Aria’s mouth dropped open. She turned to Harrison. He looked cowed and miserable—maybe as if Esmerelda had done this to him before. She was nothing but . . . a bully, Aria realized. And Aria certainly knew how that felt.
She stood up straighter. “Harrison’s posting my story,” she said in a strong voice. “My exclusive is with him.”
Esmerelda looked like she’d been slapped. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Aria said, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake. Perhaps having an exclusive with ArtSmash might advance her career faster, but she couldn’t let this lady push people around.
Esmerelda sniffed. “Well, it’s your career to sabotage.” She glanced around at the paintings on the wall. “And honestly, this stuff looks like a senior-year art show anyway.” She elbowed around a bunch of people coming in, almost tripping over someone’s discarded umbrella.
Once she was gone, Aria turned back to Harrison. He looked astonished. “You didn’t have to do that. ArtSmash is, like, huge.”
Aria shrugged. “Well, maybe I like Fire and Funnel better.” She offered him a small smile.
Harrison licked his lips nervously. “Well, Fire and Funnel likes you, too.”
Aria felt herself blush. “I’m glad you came tonight.”
Harrison didn’t break his gaze. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
They stared at each other. Then, slowly, Harrison moved his hand toward Aria’s. She felt his fingers entwine with hers and squeeze. She squeezed back. She was too numb and overwhelmed to know how she really felt about it or Harrison, but she told herself to stop overthinking and just relax.
Then her phone, which was wedged into her envelope clutch, began to buzz. She glanced at it, registering the familiar Philadelphia number. It was Fuji. The hoodie.
“I—I need to take this,” Aria said, holding up one finger. “I’ll be right back.”
She ducked through the crowd and into the hall to the bathroom. Her heart pounded as she hit ANSWER and said hello.
“Aria,” Fuji barked through the receiver. “I’m sorry to call you so late. I have Emily and Spencer on the line, too.”
“Hey,” Emily and Spencer said in unison.
“H-hi,” Aria answered shakily, her heart hammering hard.
“I’ve tried to reach Hanna, but she isn’t picking up,” Fuji went on. “I have some news you might want to hear.”
“About Ali?” Aria said eagerly, unable to control her anticipation. Of course it was about Ali. There was no other reason Fuji would be calling. “Did you finally get the DNA results?” They came back a match. That hair is Ali’s. Finally, finally, they understand that she’s still alive.
“I’m sorry it took so long, but yes, we got them,” Fuji said in a clipped voice. “The hair on the sweatshirt is Spencer’s.”
Aria’s mind went blank.
“What?” Spencer sputtered.
“It might have stuck to the shirt when you girls were examining it,” Fuji explained. “I’m sorry, girls.”
“I can’t believe this,” Spencer said faintly.
“B-but you tested the rest of the sweatshirt, right?” Aria pleaded. “There was something else on there, maybe? Ali’s skin cells? Another hair? An eyelash?”
Fuji sighed. “My team looked over the sweatshirt very thoroughly, but we didn’t find anything else that could be tested. You girls should also know that Rosewood Day had disabled their surveillance cameras in the pool area for the summer, so we have no record of the intruder. To be honest, no one should have been in there at all—including you, Emily. You’re lucky they’re not thinking of pressing charges on you for trespassing.”
“But . . . ,” Emily said emptily, trailing off. “It’s my school. I was there for a class. I wasn’t exactly trespassing.”
Aria sank against the wall. “So you have no video evidence?”
“No.” Fuji sounded frustrated. “We’ll keep looking around and asking questions, though. But as far as it being Alison, that’s simply impossible. Please let Hanna know.”
Aria listened to the dull click as Fuji disconnected the line. Then she stood back, her magical day suddenly ruined.
That was it. They were back to square one.
15
STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS
“Okay, fifteen minutes to air,” said Samantha Eggers, a pointy-chinned woman with dark-framed glasses, as she poked her head through the doorway. “Everyone good?”
