Tickle Me Elmo girl was waiting for Hanna by the snack bar. A bald man with tattooed biceps and a handlebar mustache loomed behind her. “Miss, if you want to use this gym, you’re going to have to pay a guest fee,” the girl said haltingly. Her cheeks matched the bright red sweatband on her forehead. “And if you don’t want to do that, then–”
“I’m done here,” Hanna cut her off, skirting around both of them. The girl and her bouncer whirled around, watching her go. Neither moved. Neither stepped forward to apprehend her. And that, of course, was because she was Hanna Marin. And she was unstoppably, unbelievably fabulous.
23 YEARBOOK MEMORIES TO LAST A LIFETIME
That afternoon, a UPS truck pulled up to the curb of Aria’s father’s new house. The deliveryman, wearing blue long underwear under his short-sleeved brown UPS shirt and shorts, handed Aria a box. Aria thanked him and looked at the mailing label. Organic Baby Booties. The return address was from Santa Fe, New Mexico. Who knew such little baby booties could leave such an adult-size carbon footprint?
Her phone beeped, and she reached into the pocket of her bulky-knit sweater coat to grab it. She’d received a text from Ella. Are you coming to the Radley party tonight? Another text quickly followed. I hope you can…. I’ve missed you! And then another. It would mean so much!
Aria sighed. Ella had been texting Aria like this all morning, begging her for an answer. If Aria said she didn’t want to go to the Radley party, Ella would inevitably ask why, and then what would Aria do? Tell her that she didn’t want to be within six feet of her creepy boyfriend? Concoct a lie, which might make her mom think she didn’t want to support her art career? It was bad enough that Aria hadn’t been to Ella’s house even once this week. There was no way out of it—she’d have to suck it up and deal with Xavier as best she could. If only Jason were coming with her.
Her phone beeped again. Aria clicked on the new message, expecting it to be another missive from Ella. Instead, it was an e-mail. The sender’s name was Jason DiLaurentis.
Aria’s heart leapt. She opened the note fast. Listen. I’ve been thinking, Jason wrote. I overreacted at Rocks and Ropes yesterday. I want to explain. Want to meet me at my house in an hour?
Beneath it was his address in Yarmouth. Don’t go in the regular entrance, Jason explained. I’m up the steps in the apartment above the garage.
Sounds good, Aria wrote back. She hugged herself, giddy and relieved. So there was an explanation for this. Maybe Jason didn’t hate her.
Her phone rang once more. Aria glanced at the screen. It was Emily. After a reluctant pause, Aria answered.
“I need to talk to you,” Emily said in an urgent voice. “It’s about Jason.”
Aria groaned. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Ali lied to Jenna about him.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Emily was about to say something else, but Aria cut her off. “I wish I’d never told you what Jenna said. It’s caused nothing but trouble.”
“But…” Emily protested. “It was the truth.”
Aria smacked her hand to her forehead. “Emily, you have Ali on such a pedestal. She was a lying, conniving, manipulative bitch—to me, to Jason, and to you too. Deal with it.”
Then Aria hit end, dropped her phone into her bag, and walked back inside for the keys to the Subaru. It was maddening how clouded Emily’s judgment was. If she even considered the notion that Ali had lied to Jenna about her brother just to get Jenna to spill her secrets, Ali would no longer be the perfect girl of Emily’s dreams. It was easier for Emily to believe that Jason was the bad one, even though there was nothing supporting that whatsoever.
It was funny how love could make people believe anything.
The DiLaurentises’ new house was on a quiet, pretty street, far away from the grungy Yarmouth train station. The first thing Aria noticed were the leaf-shaped wind chimes hanging from the front porch—they’d been on the front porch at Ali’s old house, too. When Aria used to stand on Ali’s welcome mat, waiting for Ali to come downstairs, she’d always make the chimes clang together, trying to compose a song.
The driveway was empty, and the main house looked dark, the curtains pulled shut and the lights turned off. The structure that housed the three-car garage and Jason’s second-floor apartment was separated by a low stone wall, and on the other side of that was a high wrought-iron fence. Surprisingly, there weren’t any Ali shrines in the yard or at the street—but then, maybe the DiLaurentises had asked the media to keep quiet about them living here. And maybe, amazingly, the media had respected their wishes.
Aria started up the driveway toward the garage, an excited burn in her stomach. Then she heard a clink and a loud woof. A Rottweiler ran out from the narrow space between the garage and the wrought-iron fence, dragging a long metal tie-out chain around its neck.
Aria jumped back. Froth sprayed from the dog’s mouth. Its body was thick and sturdy, all muscle. “Shh,” she tried to say, but it came out barely more than a whisper. The dog growled viciously, no doubt smelling her paralyzing fear. She glanced desperately at the apartment on the garage’s second floor. Jason would come down and help her, wouldn’t he? But there weren’t any lights on up there, either.
Aria splayed her hands out in front of her, trying to appear calm, but it only seemed to rile up the dog more, making it snort and plant its feet and bare its long, sharp teeth. Aria let out another helpless whimper and stepped back again. Her hip hit something hard, and she squawked, startled. She had bumped smack into the railing of the stairs to the apartment. With horror, she realized the dog had cornered her—the stone wall behind her that separated the garage from the main house was too high to scale quickly, and the dog was blocking the narrow path that led to the backyard as well as the rest of the driveway. The only possible route to safety was up the wooden garage steps to Jason’s apartment.
Aria swallowed hard and dashed up, her heart beating like mad. The dog scurried up behind her, his paws slipping on the wet wood stairs. She pounded on the door. “Jason!” she screamed. No answer. Frantic, Aria wiggled Jason’s doorknob. It was locked.
“What the hell?” she cried, flattening herself against the door. The dog was only a few stairs away. Aria spied an open window next to the door. Slowly, she inched her fingers toward the windowsill, pushing the window open wider. Taking a deep breath, she whirled around and squeezed through. Her back hit something soft. A mattress. She pulled the window shut. The dog barked and scratched at Jason’s door. Aria’s chest heaved in and out as she listened to her heart pound. Then she looked around. The room was dark and empty. There was a coatrack near the door, but the hooks were bare.
Aria reached into her pocket for her phone and dialed Jason’s number. It went immediately to voice mail. Aria hung up, laid the phone on the bed, and stood. The dog was still barking; she didn’t dare try to leave.
The apartment was basically a big studio divided into a bedroom, a dining area, and a small TV nook. There was a bathroom at the far end of the room, and a bunch of bookshelves off to the right. She walked around the room, inspecting the Hemingway, Burroughs, and Bukowski books on Jason’s shelf. He had a little print of a drawing by Egon Schiele, one of Aria’s favorite artists. She crouched down and ran her finger along the spines of his DVDs, noting the many foreign films. There were pictures on his little kitchen island, many of which looked like they’d been taken at Yale. Some were of a petite, smiling girl with dark hair and dark-framed glasses. In one of the photos, they both wore matching Yale T-shirts. In another, they were at what looked like a football game, holding red cups of beer. In another, she was kissing him on the cheek, her nose squished into his face.