Sara Shepard - Crushed

“ But I can tell you that we’ve decided on a theme!” Appleton went on. “Student Council has decided on . . . The Starry Night !”

People cheered. Hanna rested her spine against the fence behind them. “That’s a pretty good theme, don’t you think?”

Aria just stared at Hanna, the blood draining from her head. On second thought, thank goodness she hadn’t applied. It was a terrible theme.

“What?” Hanna blinked. “They could do big Van Gogh paintings and . . . oh .”

The painting. Aria could see the thought flashing across Hanna’s mind as if it were in neon. Aria and Hanna had never spoken about that night . . . but that didn’t mean Aria had forgotten. She could tell Hanna hadn’t, either.

Aria put her hands over her eyes. The trip to Iceland had been such a disaster from the very start. They’d sat on the runway for almost two hours before taking off. Then no one’s ATM cards worked in the Keflavik Airport, which meant they had to scrape together traveler’s checks for a bus to the hotel instead of a cab. The hotel lost their reservation and referred them to a guesthouse down the street, which was damp, smelled of fish, and so small and overbooked that they all had to share a room.

Then Noel started complaining about everything—how weird the milk tasted, how the backyard hot tub was probably full of bacteria, how uncomfortable the duvet felt against his skin. Aria had just chalked it up to jet lag, except he bitched the next day, too. And the next. He didn’t seem impressed by their romantic walks around town. He didn’t compliment the delicious local beer. He didn’t even find the penis museum interesting. He thought the native horses were ridiculous, and when Aria pointed at the gorgeous Mount Esja in the distance, Noel had said, “Eh, the Rockies are better.”

Mike got into the act, saying that the bars in town seemed even lamer than when they lived there. When Hanna whined about the lack of boutiques, Aria had gone into the bedroom and screamed into a pillow. Typical Rosewoods , she’d thought bitterly.

By the last night, the air had crackled with tension, and they’d all gone to a bar down the road to let off steam. When Aria sat down next to the shaggy-haired, emo-bearded, bespectacled boy named Olaf, who struck up a conversation about an Icelandic poet Aria loved, she’d almost hugged him out of relief. Here was someone who knew there was more to life than Rosewood. Someone who liked interesting music, had his own pony, and loved Iceland as much as she did.

Of course Noel and Mike thought he was ridiculous. They called him Gayloff behind his back—not quietly, either—as they also drank shot after shot of Black Death schnapps, told stupid jokes, and acted so American and idiotic Aria wished it wasn’t so obvious she was with them. Then they tried to infiltrate Aria and Olaf’s conversation. “You’re an art student?” Noel slurred at Olaf. “Hey, I like art, too.”

Olaf raised an eyebrow. “Who’s your favorite artist?”

Aria wanted to hide. Football, Noel could talk about. But art? Disaster. “Uh, that painting with the trippy stars and swirls,” Noel answered. “By that dude who cut off his ear?”

“You mean Van Gogh?” Olaf said it like Van Gock.

Noel smirked at his pronunciation but didn’t comment. “Did you hear there’s a top secret painting by him stashed in a mansion not far from here? It was stolen by this German baron from a rich Jewish guy during the Hologram.”

He’d said Hologram instead of Holocaust . Aria covered her eyes. “Where did you hear something that idiotic?” she mumbled, mortified.

“Actually, I heard him saying it.” Noel jutted a thumb at Olaf.

Olaf raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t me.”

“Well, it was someone ,” Noel slurred. Then he puffed out his chest, which only made him lose his balance and topple off the stool. Mike laughed long and hard while the bartender eyed the two of them wearily, surely thinking, God, I’m so sick of American kids.

But then Olaf had touched Aria’s arm. “He’s right, though. There is a painting in a mansion not far from here—a practice study of Starry Night. No one has ever seen it.”

“Really?” Aria raised an eyebrow.

“Really.” Olaf peered out the window thoughtfully. “The woman who owns the house is very stingy with her money and her things. Word has it she has all kinds of priceless possessions in that house that should be in museums, but she wants them all to herself.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.” Aria put her hands on her hips. “That’s the most bourgeois thing I’ve ever heard. The masses deserve to witness great art just as much as rich people do.”

“I agree,” Olaf said. “Art like that should be owned by the world, not just one person.”

Aria nodded emphatically. “It should be liberated .”

“Liberated?” Noel guffawed from the floor. “It’s not a caged tiger, Aria.”

But Olaf’s eyes twinkled. “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard,” he said in his delicious Icelandic accent.

The next thing she knew she was leaning against a brick wall outside the bar, Olaf’s beard scratching her face, his lips searching for hers. When the door creaked, they shot apart. A figure was standing in the doorway, and Aria’s heart stopped. Noel?

It was Hanna who’d walked out. She’d stopped short when she saw them, a disgusted look on her face. “Please,” Aria had begged, stepping away from Olaf. “Don’t say anything, okay?”

Now a whistle blew, yanking Aria from her memory. She glanced at Hanna and saw her biting her nails as though they were made of chocolate. Down on the field, Noel was laughing with Jim Freed. He probably didn’t remember that night’s conversation—he’d been so wasted. Thank goodness he had no idea what else had happened that night—no one did except Hanna. Sometimes, in dark moments, Aria dared to think of Olaf. There had never been a story about the police catching him—she assumed he and the painting were still out there. But how had he escaped the chateau? Where had he gone?

Bloop.

Aria looked down and frowned. There, on her new phone’s screen, was an alert for a text message. Only she hadn’t given anyone the number yet.

Her heart began to pound. Nervously, she opened the text. It was a picture of the Splendor of the Seas cruise ship on fire. A message accompanied it.

That was one smokin’ cruise, Aria—I’m sure your BFF Graham thinks so too. Better hope he pulls through!

—A

On Wednesday afternoon, Spencer stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, inspecting her reflection. Agent Fuji was coming to interview all of them in a few minutes, and Spencer couldn’t remember the last time she’d agonized over her outfit so much.

Was a pin-striped blazer too corporate? She frowned and pulled it off and tried on a pink blouse, but that just made her look like a big square of bubble gum. She needed casual but serious. Girl next door—no, smart girl next door. Someone who would never, ever break the law.

Her gaze drifted to the shimmering pearl-gray Zac Posen gown that hung in plastic in her closet. The tag was still on, but she didn’t have the heart to return it. Two days later, Reefer’s rejection still stung. Spencer had sent him a few plaintive texts, begging for another conversation. Maybe she’d misinterpreted what he’d meant when he said they shouldn’t be tied down. Maybe he’d had a change of heart. But Reefer hadn’t written back, and she’d begun to feel foolish and desperate. What she needed, she decided, was a prom date to take her mind off things. But who? All the eligible boys had been claimed months ago. Spencer considered calling her old boyfriend, Andrew Campbell, who had graduated early and was now at Cornell, but they hadn’t spoken since last spring.