Spencer placed her hands on her hips. “I’m serious. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Phineas looked at the other girl. “I’m serious, too,” she said after a pause.
“Well, then, come on.”
Phineas took Spencer and the second girl’s arm and led them toward the back of the bar. As they walked, the girl turned to Spencer. “Do I know you? You look really familiar.”
Spencer gritted her teeth. That was probably because she’d been all over the news and People magazine as one of the girls who’d been tormented by their old, presumably dead best friend. “Spencer Hastings,” she said in a clipped voice.
The girl paused, then gave a quick nod. “I’m Kelsey. By the way, I love your shoes. Are you on the Saks Secret Shopper list, too?”
“Of course,” Spencer said.
Kelsey bumped Spencer’s hip. And that was all she said about that. Spencer wanted to kiss her for not bringing up Alison DiLaurentis, twin-switching, or a certain text-messager named A.
“Lady M?” a sharp voice called. Pierre looked like his head was about to explode.
“Uh . . .” Spencer glanced around. Mike and Colleen had left the stage. Had the scene ended?
Pierre shooed Spencer toward the seats. “Witches? You’re up next!”
The witches, who were played by Hanna’s stepsister, Kate Randall, Naomi Zeigler, and Riley Wolfe, jumped up from an impromptu manicure session at the back of the auditorium.
“Hey, Beau,” Riley said as they climbed on the stage, batting her pale, stubby eyelashes at him.
“Hey,” Beau said, shooting each of the girls a winning grin. “Ready to cackle and cast magic spells, witches?”
“Of course,” Naomi giggled, tucking a piece of blond hair behind her ear.
“I wish I could really cast a magic spell,” Riley said. “I’d have Pierre put me in the role of your wife and kick Spencer to the curb.”
All three of them shot Spencer daggers. Spencer didn’t interact with Naomi or Riley very often, but she always felt wary of them. Once upon a time, they’d been Real Ali’s BFFs. Then, when the switch happened, Their Ali—Courtney—dumped them abruptly, and they were no longer popular. They’d had it in for Spencer and her old friends ever since.
Spencer turned back to Pierre, who was assiduously making marks in his script, probably about how poor her performance had been.
“I’m really sorry about my scene,” she said. “I was distracted. I’ll get it together tomorrow.”
Pierre pursed his thin lips. “I expect my actresses to give one hundred and ten percent every day. Was that your one hundred and ten percent?”
“Of course not,” Spencer squeaked. “But I’ll be better! I promise!”
Pierre didn’t look convinced. “If you don’t start taking this part more seriously, I’ll have to give the part of Lady M to Phi instead.”
He gestured to Spencer’s understudy, Phi Templeton, who was sitting in the middle of the aisle, her nose buried in the Macbeth text. Her legs, which were clad in black-and-white striped stockings, extended into the aisle like those of the house-flattened Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. A piece of toilet paper was stuck to her Doc Marten shoe.
“Please don’t do that!” Spencer cried. “I need a good grade in this class.”
“Then get your head into this play and focus.” Pierre slapped his script shut. A red velvet bookmark covered with kissing lips floated out, but he made no motion to grab for it. “If you nail this role, I’ll give you an A for the year. But if you don’t . . .” He trailed off and raised his eyebrows ominously.
A cough sounded from the left. Naomi, Riley, and Kate snickered from the witches’ cauldron. Everyone stared at her from the audience, too.
“I’ve got it under control,” Spencer said, marching off the stage and up the aisle as confidently as she could, pointedly stepping on the strap of Phi’s backpack.
Pushing open the auditorium’s double doors, she emerged into the windowed lobby, which was filled with Macbeth posters and smelled like spearmint gum. Suddenly, a faint whisper swirled in her ear.
Murderer.
Spencer shot up and looked around. The lobby was empty. She walked quickly to the stairwell, but there was no one there, either.
A creak sounded, and Spencer jumped again. When she turned, Beau was standing behind her.
“I can help you practice, if you want,” he said.
Spencer stiffened. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”
Beau pushed back a lock of silky brown hair that hung in his face. “Actually, I think you do. If you look bad, I look bad, and Yale wants all my performance tapes. It will impact what classes I’ll get into in the fall.”
Spencer let out an indignant squeak. She was about to turn away, but the letter from Princeton whooshed back to her. Beau had gotten into Yale Drama. Pompous ass or not, he probably knew a thing or two about acting. She needed all the help she could get.
“Okay,” she said frostily. “If you really want, we can rehearse together.”