Crushed

Okay, Britney. Let’s meet. Mütter Museum in an hour?

“Yes!” Spencer whooped, exiting out of IM. She strolled out of the kitchen, a huge smile on her face. Amelia smirked at her. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” Spencer snapped, sashaying down the hall. But there was a little spring in her step and a zillion butterflies knocking against her stomach. Okay, maybe she was happy to be meeting Chase.

Just a little.

Forty-five minutes later, Spencer paid the parking meter on Twenty-First Street and headed for the brownstone down the block. MÜTTER MUSEUM OF MEDICAL ODDITIES, read an old-fashioned sign on a post. Spencer had been here once two years ago on a school trip and almost puked several times. Not only did the place smell overwhelmingly like formaldehyde, but one of the attractions was a large set of drawers of various objects people had swallowed. There was also a huge human digestive tract stored in a large jar. Not exactly her thing.

She plopped a blond Britney Spears wig on her head—it only seemed fitting, after all—and pulled a pair of Ray-Bans over her eyes. Even though the museum docents looked at her like she was crazy, she paid the fee with her head held high.

The museum was essentially only one large room with displays around the perimeter. A couple stared at the hanging skeletons. An old woman examined the world’s largest colon. It seemed pretty clear that A wasn’t here, but what about Chase? Spencer eyed a stooped, lecherous-looking old man grinning at the preserved Siamese twins and got a sinking feeling.

“Um, hello?”

She jumped and whirled around. Standing next to a security guard was a tall guy with tousled brown hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders, and long, lanky limbs. He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing piercing green eyes.

“I’m Chase,” he said. “You’re . . . ?”

Spencer walked toward him dazedly. Chase had thick, expressive eyebrows. His body was strong and taut under his T-shirt and cargo pants. And when he smiled, his whole face lit up.

“H-hi,” she said shakily when she got close, feeling ridiculous in the wig and sunglasses. “I’m, um, Britney.” She motioned to her wig and smirked.

“It’s great to meet you.” Chase held out his hand for her to shake.

“It’s great to meet you, too,” Spencer said back, her hand tingling where Chase had touched it.

They stared at each other for a few beats. Spencer was glad she’d worn a printed silk minidress, which showed off her long legs. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Chase’s biceps. He looked like the type of guy who could lift her up and spin her over his head without breaking a sweat.

Then Chase smirked. Spencer giggled nervously in response. “Sorry,” Chase admitted. “It’s just that I normally don’t meet people like this.”

“I know. Me, neither,” Spencer said.

Chase sat down on a bench near the gift shop, his eyes still on her as though she were the only interesting thing in the room—maybe the world. When his phone buzzed, Spencer smiled awkwardly and stepped away. Chase glanced down at the screen. He flinched and immediately started typing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, tilting the screen of his phone away. “This’ll just take a second.”

“No problem,” Spencer said. “Got a conspiracy theory blog emergency?”

“Something like that,” Chase murmured.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and gazed at her again, from her blond wig to her pointy Loeffler Randall boots. After a moment, he touched the silver bracelet around Spencer’s wrist. “That’s really pretty.”

“Oh, thanks.” Spencer spun it around. “My mom gave it to me. It’s from Prendergast’s.”

“On Walnut?” Chase asked. “I used to get my girlfriend stuff from there all the time.”

Spencer peeked at him. “Is this a . . . current girlfriend?”

“Nah.” Chase wrapped his hands around his knees. “It was over a long time ago. Before the, um, stalker thing.”

Spencer nodded quickly. By the look on Chase’s face, it seemed like he didn’t really want to talk about it. She didn’t blame him; she didn’t like talking about what Ali had done to her, either.

“What about you?” Chase asked. “Dating anyone?”

Spencer studied her feet. “There was someone, but . . .”

Suddenly, the Reefer story spilled out of her. As she explained it, though, she realized she didn’t really miss Reefer as much as she had even a few days ago. She’d had too much else on her mind to think about him.

“That sucks,” Chase admitted when she finished. “He’s got to be a real idiot to drop someone like you, Miss Spears.”

Spencer wound a piece of fake hair around her finger. “You know, the worst thing about being dumped was that he did it two weeks before prom. There’s no one for me to ask. I’m going to have to go stag, which is just beyond depressing.”

“What a jerk,” Chase said, shifting his weight. When Spencer looked up, there was a hopeful little smile on his face. Suddenly, an idea flickered in her mind. Could she ask Chase to the prom? He would look amazing in a tux. But no, that was crazy. They barely knew each other.

Buzz. It was Chase’s phone again. This time he stood and walked a few paces away before checking the screen and typing back.

When he was done, he was all business again, reaching into his pocket. “Anyway. I have the photos you wanted to see.”

He handed her three glossy five-by-sevens. They were various images from parts of what she assumed was Real Ali’s life. The first one was a picture of blond twin girls of about five. Both wore purple overalls, had pink ribbons in their hair, and were smiling. Spencer could see a hint of Ali in both their faces. It was impossible to tell who was who.

