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“Spencer doesn’t watch American Idol,” Mrs. Hastings volunteered. “She’s too busy with all her activities and studies.”
“She got a 2350 on her PSATs this year,” Mr. Hastings added proudly.
“I think that Fantasia girl is going to win,” Melissa said. Everyone stopped and looked at her. “On American Idol,” Melissa qualified.
Jordana frowned. “That was practically the first season.” She turned back to Spencer and pursed her glossy red lips. “So. Miss Finalist. We want to emphasize how fantastic and smart and wonderful you are, but we want to keep it fun, too. You were nominated for an economics essay—which is business stuff, right? I was thinking the shoot could be a spoof on The Apprentice. The photo could scream, Spencer Hastings, You’re Hired! You’ll be in a sleek black suit, sitting behind a big desk, telling a man he’s fired. Or hired. Or that you want him to make you a martini. I don’t care.”
Spencer blinked. Jordana spoke very fast and gesticulated wildly with her hands.
“The desk in my study might work,” Mr. Hastings offered. “It’s down the hall.”
Jordana looked at Matthew. “Wanna go check it out?” Matthew nodded.
“And I have a black suit she could borrow,” Melissa piped up.
Jordana pulled her BlackBerry off her hip-holster and started feverishly typing on the keypad. “That won’t be necessary,” she murmured. “We’ve got it covered.”
Spencer took a seat on the striped chaise in the living room. Her mother plopped onto the piano bench. Melissa joined them, perching near the antique harp. “This is so exciting,” Mrs. Hastings cooed, leaning over to push some hair out of Spencer’s eyes.
Spencer had to admit, she loved when people fawned over her. It was such a rare occurrence. “I wonder what she’s going to ask me,” she mused.
“Oh, probably about your interests, your education,” Mrs. Hastings singsonged. “Be sure to tell her about those educational camps I sent you to. And remember how I started teaching you French when you were eight? You were able to go straight to French II in sixth grade because of that.”
Spencer giggled into her hand. “There are going to be other stories in Saturday’s edition of the Sentinel, Mom. Not just mine.”
“Maybe she’ll ask you about your essay,” Melissa said flatly.
Spencer looked up sharply. Melissa was calmly flipping through a Town & Country, her expression giving nothing away. Would Jordana ask about the essay?
Bridget waltzed back in with a rolling rack of garment bags. “Start unzipping these and see if there’s anything you like,” she instructed. “I just have to run out to the car and get the bag of shoes and accessories.” She wrinkled her nose. “An assistant would be great right now.”
Spencer ran her hands along the vinyl bags. There had to be at least twenty-five. “All these are just for my little photo shoot?”
“Didn’t Jordana tell you?” Bridget widened her gray eyes. “The managing editor loved this story, especially since you’re local. We’re putting you on the front page!”
“Of the Style section?” Melissa seemed incredulous.
“No, of the whole paper!” Bridget cried.
“Oh my God, Spencer!” Mrs. Hastings took Spencer’s hand.
“That’s right!” Bridget beamed. “Get used to this. And if you win, you’ll be on one wild ride. I styled 2001’s winner for Newsweek. Her schedule was crazy.”
Bridget strode back toward the front door, her jasmine perfume punctuating the air. Spencer tried to breathe yoga fire breaths. She unzipped the first garment bag, running her hands over a dark wool blazer. She checked the tag. Calvin Klein. The next one was Armani.
Her mother and Melissa joined her in unzipping. They were quiet for a few seconds, until Melissa said, “Spence, there’s something taped on this bag.”
Spencer looked over. A folded piece of lined paper was affixed to a navy garment bag with duct tape. On the front of the note was a single, handwritten initial: S.
Spencer’s legs stiffened. She pulled the note off slowly, angling her body so that Melissa and her mother couldn’t see it, and then opened it up.
“What is it?” Melissa moved away from the rack.
“J-just directions for the stylist.” Her words came out garbled and thick.
Mrs. Hastings continued to calmly unzip the garment bags, but Melissa held Spencer’s gaze for a beat longer. When Melissa finally looked away, Spencer slowly unfolded the note again.
Dear Ms. Finalist, How’d you like it if I told your secret RIGHT NOW? I can, you know. And if you don’t watch it, maybe I will.
—A
15
NEVER, EVER TRUST SOMETHING AS OBSOLETE AS A FAX MACHINE
Wednesday afternoon at lunch, Hanna sat at a teak farmhouse table that overlooked the Rosewood Day practice fields and the duck pond. Mount Kale rose up in the distance. It was a perfect afternoon. Tiffany-blue sky, no humidity, the smell of leaves and clean air all around them. The ideal setting for Hanna’s perfect birthday present to Mona—now all Mona had to do was show up. Hanna hadn’t been able to get a word in while they were fitted for their champagne-colored Zac Posen court dresses at Saks yesterday—not with Naomi and Riley around. She’d tried to call Mona to talk to her about it last night, too, but Mona had said she was in the middle of studying for a big German test. If she failed, the Sweet Seventeen was off.
But whatever. Mona was due any minute, and they’d make up for all the private Hanna-Mona time they’d missed. And yesterday’s note from A about Mona not being trustworthy? Such a bluff. Mona might still be a little pissed about the Frenniversary misunderstanding, but there was no way she’d bail on their friendship. Anyway, Hanna’s birthday surprise would make everything all better. So Mona had better speed it up before she missed the whole thing.
