Emily shot to the top, gasping for air. She gripped the sides of the wall hard and coughed up water. Her head still pounding, she pushed to the deck and gazed around. The door to the girls’ locker room swung shut. Emily ran for it, her limbs heavy, her lungs tight.
She crashed into the locker room. “Ali!” she screamed, groping past sinks and the showers and slipping on the tiled floor. A black-hooded shape rushed for the door to the hallway.
Ali. Emily barreled forward, catching her by her sleeve. Ali kicked and bucked, her hands outstretched for the doorknob. Finally, she swung around and glared at Emily, her features twisted and furious and unbearably ugly. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into Emily’s arm.
Emily let out a yelp and released her grip. With a laugh, Ali slipped free. Emily reached to grab her again, but suddenly, all she was holding was Ali’s hooded sweatshirt, the zipper undone, both sides flapping free.
Emily lunged for the door, but Ali had slammed it behind her so forcefully that it swung inward, cracking Emily on the head. Emily staggered back, seeing stars. It took her a few seconds to regroup. Then she rushed into the hall.
There was no one there. No sound of footsteps, either. No wet footprints leading in a direction, even.
Emily stared right and left, feeling like she was going crazy. Ali had vanished into thin air.
Water dripped off her fingertips, making puddles on the ground. She ran her hands down the length of her face, suddenly realizing she was still in her bathing suit and swim cap. Then she noticed how freezing she was. She inspected the sides of her neck, wincing at the tender spots where Ali had squeezed. She took a step to the left, and then to the right, and then sank down to the ground, horribly dizzy.
Ali had escaped. Again. But she’d sent a message, all right. Loud and clear. And next time, Emily wasn’t sure if Ali would let her live.
9
SHE’S BAA-ACK. . . .
Hanna stood in the middle of an empty soundstage, studying her Naomi lines, which a production assistant had printed out and highlighted for her earlier that day. Hank, Burn It Down’s director, had dismissed the cast and crew for the day because filming during a lightning storm was dangerous, but Hanna had decided to hang back for a while to practice. She wanted to be perfect for her next big scene. Even though Hank had told her she was doing a great job, she still felt like a little bit of a fraud. She was acting opposite people who had so much experience . . . and her only claims to fame were doing a PSA and being tormented by Ali. “And that’s why we’re not friends anymore, Hanna Marin,” she said into the still, quiet room, among the idle cameras, equipment, and lights. She glared at an imaginary Hailey opposite her. In this scene, she, as Naomi, had found out about Hanna’s almost killing her cousin in a car accident. “Because you’re crazy. And you’re a liar. And there’s only so much a girl can take.”
Then she imagined Hailey’s response. Would Hailey use that ditzy voice again? Snap that imaginary gum? Earlier, Hailey had performed yet another scene as Hanna, and it was just as dreadful as the other day. To Hanna’s relief, Hank had sprung up and said, “Hailey, I don’t know if you have the character right. Why don’t you do some thinking on it, and we’ll reschedule your scenes tomorrow?”
Hailey’s jaw had dropped, and her face had turned red. As soon as the sound engineer had removed her microphone, she’d stormed over to Hanna. “Do you think I’m doing a good job? Because your opinion is the only one that matters.”
It had been Hanna’s chance to say something, but she’d felt so cornered. She’d given Hailey a closed-mouth smile and nodded feverishly, not trusting her voice.
Hanna repeated her lines again and again, tinkering with her movements and blocking. On the third try, she even felt her eyes well with tears. I am kind of good at this, she thought, feeling satisfied. Then she gathered up her things and slipped out the side door.
Even though it was only five o’clock, the sky was surprisingly pitch-black. Wind swirled, kicking up dry leaves, and the rain pelted down in sideways sheets. Hanna peered down the long alley that led to the parking lot. It seemed full of shadows, and all at once, she thought she heard a faint sniff. She whipped around, looking this way and that, but the alley was empty.
Taking a deep breath, she started down the metal ramp to her car. Halfway down the alley, she felt herself hurtle forward, and suddenly she was on the ground. Her palms stung from the impact, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She scrambled to her knees and looked up, but all she saw was the almost-black sky above. She looked at the ground again and gasped. There, written on the pavement, was a message in chalk. BreAk a leg, Hanna, it said. The a in break was capitalized, bigger than the other letters.
“What do you want?”