Spencer smiled. She loved correspondence from Princeton, especially since her future there had seemed so precarious last week—A had sent a letter saying that Spencer hadn’t been admitted after all, and Spencer had jumped through hoops trying to prove herself worthy until she realized the letter was a fake. She couldn’t wait until September, when she could start over somewhere fresh. Now that there was a new A, Rosewood felt more like a prison than ever.
Mrs. Hastings glanced at Spencer with curiosity, and Spencer flashed her phone screen. Mr. Pennythistle looked at it, too, and then took a sip of the coffee the waitress had just poured. “You’re going to really enjoy Princeton—you’ll make such great connections. Do you plan on joining an Eating Club?”
“Of course she does!” Melissa said matter-of-factly. “I bet you’ve already got your top three picked out, right, Spence? Let me guess. Cottage Club? Ivy? What else?”
Spencer fiddled with the wooden napkin ring next to her plate, not immediately answering. She’d heard of Eating Clubs, but hadn’t looked into them carefully—she’d been too busy studying vocabulary words, volunteering for a zillion community service activities, and chairing various school organizations just to get into Princeton. Maybe they were like the Rosewood Day Foodie Club, a group of kids who went out to fancy restaurants, had Top Chef viewing parties, and used the home ec ovens to cook boeuf bourguignon and coq au vin.
Wilden laced his fingers over his stomach. “Anyone care to enlighten me about what an Eating Club is?”
Melissa looked a little embarrassed for her boyfriend—preppy, Ivy-League Melissa and blue-collar Wilden came from very different worlds. “The Eating Clubs are like secret societies,” she explained in a slightly patronizing voice (which Spencer wouldn’t have stood for if she were Melissa’s boyfriend). “You have to compete to get in through this process called bicker. But once you’re in, it’s like instant popularity, instant friends, and tons of perks.”
“Sort of like a frat?” Darren asked.
“Oh, no.” Melissa looked appalled. “For one thing, Eating Clubs are coed. For another, they’re way classier than that.”
“You can go a long way if you’re part of an Eating Club,” Mr. Pennythistle interjected. “I had a friend who was in Cottage Club, and a Cottage Club alumni who worked in the senate snapped him up for a job, sight unseen.”
Melissa nodded excitedly. “The same thing happened to my friend Kerri Randolph. She belonged to Cap and Gown, and she got an internship with Diane von Furstenberg’s design team through an Eating Club connection.” She looked at Spencer. “You have to let them know you’re interested early, though. I knew people who started buttering up Eating Clubs when they were sophomores in high school.”
“Oh.” Spencer suddenly felt nervous. Maybe it was a huge gaffe that she hadn’t gotten on the Eating Club bandwagon earlier. What if every early admission student had already brown-nosed their way into the Eating Club of their choice, and, like in an elaborate game of musical chairs, she would be left without a seat when the music stopped? She was supposed to feel grateful that she was going to Princeton, period, but that wasn’t how she functioned. She couldn’t just be a regular old student there. She had to be the best.
“An Eating Club would be stupid not to invite me,” she said, pushing a lock of long blond hair over her shoulder.
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Hastings patted Spencer’s arm. Mr. Pennythistle gave an “Mm-hmm” of support.
When Spencer sat back again, a high-pitched, keening giggle echoed off the walls. She tensed and looked around, the hair on her arms standing on end. “Did you guys hear that?”
Wilden paused from his coffee and peered about the room. Mr. Pennythistle’s brow furrowed, then he tutted. “Bad windows. It’s just a draft.”
Then everyone went back to eating like nothing was amiss. But Spencer knew that noise wasn’t from a draft. It was the same laugh she’d been hearing for months. It was A.
3
THE BOY WHO GOT AWAY
Hanna Marin and her stepsister, Kate Randall, sat at a long table in the central corridor of the King James Mall. They tossed huge, irresistible, we’re-cute-and-we-know-it smiles at all the passersby.
“Are you registered to vote?” Hanna asked a middle-aged woman toting a bag from the artisanal cheese shop Quel Fromage!
“Want to come to Tom Marin’s town hall meeting Tuesday night?” Kate handed a flyer to a guy wearing a Banana Republic name tag.
“Vote for Tom Marin in the next election!” Hanna bellowed at a bunch of fashionable grandmothers checking out the Tiffany window display.
There was a lull in the crowd, and Kate turned to Hanna. “You should have been a cheerleader.”
“Nah, cheerleading isn’t my style,” Hanna said breezily.