She threw back her duvet, slid on the blue-flowered, fur-lined clogs she’d bought in Amsterdam, and clomped down the spiral staircase to see who it was.
When she opened the door, she gasped. It was Alison. She was taller and her blond hair was cut in long shaggy layers. Her face looked more glamorous and angular than it had in seventh grade.
“Ta-daa!” Ali grinned and spread out her arms. “I’m back!”
“Holy…” Aria choked on her words, blinking furiously a couple of times. “Wh-where have you been?”
Ali rolled her eyes. “My stupid parents,” she said. “Remember my aunt Camille, the really cool one who was born in France and married my uncle Jeff when we were in seventh? I went to visit her in Miami that summer. Then, I liked it so much that I just stayed. I totally told my parents about all of it, but I guess they forgot to tell everyone else.”
Aria rubbed her eyes. “So, wait. You’ve been in…Miami? You’re okay?”
Ali twirled around a little. “I look more than okay, don’t I? Hey, did you like my texts?”
Aria’s smile faded. “Um…no, actually.”
Ali looked hurt. “Why not? That one about your mom was so funny.”
Aria stared at her.
“God, you’re sensitive.” Ali narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to blow me off again?”
“Wait, what?” Aria stammered.
Alison gave Aria a long look, and a black, gelatinous substance began dripping out her nostrils. “I told the others, you know. About your dad. I told them everything.”
“Your…nose…” Aria pointed. Suddenly it started seeping out of Ali’s eyeballs. Like she was crying oil. It was dripping from her fingernails, too.
“Oh, I’m just rotting.” Ali smiled.
Aria jerked up in bed. Sweat drenched the back of her neck. The sun streamed in through her window, and she heard “American Idiot” on her brother’s stereo next door. She checked her hands for black goo, but they were squeaky clean.
Whoa.
“Morning, honey.”
Aria staggered down her spiral staircase to see her father, dressed only in thin, tartan plaid boxer shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, reading the Philadelphia Inquirer. “Hey,” she murmured back.
Shuffling to the espresso machine, she stared for a long time at her father’s pale, randomly hairy shoulders. He jiggled his feet and made hmmm noises at the paper.
“Dad?” Her voice cracked slightly.
“Mmm?”
Aria leaned against the stone-topped island. “Can ghosts send text messages?”
Her father looked up, surprised and confused. “What’s a text message?”
She stuck her hand into an open box of Frosted Mini Wheats and pulled out a handful. “Never mind.”
“You sure?” Byron asked.
She chewed nervously. What did she want to ask? Is a ghost sending me texts? But c’mon, she knew better. Anyway, she didn’t know why Ali’s ghost would come back and do this to her. It was as if she wanted revenge, but was that possible?
Ali had been great the day they caught her dad in the car. Aria had fled around the corner and ran until she had to start walking. She kept walking all the way home, not sure what else to do with herself. Ali hugged her for a long time. “I won’t tell,” she whispered.
But the next day, the questions started. Do you know that girl? Is she a student? Is your dad going to tell your mom? Do you think he’s doing it with lots of students? Usually, Aria could take Ali’s inquisitiveness and even her teasing—she was okay with being the “weird kid” of the group. But this was different. This hurt.
So the last few days of school, before she disappeared, Aria avoided Alison. She didn’t send her “I’m bored” texts during health class or help her clean out her locker. And she certainly didn’t talk about what happened. She was mad that Ali was prying—as if it was some celebrity gossip in Star and not her life. She was mad that Ali knew. Period.
Now, three years later, Aria wondered who she’d really been mad at. It wasn’t really Ali. It was her dad.
“Really, never mind,” Aria answered her father, who’d been waiting patiently, sipping his coffee. “I’m just sleepy.”
“Okay,” Byron answered incredulously.
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t the Green Day song but their normal bong, bong chime. Her father looked up. “I wonder if that’s for Mike,” he said. “Did you know that some girl from the Quaker school came by here at eight-thirty, looking for him?”
“I’ll get it,” Aria said.
She tentatively pulled open the front door, but it was only Emily Fields on the other side, her reddish-blond hair messy and her eyes swollen.
“Hey,” Emily croaked.
“Hey,” Aria answered.
Emily puffed up her cheeks with air—her old nervous habit. She stood there for a moment. Then she said, “I should go.” She started to turn.
“Wait.” Aria caught her arm. “What? What’s going on?”
Emily paused. “Um. Okay. But…this is going to sound weird.”
“That’s okay.” Aria’s heart started to pound.