Pretty Little Liars #15: Toxic (14 page)

“Harrison?” Aria asked, her heart lifting. He’d said he’d try his hardest to make the trip from Philly.

“No, a woman from
ArtSmash
.”

Aria’s eyes widened.
ArtSmash
was probably the biggest art blog around. It was so popular and influential, in fact, that the site hosted art events around New York, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia, and was often a sponsor of exhibits at edgy galleries in Brooklyn and Philly’s Fishtown neighborhood.

Sasha signaled to someone in a black suit at the bar. The woman raised an eyebrow and sauntered over. She stuck out her hand. “Esmerelda Rhea,” she said in a loud, bossy voice. “I’m with
ArtSmash
. I’d like to do a profile on you. An exclusive.”

Aria’s stomach dropped. “Um, it can’t be an exclusive. I’ve already given an interview with Harrison Miller.”

Esmerelda’s expression went blank. “Who’s Harrison Miller?”

“From
Fire and Funnel
?” Aria said tentatively. “It’s kind of indie. But really cool.”

Esmerelda looked unimpressed. “Well, we can just tell this Harrison person not to post it, okay? An exclusive with us will actually
mean
something.”

Aria blinked. “But it’s a good interview.” She’d read a draft last night: Harrison had called her art “fascinating,” “mature,” “soulful,” and “provocative.” He’d also said Aria was “enchanting in person, as artful, graceful, and deep as her paintings.” How could she turn
that
sort of press down?

Esmerelda chuckled. “You’re so green. It’s so sweet!” She gave Aria a condescending smile. “I’ll handle Harry, if you’d like.”

“Harrison,” Aria corrected.

As if on cue, Aria spied Harrison’s tall, familiar figure ducking through the front door. He had the same battered leather bag on his shoulder, and he had an earnest, eager look on his face. He gazed across the room and noticed her. His face lit up, and Aria grinned back.

“There he is now,” Aria said in a strong voice, motioning him over.

A few paces away, Harrison noticed Esmerelda and paled. “H-hello, Esmerelda,” he stammered when he was close. He looked kind of wary. “It’s nice to see you again. When was it last? That MoMA party?”

“Mm-hmm,” Esmerelda said tightly, her beady eyes narrowing.
Interesting
, Aria thought. Moments before, Esmerelda had pretended she had no idea who Harrison was. Then she let out a huffy little breath. “So. Aria’s been telling me that you spoke to her already.
We
want the exclusive, though. That can be arranged, can’t it?” She stared at him steadily, her eyes unblinking.

Aria’s mouth dropped open. She turned to Harrison. He looked cowed and miserable—maybe as if Esmerelda had done this to him before. She was nothing but . . . a
bully
, Aria realized. And Aria certainly knew how
that
felt.

She stood up straighter. “Harrison’s posting my story,” she said in a strong voice. “My exclusive is with him.”

Esmerelda looked like she’d been slapped. “Are you
serious
?”

“Yes,” Aria said, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake. Perhaps having an exclusive with
ArtSmash
might advance her career faster, but she couldn’t let this lady push people around.

Esmerelda sniffed. “Well, it’s your career to sabotage.” She glanced around at the paintings on the wall. “And honestly, this stuff looks like a senior-year art show anyway.” She elbowed around a bunch of people coming in, almost tripping over someone’s discarded umbrella.

Once she was gone, Aria turned back to Harrison. He looked astonished. “You didn’t have to do that.
ArtSmash
is, like,
huge.
”

Aria shrugged. “Well, maybe I like
Fire and Funnel
better.” She offered him a small smile.

Harrison licked his lips nervously. “Well,
Fire and Funnel
likes you, too.”

Aria felt herself blush. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

Harrison didn’t break his gaze. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

They stared at each other. Then, slowly, Harrison moved his hand toward Aria’s. She felt his fingers entwine with hers and squeeze. She squeezed back. She was too numb and overwhelmed to know how she really felt about it or Harrison, but she told herself to stop overthinking and just relax.

Then her phone, which was wedged into her envelope clutch, began to buzz. She glanced at it, registering the familiar Philadelphia number. It was Fuji.
The hoodie.

“I—I need to take this,” Aria said, holding up one finger. “I’ll be right back.”

