Ms. Bloom reached into her jacket pocket and handed her a card. Spencer stared down at it. Alyssa Bloom, it said. Editor. HarperCollins Publishing, New York.
Spencer was speechless for a few beats. “You work in publishing?”
Ms. Bloom smiled. “That’s right.”
“Meaning you publish books?” Spencer wanted to smack herself for sounding so idiotic. “I’m sorry,” she backtracked. “It’s just that I’ve never spoken to an editor before. And actually, I’ve always seen myself as an author.” She’d thought that ever since she came up with a book series idea with Courtney years ago. It was about field hockey–playing fairies who shape-shifted into supermodels, and Spencer and Courtney had written almost half of the first novel. Well, Spencer had written it. Courtney had directed from the sidelines.
Ms. Bloom leaned into one hip. “Well, if you have any ideas, I’d love to hear them. I’d love to talk about your blog sometime, too.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of my blog?”
Ms. Bloom nodded. “Sure. Bullying’s a hot topic, and you’ve started something very interesting.” Then her phone rang, and she shot Spencer a tight smile. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this.” She pointed to the card in Spencer’s hand. “Call me sometime. Nice to meet you.”
Then the editor whirled away, her phone pressed to her ear. Spencer’s mind started to race. Princeton would have to let her in if she wrote a book. Even Melissa hadn’t done that.
“Can I get you something?”
The bartender was smiling at her from behind the counter. Spencer felt her spirits lift even higher. All at once, everything felt so shiny and new. Possible. Amazing.
“You can get me another martini.” She slid her empty glass toward him. What the hell? She’d just gotten a business card from an editor of a huge publishing house.
That was totally a reason to celebrate.
4
ORANGE IS THE NEW ROMANTIC
On Tuesday morning, Emily Fields sat at a high table in a Rosewood Day chemistry classroom. A periodic table hung on the wall, along with a poster describing the electron arrangements of various basic molecules. Bunsen burners were lined up in a glass cabinet, and the drawers along the back held flasks, beakers, and other lab equipment. The teacher, a frizzy-haired woman named Ms. Payton whom Emily had never met before—she suspected Rosewood Day’s regular staff wouldn’t set foot in the place during the summer—stood at the board, turning a silver ring on her finger around and around. All the students except for Emily were talking, texting, or rooting through their bags, and one girl was even sitting on the windowsill, an entire Chick-fil-A meal spread out on her lap.
“Now, if you look at the next item on the syllabus,” Ms. Payton said in a wavering voice, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses on her nose, “it talks about lab work. It’s going to be very important in this class, at least thirty percent of your grade, so I suggest you take it seriously.”
Several boys from the JV crew team snorted. Vera, Emily’s lab partner, whose military jacket was faded and ripped but had a tiny tag on the back that said DOLCE & GABBANA, looked at the teacher with stoned eyes. Hanna had warned Emily about how freaky summer school was—“I didn’t recognize, like, anyone,” she’d said dramatically.
Emily didn’t think it was that bad. Hanna was right about two things, though. One, Rosewood Day did seem eerie without its normal hustle and bustle. Emily had never noticed how creaky the doors were, or that there were so many long, ominous shadows around corners, or that so many of the overhead lights flickered. And two, no one particularly cared about passing the class.
Don’t you realize how lucky we are to get to graduate? Emily wanted to yell at her classmates. But maybe you didn’t appreciate that sort of thing until it was taken away.
Then Vera tapped Emily’s arm. “Hey. What was it like to almost, like, die?”
Emily looked away. Sometimes she forgot that her classmates knew everything about her. “Um . . .”
“I remember Alison,” Vera went on. “She told me I looked like a troll.” She curled and uncurled her fists. “But hey, at least she’s dead, right?”
Emily didn’t know what to say. It was always a shock that her classmates remembered Ali, too—Emily had spent so much time obsessing over her it sometimes felt as if Ali were a figment of her imagination, unknown and unknowable to everyone else. But actually, her classmates had known both Alis: Courtney, their old friend, and the sociopathic real Ali, who’d tried to kill them twice.
And who was definitely still alive.
“So here are your books,” Ms. Payton said, handing a stack to the front row and asking them to pass them back. “Would someone like to read the introduction page for the class?”
A bunch of kids snickered, and Ms. Payton looked like she was going to cry. Poor thing, Emily thought. Didn’t she know that the reading-aloud thing stopped in elementary school?