Ali's Pretty Little Lies (Prequel)

Three: Party On The Down Low.

"One Swiss fondue with four skewers." A waitress laid a bubbling cauldron of melted cheese in the center of the table. "Enjoy!"

Ali's mother, a tall, elegant woman with long blond hair, a heart-shaped face, and a perma-Botoxed forehead, placed her napkin in her lap and daintily picked up a skewer. Her father made an mm sound and smacked his lips, which Ali always thought were a tad thick and rubbery. A long string of cheese stretched uncouthly from the skewer of his mouth. That was probably the reason her mom never brought him to her charity dinners.

Ali wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What is this? It looks like Velveeta."

"It's fondue." Mrs. DiLaurentis pushed a skewer toward her. "You'll love it."

"I'd probably live full-fat ice cream, too, but you don't see me eating that."

Her mother sipped from her glass of white wine. "It's French, honey. Therefore it has no calories." She twisted her mouth like it was a funny joke.

Ali folded her hands across her empty plate and gazed around the restaurant. It was Thursday night, and she was with her family at Rive Gauche, the new French bistro that had opened up in the luxe section of the King James Mall. The place was decorated with distressed mirrors, retro alcohol ads, and Paris street signs. Groups of well-dressed Main Line women shared mussels and French fries at almost every table. A group of college kids who looked like they'd stepped out of the pages of J. Crew tucked into tureens of French onion soup in the corner.

Ali considered taking a Polaroid of the cool new restaurant, but then decided against it—this place was awesome, but she'd rather take a photo of it with her friends. She couldn't even believe her family was out to dinner; they hadn't done this in ages. Even so, her parents sat as far apart as possible in the booth, as though they were two awkward junior high kids at a dance. Mrs, DiLaurentis was glued to her cell phone as if she were messaging with the President, and Mr. DiLaurentis kept peeking at a sheaf of legal briefs he had in his bag.

"Jason, you'll try some, won't you?" Mrs. DiLaurentis placed her phone by her plate and nudged a skewer in Ali's brother direction.

Jason's floppy hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Don't you feel well?" Mrs. DiLaurentis reached out to feel Jason's skin.

Jason pulled away. "I'm fine."

Ali snorted. "Looks like someone's in one of his Elliott Smith moods," she said, referencing the moody, miserable music he always listened to when he was depressed.

Jason glanced at Ali for a split second, then sniffed and turned away. Ali wondered if he was pissed because he'd heard she'd been smoking with Cassie, or maybe that she'd flirted with Darren. But why would he care about either of those things? Most of the time, Jason pretended like Ali didn't even exist.

Which really hurt. Ali was grateful her parents hadn't guessed who she was—they were too wrapped up in their own lives to pay attention. As long as she acted enough like Ali, they didn't question anything. But she'd thought Jason would have noticed something. Wasn't he supposed to know her the best of anyone? He'd visited her practically every weekend at the Radley, after all, playing spit with her in the day room, telling her about the girls he'd like—one of whom had been Melissa Hastings, with whom he's struck up a friendship. "This is how you get her to like you back," Ali had coached him, giving him pointers that she'd picked up from Cosmo.

But when she'd taken over her sister's life, she'd discovered that Melissa was dating Ian Thomas, and Jason was single. She'd wanted to ask him if he was okay, but it seemed out of character—Alison thought. Jason was annoying and insufferable. If she wanted to play this part properly, she had to pretend she thought that, too. If she told even one person the truth, her secret would be one step closer to being revealed.