She ducked through the crowd and into the hall to the bathroom. Her heart pounded as she hit
ANSWER
and said hello.

“Aria,” Fuji barked through the receiver. “I’m sorry to call you so late. I have Emily and Spencer on the line, too.”

“Hey,” Emily and Spencer said in unison.

“H-hi,” Aria answered shakily, her heart hammering hard.

“I’ve tried to reach Hanna, but she isn’t picking up,” Fuji went on. “I have some news you might want to hear.”

“About Ali?” Aria said eagerly, unable to control her anticipation. Of
course
it was about Ali. There was no other reason Fuji would be calling. “Did you finally get the DNA results?”
They came back a match. That hair is Ali’s. Finally, finally, they understand that she’s still alive.

“I’m sorry it took so long, but yes, we got them,” Fuji said in a clipped voice. “The hair on the sweatshirt is Spencer’s.”

Aria’s mind went blank.

“What?” Spencer sputtered.

“It might have stuck to the shirt when you girls were examining it,” Fuji explained. “I’m sorry, girls.”

“I can’t believe this,” Spencer said faintly.

“B-but you tested the rest of the sweatshirt, right?” Aria pleaded. “There was something else on there, maybe? Ali’s skin cells?
Another
hair? An eyelash?”

Fuji sighed. “My team looked over the sweatshirt very thoroughly, but we didn’t find anything else that could be tested. You girls should also know that Rosewood Day had disabled their surveillance cameras in the pool area for the summer, so we have no record of the intruder. To be honest, no one should have been in there at all—including you, Emily. You’re lucky they’re not thinking of pressing charges on you for trespassing.”

“But . . . ,” Emily said emptily, trailing off. “It’s my
school.
I was there for a class. I wasn’t exactly trespassing.”

Aria sank against the wall. “So you have no video evidence?”

“No.” Fuji sounded frustrated. “We’ll keep looking around and asking questions, though. But as far as it being Alison, that’s simply impossible. Please let Hanna know.”

Aria listened to the dull
click
as Fuji disconnected the line. Then she stood back, her magical day suddenly ruined.

That was it. They were back to square one.

15

STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS

“Okay, fifteen minutes to air,” said Samantha Eggers, a pointy-chinned woman with dark-framed glasses, as she poked her head through the doorway. “Everyone good?”

Spencer and the other kids on the anti-bullying panel nodded, and then Samantha—the same woman who’d called Spencer and invited her to be on the panel—disappeared through the door. She’d stuck everyone in the green room, as she called it, where they could wait and relax as the crew got everything ready. It was basically a conference room in the Time-Life Building on Sixth Avenue near Fiftieth, which also housed
Time
,
Entertainment Weekly
,
People
, and aired a CNN morning show on the street level. The green room was full of chairs, couches, and magazines, and a long table held bowls of pretzels, a plate of cubed cheese, and a cooler full of sodas. The sweeping windows looked out onto Sixth Avenue and Radio City Music Hall’s old-fashioned neon sign.

There were supposed to be six kids on the panel, but not everyone was here yet. There were two girls besides Spencer, one of them equally fussily dressed and poised-looking as Spencer was. The other girl was Asian and reminded her of Emily: She wore no makeup, her dark hair was simply pulled back, and her plain black dress revealed strong-looking calves. Two boys sat on opposite sides of the room, cagily looking at their phones. By their slight frames and nervous demeanors, Spencer wondered if they’d been bullied. Maybe she’d even talked to them on her site.

She wanted to ask, but her mind was still on the call from Fuji. Why did Fuji shoot them down again and again?
Now
what were they going to do?

Everyone gathered at the door. Samantha led them into another conference room on the floor. It was filled with lights and cameras and a small stage area in front of a black curtain. There were a bunch of kids Spencer’s age sitting on folding chairs in the back. Samantha had told her there would be an audience, and she’d reached out to her blog readers and mentioned how psyched she was to be on the panel and wondered what sorts of questions they’d ask as audience members. A lot of people had replied; she hoped she’d receive questions half as insightful tonight.

Suddenly, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Spencer Hastings?”

A tall, athletic, tousled-haired boy had stood up from his chair in the front row. He wore a pale blue shirt, a tie, dress pants, and shiny loafers, and on the back of one hand was a tattoo of what looked like a soaring falcon peeking out of his sleeve. He was one of the handsomest strangers Spencer had ever seen.