“I think this is from when they lived in Connecticut,” Chase explained. “It doesn’t really tell us much about the case, just that the twins didn’t always hate each other.” He sniffed. “They sounded psycho, didn’t they? Then again, those parents must have been whack-jobs, too. Who doesn’t notice when their daughters switch places?”

“Seriously,” Spencer mumbled, wondering what Chase would say if he knew those very twins were her half sisters.

She flipped to the next photo and gasped at the familiar image. Two blond girls stood in the DiLaurentises’ Rosewood backyard. Ali—or was it Courtney?—faced the camera, and the second blonde, who they’d all thought was Naomi Zeigler once upon a time, turned away. An innocent-looking Jenna Cavanaugh was next to them, a trapped expression on her face. Spencer had seen this photograph before: Real Ali-as-A had sent it to Emily along with a note that said, One of these things doesn’t belong. Figure it out quickly . . . or else. They’d never quite figured out why Ali had sent it to Emily. To frame Jenna, perhaps—she’d died shortly after and probably knew way too much for her own good.

Spencer looked up. “Are you going to post these on your blog?”

Chase shook his head. “I’m not posting anything until I have more proof.”

“I wish you knew who sent you these. There wasn’t a note with them? Nothing?”

Chase shrugged. “They just showed up.”

Spencer shivered. Had Real Ali sent them? Only, why? To tease them? To show them how invincible and evasive she was?

She flipped to the last photo. In this one, Ali faced the camera. She looked older, nearly as old as the girl they’d met last year, and she wore a pair of white pajamas. She stood in The Preserve’s dayroom—Spencer recognized the construction-paper cutouts on the wall. Someone stood next to her, too, but Ali’s raised palm blocked out his face. Was it another patient? Her boyfriend? Helper A?

Chase’s phone beeped again. He typed a response, then put the phone away. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

“Already?” she blurted.

Chase seemed surprised by her reaction. “W-would you want to hang out more?” he asked, a note of hope in his voice.

Spencer nodded quickly, then felt like a desperate idiot. “To talk about the Ali case, I mean. You have some really good ideas.”

For a split second, Chase almost seemed disappointed, but then he smiled. “Definitely,” he said. “I’d like that . . . a lot.” He stuck out his hand for Spencer to shake, but Spencer pulled him in and gave him a hug. He smelled like leather and citrus-scented deodorant. It took all of Spencer’s willpower not to run her fingers through his hair.

Chase pulled away from Spencer, studied her once more, and let his thumb trail across her cheek. Tingles shot up Spencer’s spine. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me who you are, Britney,” he teased. And then he turned around and strode out of the museum, his sneakers barely making a sound.

Spencer followed him from a distance and watched as he strolled up the side street and made a right on Market. When he was gone, she melted to the stoop of a building in a full-on swoon. That. Was. Amazing.

Crack. Something sounded across the street. Spencer shot up, suddenly alert. An empty Diet Coke bottle rolled under a car. A face appeared in the windshield of a van to her right, but when she turned to see, there was no one there.

When her phone beeped, she almost expected it. But it was her old phone ringing—she’d received an e-mail on her school account. Although it wasn’t from A, Spencer blinked hard at the words.

Spencer, I have a few more questions for you. I’m coming by tomorrow to have a chat. Your house, 4 PM. Please reply to let me know you got this message.

Sincerely,

Jasmine Fuji

Spencer’s finger hesitated over the REPLY button. But then, swallowing a lump in her throat, she pressed DELETE.

17

And the Winner Is . . .

On Wednesday morning, just three days before prom, all of the Rosewood Day Upper School students gathered in the auditorium. Girls were texting and playing Plants vs. Zombies and a group of drama kids near the left exit were acting out a duel from Macbeth, which the school had put on the month before. A big banner over the stage read MAY DAY PROM KING AND QUEEN. Two ancient-looking, gold-plated, fake-jeweled crowns that had adorned the heads of kings and queens from years past waited on a table. Two royal scepters, which the king and queen carried to prom, sat on the stage, too. Voting had occurred that morning, and Rosewood Day had tallied the votes immediately. The assembly was to announce the winners.

Hanna sat with the other candidates up on the stage, her heart going a zillion miles an hour. She glanced around the filling auditorium. Where the hell was Mike? He wouldn’t miss this assembly, would he? She’d seen him before first period this morning, so she knew he wasn’t sick.

Then she peeked at Chassey Bledsoe two stools down from her. Chassey kept peering at the crowd, giving everyone hopeful, gracious smiles. Then Chassey turned to Hanna, and her eyes lit up. “Are you excited?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Hanna nodded in response. She was too hyped up and freaked out to speak. All the days of noncampaigning weighed heavily on her. What if Chassey won? Would she ever live it down?