Pretty Little Liars

“This is a shorter way home.” Emily gestured across the street, to the large colonial house’s lawn she and her friends used to cut through on winter days to get to Ali’s house faster.



They started up through the grass, avoiding a sprinkler spraying the hydrangea bushes. As they pushed through the brambly tree branches to Maya’s backyard, Emily stopped short. A small, guttural noise escaped her throat.



She hadn’t been in this backyard—Ali’s old backyard—in ages. There, across the lawn, was the teak deck where she and Ali had played countless games of Spit. There was the worn patch of grass where they’d hooked up Ali’s thick white iPod to speakers and had dance parties. To her left was the familiar knotty oak tree. The tree house was gone, but carved in the bark on the trunk were the initials: EF + AD—Emily Fields + Alison DiLaurentis. Her face flushed. At the time, Emily hadn’t known why she carved their names into the bark; she’d just wanted to show Ali how happy she was that they were friends.



Maya, who had walked on ahead of her, looked over her shoulder. “You okay?”



Emily shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. For a second, she considered telling Maya about Ali. But a hummingbird swept past her and she lost her nerve. “I’m fine,” she said.



“Do you wanna come in?” Maya asked.



“No…I…I have to go back to school,” Emily answered. “Swimming.”



“Oh.” Maya crinkled up her eyes. “You didn’t have to walk me home, silly.”



“Yeah, but I didn’t want you to get lost.”



“You’re so cute.” Maya looped her hands behind her back and swung her hips back and forth. Emily wondered what she meant by cute. Was that a California thing?



“So, well, have fun at swimming,” Maya said. “And thanks for showing me around today.”



“Sure.” Emily stepped forward, and their bodies smushed together in a hug.



“Mmm,” Maya said, squeezing tighter. The girls stepped back and grinned at each other for a second. Then Maya leaned forward and kissed Emily on both cheeks. “Mwah, mwah!” she said. “Like the French.”



“Well, then, I’ll be French too.” Emily giggled, forgetting about Ali and the tree for a second. “Mwah!” She kissed Maya’s smooth left cheek.



Then Maya kissed her again, on her right cheek, except now just a teensy bit closer to her mouth. There was no mwah this time.



Maya’s mouth smelled like banana bubble gum. Emily jerked back and caught her swimming bag before it slid off her shoulder. When she looked up, Maya was grinning.



“I’ll see ya,” Maya said. “Be good.”



Emily folded her towel into her swim bag after practice. The whole afternoon had been a blur. After Maya skipped into her house, Emily jogged back to school—as if running would untangle the jumble of feelings inside her. As she slipped into the water and swam lap after lap, she saw those haunting initials on the tree. When Coach blew her whistle and they practiced starts and turns, she smelled Maya’s banana gum and heard her fun, easy laugh. Standing at her locker, she was pretty sure she’d shampooed her hair twice. Most of the other girls had stayed in the communal showers for longer, gossiping, but Emily was too spaced out to join them.



As she reached for her T-shirt and jeans, folded neatly on the shelf in her locker, a note came fluttering out. Emily’s name was written on the front in plain, unfamiliar handwriting, and she didn’t recognize the graph notebook paper. She picked it up off the cold, wet floor.



Hey Em,



Sob! I’ve been replaced! You found another friend to kiss! —A



Emily curled her toes around the rubber locker room mat and stopped breathing for a second. She looked around. No one was looking at her.



Was this for real?



She stared at the note and tried to think rationally. She and Maya were out in the open, but no one was around.



And…I’ve been replaced? Another friend to kiss? Emily’s hands trembled. She looked at the signature again. Laughter from the other swimmers echoed off the walls.



Emily had kissed just one other friend. It was two days after she carved their initials into that oak tree and just a week and a half before the end of seventh grade.



Alison.



7



SPENCER’S GOT A TIGHT POSTERIOR (DELTOID)



“Look at his butt!”



“Shut up!” Spencer knocked her friend Kirsten Cullen in the shin guard with her field hockey stick. They were supposed to be running defense drills, but they—along with the rest of the team—were too busy sizing up this year’s new assistant coach. He was none other than Ian Thomas.



Spencer’s skin prickled with adrenaline. Talk about weird; she remembered Melissa mentioning that Ian had moved to California. But then, a lot of people who you wouldn’t expect ended up back in Rosewood.



“Your sister was so stupid to break up with him,” Kirsten said. “He’s so hot.”



“Shhh,” Spencer answered, giggling. “And anyway, my sister didn’t break up with him. He broke up with her.”



The whistle blew. “Get moving!” Ian called to them, jogging over. Spencer leaned over to tie her shoe, as if she didn’t care. She felt his eyes on her.



“Spencer? Spencer Hastings?”



Spencer stood up slowly. “Oh. Ian, right?”



Ian’s smile was so wide, Spencer was surprised his cheeks didn’t rip. He still had that All-American, I’m-going-to-take-over-my-father’s-company-at-twenty-five look, but now his curly hair was a little longer and messier. “You’re all grown up!” he cried.



