Stunning

2 SPENCER’S NEW CHALLENGE

That night, a slim woman in skinny black pants proffered Spencer Hastings and her family four slices of cake on a silver tray. “Okay, we have chocolate with coffee frosting, vanilla sponge with lemon buttercream, chocolate cake with Frangelico liqueur, and carrot.” She placed them on the table.

“Looks delicious.” Spencer’s mother grabbed her fork.

“You’re trying to make my wife-to-be fat, aren’t you?” Mr. Pennythistle, Mrs. Hastings’s new fiancé, joked.

Polite laughter ensued. Spencer clutched her own silver fork hard, trying to keep a smile pasted on her face even though she thought the joke was pretty lame. She was with her mother, her sister, Melissa, Melissa’s boyfriend, Darren Wilden, Mr. Pennythistle, and Mr. Pennythistle’s daughter, Amelia, at Chanticleer House. Mrs. Hastings and Mr. Pennythistle had chosen the stone mansion with its enormous private garden for their upcoming summer nuptials.

Amelia, who was two years younger than Spencer and went to St. Agnes, the snootiest school on the Main Line, tentatively poked her fork into the slice of carrot cake. “The cakes from Sassafras Bakery are prettier,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Melissa took a bite and swooned. “They might be prettier, but this buttercream frosting is heaven. As maid of honor, I vote we go with this one.”

“You’re not the only maid of honor,” Mrs. Hastings pointed her fork in Spencer’s direction. “Spencer and Amelia get a vote, too.”

All eyes turned to Spencer. She wasn’t really sure why her mother was going through all the bridal bells and whistles, including purchasing a Vera Wang gown with a ten-foot-long train, putting together a guest list of more than three hundred people, and charging Spencer, Amelia, and Melissa with maid of honor duties, which so far had included interviewing wedding planners, drafting the New York Times and Philadelphia Sentinel announcements, and choosing the perfect gift bags for the reception. There were still days when Spencer thought her mom was going to wake up and realize that divorcing Spencer’s father had been a mistake. Okay, so her dad had had an affair with Jessica DiLaurentis and secretly fathered twin girls, Courtney and Alison. But still—all this for a second wedding?

Spencer cut a perfect rectangle of chocolate Frangelico cake, careful not to get any crumbs on her new Joie dress. “This one’s pretty good,” she said.

“Great minds think alike. That’s my favorite, too.” Mr. Pennythistle wiped his mouth. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Spencer. I got in touch with my friend Mark, who’s an off-Broadway producer. He was very impressed with your Lady Macbeth performance and might want you to audition for one of his upcoming plays.”

“Oh,” Spencer breathed, surprised. “Thanks.” She shot him a smile. In a family of standouts, it was nice to be noticed.

Amelia wrinkled her nose. “Is this the same Mark that produces dinner theater? Aren’t his plays usually about medieval jousts?” She snickered nastily.

Spencer narrowed her eyes. Jealous much? Even though Amelia had lived in the Hastings house for a few weeks now, their interactions consisted mostly of bitchy snipes, one-word grunts, or seething looks across the dinner table. Spencer had once had a sisterly relationship like that with Melissa. She and Melissa had finally made peace; she didn’t need another sibling adversary to take her place.

Amelia was still staring at Spencer. “By the way, have you heard from Kelsey lately? She, like, dropped off the face of the earth. My orchestra group is minus a violinist.”

Spencer shoved another bite of cake in her mouth to delay responding. Spencer’s old friend from the UPenn summer program was now at the Preserve at Addison-Stevens mental hospital and rehab center to get over her drug abuse—and it was partly Spencer’s fault. Spencer had framed Kelsey last summer for drug possession and gotten her sent to juvie. When she’d resurfaced in Spencer’s life recently, Spencer had thought Kelsey was the new A, exacting her revenge.

She knew now that Kelsey wasn’t A—she and her friends had received a text from A while Kelsey was in the Preserve, which didn’t allow phones. But who else could know so much about all of them?

“I haven’t heard from Kelsey at all,” Spencer said, which was the truth. She snuck a look at Darren Wilden, who was diving into a slice of chocolate cake. Though he’d been the head investigator for the Alison DiLaurentis murder case, he wasn’t a cop anymore. But Spencer felt slightly uneasy in his presence all the same. Especially now that she was keeping dangerous new secrets.

The waitress reappeared and smiled hopefully. “Are the cakes okay?”

