“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?”
“I’ll get it,” Aria said.
She tentatively pulled open the front door, but it was only Emily Fields on the other side, her reddish-blond hair messy and her eyes swollen.
“Hey,” Emily croaked.
“Hey,” Aria answered.
Emily puffed up her cheeks with air—her old nervous habit. She stood there for a moment. Then she said, “I should go.” She started to turn.
“Wait.” Aria caught her arm. “What? What’s going on?”
Emily paused. “Um. Okay. But…this is going to sound weird.”
“That’s okay.” Aria’s heart started to pound.
“I was thinking about what you were saying yesterday at the party. About Ali. I was wondering…did Ali ever tell you guys something about me?”
Emily said it very quietly. Aria pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“What?” Aria whispered. “Recently?”
Emily’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, recently?”
“I—”
“In seventh grade,” Emily interrupted. “Did she tell you…like…something about me in seventh grade? Was she telling everybody?”
Aria blinked. At the party yesterday, when she’d seen Emily, she’d wanted more than anything to tell her about the texts. “No,” Aria answered slowly. “She never talked behind your back.”
“Oh.” Emily stared at the ground. “But I—” she started.
“I’ve been getting these—” Aria said at the same time.
Then Emily looked past her and her eyes grew still.
“Miss Emily Fields! Hello!”
Aria turned. In the living room stood Byron. At least he’d thrown on a striped bathrobe. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” Byron boomed.
“Yeah.” Emily puffed out her cheeks again. “How are you, Mr. Montgomery?”
He frowned. “Please. You’re old enough to call me Byron.” He scratched his chin with the top edge of his coffee cup. “How’s your life? Good?”
“Absolutely.” Emily looked like she was about to cry.
“Do you need something to eat?” Byron asked. “You look hungry.”
“Oh. No. Thanks. I, um, I guess I didn’t really sleep well.”
“You girls.” He shook his head. “You never sleep! I always tell Aria she needs eleven hours—she needs to bank sleep for when she gets to college and parties all night!” He began climbing the stairs to the second floor.
As soon as he was out of sight, Aria whirled back around. “He’s so—” she started. But then she realized Emily was halfway across her lawn, on the way to her bike. “Hey!” she called. “Where are you going?”