Perfect (Book Three)

Twenty-Eight: Some Of Her Letters Also Spell Jail.

A little before eight on Saturday night, Spencer was lying on her bed, watching her palm-leaf ceiling fan go around and around. The fan cost more than a decent-running car, but Spencer had begged her mom to buy it because it looked identical to the fan in her private cabana the time her family stayed at the Caves in Jamaica. Now, however, it looked so...Spencer at thirteen.

She got out of bed and slid her feet into her black Chanel sling-backs. She knew she should muster up some enthusiasm for Mona's party. She would have last year—then again, everything had been different last year. All day, she'd been having strange visions—fighting with Ali outside the barn, Ali's mouth moving but Spencer not hearing the words, Spencer taking a step toward her, a crack. It was as if the memory, pent up for all these years, wanted to be the star.

She swiped more toasted almond-colored gloss on her lips, straightened her kimono-sleeve black dress, and clomped downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, she was surprised to see that her mother, father, and Melissa were sitting at the table around an empty Scrabble board. The two dogs snuggled at their feet. Her father wasn't wearing his standard uniform of either a suit or cycling clothes, but a soft white T-shirt and jeans. Her mom was in yoga pants. The room smelled like steamed milk from the Miele espresso maker.

"Hey." Spencer couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her parents home on a Saturday night. They were all about being seen—whether it was at a restaurant opening or at the symphony or at one of the dinner parties the partners at her father's firm were always having.

"Spencer! There you are!" Mrs. Hastings cried. "Guess what we just got?" With a flourish, she pressed a print out she had been holding behind her back. It had the Philadelphia Sentinel's gothic-script logo on the top. Underneath was the headline, Move Over, Trump! Spencer Hastings Is Coming! Spencer stared at the photo of herself sitting at her father's desk. The battleship gray Calvin Klein suit with the raspberry silk camisole underneath had been a good choice.

"Jordana just e-mailed us the link," her mother chirped. "Sunday's front page won't be ready until tomorrow morning, of course, but your story is already up online!"

"Wow," Spencer said shakily, too unfocused to actually read the story. So this was really happening. How far was this going to go? What if she actually won?

"We're going to open a bottle of champagne to celebrate," Mr. Hastings said. "You can even have some, Spence. Special occasion and all."

"And maybe you want to play Scrabble?" Mrs. Hastings asked.

"Mom, she's all dressed up for a party," Melissa urged. "She doesn't want to sit here and drink champagne and play Scrabble."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Hastings said. "It's not even eight yet. Parties don't start this early, do they?"

Spencer felt trapped. They were all staring at her. "I...I guess not," she said.

She dragged a chair back, sat down, and kicked off her shoes. Her father got a bottle of Moet out of the fridge, popped the cork, and took out four Riedel glasses from the cabinet. He poured a whole glass for himself, Spencer's mother, and Melissa, and a half glass for Spencer. Melissa put a Scrabble rack in front of her.

Spencer plunged her hand into the velvet bag and selected letters. Her father selected his letters next. Spencer was amazed he knew how to do it—she'd never seen him play a game, not even on vacation. "When do you hear what the judges' final decision is?" he asked, taking a sip of his champagne.

Spencer shrugged. "I don't know." She glanced at Melissa, who gave her a brief, indecipherable smile. Spencer hadn't talked to Melissa since their hot-tub session last night, and she felt a little strange around her sister. Apprehensive, almost.