Spencer and the other kids on the anti-bullying panel nodded, and then Samantha—the same woman who’d called Spencer and invited her to be on the panel—disappeared through the door. She’d stuck everyone in the green room, as she called it, where they could wait and relax as the crew got everything ready. It was basically a conference room in the Time-Life Building on Sixth Avenue near Fiftieth, which also housed Time, Entertainment Weekly, People, and aired a CNN morning show on the street level. The green room was full of chairs, couches, and magazines, and a long table held bowls of pretzels, a plate of cubed cheese, and a cooler full of sodas. The sweeping windows looked out onto Sixth Avenue and Radio City Music Hall’s old-fashioned neon sign.
There were supposed to be six kids on the panel, but not everyone was here yet. There were two girls besides Spencer, one of them equally fussily dressed and poised-looking as Spencer was. The other girl was Asian and reminded her of Emily: She wore no makeup, her dark hair was simply pulled back, and her plain black dress revealed strong-looking calves. Two boys sat on opposite sides of the room, cagily looking at their phones. By their slight frames and nervous demeanors, Spencer wondered if they’d been bullied. Maybe she’d even talked to them on her site.
She wanted to ask, but her mind was still on the call from Fuji. Why did Fuji shoot them down again and again? Now what were they going to do?
Everyone gathered at the door. Samantha led them into another conference room on the floor. It was filled with lights and cameras and a small stage area in front of a black curtain. There were a bunch of kids Spencer’s age sitting on folding chairs in the back. Samantha had told her there would be an audience, and she’d reached out to her blog readers and mentioned how psyched she was to be on the panel and wondered what sorts of questions they’d ask as audience members. A lot of people had replied; she hoped she’d receive questions half as insightful tonight.
Suddenly, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Spencer Hastings?”
A tall, athletic, tousled-haired boy had stood up from his chair in the front row. He wore a pale blue shirt, a tie, dress pants, and shiny loafers, and on the back of one hand was a tattoo of what looked like a soaring falcon peeking out of his sleeve. He was one of the handsomest strangers Spencer had ever seen.
“It’s Greg Messner,” he said after a beat. “I’ve emailed you a few times?”
Spencer blinked. “You’re Greg?”
He touched his chest. “You remember me?”
How could she not? This was the guy who’d bolstered her up, telling her that her blog’s message was powerful and uplifting. But Spencer had had no idea he was so gorgeous. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered, nervously running her hand through her hair. Did it look frizzy? Should she have worn a different dress?
“I saw your post about the panel, and I called to see if I could be in the audience.” Greg ducked his head. “I wanted to support you.”
Spencer’s insides flipped. “Thank you,” she blurted, stunned that he cared so much.
Greg smiled and leaned forward, ready to talk more, but they were interrupted by Samantha as she clapped her hands. “Okay, folks! We’re ready!”
Greg stepped back and gestured for Spencer to go to the stage. “Good luck!” he said excitedly. “You’re going to be great.”
Samantha directed the panel to the chairs in front of the curtain. Makeup artists flitted around, brushing each of them with high-definition-camera face powder. Spencer tried to play it cool, but every so often she peeked into the
audience at Greg. He was staring at her every single time. Her heart pounded wildly. Up close, Greg had even smelled good, like the men’s side of the Aveda salon she often frequented.
Not that she had a crush on him or anything. She barely knew him.
“Now, we’re going to be fairly informal,” Samantha explained, standing in front of the panelists. “One of the producers will ask a question, and then anyone can jump in. The audience can respond, too.” She gestured to them, though they all were nameless, uninteresting faces besides Greg’s. “Just be yourselves, and be proud of what you’ve accomplished. Remember, you all are the voices on anti-bullying measures, and we’re very supportive of your efforts. All of you.”
