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Unfortunately, they were stuck with Amelia today—Mr. Pennythistle had been very specific about not letting Amelia go off by herself—and Spencer couldn’t very well suggest Chelsea in front of her. Amelia looked miserable to be here—and particularly dowdy today. While Spencer had chosen a chic outfit of black denim jeggings, a Juicy faux-fur jacket, and Pour la Victoire spike-heel booties, and Zach wore a fitted John Varvatos hooded anorak, dark-wash jeans, and black Converse, Amelia looked like a combination of a fifth grader and a prudish middle-aged woman off to church. She wore a crisp white blouse, a plaid skirt that fell past her knees, black wooly tights, and—ugh—Mary Janes. Just being around her brought down Spencer’s style quotient.
“We should go to Barneys,” Spencer suggested. “Amelia needs a makeover.”
Amelia made a face. “Ex-cuse me?”
“Oh my God.” Zach’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“I don’t need a makeover.” Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. “I like my clothes!”
“I’m sorry, but your clothes are awful,” Spencer said.
Amelia’s eyes zeroed in on Spencer’s sky-high heels. “Who made you an expert?”
“Christian Louboutin,” Spencer said with authority.
“Spencer’s right.” Zach moved out of the way of a blond Swedish couple pulling two Vuitton bags toward the elevator bank. “You look like you’re ready to go to the convent.”
“Two to one, you’re outnumbered.” Spencer grabbed Amelia’s hand. “You need a new everything, and Fifth Avenue is just around the corner. Come on.”
She dragged Amelia down the escalators. Zach caught Spencer’s eye and smiled.
On the street, cabs zoomed and honked. A man noisily pushed a hot dog cart. The Time Warner towers soared overhead, silver and sleek. Spencer adored New York, even though her last visit had been disastrous. She’d met with her surrogate birth mother, who drained her college account, much to A’s delight.
As they walked down Fifty-eighth Street, a poster in a travel agent’s window caught her eye. Come to Jamaica and feel all right!
The blood drained from her head. There, in poster-sized photographs, was The Cliffs: the pool with the pineapple decal on the bottom. The purplish cliffs and turquoise sea. The roof deck and restaurant where they’d met Tabitha. The crow’s nest and the long, empty expanse of beach. If Spencer squinted, she could almost make out where they’d stood after everything happened . . .
“Spencer? Is everything okay?”
Zach and Amelia stared at her from a few paces away. Busy pedestrians wove around them with annoyance. Spencer looked at the poster again. A’s notes shot through her head like a bullet train. Someone knew. Someone had seen them. Someone might tell.
“Spence?”
The strong scent of burnt soft pretzel from a cart wafted into Spencer’s nose. Straightening up, she turned away from the travel agent’s window. “I’m fine,” she murmured softly, pulling her coat around her and rushing toward them.
If only she could believe that.
Barneys pulsed with rich women comparing leather gloves, girls spritzing Chanel No. 5 on their wrists, and hot men ogling the Kiehl’s skin cream display. “This place is divine,” Spencer said as she stepped through the revolving doors, inhaling the heady scent of luxury.
“It’s just a store,” Amelia said grumpily.
They had to practically drag Amelia up to the Co-op on 8, which brimmed with thousands of wardrobe options. Amelia looked at everything with distaste. “You’re trying things on,” Spencer urged. She held up a Diane von Furstenberg dress. “The wrap dress is a style essential,” she said in her best personal-shopper voice. “Especially because you’re straight up and down. It’ll give you a semblance of a waist.”
Amelia scowled. “I don’t want a waist!”
“I guess you never want to have sex, either,” Spencer said breezily.
Zach giggled and helped her pull several more dresses off the rack. Amelia eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you helping with this? I thought you hated shopping.”
Spencer almost opened her mouth to protest—what g*y guy hated shopping?—but she refrained. Zach shrugged and bumped Spencer with his hip. “What else am I going to do?”
After choosing several pairs of jeans, various skirts and blouses, and a whole array of dresses, Spencer and Zach led Amelia to the dressing area and shoved her into one of the tiny rooms. “You’re going to be transformed,” Spencer told her. “I promise.”
Amelia groaned, but locked the door behind her. Spencer and Zach sat on the little couch next to the three-way mirror like anxious parents. The door slowly creaked open, and Amelia stepped out wearing a pair of Rag & Bone skinny jeans, a VPL flutter-sleeve top, and a pair of sleek brown booties with two-inch heels. There was a frightened look on her face, and she took mincing steps in the tottering heels toward the mirror.
“Amelia,” Zach gasped.
Spencer leapt to her feet. “You look incredible!”
Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it again when she saw her reflection. There was no way she couldn’t say she looked good: Her legs were long and thin, her butt—who knew she even had one?—was round and perky, and the blouse elegantly complemented her skin. “This outfit is . . . nice,” she deemed primly.
“It’s more than nice!” Zach said.
Amelia gazed at the price tag on the jeans. “It’s really expensive.”
