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“Spencer!” Chase called. “What are you doing?”
He tried to scramble out of the car, too. Spencer yelped and kicked the door with her heel, slamming it in his face. The light turned green. Cars behind the limo honked.
“Go!” Spencer screamed at the driver, who looked freaked out. Amazingly, the limo did go. Spencer turned and ran.
She zigzagged past a couple walking hand in hand and into an alleyway. This was in a part of the city she didn’t know well at all. No cabs passed. People sat on their stoops, glaring. Kids disappeared around a corner, their charged laughter spiraling through the alleyway.
She grabbed for the burner phone, the only one she’d brought tonight. Maybe she could call a cab. The screen was already blinking. When she saw the jumbled letters and numbers in the sender line, her heart dropped to her feet.
You can run, but you can’t hide, Spence! Kisses, A
Her phone beeped again. It was the same text. And then the same text again, and then again, jamming her phone until an alert warned that her phone had run out of memory. Spencer switched to the call function, but a new message appeared: OUT OF BATTERY. POWERING OFF.
The screen went dark. The sky seemed to darken around her, too, the shadows deepening. Spencer was cut off. A had won again.
25
Wake-Up Call
Hanna sat at the front window of her father’s house, trying not to seem too eager and pathetic as she glanced at her phone one more time. Then she dropped it back into her little jeweled bag, crossed her ankles, and admired her brand-new Dior heels. They were five inches high; she’d had to practice walking in them all week. She’d also had to practice walking in her floor-length Marchesa gown so that she didn’t trip over the hem. She’d fixed her prom crown so that the sides didn’t pinch her head, and the scepter leaned against the couch, its faux jewels sparkling. Everything looked perfect. She was, literally, all dressed up with no place to go.
“Still nothing from Mike?” her father asked.
Hanna shook her head. Mike hadn’t called her all day. They hadn’t spoken since the weird pseudo-makeup I-don’t-really-feel-better-about-anything conversation while she was at the burn clinic, right before Hanna saw Noel. He hadn’t written to say he’d picked up a tux. He hadn’t texted to mention if he was bringing a limo. For all she knew, he wasn’t going to show at all.
Her father turned a page of the National Geographic he was pretending to read. There was a clang in the kitchen; surely the pot roast Isabel had made for dinner was getting cold. They’d already seen Kate off with Sean, taking a zillion pictures. If that didn’t prove to Mike that Hanna wasn’t into Sean, what would? Why didn’t he just believe her?
And what was with Noel telling on Hanna? That seemed like an A thing to do. . . .
Her old phone beeped, and she pounced on it. It was an e-mail from Agent Jasmine Fuji. Can I stop by tonight?
Hanna paled. The woman was relentless. Sorry, it’s prom night! she replied, glad to have a legitimate excuse.
“Honey, are you okay?” Mr. Marin asked, noticing Hanna’s stricken expression.
Hanna quickly exited the e-mail program. She tried to nod, but she felt tears filling her eyes. “Not really.”
Mr. Marin walked over to her. “You know, I bet a lot of beautiful prom queens went stag. Think of all the starlets who go alone to the Oscars—it’s really no different. It’s alluring, actually. It means you can stand on your own.” He picked up the cordless phone from the coffee table. “We’ll call my driver. I’ll have him stop at the florist’s on the way there and order you the biggest corsage money can buy.”
That just made Hanna cry harder. “Thank you.” She snuggled into his large, solid body, inhaling the smell of his spicy deodorant and piney cologne. All of a sudden, it felt like the old Hanna and Dad, the relationship in which she could tell him anything. Before Isabel. Before Kate. Before A.
She took a deep breath and pulled away. “It’s not really about prom, though. It’s about . . . other stuff.” She shut her eyes. “Things are kind of . . . a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
Hanna licked her lips. If only she could tell him. If only he would accept everything she said as horrible mistakes that she totally regretted and that she’d never make again. If only he could track down A and just make this all stop.
But she couldn’t say anything. If she told him anything, not only would his political career be ruined . . . his next job would be bending metal in a prison yard.
“Is this about prom queen?” Mr. Marin asked gently.
Hanna cocked her head. “Why would you ask that?”
Mr. Marin shifted his weight, looking guilty. “Don’t be mad. But I heard you talking to Mike the other day about how you’d rather die than campaign against Chassey Bledsoe.” His brow furrowed. “That’s not really a nice thing to say, Hanna. Every rival is worthy of a good campaign.”
Hanna’s mouth fell open. A mix of emotions surged through her—betrayal, guilt, regret, embarrassment, frustration at A.
“It’s not what you think,” she admitted. “I didn’t really mean it.” But was that true, either? Part of her had laughed at Chassey as a competitor. Suddenly, Chassey’s teary-eyed face when she’d lost flashed in her mind.
Mr. Marin put his hand over hers. “You know what I do think? That you’re a good person. That you do the right thing—when you win and lose.”
Then his gaze lighted on something out the window. Mike’s car had pulled up to the curb. He stepped out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a tux. He held a huge bouquet of roses in his hand.
