“Fine,” she said as the second bell rang. “Except you have to tell me what tatsoi is.”
A few hours later, Aria pulled into Fresh Fields in Bryn Mawr. The town was about ten miles away, had a small liberal-arts college, an art house theater that produced avant-garde plays, and an old inn that with a sign that said GEORGE WASHINGTON SLEPT HERE. The cars in the grocery store’s parking lot were covered with bumper stickers beseeching people to SAVE THE WHALES, GO GREEN, LIVE IN PEACE, and KILL YOUR TELEVISION.
After passing through the grocery store’s automatic doors and between at least thirty barrels of olives, she headed to the greens section of the produce department. Apparently, tatsoi was like spinach. Why Meredith couldn’t have just used spinach for the stupid let’s-celebrate-our-affair dinner was beyond her.
The whole thing still made Aria squeamish. She’d been the one who caught Byron and Meredith kissing in a back alley in seventh grade. Byron had begged her not to say anything to Ella, and even though Aria wanted to tell, she’d thought that by keeping her dad’s secret, her parents would stay together.
For a long time, Their Ali was the only one who knew about her dad’s dalliances, and Aria had wished she didn’t. Ali used to tease her about it all the time, asking if Byron had had affairs with other girls, too. When Ali disappeared, Aria had been partly relieved—at least she couldn’t taunt her about the secret anymore. But it was lonely keeping the secret to herself, too. She’d tried to bury it deep, telling herself she was making a sacrifice for her family. In the end, though, her sacrifice didn’t matter. A had revealed the affair to Ella, and her parents had separated.
Aria passed a hanging scale and touched it lightly with her fingertips. Maybe this wasn’t worth dwelling on. It wasn’t like Ella and Byron were the perfect couple, anyway, even long before Meredith. They were nothing like, say, Noel’s parents. Nothing like what Aria wanted her and Noel to be.
She passed a bunch of bulbous, dark-purple eggplants and huge, fragrant bins of Thai basil and apple mint, and sampled a bite of sautéed Swiss chard from a woman in a Fresh Fields apron. At the end of the aisle, there was a small bin full of greens marked TATSOI. Aria grabbed a plastic bag from the dispenser and started to fill it up. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman by the heirloom tomatoes. She wore a swirled-print, Pucci-style dress, and had tanned skin, bushy eyebrows, and lots of makeup. There was something about her that reminded Aria of Noel’s father. This woman could be his sister.
As Aria moved closer, considering asking the woman where she got her dress—Ella would love it—the woman pivoted, revealing more of her face. Something suddenly soured inside Aria, and she ducked around the corner. After a moment, she snuck another peek at the woman’s face and gasped.
The woman wasn’t Mr. Kahn’s sister. She was Mr. Kahn.
6
SPENCER’S IN
That night, shortly after six, Spencer walked into Striped Bass, a restaurant on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. The place had echoing high ceilings, Brazilian cherry floors polished to a glossy shine, and Corinthian columns around the perimeter. Huge, barrel-shaped lights swung overhead, waiters swirled around white tablecloth–draped tables, and the air smelled like melted butter, grilled swordfish, and red wine.
PRINCETON EARLY ADMISSIONS WELCOME DINNER read a small sign just past the maître d’ stand, pointing to a small room off to the right. Inside, thirty eager kids her age were standing around tables. The guys were all dressed in khakis, button-downs, and ties, and had that slightly nerdy, overconfident look of every class valedictorian Spencer had ever met. The girls wore sweater sets, knee-length skirts, and demure, I’m-going-to-join-a-law-firm-someday high heels. Some of them were whip-thin and looked like models, others were chubbier or wore dark-framed glasses, but they all looked like they had 4.0 GPAs and perfect SAT scores.
A flashing TV screen above the main bar caught Spencer’s eye. THIS FRIDAY, AN ENCORE PERFORMANCE OF PRETTY LITTLE KILLER, a banner announced in bold yellow letters. The girl playing Alison DiLaurentis appeared, telling the Spencer, Aria, Hanna, and Emily actresses that she wanted to be their BFF again. “I’ve missed all of you,” she simpered. “I want you back.”
Spencer turned away, heat rising to her face. Wasn’t it time they stopped showing that stupid docudrama? Anyway, the movie didn’t tell the whole story. It left out the part about all of the girls thinking Real Ali had surfaced in Jamaica.
Don’t think about Ali—or Jamaica, Spencer scolded herself silently, squaring her shoulders and marching into the dining room. The last thing she needed was to freak out, Lady Macbeth–style, at her first Princeton fete.
As soon as she swept through the double doors, a girl with blond hair and wide, violet eyes gave her an enormous smile. “Hi! Are you here for the dinner?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, straightening up. “Spencer Hastings. From Rosewood.” She prayed no one would recognize her name—or notice that a slightly heavier, twenty-something version of her was on TV in the room behind them.
“Welcome! I’m Harper, one of the student ambassadors.” The girl shuffled through a bunch of name tags and found one with Spencer’s name written in all caps. “Hey, did you get that at the D.C. Leadership Conference two years ago?” she asked, eyeing the silver Washington Monument–shaped keychain that hung from Spencer’s oversize leather tote.
“I did!” Spencer said, glad she’d stuck the keychain on the zipper pull at the last minute. She’d hoped someone would recognize it.