“Jerry’s my guru,” Reefer said. Then he pointed to a bunch of digits below the quote. “Call anytime—day or night. I’m always up.”
“Uh, thanks.” Spencer slipped the paper into her bag. She noticed Harper watching her from across the room, met her eyes, and gave her an Oh-my-God-I-think-he’s-gross eye roll.
Thankfully, Steven, the other ambassador, started speaking, and his long, ego-stroking speech about how everyone in the room was wonderful and amazing and would surely change the world someday because they went to Princeton took up the rest of the hour. As soon as the waiters cleared the desserts, Spencer shot out of her seat as fast as her toned-from-field-hockey legs could carry her. She found Harper by the coffee urn and gave her a huge smile.
“I see you met Reefer.” Harper winked.
Spencer scrunched up her face. “Yeah, lucky me.”
Harper gave Spencer an inscrutable look, then moved in closer. “Listen, I know this is last minute, but do you have plans for this weekend?”
“I don’t think so.” Aside from helping her mom taste-test yet more confections for the wedding. Did a second wedding really need a cake and a cupcake tower?
Harper’s eyes glittered. “Great. Because there’s a party I’d love to bring you to. I think you’d really get along with my friends. You could stay with me in this big house I live in on campus. Get a sense of things.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Spencer said quickly, as though if she paused even a millisecond, Harper would rescind her offer. The big house on campus was the Ivy House—as Bicker Chair, Harper got to live there.
“Awesome.” Harper tapped something on her phone. “Give me your e-mail. I’ll send you my number and directions of where to find me. Be there by six.”
Spencer gave Harper her e-mail address and phone number, and soon enough, Harper’s e-mail appeared in her inbox. When she read it, she almost whooped aloud. Sure enough, Harper had given her directions to the Ivy House on Prospect Avenue.
She filed out of the room, walking on air. As she pushed through the revolving door to the street, her cell phone, which was tucked in her purse, let out a muffled chime. When she pulled it out and saw the screen, her heart plummeted like a stone. New text message from Anonymous.
Hi Spence! Think your college friends would let you into their Eating Club if they knew about your appetite for murder? Kisses! —A
7
HANNA GETS STEAMED
The following night, Hanna stood outside the boys’ locker room, tugging down the curve-hugging dress she’d changed into after the final bell. All around her, students bustled to catch their after-school buses, rushed to activities, or climbed in their cars to head to the King James Mall.
Hanna’s cell phone beeped, and she quickly turned down the volume. It was yet another message from Isabel, reminding Hanna to be at her father’s town hall meeting that night a little early to meet and greet some of the donors. Duh—as if she didn’t already know that. She’d helped organize the whole thing. And she’d get there when she got there. The task at hand was the only thing on her mind right now.
The aromas of dirty socks and Axe body spray wafted into the hall. Muffled voices and hissing shower sounds echoed. It just so happened that the boys’ indoor track team had come in from a grueling workout of wind sprints around the iced-over parking lot. It also just so happened that Mike was on the indoor track team to keep in shape for lacrosse. Operation Get Mike Back was about to begin.
The blue door swished open, and two sophomores in track jackets emerged, giving Hanna strange looks as they passed. She glared at them in return, then edged toward the door again.
“It was genius of the gym to introduce a pole-dancing class,” Mason Byers’s telltale gravelly baritone rang out. “Have you seen the girls that take it?”
“Dude, don’t even get me started,” James Freed answered. “I didn’t even work out the last time I was there—I just watched them the whole time.”
“That girl Mike’s dating takes it,” Mason said.
Hanna frowned. Colleen was pole dancing now? For an eighth grade talent show, Colleen had dressed in a Latvian costume and danced her ancestors’ native steps. Hanna and Mona had made fun of her for months afterward.
“I know.” James made a weird boy grunt. “No wonder he’s doing her.” He snickered. “Did you know Bebris means beaver in Latvian?”
Wait. The guys didn’t just say Mike was doing her, did they? Hanna felt a hurt twinge. She and Mike hadn’t done it, and they’d dated for over a year.
Two more guys emerged from the locker room, and Hanna peeked inside. James and Mason were nowhere to be seen, but Mike was at his locker. He was standing in his boxers, his black hair wet and matted against his head, little water droplets on his broad shoulders. Had he always been that muscled?
Hanna rolled back her shoulders. Go time. She sauntered into the steamy room. She’d never been inside the boys’ locker room before and was disappointed to find that it didn’t look all that different from the girls’, aside from the jockstrap lying on the floor in one of the aisles. The room smelled like talc and sweaty socks, and the trash can was overflowing with empty Gatorade bottles.
She tiptoed across the gray tiled floor until she was only a few feet away from Mike. On his back was the crescent moon–shaped scar he’d gotten from falling off his bike when he was little. They’d shown each other all their scars one afternoon at Hanna’s house, stripping down to their underwear but not going any further. In some ways, Hanna had been too afraid to have sex with Mike—she’d never slept with anyone before, and it seemed like such a big deal with him. And despite how Mike was always talking about how sex-crazed he was, Hanna had wondered if he had been a little afraid, too.