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“I’m being forced to get off the phone,” Hanna said into her BlackBerry, loud enough for Isabel to hear.
“It’s okay,” Lucas said. “I need to get moving. Photography club meets this morning.”
He made a kissing sound and hung up. Hanna wiggled her toes, all of her irritations and worries melting away. Lucas was a way better boyfriend than Sean Ackard, and he almost made up for the fact that Hanna was essentially girlfriendless. He understood how hard she was taking what Mona had done to her, and he always snickered at her evil Kate stories. Plus, with a new salon haircut and a Jack Spade messenger bag to replace his ratty JanSport backpack, Lucas wasn’t half as dorky as he’d been when they first became friends.
Once Hanna was certain Isabel had retreated down the hall to the bedroom she and Hanna’s father shared—double ughh—she crawled out of bed, haphazardly pulling up the covers so it looked like she’d made it. She then sat down at her makeup table and snapped on her LCD TV. The Action News Morning Report song blared out of the speakers. ROSEWOOD REACTS TO IAN THOMAS’S TEMPORARY RELEASE flashed in big black block letters at the bottom of the screen. Hanna paused. As much as she didn’t want to watch the report, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
A petite, redheaded news reporter was at the local SEPTA train station, canvassing commuters for their thoughts about the trial. “It’s despicable,” said a thin, stately older woman in a high-necked cashmere coat. “They shouldn’t let that boy out for even a minute after what he did to that poor girl.”
The camera moved to a dark-haired girl in her twenties. Her name, Alexandra Pratt, appeared below her face. Hanna recognized her. She’d once been Rosewood Day’s star field hockey player, but had graduated when Hanna was in sixth grade, a year ahead of Ian, Melissa Hastings, and Ali’s brother, Jason. “He’s definitely guilty,” Alexandra said, not bothering to take off her enormous Valentino sunglasses. “Alison occasionally played field hockey with a group of us on the weekends. Ian sometimes talked to Ali after the games. I never knew Ali that well, but I think he made her uncomfortable. I mean, she was so young.”
Hanna uncapped her Mederma scar cream. That wasn’t how she remembered it. Ali’s cheeks flushed and her eyes lit up any time Ian was around. At one of their sleepovers, when they were practicing kissing on the monkey pillow Ali had sewn in sixth-grade home ec, Spencer had made each of them confess which boy they wanted to kiss in real life. “Ian Thomas,” Ali had blurted out, and then quickly covered her mouth.
Ian’s senior picture was now on the screen, his smile so white, wide…and fake. Hanna looked away. Yesterday, after another awkward dinner with her new family, Hanna had dug out Officer Wilden’s business card from the bottom of her bag. She wanted to ask him how strict Ian’s house arrest was going to be. Would he be chained to his bed? Would he have on one of those ankle bracelet thingies that Martha Stewart had to wear? She wanted to believe Wilden was right about yesterday’s A note—that it was just a copycat—but every bit of reassurance would help. Plus, she thought Wilden might give her a little extra info. He’d always tried to be buddy-buddy with her back when he and her mom were dating.
Only useless Wilden had said, “Sorry, Hanna, but I’m really not allowed to discuss the case.” Then, as Hanna was about to hang up, Wilden had cleared his throat. “Look, I want him to fry as much as you do. Ian deserves to be locked up for a long, long time for what he did.”
Hanna clicked off the TV as the morning news moved on to a story about an E. coli scare in local grocery store lettuce. After a few more layers of Mederma, foundation, and powder, Hanna decided her scar was as hidden as it was going to get. She spritzed herself with Narciso Rodriguez perfume, straightened her uniform skirt, threw all her crap into her Fendi-logo tote, and walked downstairs.
Kate was already at the breakfast table. When she saw Hanna, her whole face broke into a dazzling smile. “Omigod, Hanna!” she cried. “Tom brought this amazing organic honeydew at Fresh Fields last night. You have to try it.”
Hanna hated how Kate called her father Tom, like he was their age. It wasn’t like Hanna called Isabel by her first name. Actually, she avoided calling Isabel anything at all. Hanna walked across the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I hate honeydew,” she said primly. “It tastes like sperm.”
“Hanna,” her father scolded. Hanna hadn’t noticed him by the kitchen island, finishing a slice of buttered toast. Isabel was next to him, still in those hideous puke-green scrubs, looking particularly faux-tan orange.
Mr. Marin approached the girls. He put one hand on Kate’s shoulder and one hand on Hanna’s. “I’m off. See you girls tonight.”
“Bye, Tom,” Kate said sweetly.
Her father left, and Isabel clomped back upstairs. Hanna stared at the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer her father had left on the table, but unfortunately, all the headlines were about Ian’s bail hearing. Kate kept eating her melon. Hanna wanted to just get up and leave, but why should she have to be the one to go? This was her house.
“Hanna,” Kate said in a small, sad voice. Hanna glanced up, giving Kate an arch look. “Hanna, I’m sorry,” Kate rushed on. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just…sit here and not talk. I know you’re mad about this fall—about what happened at Le Bec-Fin. I was such a mess back then. And I’m really sorry.”
