Of course, it could have been worse. Aria hadn’t gotten any texts from A in the last three weeks. Although Byron was now allegedly living with Meredith, at least Ella had begun speaking to Aria again. And Rosewood hadn’t been invaded by aliens yet, although after all the weird things that had happened in this town, Aria wouldn’t have been surprised if that were next.
“Aria?” Mr. Fitz goaded. “Any ideas?”
Mason Byers came to Aria’s rescue. “What about Adam and Eve and that snake?”
“Great,” Mr. Fitz said absentmindedly. His eyes rested on Aria for another second before looking away. Aria felt a warm, prickly rush. She had hooked up with Mr. Fitz—Ezra—at Snooker’s, a college bar, before either of them knew he would be her new AP English teacher. He was the one who’d ended it, and afterward, Aria had learned he had a girlfriend in New York. But she didn’t hold a grudge. Things were going well with her new boyfriend, Sean Ackard, who was kind and sweet and also happened to be gorgeous.
Besides, Ezra was the best English teacher Aria had ever had. In the month since school had started, he’d assigned four amazing books and staged a skit based on Edward Albee’s “The Sandbox.” Soon, the class was going to do a Desperate Housewives–style interpretation of Medea, the Greek play where a mother murders her children. Ezra wanted them to think unconventionally, and unconventional was Aria’s forte. Now, instead of calling her Finland, her classmate Noel Kahn had given Aria a new nickname, Brownnoser. It felt good to be excited about school again, though, and at times she almost forgot things with Ezra had ever been complicated.
Until Ezra threw her a crooked smile, of course. Then she couldn’t help but feel fluttery. Just a little.
Hanna Marin, who sat right in front of Aria, raised her hand. “How about that book where two girls are best friends, but then, all of a sudden, one of the best friends turns evil and steals the other one’s boyfriend?”
Ezra scratched his head. “I’m sorry…I don’t think I’ve read that book.”
Aria clenched her fists. She knew what Hanna meant. “For the last time, Hanna, I didn’t steal Sean from you! You guys were already. Broken. Up!”
The class rippled with laughter. Hanna’s shoulders became rigid. “Someone’s a little self-centered,” she murmured to Aria without turning around. “Who said I was talking about you?”
But Aria knew she was. When Aria had returned from Iceland, she’d been stunned to see that Hanna had morphed from Ali’s chubby, awkward lackey to a thin, beautiful, designer-clothes-wearing goddess. It seemed like Hanna had everything she’d ever wanted: she and her best friend, Mona Vanderwaal—also a transformed dork—ruled the school, and Hanna had even nabbed Sean Ackard, the boy she’d pined over since sixth grade. Aria had only gone for Sean after hearing that Hanna had dumped him. But she quickly found out it had been the other way around.
Aria had hoped she and her old friends might reunite, especially since they’d all received notes from A. Yet, they weren’t even speaking—things were right back to where they’d been during those awkward, worried weeks after Ali’s disappearance. Aria hadn’t even told them about what A had done to her family. The only ex–best friend Aria was still sort of friendly with was Emily Fields—but their conversations had mostly consisted of Emily blubbering about how guilty she felt about Toby’s death, until Aria had finally insisted that it wasn’t her fault.
“Well, anyway,” Ezra said, putting copies of The Scarlet Letter at the front of each row to pass back, “I want everyone to read chapters one through five this week, and you have a three-page essay on any themes you see at the beginning of the book due on Friday. Okay?”
Everyone groaned and started to talk. Aria slid her book into her yak-fur bag. Hanna reached down to pick her purse off the floor. Aria touched Hanna’s thin, pale arm. “Look, I’m sorry. I really am.”
Hanna yanked her arm away, pressed her lips together, and wordlessly stuffed The Scarlet Letter into her purse. It kept jamming, and she let out a frustrated grunt.
Classical music tinkled through the loudspeaker, indicating the period was over. Hanna shot up from her seat as if it were on fire. Aria rose slowly, shoving her pen and notebook into her purse and heading for the door.
“Aria.”
She turned. Ezra was leaning against his oak desk, his tattered caramel leather briefcase pressed to his hip.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Sorry about all that,” she said. “Hanna and I have some issues. It won’t happen again.”
“No problem.” Ezra set his mug of chai down. “Is everything else okay?”
Aria bit her lip and considered telling him what was going on. But why? For all she knew, Ezra was as sleazy as her father. If he really did have a girlfriend in New York, then he’d cheated on her when he’d hooked up with Aria.
“Everything’s fine,” she managed.
“Good. You’re doing a great job in class.” He smiled, showing his two adorably overlapping bottom teeth.
“Yeah, I’m enjoying myself,” she said, taking a step toward the door. But as she did, she stumbled over her super-high stack-heeled boots, careening into Ezra’s desk. Ezra grabbed her waist and pulled her upright…and into him. His body felt warm and safe, and he smelled good, like chili powder, cigarettes, and old books.
Aria moved away quickly. “Are you okay?” Ezra asked.
“Yeah.” She busied herself by straightening her school blazer. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ezra answered, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. “So…see you.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Aria walked out of the classroom, her breathing fast and shallow. Maybe she was nuts, but she was pretty sure Ezra had held her for a second longer than he needed to. And she was certain she’d liked it.
3 THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS BAD PRESS
During their free period Monday afternoon, Hanna Marin and her best friend, Mona Vanderwaal, were sitting in the corner booth of Steam, Rosewood Day’s coffee bar, doing what they did best: ripping on people who weren’t as fabulous as they were.
Mona poked Hanna with one end of her chocolate-dipped biscotti. To Mona, food was more like a prop, less like something to eat. “Jennifer Feldman’s got some logs, doesn’t she?”
“Poor girl.” Hanna mock-pouted. Logs was Mona’s shorthand term for tree-trunk legs: solid and unshapely thighs and calves with no tapering from knees to ankles.
“And her feet look like overstuffed sausage casings in those heels!” Mona cawed.
Hanna snickered, watching as Jennifer, who was on the diving team, hung up a poster on the far wall that read, SWIM MEET TOMORROW! ROSEWOOD DAY HAMMERHEADS VS. DRURY ACADEMY EELS! Her ankles were hideously thick. “That’s what girls with fat ankles get when they try to wear Louboutins,” Hanna sighed. She and Mona were the thin-ankled sylphs Christian Louboutin shoes were meant for, obviously.
Mona took a big sip of her Americano and pulled out her Gucci wallet diary from her eggplant-colored Botkier purse. Hanna nodded approvingly. They had other things to do besides criticize people today, like plan not one but two parties: one for the two of them, and the second for the rest of Rosewood Day’s elite.