Spencer sucked in her teeth. The woods where she died. That was just on the other side of the barn. She stuffed the drawing into her purse and hesitated for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and started to run.
30
FRAILTY, THY NAME IS WOMAN!
Hanna was finishing her third thorough round of the Hastings house, looking for Lucas. She’d passed and re-passed the jazz band, the drunks at the bar, and the snooty Main Liners talking smack about the priceless artwork that lined the walls. She saw Melissa Hastings slip upstairs, talking on her cell phone. When she pushed into Spencer’s father’s office, she interrupted what looked like an argument between Mr. Hastings and Principal Appleton. But no Lucas, anywhere.
Finally, she wandered into the kitchen, which was thick with steam and smelled like shrimp, duck, and heavy glaze. The caterers were busy unpacking appetizers and mini desserts from foil-lined carriers. Hanna half-expected to see Lucas helping them out, feeling bad that they were so overworked—that would be just like him. But he wasn’t there, either.
She tried Lucas’s phone again, but it went straight to voice mail. “It’s me,” Hanna said quickly at the beep. “There was a good reason I did what I did. Please let me explain.”
When she hit End, the phone’s screen went dark. Why hadn’t she just told Lucas about the notes from A when she’d had the chance? But she knew why: She wasn’t sure they were real. When she’d begun to think they were real, Hanna had worried that if she said anything to anyone, something horrible might happen.
And so she’d kept her mouth shut. But now it seemed like horrible things were happening anyway.
Hanna reached for the door to the media room and poked her head inside, but the room was disappointingly empty. The red afghan that was usually lying neatly on top of the couch was flung across the cushions, and there were a few empty cocktail glasses and crumpled-up napkins on the coffee table. Beyond it, that big, weird wire Eiffel Tower teetered on the credenza, so tall it almost grazed the ceiling. The old photo of Ali from sixth grade was still propped up against it.
Hanna stared at it warily. Ali held the Time Capsule flyer in her hand, her mouth open in mid-laugh. Noel Kahn stood behind her, laughing too. A shadowy figure loomed in the background, mostly out of focus. Hanna leaned forward, her stomach dropping like it was weighted down with lead. It was Mona. She was leaning on the handlebars of her pink Razor scooter, her eyes on Ali’s back. It was like seeing a ghost.
Hanna sank into the couch, staring hard at Mona’s blurry shape. Why did you do this to me? she wanted to scream. Hanna had never gotten to ask Mona that question—by the time she’d realized that Mona was A, Mona and Spencer had already been on their way to Falling Man Gorge. There were so many things Hanna wanted to ask Mona, things that would forever go unanswered. How could you have secretly hated me all that time? Was anything we did together real? Were we ever really friends? How could I have been so wrong about you?
Her eyes focused again on Ali’s wide, open mouth. When Hanna and Mona had become friends in eighth grade, Hanna had poked fun at Ali and the others to show Mona that they weren’t really that great. She told Mona the story about how she’d shown up in Ali’s backyard the Saturday after Time Capsule was announced, determined to steal Ali’s piece of the flag. “And Spencer, Emily, and Aria were there, too,” Hanna remembered saying, rolling her eyes. “It was so weird. And even weirder, Ali came storming out of her back door, all the way across the yard to us. ‘You guys are too late,’ she said.” Hanna had even squeakily imitated Ali’s voice, ignoring the shameful twinge inside her. “And then she said some ass**le already stole her piece, even though she’d already decorated it and everything.”
“Who took it?” Mona asked, hanging on every word.
Hanna shrugged. “Probably some freak who built a shrine to Ali in his bedroom. I bet that’s why he never turned the piece in to be buried with the Time Capsule—he probably still sleeps with it every night. And maybe he tucks it in his underwear every day.”
“Ewww,” Mona squealed, writhing.
That conversation with Mona had taken place at the beginning of eighth grade, right as that year’s Time Capsule game started. Three days later, Hanna and Mona jointly found a piece of the Time Capsule flag stuffed into the W volume of an encyclopedia set in the Rosewood library. It was like finding a golden ticket in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—a sure omen that their lives were going to change. They’d decorated the piece together, putting Mona and Hanna 4-EVAH in big, bold letters all over the fabric. Their names were buried now, a metaphor for their farce of a best-friendship.
Hanna wilted against the couch, tears pricking her eyes. If only she could run out to the practice fields behind Rosewood Day, dig up that year’s capsule, and burn her and Mona’s piece. If only she could burn every other memory they’d created as friends, too.
The recessed lights above Hanna’s head reflected off the picture. When she looked at the photo again, she frowned. Ali’s eyes seemed so almond-shaped, and her cheeks were awfully puffy. All at once, the girl in the photo looked like a knockoff Ali instead, an Ali turned a few degrees to the left. But when Hanna blinked, it was Ali again who was staring back at her. Hanna ran her hands over her face, feeling like her skin was crawling with worms.
“There you are.”
Hanna cried out and turned around. Her father stepped through the door. He wasn’t in a suit like the rest of the men here, but a pair of khaki pants and a navy blue V-neck sweater.