Hanna pushed open the main door to the Upper School. The halls were deserted, and the floors looked like they hadn’t been swept since the regular school year let out. Every poster advertising class elections, upcoming dances, or charity drives had been removed from the walls, leaving behind faded spots of painted concrete. No between-classes classical music blared from the PA system. Some of the lockers were wide open and empty like dark, gaping caves. Hanna pressed one door lightly; it squeaked spookily on its hinges.
A shadow shifted at the end of the hall, and Hanna froze. Then a deep laugh spiraled from another direction. She turned just in time to see a figure slipping, ghostlike, up the stairs. Her heart began to pound. Stay calm. You are being paranoid.
She tiptoed to the history wing and peered into her classroom. The air smelled like sweat, and only the back rows were occupied. A boy wearing a dingy Phillies cap traced a pattern into the wooden desk with the pointy end of a key. A girl with dreadlocks was facedown, snoring. A kid in the corner with vacant eyes was reading what looked like Playboy.
Then she heard a cough and whirled around. A boy with bad posture and a knitted cap whom she didn’t recognize was standing way too close. There was a weird smirk on his face.
“H-hello?” she sputtered, heart lurching again. “Can I help you?”
The boy lazily smiled. “You’re Hanna Marin.” He pointed at her. “I know you.”
Then he slid past her and entered the classroom.
Her phone began to ring, causing Hanna to shriek and press her body against the lockers. But it was just Mike Montgomery, her boyfriend. “Are you in school yet?” he asked.
Hanna made an uh-huh sound, still feeling her pulse rocket at her temples. “It’s a little like Night of the Living Dead, though. Who are all these kids? I’ve never seen them before.”
“It was the same way when I took driver’s ed last summer. They keep summer school kids hidden in the utility closet during the year. I wish I could come down there and keep you safe. Maybe I should take the first bus back.”
Hanna chuckled shakily. Ever since she’d told Mike that Ali was back on the scene, he’d become her de facto bodyguard. The other day, before he’d left for soccer camp in New Hampshire, she’d squealed at a spider on her front porch, and Mike had swooped in like a superhero. He’d also been hypervigilant whenever she received a text, checking her expression for worry or fear. He’d asked her a million times if he really should go to camp for the whole month. You might need me had been his excuse.
“You’re not getting on a bus,” Hanna demanded now, watching as a few more people brushed past. And okay, they all were wearing ugly shoes and weren’t usually kids she hung around with, but they didn’t look quite as zombielike. “I can handle a few weirdos.”
Then she hung up. Seconds later, her phone pinged again. Good luck on your first day of school! her mom wrote. Let’s get dinner tonight to celebrate!
Hanna smiled. For years, she’d leaned on her dad, but that had changed once and for all the day she was arrested for Tabitha’s murder and her dad told her that associating with her was “wrecking his political campaign.” Amazingly, her mom had taken the reins, and she was actually trying really hard to be present. Last night, they’d even gone to Otter, Hanna’s favorite boutique, for a “back to summer school” outfit—the striped minidress and dove-gray ankle boots Hanna was wearing today.
Sounds good, she texted back. Then she walked into the classroom, her heels clicking noisily, her auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders. The sun streamed through the long windows so prettily that she suddenly felt a contented sense of well-being. So what if she had to repeat history class with a bunch of D-listers? At least she’d get to graduate. The press and the town didn’t hate her anymore, or think she was a murderer. And she still had her friends, an amazing boyfriend, and now, for the first time ever, a mom who actually cared. Maybe they should let this Ali stuff go and just enjoy their lives.
The only seats left were in the front row, so Hanna plopped down, arranged her dress around her, and waited for the teacher to arrive. Her phone rang again. The call was from an area code she didn’t recognize, which always set her on edge.
“Hanna Marin?” blared a voice once Hanna said a tentative hello. “My name is Felicia Silver. I’m the executive producer of Burn It Down. It’s the true story about your terrible ordeal with Alison DiLaurentis.”
Hanna suppressed a groan. That sounded like another Pretty Little Killer, the made-for-TV movie that documented Hanna and the others’ first struggle with Ali. God, that movie was awful. Every part of it: the sets, the script, the frumpy girl who had been cast as Hanna. For a while, it had been on every week. Hanna used to have to endure kids quoting scenes in the locker room and at lunch. Did the world really need another movie about her life?
“I know what you’re thinking—that made-for-TV thing was crap.” Felicia chomped on gum as she talked. “But this one is going to be different. In theaters. With serious actors and a great script. And we’re filming right here in Rosewood, so we’re going to get the ambience just right.”