Hannah had searched for Ronni on social media. Not surprisingly, she hadn’t found her. If it were Hannah who had been driven to attempt suicide because of cyberbullying, Kim would have moved her into some Amish community with no technology. At the very least, Kim would have made sure she stayed off Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram. . . . Lisa would be just as vigilant with Ronni.
The Haight was full of colorful, intricate Victorian and Edwardian houses, but Kim’s building was squat, nondescript, constructed sometime in the eighties. Hannah let herself into the musty lobby and climbed the carpeted stairs, her mind still fixed on her former friend. If Hannah was in Ronni’s shoes, she’d change her name and live as an entirely new person. . . . Mia Harper from Seattle. Mia’s voice was raspy because she’d been a singer in a screamer band and she’d lost her eye when their tour bus crashed. Everyone would buy the story—why would they not?—and Ronni would be accepted, even admired at her new high school.
Of course, it was entirely possible that Lisa and Ronni had become millionaire recluses, hiding out in an isolated mansion, emerging only once a month to pick up supplies. Maybe they could be happy that way, the two of them against the world. Like that documentary she’d watched with her mom about that weird mother and daughter: Big and Little Edie. They were batshit crazy, but they were basically fine.
Hannah wanted Ronni to be okay, in fact, she needed her to be okay. Because she still cared about Ronni, still felt bad about what had happened to her at the party. . . . But it was more than that. If Ronni wasn’t okay, it meant Lauren Ross had won. It meant that Lauren had destroyed her best friend, had driven her to attempt suicide, had stolen her guy. . . . It meant Lauren was still on top, and the thought made Hannah’s chest fill with rage and loathing.
She reached door 202 and let herself into the quiet apartment. Aidan wasn’t home yet—he remained devoted to his soccer career despite the disruption to his domestic life—and her mom was still at work. It was sort of ironic how her mom had resented her dad’s long hours at the office, and now Kim worked just as hard. Her mom’s new job title was user-experience architect. When Aidan heard it, he’d remarked, “You haven’t worked in years. You can’t just start designing buildings.” Hannah had laughed at him (she didn’t know what a user-experience architect was, either, but she did know it had nothing to do with construction). Their mom had explained her responsibilities: writing and designing websites and applications with the end user in mind. Something like that anyway. It sounded super boring to Hannah, but her mom seemed to love it. Kim was tired (every time they sat down to watch TV or a movie, she promptly fell asleep), and she wasn’t quite as polished as she used to be (Hannah had seen her covering her gray roots with mascara on more than one occasion), but her mom seemed happy. She seemed fulfilled. It wasn’t fair. . . .
Hannah dropped her bag off in her room and walked through the cluttered living room to the kitchen. The furniture in the apartment was cobbled together: modern pieces from their old house mixed with thrift-shop finds. Somehow, it worked. It was eclectic. Kim still had a knack for decor. In contrast, her dad’s apartment was sparse, almost barren. He had lots of space and a great view of the Presidio, but the apartment lacked personality. Jeff compensated for this with a huge flat-screen TV and a great sound system. Both abodes were adequate and comfortable; her parents were trying . . . but they didn’t feel like home, not yet. Hannah was sure they never would.
Hannah looked in the fridge: packaged gyoza, packaged tortellini, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and a lemon. It was a far cry from the homemade, healthy snacks her mom used to prepare for her kids every day. Hannah grabbed the open box of taquitos from the freezer. Had her mom even read the ingredients? Calculated the nutritional content? The sodium level was off the charts! But Hannah put them on a pan and stuck them in the oven. Salt was pretty low on her list of things to worry about.
When her parents had announced their “separation,” Hannah had been angry. After all the shit she’d been through, she couldn’t believe her mom and dad were selling the house, splitting up, and making her and Aidan ferry between them like some misaddressed parcel. Hannah had blamed Ronni then. If not for her friend’s selfish act, Hannah would be living in her beautiful house, in her spacious room, with both her parents. But the Sanderses wanted to give Lisa her money, and selling the house was the only way. Hannah had hated them all then—Lisa and Ronni, Kim and Jeff. . . . But it was a waste of energy. Hannah needed to save all her hate for Lauren. And she needed to focus on rebuilding her life.
The plan had come to her almost a month ago but she was still gathering the courage to implement it. Hannah knew it was wrong—she still had a conscience, still had a moral compass—but her parents had done the right thing and look what it had cost them? Fucking everything. If they’d been trying to teach her a lesson, it had worked: nice guys definitely finished last. And she had two whole years left at Hillcrest. She could wade through them in a state of fugue, wallowing in ennui and mediocrity. Or, she could try to salvage some of what she had had . . . what she had almost had. She took a fortifying breath, picked up her phone, and tapped the messenger icon. She typed:
Lauren was at Hillcrest again today
She hit send and waited. The tiny icon indicated that the message had been received and read, but there was no response. Hannah’s heart was pounding in her throat. This strategy could backfire, it could solidify her outsider status, turn her into an object of laughter and derision. But she couldn’t give up, not yet. Because as badly as things had turned out, Hannah couldn’t forget the feeling of being popular: the admiration, the respect, the sense of power. . . . It was so much better than being invisible. She sent another message.
I can’t believe she dares to show her face there after what she did
After a few seconds, it came. . . .
???
A feeling of relief flooded through Hannah. She had hooked her. Sarah Foster was dangling on her line, and she would not let the popular girl get away. Hannah knew exactly how to reel her in, because the two had much in common: they had both been in, they had both been out . . . and they both despised Lauren fucking Ross. Hannah tapped the tiny keyboard.
I haven’t told anyone this but . . .
At my party, Lauren pushed Ronni into that glass table
No one saw it but I did
Hannah waited until she knew that Sarah had read the messages and then she typed again. It was just one more line, four little words, but Hannah knew Sarah Foster would not be able to resist.
We could destroy her
Nothing. Maybe Sarah thought Hannah was lying. Maybe she thought it was just some desperate attempt to get back on the A-list. Maybe she considered Hannah grasping, needy, and pathetic. And then it came . . .
Wanna get a smoothie? Bruno’s in 20?
She had done it. Hannah had opened the door a crack and now she could slip inside. She would worm her way into Sarah Foster’s inner circle, become her second-in-command, the Ronni to her Lauren, and together, they would crush that bitch.