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Her gaze returned to the TV. Now the news showed a video of Jordan walking out of a courthouse in an orange jumpsuit. Next flashed a photo of Jordan in a tennis dress and shoes, a familiar silk headband in her hair. Another video appeared of Jordan in court. A lawyer whispered in her ear. There were shiny handcuffs on her wrists and shackles on her ankles.
It felt like the ceiling was crumbling in. Anger boiled inside of Emily, sudden and fierce. With shaking hands, she grabbed her phone and composed a text to Jordan. I know who you are, you liar, she wrote. I don’t want to ever see you again. Get out of my room now. As she hit SEND, she let out a sob.
“Emily?” Aria looked concerned. “What’s going on?”
“Do you know that girl?” Spencer asked, pointing at the TV.
Emily’s mouth felt like it was filled with peanut butter. “That’s my new … she’s … I know her.”
“Oh my God,” Aria whispered. “Is this girl the new friend you met? Is she on the boat?”
Emily nodded weakly, afraid to give away any more.
Beep.
Her eyes filling with tears, she looked down at her phone, bracing herself for what Jordan might say. But when she pulled up the screen, it said One new text message from Anonymous.
There was a hot flash through her chest. She looked around. The common room overflowed with kids—they were on the couches, sitting at the tables, playing pinball on the Simpsons-themed machine in the corner. She thought she saw a flash of blond hair disappear around the corner. Emily stood up halfway and peered into the hall, but the figure had vanished.
She looked down at the message.
Cute! Maybe you and Miss Preppy Thief can room together in jail!—A
17
FRIENDSHIP HAS ITS UPS AND DOWNS
“California Gurls, duh duh duh DUH duh duh!” Naomi and Hanna sang as they walked down the cobblestoned streets of Old San Juan later that night. They were on their way to a club Naomi had been invited to that afternoon and had decided to fit in a quick rehearsal for their talent show routine on the way. Passersby kept giving them strange looks.
“Hey, we should see if we can find blue and purple wigs,” Naomi suggested, sidestepping a sewer grate in her high heels. “Maybe there’s a costume store at the last stop. Or maybe we can borrow a wig from someone in Cirque du Soleil.” She snickered.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if we found a guy to play Snoop Dog?” Hanna suggested, thinking about the video.
“Oh my God, that would be classic,” Naomi squealed. Then she sighed. “Damn. The guy I was into would’ve made a perfect Snoop—he’s such a pothead. But now that he’s with Spencer, it’s like he wants nothing to do with me.”
“We’ll find someone else,” Hanna said quickly as they passed a closed-up boutique with bikini-clad mannequins in the window. She wasn’t about to mess with a Naomi-Spencer love triangle, especially if Naomi was A. Which was something she still wasn’t quite sure of.
Naomi breezily pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Or maybe I’ll find a way to get him back.”
Before Hanna could ask what that meant, they’d turned the corner and arrived at the club. Pounding bass and raucous laughter filled the air. A line of well-dressed people stood outside the unmarked double doors. When Hanna and Naomi waved their VIP invites, the bouncer lifted the velvet rope to let them in.
“Thanks!” Naomi trilled, as though she’d known the guy for years. Hanna trailed behind her, feeling the envious stares of everyone in the line. She glanced at her and Naomi’s reflections in the long bank of mirrors that lined the hallway. They’d planned their outfits together, both wearing jewel-toned dresses, high, strappy heels, and coordinated jewelry. They’d sat side-by-side to do their makeup, gossiping about people on the boat as they applied foundation and swept on mascara.
The tunnel opened into a large, square, dark room with a long, stainless-steel bar at one end and a bunch of banquettes at the back. A DJ spun records in the corner, and a huge dance floor took up the rest of the space. Bodies writhed on all sides of them, each guy more gorgeous than the last. The room smelled like booze, cigarettes, and the gardenia blooms that adorned every table. As the salsa beat rocked in Hanna’s ears, she unconsciously began to swing her hips.
Hanna touched Naomi’s shoulder. “This is great!” she yelled over the music.
“Right?” Naomi grinned, strutting up to the bar and batting her eyelashes at the bartender, who came over immediately.
Naomi ordered two neon-orange cocktails and handed one to Hanna. Hanna took a small sip—she didn’t want to drink too much and let down her guard. People were dancing in every nook and cranny, including on top of the banquettes. There was a photographer wandering the perimeter with a huge digital camera around his neck, occasionally stopping and taking a shot of the dancers. After a moment, he stopped in front of them. “Can I take your photo?” he asked.
“That depends.” Naomi placed her hands on her hips. “What’s it for?”
“The style section of the San Juan Hola.”
Hanna exchanged an excited look with Naomi—she’d always wanted to be in a Style section. She set her drink on a nearby table and wrapped her arm around Naomi’s shoulders. The photographer snapped and snapped. First Hanna gave him a sultry model gaze, then threw back her head. But she knew not to get too carried away—the experience with creepy Patrick was still fresh in her mind.
“Gorgeous,” the photographer said when he was through. Then he glanced at the crowd behind them. “I think you have some fans.”
