Hanna tossed her auburn hair, tilted her chin down, and parted her lips just so. It was a pose she’d made when she, Ali and the others did model shoots in Ali’s den. Ali had always told Hanna that face made her look like a plus-sized model on crack, but Patrick snapped away, shouting, “Brilliant!”
After a while, Patrick paused to gaze at the shots in the preview window. “You’re amazing. Have you done lots of photo shoots before?”
“Oh, a few.” The photo shoot for People after the Poconos scandal counted, right?
Patrick squinted into the lens again. “Okay, chin up a bit. Give me sultry.”
Hanna tried her best to make her eyes smolder. Snap. Snap.
A crowd of tourists gathered and whispered. “What magazine are you shooting for?” a middle-aged woman asked in a reverent voice.
“Vogue,” Patrick answered without missing a beat. The crowd clucked and oohed; a few people pushed closer to snap photos of Hanna themselves. She felt like a star.
After a few more shots at the Liberty Bell, Patrick suggested they head to his studio. The sun sank low in the sky as they walked back to Fishtown. He bounced up the steps of a pretty brownstone and opened the door for her. “Hope you don’t mind stairs.”
When Patrick opened the black-painted door on the fourth floor, Hanna let out a loud ooh! The studio was a giant room covered in photographs of all shapes and sizes. Three long windows looked out onto the street. A flat-screen Mac glowed in the corner. There was a tiny kitchen off to the right; on the counter were containers of darkroom chemicals. But instead of smelling like the photography classroom at Rosewood Day, the room was fragrant with Hanna’s favorite Delirium & Co candle, China Tea.
“Do you live here?” Hanna asked.
“Nah, just work.” Patrick dropped his bag on the floor. “I share it with a couple other photographers. Hopefully no one will bother us while we’re finishing up.”
He put on an old bossa nova CD, arranged a couple of lights, and positioned Hanna on a stool. Instantly, Hanna began to sway back and forth, entranced by the sound of the music. “Good,” Patrick murmured. “Move your body. Just like that.” Snap. Snap.
Hanna unzipped her leather jacket and undulated to the song, her eyes starting to hurt from so much sexy squinting. The lights beamed hotly on her skin, and in an impetuous moment, she flung off her leather jacket to reveal the thin scoop-neck dress underneath.
“Pretty!” Patrick murmured. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Now fling your hair back and forth! Good!”
Hanna did as she was told, making her hair spill over her shoulders and fall seductively into her eyes. A strap of her dress fell off her shoulder, revealing her bra strap, but she didn’t pause to fix it. Patrick’s high cheekbones and pink, kissable lips were beginning to mesmerize her. She loved how he made her feel like the most beautiful girl on earth. She wished everyone could see this.
Amidst the luscious music, the hot lights, and the glam poses, an unwanted memory floated into Hanna’s head. When Ali returned to Rosewood last year and confessed she was really Hanna’s long-lost best friend, she’d taken Hanna’s hands and told her how beautiful she’d become. “I mean, you’re . . . stunning, Han,” Ali whispered, her voice full of awe.
It had been the most wonderful thing Hanna had ever heard. Ever since she’d made herself over, she’d dreamed Ali would somehow return from the dead and see how she was no longer the ugly, chubby, hanger-on in Ali’s clique. But in the end, the comment meant nothing. It was just a charade to get Hanna to trust her.
Then, equally unbidden, a second memory popped into her head. In Jamaica, shortly after the girls ate dinner, Hanna wandered to the big telescope that was set up in the corner of the restaurant. It pointed at the sky above the sea; the night was clear and crisp, and the stars looked close enough to reach out and touch.
A cough made Hanna turn around. A blond girl in a yellow dress stood behind her. It was the same girl Emily had pointed out in the doorway. She looked nothing like Ali except for the similar hair color and the naughty glint in her eye, but she leaned forward and gazed at Hanna like she knew her.
“I heard that telescope’s awesome.” Her breath smelled slightly of rum.
“Um, yeah.” Hanna stepped aside. “Want to see?”
The girl peered through the eyepiece, then introduced herself as Tabitha Clark, adding that she was from New Jersey and this was her first night at the resort.
“Mine, too,” Hanna said quickly. “It’s awesome. We went cliff diving this afternoon. And tomorrow I’m taking a yoga class,” she went on, blabbering nervously. Hanna couldn’t help but stare at the burns on the girl’s arms. What had happened to her?
“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Tabitha told her suddenly.
Hanna pressed her hand to her chest. “Th-thanks!”
Tabitha cocked her head. “But I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?”
Hanna frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tabitha licked her pink lips. “I think you know, don’t you?”
The world began to spin. It was possible Tabitha recognized Hanna from the news reports, and there were a lot of things about her that had come out in the press—how Mona had hit her with her car, how she’d gotten caught shoplifting, how all of them swore they’d seen Ian’s dead body in the woods. But Hanna’s chubby, ugly past had remained a deep, dark secret from the world. No photos of her pre-makeover circulated on the blogs or in gossip mags—Hanna checked religiously. How could Tabitha know about Hanna’s ugly duckling past?
