Perfect (Book Three)

Twenty-One: What Does H-O-L-Y C-R-A-P Spell?

Thursday evening, Spencer settled into the red plushy seats at the Rosewood Country Club restaurant and looked out the bay window. On the golf course, a couple of older guys in V-neck sweaters and khakis were trying to get in a few more holes before the sun went down. Out on the deck, people were taking advantage of the last few warm days of the year, drinking gin and tonics and eating rock shrimp and bruschetta squares. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings stirred their Bombay Sapphire martinis, then looked at each other.

"I propose a toast." Mrs. Hastings pushed her blond bobbed hair behind her ears, her three-carat diamond ring glinting against the setting sun streaming through the window. Spencer's parents always toasted before they took a drink of anything—even water.

Mrs. Hastings raised her glass. "To Spencer making the Golden Orchid finals."

Mr. Hastings clinked. "And to being on the front page of this Sunday's Sentinel."

Spencer raised her glass and clinked it with them, but the effort was halfhearted. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be at home, protected and safe. She couldn't stop thinking about her strang session with Dr. Evans this morning. The vision she'd seen—the forgotten fight with Ali the night she disappeared—was haunting. Why hadn't she remembered it before? Was there more to it? What if she'd seen Ali's killer?

"Congrats, Spencer," her mother interrupted her thoughts. "I hope you win."

"Thanks," Spencer mumbled. She worked to fold her green napkin back into an accordion, then went around the table and folded all the others, too.

"Nervous about something?" Her mother nudged her chin at the napkins.

Spencer immediately stopped. "No," she said quickly. Whenever she shut her eyes, she was right back in the Ali memory again. It was so clear now. She could smell the honeysuckle that grew in the woods that paralleled the barn, feel the early summer breeze, see the lightning bugs spatter-painting the dark sky. But it couldn't be real.

When Spencer looked up, her parents were gazing at her peculiarly. They'd probably asked her a question she'd completely missed. For the first time ever, she wished Melissa were here monopolizing the conversation.

"Are you nervous because of the doctor?" her mother whispered.

Spencer couldn't hide her smirk—she loved that her mom called Dr. Evans "the doctor" instead of "the therapist." "No. I'm fine."

"Do you think you've gotten a lot..." Her father seemed to search for his words, fiddling with his tie pin. "...accomplished, with the doctor?"

Spencer rocked her fork back and forth. Define accomplished, she wanted to say.

Before she could answer, the waiter appeared. It was the same waiter they'd had for years, the short little baldish guy who had a Winnie-the-Pooh voice. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hastings." Pooh shook her father's hand. "And Spencer. You're looking lovely."

"Thanks," Spencer mumbled, although she was pretty sure she wasn't. She hadn't washed her hair after field hockey, and the last time she'd looked in the mirror, her eyes had a wild, scared look to them. She kept twitching, too, and looking around the restaurant to see if someone was watching her.

"How is everyone tonight?" Pooh asked. He fluffed up the napkins. Spencer had just refolded and spread them on everyone's laps. "Here for a special occasion?"

"Actually, yes," Mrs. Hastings piped up. "Spencer's a finalist in the Gold Orchid competition. It's a major academic prize."

"Mom," Spencer hissed. She hated how her mother broadcast family accomplishments. Especially since Spencer had cheated.