Spencer locked eyes with Greg again, and he gave her another encouraging smile. Then the cameras started to roll. One producer, a thin, graying man named Jamie, asked everyone to share their stories. The panelists went around the room, explaining how they or someone they loved had gone through a particularly horrible experience. The two shy boys had been tormented—one because of his sexuality, the other because he was on the autism spectrum. The athletic girl, whose name was Caitlin, was on the panel for starting an outreach program after her brother, Taylor, killed himself after being picked on violently. And Spencer briefly told her story about Ali, but she mostly made it about her website and how she wanted to help other people share their stories.
From there, Jamie asked more questions about the emotional toll bullying took on people, where bullying stemmed from, and how to stop it. The panel took turns giving answers, and every time Spencer spoke, she felt the weight of her words. Every classroom would see this for years. She was leaving a legacy.
When Jamie asked a question about whether bullying seemed to be on the rise in the age of digital media, the panelists looked at one another. Spencer cleared her throat. “Social media can expose your pain to a heightened degree. On Facebook, everyone sees what you’re going through, not just people who happen to be in the hall when whoever it is tortures you. Everyone can ‘like’ a mean comment about you. It might make you feel like it’s you against the world.”
She passed the microphone, catching Greg’s eyes in the audience. Nice, he mouthed. Her spine tingled pleasantly.
But then someone in the audience coughed. “That is such bullshit.”
Samantha’s eyebrows shot up. Cameras swung around to face the audience member. “Excuse me?” Jamie said, squinting into the darkness. “Can you stand up so we can see you, sir?”
A figure in a bulky red hunter’s plaid jacket rose. He was a dark-haired, square-faced guy with quirked eyebrows and a turned-down mouth that made him look angry. When he glanced at Spencer, his eyes hardened even more. “You people sound like those parents who blame violence on video games. Social media isn’t to blame. Oversensitive people are.”
Everyone on the stage murmured worriedly. Spencer blinked at the figure in the audience, a puzzle piece slotting into place. She recognized his face from a profile picture. It was DominickPhilly, the jerk who was always trolling her site.
Why the hell was he here?
Jamie placed his hands on his hips. “Maybe you’d like to elaborate on that?”
Dominick shrugged, his gaze still on Spencer. “The more power we give this whole anti-bullying thing, the more power we give bullies. You don’t think bullies haven’t been around since, like, the dawn of time? And maybe, I don’t know, some people deserve to get picked on.”
Everyone on the stage gasped. Samantha, who was sitting on the sidelines, leapt to her feet. “This is inappropriate. I think you should leave.”
“What about freedom of speech?” Dominick protested.
Samantha’s eyes blazed. “We’re trying to help people get through terrible ordeals. What we don’t need is someone invalidating their feelings.”
“Wah, wah, wah.” Dominick simpered, rolling his eyes.
“That’s it.” Samantha signaled to a man Spencer hadn’t noticed in the corner, and he swept forward, pushing into the aisle and taking Dominick’s arm. Everyone watched as the guard pulled Dominick up the aisle and out the exit.
Just before the door closed, Dominick turned around and glared at Spencer—and only Spencer. “I hope you’re happy, little liar,” he said ominously.
Spencer flinched. “Hey,” Greg said gruffly, leaping up. He looked like he was about to jump off the stage, but Jamie waved at him to sit back down.
“Sorry about that, folks,” Samantha said after the door slammed shut. “I guess it shows that bullies are everywhere, huh?” She chuckled uncomfortably. “Let’s get back on track, shall we? We’ll edit all that out.”
Spencer was able to finish the video, even staying focused, but she had to hide her shaking hands under her thighs. She could feel Greg sneaking peeks at her, and she kept a smile pasted on her face.
After another half hour, Jamie signaled for the cameras to stop. He beamed at the panel. “You guys were amazing. I think we have everything we need and more.”
“Celebratory party at Heartland Brewery!” Samantha crowed happily, bursting into applause. “You all deserve it!” She glanced at the audience. “You all are welcome, too.”
Spencer stood and followed the others off the stage. Greg caught her arm on the way to the green room. “You going to the party?” he asked.
