They turned onto Ali’s street. The familiar houses Ali had looked at every day for a year and a half now gleamed in the late-afternoon sun. Mona Vanderwaal made loops around her family’s five-car garage on her Razor scooter. Her friends Phi Templeton and Chassey Bledsoe sat under a willow tree in her front yard, playing with a yo-yo. All three of them looked up, slack-jawed, as they saw Ali and Cassie pass. Dorks.
The Cavanaugh house, a rambling Colonial with a big backyard, was next. Ali gazed at the large oak tree that still bore the remnants of the wooden ladder that had led to Toby Cavanaugh’s tree house. Suddenly, she noticed a face in the front window. Jenna Cavanaugh stared out, big wraparound sunglasses over her eyes. Ali felt a pull in her chest. She held up two fingers to the car window, her and Jenna’s old secret sign. Not that Jenna saw.
Cassie pulled into Ali’s driveway, coming to a stop behind a construction truck filled with ladders and shovels. Next to it was a battered black sports car, its interior full of Burger King cups, empty wrappers, and schoolbooks. “What’s going on in your backyard?” Cassie asked.
Ali sighed dramatically. “My parents are building gazebo-zilla. It’s going to seat a zillion people for all their parties. Those disgusting workers showed up yesterday to consult with my parents about what needed to get done.”
Cassie raised her butt off the seat and gazed at something in the backyard. “They don’t look so disgusting to me.”
Ali followed her gaze. A trio of guys in sweat-stained shirts and ripped jeans traipsed through her yard, passing the tree house in which she and Emily had spent many hours talking. One of the workers had tattoos up and down his arms and carried a shovel over his shoulder. Another had dirt all over his face and was talking on his cell phone. But the third guy, who was younger, was staring right at Ali, his green eyes piercing, an impish smile on his face.
“Oh my God, I’m in love,” Cassie whispered.
“With Darren Wilden?” Ali made a face.
Cassie gaped at her. “You know him? I’ve only seen him in the halls.”
“He’s Jason’s friend.” Ali made a noise at the back of her throat. “His idea of fun is tagging the wall outside the tennis courts.”
“Bad boys are hot.” Cassie pulled out a tube of sheer lip gloss and slowly spread it across her lips.
“He’s all yours,” Ali murmured.
They fell silent as Darren approached, still staring at Ali. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be smoking, Ali,” he said sternly.
Ali looked down. The Marlboro Light Cassie had lit was still in her hand, white ash curling into the air. Anger flared inside her. Darren was a fixture at her house, as moody as Jason and just as irritating. Who did he think he was, her dad? As if he had any power over what she did!
Ali took another long drag of the cigarette, then flicked it out the window. She stepped out of the car slowly, her eyes on his. She sauntered up to him, not saying a word, until she was right next to him. Then she pulled up her skirt and gave him a little peek of leg. Darren’s eyes went right there and widened not with horror or disgust, but with what was definitely inappropriate lust. Smirking, Ali waved good-bye to Cassie, then turned and strutted into the house, knowing he and Cassie were still staring.
There. She was the one in control, after all.
3
PARTY ON THE DOWN LOW
“One Swiss fondue with four skewers.” A waitress laid a bubbling cauldron of melted cheese in the center of the table. “Enjoy!”
Ali’s mother, a tall, elegant woman with long blond hair, a heart-shaped face, and a perma-Botoxed forehead, placed her napkin in her lap and daintily picked up a skewer. Her father made an mm sound and smacked his lips, which Ali had always thought were a tad thick and rubbery. A long string of cheese stretched uncouthly from the skewer to his mouth. That was probably the reason her mom never brought him to her charity dinners.
Ali wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What is this? It looks like Velveeta.”
“It’s fondue.” Mrs. DiLaurentis pushed a skewer toward her. “You’ll love it.”
“I’d probably love full-fat ice cream, too, but you don’t see me eating that.”
Her mother sipped from her glass of white wine. “It’s French, honey. Therefore it has no calories.” She twisted her mouth like it was a funny joke.