When Hanna stared at the girl again, it was as though her features had been completely rearranged. Suddenly, there was more than just an Ali-like sparkle in her eye. Her Cupid-bow lips looked just like Ali’s. It was as though Ali’s ghost shone through Tabitha’s marred skin.
“Hanna?” Patrick’s voice cut through the memory.
Hanna blinked, struggling to break free. Tabitha’s voice still echoed in her ears. I bet you weren’t always gorgeous, were you?
Patrick gazed at her uncomfortably. “Um, you might want to . . .” He gestured to her collarbone.
When Hanna looked down, her pink dress had fallen down her chest, and half of her left boob was somehow hanging out of her strapless bra. “Oops.” She pulled it up.
Patrick lowered his camera. “You went dead on me. Everything okay?”
The image of Tabitha blazed in Hanna’s brain. But she wouldn’t think about it. She’d made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t let last night’s A message open Pandora’s box.
Hanna straightened her shoulders and shook out her palms. “Sorry. Everything’s perfect now, I promise.” The latest Black Eyed Peas song came on next, and she made a twisting motion with her fingers so Patrick would crank up the stereo. “Let’s keep going.”
And that was exactly what they did.
Chapter 11
Emily’s got a swimfan
“Ten one hundreds on a minute-thirty, leave on the sixty!” Raymond, the coach of Emily’s year-round club team, yelled at a lane from the edge of the pool on Tuesday. Raymond had been Emily’s coach ever since she was a kid, and he’d never diverged from his standard uniform of Adidas shower flip-flops and shiny black TYR warm-up suits. He also had the gorilla-thick arm hair of someone who used to regularly shave their arms for swim competitions, and the broad shoulders of a backstroker.
The clock edged to the sixty. Raymond lurched forward. “Ready . . . go!”
Emily pushed off the wall, her body in a tight, dartlike streamline, her legs dolphin-kicking frantically. The water was cool on her skin, and she could hear strains of the oldies station on the radio in the coach’s office. Her muscles relaxed as she stroked through the water. It felt good to be swimming again after such a long break.
She did a flip turn at the other wall and pushed off again. The other kids in her lane paddled behind her. All of them were serious swimmers, too, kids who hoped to get scholarships to choice colleges. Some high-school seniors on the team had already been recruited; they proudly brought Raymond their acceptance letters as soon as they got them.
Paddling strongly, Emily tried to let her mind go blank, which Raymond said would help her swim her fastest. But she kept thinking about the postcard in Ali’s mailbox. Who sent it? Had someone seen what they did? No one had witnessed what they’d done in Jamaica. There had been no couples kissing on the sand, no faces peering out of windows, no hotel staff cleaning the back deck. Either A had taken a wild guess—or else A was the person Emily feared most.
Emily touched the wall to finish, breathing hard. “Good time, Emily,” Raymond said from the edge of the pool. “It’s nice to see you back in the water.”
“Thanks.” Emily wiped her eyes and looked around the natatorium. It, too, hadn’t changed since Emily started here as a six-year-old. There were bright yellow bleachers in the corner and a big mural of water polo players. Motivational sayings covered the walls, and gold plaques of pool records lined the hallway just beyond the doors. When Emily was little, she’d ogled the records, hoping to one day break one of them. Last year, she’d broken three. But not this year . . .
Raymond’s whistle made a short, sharp tweet, and Emily pushed off the wall for one hundred number two. The laps flew by, Emily’s arms feeling strong, her turns steady and sure, her times slowly dropping. When the set was over, Emily noticed someone videotaping her from the bleachers. He lowered the camera and met her eyes. It was Mr. Roland.
He strolled over to Emily’s lane. “Hey, Emily. Have a sec?”
A swimmer flip-turned right next to Emily, sending a plume of water into the air. Emily shrugged and pushed out of the pool. She felt naked in her tank suit, bare arms, and bare legs, especially next to Mr. Roland’s gray wool suit and black loafers. And she still couldn’t shrug off the other night. Had he meant to touch her hip, or was it an accident?
Mr. Roland sat down on one end of a bench. Emily grabbed her towel and sat on the other. “I sent your times to the UNC recruiter and coach. His name’s Marc Lowry. He asked me to stop by and watch you practice. I hope that’s okay.” He raised the video camera and smiled sheepishly.
“Uh, it’s fine.” Emily crossed her arms over her boobs.
“You have really beautiful form.” Mr. Roland stared at a paused frame on the video camera. “Lowry’s really impressed by your times, too. But he wonders why they’re last year’s times, not this year’s.”
“I had to take some time off last summer and this fall,” Emily said uneasily. “I wasn’t able to compete with my school team.”
A wrinkle formed on Mr. Roland’s brow. “And why is that?”
Emily turned away. “Just . . . personal stuff.”
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but the recruiter is going to ask,” Mr. Roland prodded gently.
Emily fiddled with a loose loop on her towel. It was from Junior Swimming Nationals, which she’d competed in last year before she went to Jamaica. Even back then, she’d felt like something was wrong with her. She’d felt shaky in the locker room, then nearly passed out in the folding chair waiting for her heat. Her times had been decent, only one or two tenths of a second slower than her personal bests, but she’d felt exhausted afterward, like someone had filled her arms and legs with sand. That night, she went home and slept for fifteen hours straight.