Wicked

Spencer sat in one of the leather swivel chairs around the large, cherry conference table. Melissa pulled out the seat next to hers. Their dad settled on the other side of the room, and Mr. Calloway sat down next to him. Genevieve wriggled out of her sable coat while Smith and Jonathan powered off their BlackBerrys and straightened their Brooks Brothers ties. Both boys had been prissy ever since Spencer could remember. Back when the families celebrated Christmas together, Smith and Jonathan always carefully sliced their presents’ wrapping paper at the seams so they wouldn’t rip it.



“Let’s start, shall we?” Mr. Calloway shoved his tortoiseshell glasses higher up on his nose and pulled a thick document out of a manila file. The overhead light glinted off the top of his bald head as he read through the opening preamble of Nana’s last will and testament, indicating that she was of sound mind and body when she composed it. Nana stated that she would divide her Florida mansion, the Cape May beach house, and her Philadelphia penthouse apartment along with the bulk of her net worth between her children: Spencer’s father, uncle Daniel, and aunt Penelope. When Mr. Calloway said Penelope’s name out loud, everyone looked startled. They gazed around, as if Penelope were there and no one had noticed. Of course, she wasn’t.



Spencer wasn’t sure when she’d last seen Aunt Penelope. The family always grumbled about her. She was the baby of the family and had never married. She’d bounced from career to career, trying her hand at fashion design, then moving to journalism, even starting an online tarot card–reading site out of her beach house in Bali. After that, she’d disappeared, traveling the world, eating up her trust fund, and neglecting to visit for years. It was pretty clear that everyone was horrified that Penelope had been bequeathed anything at all. Spencer suddenly felt a kinship with her aunt—maybe every Hastings generation needed a black sheep.



“As for Mrs. Hastings’s other assets,” Mr. Calloway said, flipping a page, “she bequeaths two million dollars to each of her natural-born grandchildren as follows.”



Smith and Jonathan leaned forward. Spencer gaped. Two million dollars?



Mr. Calloway squinted at the words. “Two million dollars to her grandson Smithson, two million dollars to her grandson Jonathan, and two million dollars to her granddaughter Melissa.” He paused, his eyes landing momentarily on Spencer. An awkward look fluttered over his face. “And…okay. We just need everyone to sign here.”



“Uh,” Spencer started. It came out like a grunt, and everyone looked over. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, self-consciously touching her hair. “I think you forgot a grandchild.”



Mr. Calloway opened his mouth and closed it again, like one of the goldfish that swam in the Hastingses’ backyard reflecting pond. Mrs. Hastings stood up abruptly, doing the goldfish thing with her mouth too. Genevieve cleared her throat, pointedly staring down at her three-carat emerald ring. Uncle Daniel flared his enormous nostrils. Spencer’s cousins and Melissa gathered over the will. “Right here,” Mr. Calloway said quietly, pointing to the page.



“Uh, Mr. Calloway?” Spencer goaded. She whipped her head back and forth between the lawyer and her parents. Finally, she let out a nervous laugh. “I am mentioned in the will, aren’t I?”



Her eyes wide, Melissa grabbed the will from Smith and handed it to Spencer. Spencer stared at the document for a moment, her heart like a jackhammer.



There it was. Nana had left two million dollars to Smithson Pierpont Hastings, Jonathan Barnard Hastings, and Melissa Josephine Hastings. Spencer’s name was nowhere to be found.



“What’s going on?” Spencer whispered.



Her father stood up abruptly. “Spencer, maybe you should wait in your car.”



“What?” Spencer squeaked, horrified.



Her father took her arm and began to guide her out of the room. “Please,” he said under his breath. “Wait for us there.”



Spencer wasn’t sure what else to do but to obey. Her father shut the door fast, the slam reverberating off the courtroom’s quiet marble walls. Spencer listened to her own breathing for a few moments, and then, suppressing a sob, she wheeled around, sprinted to her car, gunned the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot. Screw waiting. She wanted to be as far away from this courthouse—from whatever had just happened—as she possibly could.



8



ISN’T INTERNET DATING GREAT?



Early Tuesday evening, Aria sat on a cloth stool in her mother’s bathroom, her floral-printed Orla Kiely makeup bag in her lap. She glanced at Ella in her mirror. “Oh my God, no,” she said quickly, widening her eyes at the orange stripes on Ella’s cheeks. “That’s way too much bronzer. You’re supposed to look sun-kissed, not sun-broiled.”



Her mother frowned and wiped her cheeks with a Kleenex. “It’s the dead of winter! What idiot is sun-kissed right now anyway?”



“You want to look like you did when we were in Crete. Remember how tan we all got from that puffin-watching boat cruise? And—” Aria halted abruptly. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up Crete. Byron had been on that trip, too.



But Ella didn’t seem fazed. “Tan skin screams melanoma.” She touched the pink, spongy roller in her hair. “When do we take these out?”



