again. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

“Someone’s awfully OCD today,” Melissa teased. She turned to Ian. “Oh, did you hear the big Spencer news? She won the Golden Orchid. The Philadelphia Sentinel is coming over to interview her this week.”

“I didn’t win,” Spencer barked quickly. “I was only nominated.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will win,” Melissa simpered, in a way Spencer couldn’t quite read. When her sister gave Spencer a wink, she felt a pinch of terror. Did she know?