She could just see it: Everyone would find out, and she’d be instantaneously friendless and boyfriendless. From there, she’d recede back to dorky, seventh-grade Hanna in reverse evolution. She’d wake up and her hair would be a yucky, washed-out brown again. Then her teeth would go crooked and she’d get her braces back on. She wouldn’t be able to fit into any of her jeans. The rest would happen spontaneously. She’d spend her life chubby, ugly, miserable, and overlooked, just the way she used to be.
“I have some lotion if those are chafing your wrists,” Ms. Marin said, gesturing to the cuffs and rooting around in her purse.
“I’m okay,” Hanna replied, brought back to the present.
Sighing, she pulled out her BlackBerry. It was tough because her hands were cuffed, but she wanted to convince Sean that he had to come over to her house this Saturday. She suddenly really wanted to know he would. As she stared blankly at the screen, an e-mail popped up in her inbox. She opened it.
Hey Hanna,
Since prison food makes you fat, you know what Sean’s gonna say? Not it! —A
She was so startled that she stood up, thinking someone might be across the room, watching her. But there was no one. She closed her eyes, trying to think who might have seen the police car at her house.
Wilden looked up from his writing. “You all right?”
“Um,” Hanna said. “Yeah.” She slowly sat back down. Not it? What the hell? She checked the note’s return address again, but it was just a mess of letters and numbers.
“Hanna,” Ms. Marin murmured after a few moments. “No one needs to know about this.”
Hanna blinked. “Oh. Yeah. I agree.”
“Good.”
Hanna swallowed hard. Except…someone did know.
9
NOT YOUR TYPICAL STUDENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE
Wednesday morning, Aria’s father, Byron, rubbed his bushy black hair and hand-signaled out the Subaru window that he was making a left-hand turn. The turn signals had stopped working last night, so he was driving Aria and Mike to their second day of school and taking the car to the shop.
“You guys happy to be back in America?” Byron asked.
Mike, who sat next to Aria in the backseat, grinned. “America rocks.” He went back to maniacally punching the tiny buttons of his PSP. It made a farting noise and Mike pumped one fist in the air.
Aria’s father smiled and navigated across the single-lane stone bridge, waving to a neighbor as he passed. “Well, good. Now, why does it rock?”
“America rocks because it has lacrosse,” Mike said, not taking his eyes off his PSP. “And hotter chicks. And a Hooters in King of Prussia.”
Aria laughed. Like Mike had been inside Hooters. Unless…Oh God, had he?
She shivered in her kelly green alpaca shrug and stared out the window at the thick fog. A woman wearing a long, red hooded stadium jacket that said, UPPER MAIN LINE SOCCER MOM, tried to stop her German shepherd from chasing a squirrel across the street. At the corner, two blondes with high-tech baby carriages stood together gossiping.
There was one word to describe yesterday’s English class: brutal. After Ezra blurted out, “Holy shit,” the whole class turned and stared at her. Hanna Marin, who sat in front of her, whispered in a not-so-quiet voice, “Did you sleep with the teacher?” Aria considered, for a half second, that maybe Hanna had written her the text message about Ezra—Hanna was one of the few people who knew about Pigtunia. But why would Hanna care?
Ezra—er, Mr. Fitz—had dispelled the laughing quickly, and come up with the lamest excuse for swearing in class. He said, and Aria quoted in her head, “I was afraid that a bee had flown into my pants, and I thought the bee was going to sting me, and so I yelled out in terror.”
As Ezra then started talking about five-paragraph themes and the class’s syllabus, Aria couldn’t concentrate. She was the bee that had flown into his pants. She couldn’t stop looking at his wolfish eyes and his sumptuous pink mouth. When he peeked in her direction out of the corner of his eye, her heart did two and a half somersaults off the high dive and landed in her stomach.
Ezra was the guy for her, and she was the girl for him—she just knew it. So what if he was her teacher? There had to be a way to make it work.
Her father pulled up to Rosewood’s stone-gated entrance. In the distance, Aria noticed a vintage powder-blue Volkswagen beetle parked in the teacher’s lot. She knew that car from Snooker’s—it was Ezra’s. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes until homeroom.
Mike shot out of the car. Aria opened her door as well, but her father touched her forearm. “Hang on a sec,” he said.
“But I have to…” She glanced longingly at Ezra’s bug.
“Just for a minute.” Her father turned down the radio volume. Aria slumped back in her seat. “You’ve seemed a little…” He flicked his wrist back and forth uncertainly. “You okay?”
Aria shrugged. “About what?”
Her father sighed. “Well…I don’t know. Being back. And we haven’t talked about…you know…in a while.”
Aria fidgeted with her jacket’s zipper. “What’s there to talk about?”
Byron stuck a cigarette he’d rolled before they left into his mouth. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s been. Keeping quiet. But I love you. You know that, right?”
Aria looked out at the parking lot again. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I have to go. I’ll see you at three.”
Before he could answer, Aria shot out of the car, blood rushing in her ears. How was she supposed to be Icelandic Aria, who left her past behind, if one of her worst memories of Rosewood kept bubbling to the surface?