Perfect (Book Three)

Nine: Everyone, A Big Round Of Applause For Spencer Hastings!

On Tuesday afternoon, while most of the Rosewood Day junior class ate lunch, Spencer sat on top of the conference table in the yearbook room. Eight blinking Mac G5 computers, a whole bunch of long-lensed Nikon cameras, six eager sophomore and freshman girls, and a nerdy, slightly effeminate freshman boy surrounded her.

She tapped the covers of the past few Rosewood Day yearbooks. Each year, the books were named The Mule due to some apocryphal, inside joke from the 1920s that even the school's oldest teachers had long forgotten. "In this year's Mule, I think we should try to capture a slice of what Rosewood Day students are like."

Her yearbook staff diligently wrote down slice of life in their spiral-bound notebooks.

"Like...maybe we could do some quickie interviews with random students," Spencer went on. "Or ask people what's on their favorite iPod playlist, and then publish it in boxes next to their photos. And how are the still lifes going?" Last meeting, they had planned to ask a couple kids to empty the contents of their bags to document what Rosewood Day girls and guys were carrying around.

"I got great photos of the stuff in Brett Weaver's soccer bag and Mona Vanderwaal's purse," said Brenna Richardson.

"Fantastic," Spencer said. "Keep up the good work."

Spencer closed her leaf green leather-bound journal and dismissed her staff. Once they were gone, she grabbed her black fabric Kate Spade bag and pulled out her Sidekick.

There it was. The note from A. She kept hoping it wouldn't be there.

As she slid the phone back into her bag, her fingers grazed against something in the inside pocket: Officer Wilden's business card. Wilden wasn't the first cop to ask Spencer about the night Ali went missing, but he was the only one who'd ever sounded so...suspicious.

The memory of that night was both crystal clear and incredibly muddled. She remembered a glut of emotions: excitement over getting the barn of their sleepover, annoyance that Melissa was there, giddiness that Ian was. Their kiss had been a couple of weeks before that. But then Ali started talking about how Melissa and Ian made the cutest couple and Spencer's emotions swung again. Ali had already threatened to tell Melissa about the kiss. Once Ian and Melissa left, Ali tried to hypnotize them, and she and Spencer got in a fight. Ali left, Spencer ran after her, and then...nothing. But what she never told the cops—or her family, or her friends—was that sometimes when she thought about that night, it felt like there was a black hole in the middle of it. That something had happened which she couldn't remember.

Suddenly, a vision flashed in front of Spencer's eyes. Ali laughing nastily and turning away.

Spencer stopped in the middle of the packed hallway and someone ran into her back.

"Will you move?" the girl behind her whined. "Some of us have to get to class."

Spencer took a tentative step forward. Whatever she had just remembered had quickly disappeared, but it felt like there had been an earthquake. She looked around for shattered glass and scattering students, certain the rest of the world had felt it, too, but everything looked completely normal. A few steps away, Naomi Zeigler inspected her reflection in her mini locker mirror. Two freshmen by the Teacher of the Year plaque laughed at the pointy Satan beard and horns drawn over Mr. Craft's smiling photo. The windows that faced the commons weren't the tiniest bit cracked, and none of the vases in the Pottery III display case had fallen over. What was the vision Spencer had just seen? Why did she feel so...slithery?

She slipped into her AP econ classroom and slumped down at her desk, which was right next to a very large portrait of scowling J. P. Morgan. Once the rest of the class filed in and everyone sat down, Squidward strode to the front of the room. "Before today's video, I have an announcement." He looked at Spencer. Her stomach swirled. She didn't want everyone looking at her right now.

"For her first essay assignment, Spencer Hastings made a very eloquent, convincing argument on the invisible-hand theory," Squidward proclaimed stroking his tie, which had Benjamin Franklin's C-Note portrait stamped all over it. "And, as you may have heard, I have nominated her for a Golden Orchid award."

Squidward began to applaud, and the rest of the class followed. It lasted an intolerable fifteen seconds.

"But I have another surprise," Squidward continued. "I just got off the phone with a member of the judges' panel, and Spencer, you've made the finals."

The class burst into applause again. Someone at the back even wolf-whistled. Spencer sat very still. For a moment, she lost all vision completely. She tried to paste a smile on her face.

Andrew Campbell, who sat next to her, tapped her on the shoulder. "Nice job."

Spencer looked over. She and Andrew had hardly spoken since she'd been the world's worst Foxy date and ditched him at the dance. Mostly, he'd been giving her dirty looks. "Thanks," she croaked, once she found her voice.

"You must have really worked hard on it, huh? Did you use extra sources?"

"Uh-huh." Spencer frantically pulled out all the loose handouts from her econ folder and started straightening them. She smoothed out any bent-down corners and folds and tried to organize them by date. Melissa's paper was actually the only outside source Spencer had used. When she'd tried to do the necessary research for the essay, even Wikipedia's simple definition of invisible hand had completely perplexed her. The first few sentences of her sister's essay were clear enough—The great Scottish economist Adam Smith's invisible-hand concept can be summed up very easily, whether it's describing the markets of the nineteenth century or those of the twenty-first: you might think people are doing things to help you, but in reality, everyone is only out for themselves. But when she read the rest of the essay, her brain got as foggy as her family's eucalyptus steam room.

"What kind of sources?" Andrew continued. "Books? Magazine articles?" When she looked over again, he seemed to have a smirk on his face, and Spencer felt dizzy. Did he know?

"Like the...like the books McAdam suggested on his list," she fumbled.

"Ah. Well, congratulations. I hope you win."

"Thanks," she answered, deciding Andrew couldn't know. He was just jealous. Spencer and Andrew were ranked number one and number two, respectively, in the class and were constantly shifting positions. Andrew probably monitored Spencer's every achievement like a stockbroker watches the Dow Jones Industrial Average ticker. Spencer went back to straightening her folder, although it wasn't making her feel any better.

As Squidward dimmed the lights and the video—Microeconomics and the Consumer, with cheesy, upbeat music—came on, Spencer's Sidekick vibrated in her bag. Slowly, she reached in and pulled it out. Her phone had one new text.

Spence: I know what you did. But I won't tell if you do EXACTLY what I say. Wanna know what happens if you don't? Go to Emily's swim meet...and you'll see. —A

Someone next to Spencer cleared his throat. She looked over, and there was Andrew, staring right at her. His eyes glowed against the flickering light of the movie. Spencer turned to face forward, but she could still feel Andrew watching her in the darkness.