“I guess.” Spencer shrugged.



Ian ran his hand against the back of his neck. “How’s your sister these days?”



“Um, she’s good. Graduated early. Going to Wharton.”



Ian bent his head down. “And are her boyfriends still hitting on you?”



Spencer’s mouth dropped open. Before she could answer, the head coach, Ms. Campbell, blew her whistle and called Ian over.



Kirsten grabbed Spencer’s arm once his back was turned. “You totally hooked up with him, didn’t you?”



“Shut up!” Spencer shot back.



As Ian jogged to center field, he glanced back at her over his shoulder. Spencer drew in her breath and leaned over to examine her cleat. She didn’t want him to know she’d been staring.



By the time she got home from practice, every part of Spencer’s body hurt, from her ass to her shoulders to her little toes. She’d spent the whole summer organizing committees, boning up on SAT words, and playing the lead in three different plays at Muesli, Rosewood’s community theater—Miss Jean Brodie in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Emily in Our Town, and Ophelia in Hamlet. With all that, she hadn’t had time to keep in top shape for field hockey, and she was feeling it now.



All she wanted to do was go upstairs, crawl into bed, and not think about tomorrow and what another overachieving day would hold: French club breakfast, reading the morning announcements, five AP classes, drama tryouts, a quick appearance at yearbook committee, and another grueling field hockey practice with Ian.



She opened the mailbox at the bottom of their private drive, hoping to find the scores for her PSATs. They were supposed to be in any day now, and she’d had a good feeling about them—a better feeling, in fact, than she’d ever had about any other test. Unfortunately, there were just a pile of bills, info from her dad’s many investment accounts, and a brochure addressed to Ms. Spencer J (for Jill) Hastings from Appleboro College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Yeah, as if she’d go there.



Inside the house, she put the mail on the marble-topped kitchen island, rubbed her shoulder, and had a thought: The backyard hot tub. A relaxing soak. Awww, yeah.



She greeted Rufus and Beatrice, the family’s two labradoodles, and threw a couple of King Kong toys out into the yard for them to chase. Then she dragged herself along the flagstone path toward the pool’s changing room. Pausing at the door, ready to shower and change into her bikini, she realized, Who cares? She was too tired to change, and nobody was home. And the hot tub was surrounded by rose bushes. As she approached, it burbled, as if anticipating her arrival. She stripped down to her bra, undies, and tall field hockey socks, did a deep forward bend to loosen up her back, and climbed into the steaming tub. Now that was more like it.



“Oh.”



Spencer turned. Wren stood next to the roses, naked to the waist, wearing the sexiest boxer brief Polo underwear she’d ever seen.



“Oops,” he said, covering himself with a towel. “Sorry.”



“You don’t get here until tomorrow,” she blurted, even though he was very clearly here, right now, which was obviously today and not tomorrow at all.



“We don’t. But your sister and I were at Frou,” Wren said, making a little face. Frou was this haughty store a few towns over that sold single pillowcases for about a thousand dollars. “She had to run another errand and told me to play with myself here.”



Spencer hoped that was just some bizarre English expression. “Oh,” she said.



“Did you just get home?”



“I was at field hockey,” Spencer said, leaning back and relaxing a little. “First practice of the year.”



Spencer glanced at her blurry body under the water. Oh God, she was still wearing her socks. And her high-waisted, sweaty panties and Champion sports bra! She kicked herself for not changing into the yellow Eres bikini she’d just bought but then realized how absurd that was.



“So, I was just planning to have a soak, but if you want to be alone, that’s okay too,” Wren said. “I’ll just go inside and watch TV.” He started to turn.



Spencer felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. “Um, no,” she said. He stopped. “You can come in. I don’t care.” Quickly, while his back was turned, she yanked off her socks and threw them into the bushes. They landed with a soggy slap.



“If you’re sure, Spencer,” Wren said. Spencer loved the way he said her name with his British accent—Spen-saah.



He shyly slid into the tub. Spencer stayed very far on her side, curling her legs under her. Wren leaned his head back on the concrete deck and sighed. Spencer did the same and tried not to think about how her legs were getting really cramped and sore in this position. She stretched one tentatively and touched Wren’s sinewy calf.



She jerked her leg away. “Sorry.”



“No worries,” Wren said. “So field hockey, huh? I rowed for Oxford.”



“Really?” Spencer said, hoping she didn’t sound too gushy. Her favorite driving-into-Philadelphia sight was of the Penn and Temple men’s crew teams rowing on the Schuylkill River.



“Yeah,” he said. “I loved it. Do you love field hockey?”



“Um, not really.” Spencer took her hair out of its ponytail and shook her head around but then wondered if Wren would find this really skanky and ridiculous. She’d probably imagined the spark between them outside Moshulu.



But then, Wren had gotten into the hot tub with her.