Wicked

26 SPENCER MEETS HER MATCH

The Hastingses’ doorbell rang for the umpteenth time, and Spencer watched from the corner as her parents welcomed the Pembrokes, one of the oldest families in the area. Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke were notorious for always bringing their animals everywhere with them, and it looked as if they’d brought two of their pets tonight: Mimsy, their yapping Pomeranian, and the stole around Hester Pembroke’s neck, which still had the fox’s head attached. As the couple stampeded hungrily for the bar, Spencer’s mother whispered something to Melissa and then drifted away. Melissa caught Spencer looking. Her hand fluttered against her dark red satin dress; then she lowered her eyes and turned away. Spencer hadn’t been able to ask Melissa how she felt about Ian’s disappearance—Melissa had made herself scarce all day.

Spencer was still unsure why they were even having the benefit, although everyone seemed to be having a fantastic time. Heavy drinking, apparently, was Rosewood’s salve for a scandal. Wilden had already had to escort Mason Byers’s parents out to their Bentley because Binky Byers had downed too many Metropolitan cocktails. Spencer had walked in on Olivia Zeigler, Naomi’s mom, throwing up in the powder room, her tanned arms clutching the sides of the sink. If only vodka could numb Spencer, too, but no matter how many Lemon Drops she covertly shot back, she remained clear-eyed and aware. It was as if some karmic force was punishing her, making her suffer through this whole ordeal sober.

She’d made a dreadful mistake, keeping the secret about Ian private. But how was she supposed to know Ian was planning to escape? She thought of the dream she’d had yesterday morning—it’s almost too late. Well, now it was.

She’d promised her friends that she would tell the cops about Ian’s visit, but as soon as Wilden had turned up on the doorstep, ready to guard the party, Spencer just…couldn’t. She couldn’t bear to hear someone else give her yet another scathing lecture about how terribly she’d screwed up—again. What good would telling Wilden do, anyway? It wasn’t as if Ian had tipped Spencer off to where he was planning to hide. The only interesting hint Ian had given was that he was on the verge of a secret that would blow her mind.

“Spencer, dear,” said a voice to the right. It was Mrs. Kahn, looking gaunt in her emerald green sequined gown. Spencer had heard her tell the society photographers that it was a vintage Balenciaga. Everything about Mrs. Kahn sparkled, from her ears to her neck to her wrists to her fingers. It was common knowledge that last year, when Noel’s father had gone to L.A. to finance yet another golf course, he’d bought out half of Harry Winston for his wife. The bill had been posted on a local gossip blog.

“Do you know if there are any more of those delicious mini petit fours?” Mrs. Kahn asked. “Why the hell not, right?” She patted her flat stomach and shrugged, as if to say, There’s a killer on the loose, so let us eat cake.

“Uh…” Spencer spied her parents across the room, next to the string quartet. “I’ll be back.”

She wove around the partygoers until she was a few feet away from her parents. Her father wore a dark Armani suit, but her mom had on a short black number with bat-wing sleeves and a ruched waist. Maybe it was all over the Milan runways, but in Spencer’s opinion, it looked like something Dracula’s wife would wear when she cleaned the house.

She tapped her mom on her shoulder. Mrs. Hastings turned, a big, rehearsed smile on her face, but when she saw it was Spencer, her eyes narrowed. “Uh, we’re running low on petit fours,” Spencer reported dutifully. “Should I go check in the kitchen? I noticed the bar is out of champagne, too.”

Mrs. Hastings wiped her hand over her brow, obviously flustered. “I’ll do it.”

“It’s no trouble,” Spencer offered. “I can just—”

“I’m handling it,” her mother whispered icily, spitting as she spoke. Her eyebrows arched down, and the little lines around her mouth stood out prominently. “Would you please just go to the library with the rest of the kids?”

Spencer stepped back, her heel twisting on the highly polished wood floor. It felt like her mother had just slapped her. “I know you’re thrilled I’ve been disinherited,” Spencer blurted loudly, before she was quite aware of what she was saying. “But you don’t have to make it so obvious.”

Her mother stopped, her mouth dropping open in shock. Someone close by gasped. Mrs. Hastings eyed Mr. Hastings, who had gone as pale as the eggshell-white walls. “Spencer…,” her father rasped.

“Forget it,” Spencer growled, wheeling around and heading down the back hall toward the media room. Her eyes burned with frustrated tears. It should’ve felt delicious, spouting out exactly what her parents deserved, but Spencer felt the same way she always did when her parents dissed her—like a Christmas tree after New Year’s, tossed to the curb for the trash truck to haul away. Spencer used to beg for her parents to rescue all the abandoned Christmas trees and plant them in their backyard, but they always said she was being silly.

“Spencer?” Andrew Campbell stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine in his hand. Snappy little shivers danced up and down Spencer’s back. All day, she’d considered texting Andrew to see if he was coming tonight. Not that she was covertly pining for him or anything.