Aria checked her watch. Ella’s big Match.com date, the Rolling Stones–loving mystery man named—shudder—Wolfgang, would be here in fifteen minutes. “Now, I guess.” She unclipped the first roller. A lock of Ella’s dark hair cascaded down her back. Aria undid the rest, shook the can of Rave, and gave her mother’s head a quick spritz. “Voilà.”



Ella sat back. “It looks great.”



Hair and makeup normally weren’t Aria’s thing, but not only had styling Ella for her big date been fun, it had also been the most time they’d spent together since Aria moved back in. Even better, Ella’s makeover had been a good distraction from thinking about Xavier. Aria had obsessed over their conversation at the gallery for the past two days, trying to pick apart whether it had been flirtatious banter or friendly chitchat. Artists were so touchy-feely—it was impossible to tell what they actually meant. Still, she hoped he would call. Aria had signed her first name and cell number in the gallery’s register, putting an asterisk by it. Artists looked at those register books, didn’t they? She couldn’t help but picture their first date—it would start with finger-painting and end with a messy make-out session on Xavier’s studio floor.



Ella picked up a mascara wand and leaned in to the mirror. “Are you sure you’re okay with me going on a date?”



“Of course.” But the truth was that Aria wasn’t sure how promising this date was going to be. The guy’s name was Wolfgang, for God’s sake. What if he spoke in rhymes? What if he was the guy who impersonated Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart for the Hollis Conservatory’s Great Composers of History festival? What if he showed up in a doublet and hose and a powdered wig?



Ella stood up and walked back into the bedroom. Halfway across the carpet, she abruptly stopped. “Oh.”



Her eyes were on the teal dress Aria had laid out on the queen-size bed. Earlier that afternoon, Aria had gone through Ella’s closet for an appropriate date outfit, worried she wouldn’t find anything among the dashikis, tunics, and Tibetan prayer robes Ella typically wore. The dress had been stuffed in the back, still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic. It was simple and slimming, with just the tiniest scalloping at the neck. Aria had thought it was a perfect choice…but judging by her mother’s face, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.



Her mother sat down next to the dress, touching its silky fabric. “I forgot I had this,” she said in a small voice. “I wore it to a Hollis benefit when Byron finally got tenure. It was the same night you slept over at Alison DiLaurentis’s house for the first time. We had to run out and get you a sleeping bag because you didn’t have one, remember?”



Aria sank down in the striped wing chair in the corner of the room. She remembered the first sleepover at Ali’s house perfectly. It was right after Ali had approached Aria at the Rosewood Day charity drive and asked for her help in sorting through the luxury items. Aria’s first instinct had been that Ali had done it on a dare. Just the week before, Ali had asked Chassey Bledsoe to try a spritz of a new perfume she’d discovered. It turned out that the “perfume” was actually murky, poop-filled water from the Rosewood duck pond.



Ella cradled the dress in her lap. “So I guess you know about Byron’s—that Meredith’s…” She cupped her hands near her stomach, miming a pregnant belly.



Aria bit her lip and nodded silently, her heart aching. This was the first time Ella had mentioned Meredith’s condition. She’d tried her hardest to steer Ella away from all pregnancy references in the past month, but it was foolish to think she could avoid it forever.



Ella sighed, her jaw tense. “Well, I guess it’s time to create a new memory in this dress. It’s time to move on.” She glanced at Aria. “How about you? Have you moved on?”



Aria raised an eyebrow. “From Byron?”



Ella pushed her wavy hair over her shoulder. “No. I meant your teacher. Mr…. Fitz.”



“You…know about that?”



Ella traced her finger down the dress’s side zipper. “Your dad told me.” She smiled uncomfortably. “I guess Mr. Fitz went to Hollis. Bryon heard something about him being asked to leave Rosewood Day…because of you.” She glanced at Aria again. “I wish you would’ve come to me about this.”



Aria stared across the room at a large abstract painting Ella had done of Aria and Mike floating through outer space. She hadn’t reached out to Ella at the time because Ella hadn’t been answering her calls.



Ella’s eyes lowered sheepishly, as if she’d just realized this too. “He didn’t…take advantage of you, did he?”



Aria shook her head, hiding behind her hair. “No. It was pretty innocent.”



She thought about the few times she’d actually spent with Ezra—the dark, sticky make-out session in the bathroom at Snooker’s, a kiss in his school office, a few stolen hours at his apartment in Old Hollis. Ezra had been the first guy Aria thought she loved, and it had seemed that he loved her, too. When he’d told Aria to look him up in a few years, Aria had figured that meant he would wait for her. But someone who was waiting for her would have called every once in a while, right? She wondered if she’d been really naïve.



Aria took a deep breath. “Maybe we weren’t right for each other. But I might’ve met someone new.”



“Really?” Ella sat down on the bed and began to remove her slippers and socks. “Who?”



“Just…someone,” Aria said lightly. She didn’t want to jinx things. “I’m not sure about it yet.”



“Well, that’s great.” Ella touched the top of Aria’s head so lovingly, tears came to Aria’s eyes. They were finally talking. Maybe things were becoming normal between them again.