Sara Shepard - Pretty Little Liars

She didn’t know what to think about what happened at the party. It was all a blur. She wanted to believe that kissing Maya had been a mistake, and that she could explain everything to Ben and it would be okay. But Emily kept returning to how everything felt. It was like . . . before last night, she’d never been kissed before.

But there was nothing, nothing about Emily that said lesbian. She bought girly hot-oil treatments for her chlorine-damaged hair. She had a poster of the hot Australian swimmer Ian Thorpe on her wall. She giggled with the other swimmer girls about the boys in their Speedos. She’d only kissed one other girl, years ago, and that didn’t count. Even if it did, it didn’t mean anything, right?

She broke a Danish in half and stuffed a piece in her mouth. Her head throbbed. She wanted things to go back to the way they were. To throw a fresh towel in her duffel and head to practice, to happily make goofy pig faces into someone’s digital camera on the away-meet bus. To be content with herself and her life and to not be an emotional yo-yo.

So that was it. Maya was awesome and all, but they were just confused – and sad, for their own reasons. But not gay. Right?

She needed some air.

It was desolate outside. The birds were chirping noisily, and someone’s dog kept barking, but everything was still. Freshly delivered papers were still waiting on front lawns, wrapped in blue plastic.

Her old, red Trek mountain bike was propped up against the side of the toolshed. Emily jerked it upright, hoping she’d be coordinated enough to handle a bike after last night’s whiskey. She pushed off to the street, but her bike’s front wheel made a flapping noise.

Emily bent down. There was something caught in the wheel. A piece of notebook paper was woven through the spokes. She pulled it out and read a few lines. Wait. This was her own handwriting.

. . . I love staring at the back of your head in class, I love how you chew gum whenever we’re talking on the phone together, and I love that when you jiggle your Skechers during class when Mrs. Hat starts talking about famous American court cases, I know you’re totally bored.

Emily’s eyes darted around her empty front yard. Was this what she thought it was? She nervously skimmed down to the bottom, her mouth dry.

. . . and I’ve done a lot of thinking about why I kissed you the other day. I realized: It wasn’t a joke, Ali. I think I love you. I can understand if you never want to speak to me again, but I just had to tell you.

—Em

There was something else written on the other side of the paper. She flipped it over.

Thought you might want this back.

Love, A

Emily let her bike clatter to the ground.

This was the letter to Ali, the very one Emily had sent right after the kiss. The one she’d wondered if Ali had ever gotten.

Calm down, Emily told herself, realizing her hands were trembling. There’s a logical explanation for this.

It had to be Maya. She lived in Ali’s old room. Emily had told Maya about Alison and the letter last night. Maybe she was just giving it back?

But then... Love, A. Maya wouldn’t write that.

Emily didn’t know what to do or who to talk to. Suddenly, she thought of Aria. So much had happened last night after Emily ran into her, she’d forgotten their conversation. What had all Aria’s bizarre Alison questions been about? And there was something about her expression last night. Aria seemed . . . nervous.

Emily sat on the ground and looked at the ‘Thought you might want this back’ message again. If Emily recalled correctly, Aria had spiky handwriting that looked a lot like this.

In the last days before Ali had gone missing, she’d held the kiss over Emily’s head, forcing Emily to go along with whatever she wanted to do. It hadn’t occurred to Emily that maybe Ali had told the rest of their friends. But maybe . . .

‘Honey?’

Emily jumped. Her parents stood above her, dressed in sensible white sneakers, high-waisted shorts, and preppy pastel golf shirts. Her father had a red fanny pack, and her mom swung turquoise arm weights back and forth.

‘Hey,’ Emily croaked.

‘Going for a bike ride?’ her mother asked.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re supposed to be grounded.’ Her father put on his glasses, as if he needed to see Emily to scold her. ‘We only let you out last night because you were going with Ben. We hoped he’d get through to you. But bike rides are off limits.’

‘Well,’ Emily groaned, standing up. If only she didn’t have to explain things to her parents. But then . . . whatever. She wouldn’t. Not now. She threw her leg over the bar and sat on her seat.

‘I have somewhere to go,’ she mumbled, pedaling down the driveway.

‘Emily, come back here,’ her father yelled gruffly.

But Emily, for the first time in her life, just kept pedaling.

