“So? You drove all the time in Reykjavík. The lacrosse field’s only a couple of miles away, isn’t it? Worst thing, you’ll hit a cow. Just wait for him until he’s done.”
Aria paused. Her mother already sounded frazzled. She heard her dad in the kitchen opening and closing cabinets and muttering under his breath. Would her parents love each other here like they had in Iceland? Or would things go back to the way they used to be?
“All right,” she mumbled. She plopped her bags on the landing, grabbed the car keys, and slid into the wagon’s front seat.
Her brother climbed in next to her, amazingly already dressed in his gear. He punched the netting on his stick enthusiastically and gave her an evil, knowing smile. “Happy to be back?”
Aria only sighed in response. The entire drive, Mike had his hands pressed up against the car’s window, shouting things like, “There’s Caleb’s house! They tore down the skate ramp!” and “Cow poop still smells the same!” At the vast, well-mown practice field, she’d barely stopped the car when Mike opened the door and immediately bolted.
She slid back into the seat, stared up through the sunroof, and sighed. “Thrilled to be back,” she murmured. A hot air balloon floated serenely through the clouds. It used to be such a delight to see them, but today she focused in on it, closed one eye, and pretended to crush the balloon between her thumb and pointer finger.
A bunch of boys in white Nike T-shirts, baggy shorts, and backward white baseball caps walked slowly past her car toward the field house. See? Every Rosewood boy was a carbon copy. Aria blinked. One of them was even wearing the same Nike University of Pennsylvania T-shirt that Noel Kahn, the ice-cream sandwich boy she loved in eighth grade, used to wear. She squinted at the boy’s black wavy hair. Wait. Was that…him? Oh God. It was. Aria couldn’t believe he was wearing the same T-shirt he wore when he was thirteen. He probably did it for luck or some other queer jock superstition.
Noel looked quizzically at her, then walked toward her car and knocked on her window. She rolled it down.
“You’re that girl that went to the North Pole. Aria, right? You were Ali D’s friend?” Noel continued.
Aria’s stomach plummeted. “Um,” she said.
“No, dude.” James Freed, the second-hottest boy at Rosewood, came up behind Noel. “She didn’t go to the North Pole, she went to Finland. You know, like where that model Svetlana is from. The one who looks like Hanna?”
Aria scratched the back of her head. Hanna? As in, Hanna Marin?
A whistle blew, and Noel reached into the car to touch Aria’s arm. “You’re going to stay and watch practice, aren’t you, Finland?”
“Uh…ja,” Aria said.
“What’s that, a Finnish sex grunt?” James grinned.
Aria rolled her eyes. She was pretty sure ja was Finnish for yes, but of course these guys wouldn’t know that. “Have fun playing with your balls.” She smiled wearily.
The boys nudged each other, then ran off, flicking their lacrosse sticks to and fro even before they hit the field. Aria stared out the window. How ironic. This was the first time she’d ever been flirty with a boy in Rosewood—especially Noel—and she didn’t even care.
Through the trees, she could just make out the spire that belonged to the chapel at Hollis College, the small liberal arts school where her dad taught. On Hollis’s main street there was a bar, Snookers. She sat up straighter and checked her watch. Two-thirty. It might be open. She could go have a beer or two and find her own fun.
And hey, maybe beer goggles could make even Rosewood boys look good.
Where Reykjavík’s bars smelled like freshly brewed lager, old wood, and French cigarettes, Snookers smelled like a mixture of dead bodies, festering hot dogs, and sweat. And Snookers, like everything else in Rosewood, carried memories: One Friday night, Alison DiLaurentis had dared Aria to go into Snookers and order a screaming orgasm. Aria had waited in line behind a bunch of preppie college boys, and when the bouncer at the door wouldn’t let her in, she cried, “But my screaming orgasm is in there!” Then she realized what she’d said and fled back to her friends, who were crouching behind a car in the parking lot. They all laughed so hard they got the hiccups.
“Amstel,” she said to the bartender after crossing through the glass-paneled front doors—apparently there was no need for bouncers at two-thirty on a Saturday. The bartender looked at her questioningly but then set a pint in front of her and turned away. Aria took a big sip. It tasted bland and watery. She spit it back into the glass.
“You all right there?”
Aria turned. Three stools down was a guy with messy, blondish hair and ice-blue, Siberian husky eyes. He was nursing something in a little tumbler.
Aria frowned. “Yeah, I forgot how beer tastes here. I’ve been in Europe for two years. Beer’s better there.”
“Europe?” The guy smiled. He had a very cute smile. “Where?”