Andrew noticed Spencer’s flushed face and his eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer’s chin trembled as she glanced back toward the main ballroom. Her parents were gone. She couldn’t find Melissa, either. “My whole family hates me,” Spencer blurted out.

“Come on,” Andrew said, taking her arm. He led her into the media room, flipped on the little Tiffany lamp on the end table, and pointed to the couch. “Sit. Breathe.”

Spencer plopped down. Andrew sat too. She hadn’t been in this room since Tuesday afternoon, when she and her friends had watched Ian’s bail hearing on TV. To the right of the TV was a line of Spencer’s and Melissa’s school pictures, from their very first year in Rosewood Day pre-K up to Melissa’s formal senior portrait. Spencer stared at her picture from this year. It had been taken right before school started, before the Ali and A mess started. Her hair was combed perfectly off her face, and her navy blazer had been ironed to perfection. The self-satisfied gloat on her face said, I’m Spencer Hastings, and I’m the best.

Ha, Spencer thought bitterly. How quickly things could change.

Next to the school pictures was the big Eiffel Tower statue. The old photo they’d found the other day, the one of Ali the day Time Capsule was announced, was still propped up against it. Spencer narrowed her eyes at Ali. The Time Capsule flyer dangled from Ali’s fingers, and her mouth was open so wide that Spencer could see her small, square, white molars. At what moment had this photo been taken? Had Ali just announced that Jason was going to tell her where one of the pieces was? Had the idea to steal Ali’s piece crept yet into Spencer’s mind? Had Ian already approached Ali and told her that he was going to kill her? Ali’s wide blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at Spencer, and Spencer could almost hear Ali’s clear, chirpy little voice now. Boo-hoo, Ali would tease, if she were still alive. Your parents hate you!

Spencer shuddered and turned away. It was eerie having Ali in here, gawking at her.

“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, chewing concernedly on his bottom lip. “What did your parents do?”

Spencer flicked the fringe detail on the hem of her dress. “They won’t even look at me,” she said, feeling numb. “It’s like I’m dead to them.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Andrew said. He took a sip of his wine and then put it down on the end table. “How could your parents hate you? I’m sure they’re really proud of you.”

Spencer quickly slid a coaster under the glass, not caring if she seemed OCD. “They’re not. I’m an embarrassment to them, an out-of-fashion decoration. Like one of my mom’s oil paintings in the basement. That’s it.”

Andrew cocked his head. “Are you talking about the…the Golden Orchid thing? I mean, maybe your parents are upset about that, but I’m sure they’re upset for you.”

Spencer bit back a sob, and something hard and sharp pressed down on her chest. “They knew I plagiarized the paper for the Golden Orchid,” she burst out, before she could control herself. “But they told me not to say anything. It would have been easier if I’d just lied and accepted it and lived with the guilt for the rest of my life, than for them to look like idiots.”

The leather couch groaned as Andrew sat back, aghast. He stared at Spencer for five long rotations of the overhead ceiling fan. “You’re kidding.”

Spencer shook her head. It felt like a betrayal to say it out loud. Her parents hadn’t exactly told her not to tell anyone that they’d known about the Golden Orchid mess, but she was pretty sure they thought she never would.

“And you were the one who admitted you plagiarized the paper, even though they told you not to?” Andrew sounded out. Spencer nodded. “Wow.” Andrew ran his hand through his hair. “You did the right thing, Spencer. I hope you know that.”

Spencer started crying, hard—like a hand inside her head had just turned on a faucet. “I was just so stressed,” she blubbered. “I didn’t understand econ at all. I thought it wouldn’t matter, taking that one little paper from Melissa. I thought no one would know. I just wanted to get an A.” Her throat caught, and she buried her face in her hands.

“It’s okay.” Andrew tentatively patted Spencer’s back. “I totally get it.”

But Spencer couldn’t stop sobbing. She bent over, the tears running into her nose, her eyes puffing shut, her throat closing and her chest heaving. Everything seemed so bleak. Her academic life was ruined. It was her fault that Ali’s murderer had slipped away. Her family had disowned her. Ian was right—she did have a pathetic little life.

“Shhh,” Andrew whispered, making small circles on her back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, a noise came from the inside of Spencer’s silver clutch bag, which was sitting on the coffee table. Spencer raised her head. It was her phone.

She blinked through her tears. Ian?

Her eyes flickered toward the window. There was a single, yellow spotlight on their backyard, illuminating the big deck. Beyond that, everything was pitch-black. She strained to listen for anyone scuttling around in the bushes by the window, but there was nothing.

The phone rang once more. Andrew took his hand off her back. “Are you going to see who that is?”

Spencer licked her lips, considering. Slowly, she reached for her purse. Her hands shook so much she could hardly undo the small metal clasp.

She didn’t have a new text, but a new e-mail. The sender’s name swam into view. I Love U. And then the subject line: You might have a match!

