Ali's Pretty Little Lies (Prequel)

Twenty-Seven: Nastiness Heals All Wounds.

Sunday afternoon, Ali lay on her bed, listening to the sound of the jackhammers in the backyard. Every time she considered getting up and doing something, her limbs wouldn't move. She couldn't imagine taking a shower. She couldn't imagine brushing her teeth. All she wanted was to look at the artifacts of her short courtship with Nick. The ticket stub from riding the merry-go-round. A receipt from the paintball place. It was barely anything.

She flopped back down on the pillow, only wanting to sleep. The last time she'd felt like this was when her parents had first sent her to the Radley. She'd remained in her room, shocked and mute and horrified. What just happened? she thought over and over again. Her parents had let her bring a family album, and she'd turned the gummy, crackling pages so many times that the binding wore out. Nurses had tried to encourage her to join in group activities likes singing, and music or art classes. A therapist had sat on the side of her bed and tried to get her to talk, to move—anything—but she'd felt like there was a huge shovel hovering above her, pouring sand on her until only her eyes could be seen from above.

Her phone beeped, and she pounced on it, but it was just a text from Spencer: We're getting together at my house. Please come over!

Out the window, Spencer, Aria, Emily, and Hanna sat in bathing suits on Spencer's patio. She slopped back down on the pillow, feeling tears prick her eyes. They'd take one look at her and know. Emily had probably told the others that Ali was seeing someone older; maybe they'd ask if he was why her eyes were so red. And how could she fake it?

They'd see the weakness in her eyes. They'd see what sort of messed-up life she had. They would prey on her like she'd preyed on them. That was what best friends did, wasn't it? They ate each other alive. They would give a taste of her own medicine.

She scrolled through her texts, making sure she hadn't missed any from Nick, but she hadn't. What was he doing right now? Eating lunch, happily going on with his life? Would he ever take her back?

And even worse than that, she'd told him about her sister, something she'd sworn to keep a secret forever. Now, she felt naked, exposed.

Her phone pinged again. You coming? Spencer asked. I see the light on in your bedroom.

"God," Ali said through her teeth, tossing the phone toward the closet. It hit the wall hard, knocking off a photograph of Ali and her friends on a boat in Newport Harbor. After a moment, Ali slid off her bed, slithered toward her phone, and composed a text to Spencer.

Not feeling up to it.

Another text arrived immediately. Why not? Are you sick? Can we help?

Ali shut her eyes and didn't answer. The last thing she wanted was their pity.

Another ping. We're going to come over, Spencer wrote. Whatever you need, we can help.

"No!" Ali screamed, but she already knew it was too late. And when she stood, Spencer, Aria, Hanna, and Emily had already left Spencer's patio and were heading for the side yard. In seconds, they would be here.

Suddenly, her arms and legs could move again. She slipped on a pair of flip-flops, pulling her hair in a ponytail, and barreled down the stairs. She almost crashed into the console table in the hall as she wheeled toward the garage, but she had to get out of here—fast.

Mrs. DiLaurentis, who had her head in the fridge, looked up as she passed. "Ali? Are you okay?"

"Fine," Ali snapped, reaching for the handle to the sliding glass door.

"Can we talk?" Bottles of salad dressing rattled as the fridge door slammed shut.

"I'm busy," Ali barked.