Aria awoke to her doorbell ringing. Except it wasn’t her family’s normal doorbell chime, it was ‘American Idiot,’ by Green Day. Huh – when had her parents changed that?

She threw back her duvet, slid on the blue-flowered, fur-lined clogs she’d bought in Amsterdam, and clomped down the spiral staircase to see who it was.

When she opened the door, she gasped. It was Alison. She was taller and her blond hair was cut in long shaggy layers. Her face looked more glamorous and angular than it had in seventh grade.

‘Ta-daa!’ Ali grinned and spread out her arms. ‘I’m back!’

‘Holy . . .’ Aria choked on her words, blinking furiously a couple of times. ‘Wh-where have you been?’

Ali rolled her eyes. ‘My stupid parents,’ she said. ‘Remember my aunt Camille, the really cool one who was born in France and married my uncle Jeff when we were in seventh? I went to visit her in Miami that summer. Then, I liked it so much that I just stayed. I totally told my parents about all of it, but I guess they forgot to tell everyone else.’

Aria rubbed her eyes. ‘So, wait. You’ve been in . . . Miami? You’re okay?’

Ali twirled around a little. ‘I look more than okay, don’t I? Hey, did you like my texts?’

Aria’s smile faded. ‘Um . . . no, actually.’

Ali looked hurt. ‘Why not? That one about your mom was so funny.’

Aria stared at her.

‘God, you’re sensitive.’ Ali narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you going to blow me off again?’

‘Wait, what?’ Aria stammered.

Alison gave Aria a long look, and a black, gelatinous substance began dripping out her nostrils. ‘I told the others, you know. About your dad. I told them everything.’

‘Your . . . nose . . .’ Aria pointed. Suddenly it started seeping out of Ali’s eyeballs. Like she was crying oil. It was dripping from her fingernails, too.

‘Oh, I’m just rotting.’ Ali smiled.

Aria jerked up in bed. Sweat drenched the back of her neck. The sun streamed in through her window, and she heard ‘American Idiot’ on her brother’s stereo next door. She checked her hands for black goo, but they were squeaky clean.

Whoa.

‘Morning, honey.’

Aria staggered down her spiral staircase to see her father, dressed only in thin, tartan plaid boxer shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, reading the Philadelphia Inquirer. ‘Hey,’ she murmured back.

Shuffling to the espresso machine, she stared for a long time at her father’s pale, randomly hairy shoulders. He jiggled his feet and made hmmm noises at the paper.

‘Dad?’ Her voice cracked slightly.

‘Mmm?’

Aria leaned against the stone-topped island. ‘Can ghosts send text messages?’

Her father looked up, surprised and confused. ‘What’s a text message?’

She stuck her hand into an open box of Frosted Mini Wheats and pulled out a handful. ‘Never mind.’

‘You sure?’ Byron asked.

She chewed nervously. What did she want to ask? Is a ghost sending me texts? But c’mon, she knew better. Anyway, she didn’t know why Ali’s ghost would come back and do this to her. It was as if she wanted revenge, but was that possible?

Ali had been great the day they caught her dad in the car. Aria had fled around the corner and ran until she had to start walking. She kept walking all the way home, not sure what else to do with herself. Ali hugged her for a long time. ‘I won’t tell,’ she whispered.

But the next day, the questions started. Do you know that girl? Is she a student? Is your dad going to tell your mom? Do you think he’s doing it with lots of students? Usually, Aria could take Ali’s inquisitiveness and even her teasing – she was okay with being the ‘weird kid’ of the group. But this was different. This hurt.

So the last few days of school, before she disappeared, Aria avoided Alison. She didn’t send her ‘I’m bored’ texts during health class or help her clean out her locker. And she certainly didn’t talk about what happened. She was mad that Ali was prying – as if it was some celebrity gossip in Star and not her life. She was mad that Ali knew. Period.

Now, three years later, Aria wondered who she’d really been mad at. It wasn’t really Ali. It was her dad.

‘Really, never mind,’ Aria answered her father, who’d been waiting patiently, sipping his coffee. ‘I’m just sleepy.’

‘Okay,’ Byron answered incredulously.

The doorbell rang. It wasn’t the Green Day song but their normal bong, bong chime. Her father looked up. ‘I wonder if that’s for Mike,’ he said. ‘Did you know that some girl from the Quaker school came by here at eight-thirty, looking for him?’