“Oh my God.” Spencer shoved her Sidekick under Andrew’s nose. In the chaos of the last week, she’d almost forgotten about the Web site. “Look!”

Andrew breathed in sharply. They opened the e-mail and squinted at the message. We are pleased to inform you that someone in our database matches your personal birth information, it said. We are contacting her now, and she should be in touch in a few days. Thank you, The I Love U Team.

Spencer scrolled down frantically, skimming the rest of the note, but it didn’t offer much more information. I Love U hadn’t disclosed what this woman’s name was, or what she did, or where she lived.

Spencer let her Sidekick fall to her lap, her head spinning. “So…this is real?”

Andrew grabbed her hands. “Maybe.”

Spencer gradually smiled, tears still streaming down her face. “Oh my God,” she cried. “Oh my God!” She threw her arms around Andrew and gave him a huge hug. “Thank you!”

“For what?” Andrew sounded baffled.

“I don’t know!” Spencer answered giddily. “Everything!”

They pulled away, grinning at each other. And then, slowly and carefully, Andrew’s hand moved down and circled her wrist. Spencer froze. The party noises outside fell away, and everything in the room felt cozy and close. A few long, slow seconds ticked by, marked only by the flashing dots on the DVD player’s digital clock.

Andrew leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. His mouth tasted like cinnamon Altoids, and his lips were soft. Everything felt…right. He kissed her deeper, slowly pulling her closer to him. Where on earth had Andrew Campbell learned to kiss like this?

The whole thing took five seconds at the most. When Andrew pulled back, Spencer was too shocked to speak. She wondered if she’d tasted like salty tears. And her face probably looked hideous, all puffy and red from crying. “I’m sorry,” Andrew said quickly, his face paling. “I shouldn’t have done that. You just look so pretty tonight, and I’m so excited for you, and…”

Spencer blinked hard, hoping that the blood would soon return to her head. “Don’t apologize,” she finally said. “But…but I’m not sure I deserve this.” She let out a loud sniff. “I’ve been so nasty to you. Like…at Foxy. And in every class we’ve been in together. I’ve been nothing but a bitch.” She shook her head, a tear trickling down her check. “You should hate me.”

Andrew wound his pinkie around hers. “I was mad at you about Foxy, but that was just because I liked you. And everything else…we were just being competitive.” He poked Spencer’s bare knee. “I like that you’re competitive…and determined…and smart. I wouldn’t want you to change any of that.”

Spencer started to laugh, but her mouth contorted into a new batch of sobs. Why was she crying when someone was being so nice to her? She looked at her phone again and tapped the screen. “So you would like me even if I’m not a real Hastings?”

Andrew snorted. “I don’t care what your last name is. Besides, even Coco Chanel came from nothing. She was an orphan. And look what happened to her.”

One corner of Spencer’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Liar.” How did bookish Andrew know anything about haute fashion designers?

“It’s true!” Andrew nodded fervidly. “Look it up!”

Spencer drank in Andrew’s thin, angular face, how his longish, wheat-colored hair curled sweetly over his ears. All this time, Andrew had been right in front of her, sitting next to her in classes, rushing to finish math problems at the board before she did, campaigning against her for class president and leader of Model UN—and she’d never noticed how damn cute he was. Spencer melted into his arms again, wishing they could stay like this all night.

As she nestled her chin into Andrew’s shoulder, her eyes drifted back to the picture of Ali propped up against the Eiffel Tower. All of a sudden, the photo looked completely different. Although Ali’s mouth was still open in mid-laugh, there was a worried, urgent look behind her eyes. It was almost like she was crying out to the photographer, trying to send an unspoken message. Help me, a glimmer in her eyes said. Please.

Spencer thought of her Ali dream again. She’d been standing right next to Ali by those very same bike racks. Younger Ali had turned to her, this same fragile expression on her face. Both Alis wanted Spencer to uncover something. Maybe something that was very close.

You shouldn’t have thrown it away, Spencer, both of them chanted. It was all there. Everything you need. It’s up to you, Spencer. You have to fix this.

But what had she recently thrown away? How could she fix it?

Suddenly, Spencer pulled away from Andrew. “The trash bag.”

“Wha—?” Andrew seemed disoriented.

Spencer looked out the back window. The grief counselor had made them bury all that Ali crap last Saturday—essentially throwing it away. Was that what the two Alis in her dream had meant? Could there be something in there that would solve everything?

“Oh my God,” Spencer whispered, jerkily standing.

“What?” Andrew asked again, standing up too. “What is it?”

Spencer glanced at Andrew, then out the window toward the barn, where they’d buried the Ali trash bag. It was a long shot, but she had to make sure. “Tell Officer Wilden to come look for me if I’m not back in ten minutes,” she said hurriedly as she tore out of the room, leaving a very bewildered Andrew behind.