Heartland Brewery, Spencer had heard, was where all the Saturday Night Live cast members had their after-parties. But when she thought about attending a party, her heart started to pound. Dominick had unsteadied her. She didn’t want to be in a crowd.
Greg cocked his head, studying her. “Or we could go somewhere quieter?” he suggested. “I know a great coffee place in the Village. It’s only a subway ride away.”
“That sounds perfect,” Spencer breathed. This Greg was the same as the guy from the emails: intuitive, sympathetic, and understanding of just what she wanted without her having to explain a thing.
Which was exactly what she needed.
They descended the concrete stairs below the huge office building to the subway station. As they walked through a tunnel toward the F train, Spencer kept trying to think of something to say to Greg, but all she could think about was Dominick. Greg had called up and gotten into the audience easily; clearly, Dominick had, too. But why? Expressly to yell at Spencer? To humiliate her?
“So was that guy an ex or something?” Greg asked as he bought them both MetroCards.
Spencer’s head swung up. It was stupid to play dumb; the stress from Dominick was probably obvious on her face. “His name is Dominick. I only know him from my blog—he has it out for me for some reason. I don’t know why. Some people are just haters.”
Greg walked toward the stairs leading to the downtown platform. “Well, try to forget about him. You did a great job tonight. You’re so comfortable on camera.”
“Well, I’ve been interviewed enough times that I’m used to it,” Spencer said, laughing bashfully.
They stepped onto the downtown platform. A sign said that the local train, which they were waiting for, would pull in on one track, and the express train would arrive on another. At the moment, there was no train on either track. The uptown trains were across the platform, separated by a bunch of steel beams and dangerous-looking rails. For the most part, the platforms were desolate, with only a few people wandering up and down, wearing earbuds or scrolling through their phones. Spencer began to pace the length of the station, gazing at the posters on the walls. There was one for a new HBO drama series coming out; someone had blacked out the main actress’s teeth and given her devil horns.
Then she looked at Greg, realizing something. “How do you know about this place in the Village, anyway? I thought you lived in Delaware.”
Greg nodded. “My parents divorced when I was seven, and my dad moved here. I visited sometimes.”
“That must have been fun.”
He shifted his jaw. “I was really sporty growing up, so usually I was pissed that I was missing
football practice. For a long time, I didn’t appreciate what the city had to offer. And I hated my dad’s new wife. Cindy.”
Spencer rolled her eyes. “My parents split up, too. But my stepdad is okay. Maybe it’s easier because I’m older.”
“Maybe.” Greg stared blankly at the subway tracks. Spencer hated looking there for fear she’d see a rat. “Cindy used to bully me, actually.”
“Your stepmom?” Spencer blurted. “How?”
Greg raised one shoulder. “She was insulting and manipulative. But she was sly about it—she acted like she loved me whenever my dad was around, and she denied it whenever I told him she’d been mean. No one believed me.”
“That’s awful,” Spencer whispered, feeling a tug in her heart. “What did you do?”
Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just . . . took it, for a while. And then, when I had a say, I told the court that I didn’t want to visit my dad anymore. I was an idiot, though—I didn’t tell the court what Cindy was doing. I thought it would shatter my dad—they would have investigated her and him. But he found out eventually—Cindy drunkenly confessed everything shortly before she left him. He apologized up and down, but it was too little, too late.” He shuffled his feet. “I always say I stood by and watched other kids get bullied, but it’s not the truth. I’m too embarrassed to tell my story. She was, like, half my size. And old.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Spencer urged. “Emotional abuse is emotional abuse, no matter where it comes from.”
Greg nodded slowly. Then he raised his eyes to Spencer’s, his face a little blotchy like he was about to cry. “It’s why I got this.” He showed her the tattoo of the bird on his hand. “I felt like it gave me . . . power or something. I don’t know.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve actually never told anyone about Cindy,” he admitted.
“Well, I’m glad you told me,” Spencer said softly, feeling touched.
Greg nodded. “I’m glad, too.” He rubbed the bird tattoo with his fingers. “If I can ever return the favor for you, I’m here.”