“It’s Greg Messner,” he said after a beat. “I’ve emailed you a few times?”

Spencer blinked. “
You’re
Greg?”

He touched his chest. “You remember me?”

How could she not? This was the guy who’d bolstered her up, telling her that her blog’s message was powerful and uplifting. But Spencer had had no idea he was so
gorgeous.
“W-what are you doing here?” she stammered, nervously running her hand through her hair. Did it look frizzy? Should she have worn a different dress?

“I saw your post about the panel, and I called to see if I could be in the audience.” Greg ducked his head. “I wanted to support you.”

Spencer’s insides flipped. “Thank you,” she blurted, stunned that he cared so much.

Greg smiled and leaned forward, ready to talk more, but they were interrupted by Samantha as she clapped her hands. “Okay, folks! We’re ready!”

Greg stepped back and gestured for Spencer to go to the stage. “Good luck!” he said excitedly. “You’re going to be great.”

Samantha directed the panel to the chairs in front of the curtain. Makeup artists flitted around, brushing each of them with high-definition-camera face powder. Spencer tried to play it cool, but every so often she peeked into the audience at Greg. He was staring at her every single time. Her heart pounded wildly. Up close, Greg had even
smelled
good, like the men’s side of the Aveda salon she often frequented.

Not that she had a crush on him or anything. She barely
knew
him.

“Now, we’re going to be fairly informal,” Samantha explained, standing in front of the panelists. “One of the producers will ask a question, and then anyone can jump in. The audience can respond, too.” She gestured to them, though they all were nameless, uninteresting faces besides Greg’s. “Just be yourselves, and be proud of what you’ve accomplished. Remember, you all are the voices on anti-bullying measures, and we’re very supportive of your efforts.
All
of you.”

Spencer locked eyes with Greg again, and he gave her another encouraging smile. Then the cameras started to roll. One producer, a thin, graying man named Jamie, asked everyone to share their stories. The panelists went around the room, explaining how they or someone they loved had gone through a particularly horrible experience. The two shy boys had been tormented—one because of his sexuality, the other because he was on the autism spectrum. The athletic girl, whose name was Caitlin, was on the panel for starting an outreach program after her brother, Taylor, killed himself after being picked on violently. And Spencer briefly told her story about Ali, but she mostly made it about her website and how she wanted to help other people share their stories.

From there, Jamie asked more questions about the emotional toll bullying took on people, where bullying stemmed from, and how to stop it. The panel took turns giving answers, and every time Spencer spoke, she felt the weight of her words.
Every classroom
would see this for years. She was leaving a legacy.

When Jamie asked a question about whether bullying seemed to be on the rise in the age of digital media, the panelists looked at one another. Spencer cleared her throat. “Social media can expose your pain to a heightened degree. On Facebook,
everyone
sees what you’re going through, not just people who happen to be in the hall when whoever it is tortures you. Everyone can ‘like’ a mean comment about you. It might make you feel like it’s you against the world.”

She passed the microphone, catching Greg’s eyes in the audience.
Nice
, he mouthed. Her spine tingled pleasantly.

But then someone in the audience coughed. “That is such bullshit.”

Samantha’s eyebrows shot up. Cameras swung around to face the audience member. “Excuse me?” Jamie said, squinting into the darkness. “Can you stand up so we can see you, sir?”

A figure in a bulky red hunter’s plaid jacket rose. He was a dark-haired, square-faced guy with quirked eyebrows and a turned-down mouth that made him look angry. When he glanced at Spencer, his eyes hardened even more. “You people sound like those parents who blame violence on video games. Social media isn’t to blame. Oversensitive people are.”

Everyone on the stage murmured worriedly. Spencer blinked at the figure in the audience, a puzzle piece slotting into place. She recognized his face from a profile picture. It was DominickPhilly, the jerk who was always trolling her site.

Why the hell was
he
here?

Jamie placed his hands on his hips. “Maybe you’d like to elaborate on that?”

Dominick shrugged, his gaze still on Spencer. “The more power we give this whole anti-bullying thing, the more power we give bullies. You don’t think bullies haven’t been around since, like, the dawn of time? And maybe, I don’t know, some people
deserve
to get picked on.”