Mrs. Hastings nodded. Melissa waved her fork in the air, her mouth full of food. As the waitress pranced away, Spencer looked around the huge dining room. The walls were lined in stone and the floors were marble. Huge floral bouquets sat in small alcoves next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, an enormous hedge labyrinth stretched as far as the eye could see. There were a few other people eating in the dining room, most of them stuffy old men, probably conducting business deals. Then, she locked eyes with a tall, forty-something woman with ash-blond hair, steely gray eyes, and a Botoxed forehead. When she noticed Spencer looking, she quickly turned her attention to the menu in her hands.

Spencer looked away, too, feeling jittery. Ever since A had resurfaced, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched wherever she went.

Suddenly, Spencer’s iPhone let out a bloop. She pulled it out and inspected the screen. Princeton Dinner Reminder! the subject line read. Spencer pressed OPEN. Don’t forget! You are cordially invited to a dinner honoring all of the Princeton early-admits in Pennsylvania and New Jersey! The dinner was Monday night.

Spencer smiled. She loved correspondence from Princeton, especially since her future there had seemed so precarious last week—A had sent a letter saying that Spencer hadn’t been admitted after all, and Spencer had jumped through hoops trying to prove herself worthy until she realized the letter was a fake. She couldn’t wait until September, when she could start over somewhere fresh. Now that there was a new A, Rosewood felt more like a prison than ever.

Mrs. Hastings glanced at Spencer with curiosity, and Spencer flashed her phone screen. Mr. Pennythistle looked at it, too, and then took a sip of the coffee the waitress had just poured. “You’re going to really enjoy Princeton—you’ll make such great connections. Do you plan on joining an Eating Club?”

“Of course she does!” Melissa said matter-of-factly. “I bet you’ve already got your top three picked out, right, Spence? Let me guess. Cottage Club? Ivy? What else?”

Spencer fiddled with the wooden napkin ring next to her plate, not immediately answering. She’d heard of Eating Clubs, but hadn’t looked into them carefully—she’d been too busy studying vocabulary words, volunteering for a zillion community service activities, and chairing various school organizations just to get into Princeton. Maybe they were like the Rosewood Day Foodie Club, a group of kids who went out to fancy restaurants, had Top Chef viewing parties, and used the home ec ovens to cook boeuf bourguignon and coq au vin.

Wilden laced his fingers over his stomach. “Anyone care to enlighten me about what an Eating Club is?”

Melissa looked a little embarrassed for her boyfriend—preppy, Ivy-League Melissa and blue-collar Wilden came from very different worlds. “The Eating Clubs are like secret societies,” she explained in a slightly patronizing voice (which Spencer wouldn’t have stood for if she were Melissa’s boyfriend). “You have to compete to get in through this process called bicker. But once you’re in, it’s like instant popularity, instant friends, and tons of perks.”

“Sort of like a frat?” Darren asked.

“Oh, no.” Melissa looked appalled. “For one thing, Eating Clubs are coed. For another, they’re way classier than that.”

“You can go a long way if you’re part of an Eating Club,” Mr. Pennythistle interjected. “I had a friend who was in Cottage Club, and a Cottage Club alumni who worked in the senate snapped him up for a job, sight unseen.”

Melissa nodded excitedly. “The same thing happened to my friend Kerri Randolph. She belonged to Cap and Gown, and she got an internship with Diane von Furstenberg’s design team through an Eating Club connection.” She looked at Spencer. “You have to let them know you’re interested early, though. I knew people who started buttering up Eating Clubs when they were sophomores in high school.”

“Oh.” Spencer suddenly felt nervous. Maybe it was a huge gaffe that she hadn’t gotten on the Eating Club bandwagon earlier. What if every early admission student had already brown-nosed their way into the Eating Club of their choice, and, like in an elaborate game of musical chairs, she would be left without a seat when the music stopped? She was supposed to feel grateful that she was going to Princeton, period, but that wasn’t how she functioned. She couldn’t just be a regular old student there. She had to be the best.

“An Eating Club would be stupid not to invite me,” she said, pushing a lock of long blond hair over her shoulder.

“Absolutely.” Mrs. Hastings patted Spencer’s arm. Mr. Pennythistle gave an “Mm-hmm” of support.

When Spencer sat back again, a high-pitched, keening giggle echoed off the walls. She tensed and looked around, the hair on her arms standing on end. “Did you guys hear that?”

Wilden paused from his coffee and peered about the room. Mr. Pennythistle’s brow furrowed, then he tutted. “Bad windows. It’s just a draft.”

Then everyone went back to eating like nothing was amiss. But Spencer knew that noise wasn’t from a draft. It was the same laugh she’d been hearing for months. It was A.