Mrs. Hastings twirled the two-carat diamond stud in her right ear, letting this sink in. Then her forehead wrinkled. The lines around her mouth looked etched as though with a chisel. Her eyes darted down to her plate.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asked quickly, her heart rocketing to her throat.
Mrs. Hastings’s mouth snapped into a tight smile. “That was a terrible night, honey.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Let’s not talk about it ever again.”
And then she turned away, flagging down the waitress to take their orders. She seemed nonchalant enough as she asked for the Asian chicken salad with sesame dressing on the side, but Spencer couldn’t help but notice that her hand was clenched tightly around her knife, and her finger was slowly tracing the sharpened edge of the blade.
Chapter 12
Even a Nuthouse Needs an in Crowd
Hanna stood in the cafeteria at the Preserve at Addison-Stevens, a tray of baked chicken and steamed veggies in her arms. The cafeteria was a large, square room with honey-colored wood floors, small farm tables, a glossy black Steinway grand piano off to one side, and a wall of windows that looked out onto the shimmering meadow. There were textured, abstract paintings on the walls and gray velvet curtains on the windows. On a table near the back were two shiny, expensive-looking cappuccino makers, a long, stainless-steel cooler full of every kind of soda imaginable, and platters upon platters of divine-looking chocolate cakes, lemon meringue pies, and toffee-fudge brownies. Not that Hanna would be partaking in the desserts, of course. This place might have a James Beard Award-winning pastry chef, but the last thing she needed was to pack on ten pounds of fat.
Admittedly, her first day in the loony bin hadn’t been that bad. She’d spent the first hour or so staring at the plaster swirls in the ceiling of her room, ruminating on how badly her life sucked. Then a nurse had come into her room, handing out a pill like it was a Tic Tac. Turned out, it had been a Valium, which she was allowed to take whenever she wanted here.
Then she’d had an appointment with her therapist, Dr. Foster, who promised she would contact Mike and tell him that Hanna wasn’t allowed to use the phone or send e-mails except for Sunday afternoons, so he wouldn’t think she was ignoring him. Dr. Foster also said Hanna didn’t have to talk about Ali, A, or Mona in session if she didn’t want to. And finally, the therapist reiterated over and over again that none of the girls on Hanna’s floor knew who she was—most of them had been at the Preserve for so long that they’d never heard of A or Ali to begin with. “So you won’t have to think about it while you’re here,” Dr. Foster said, patting Hanna’s hand. And all that took up the entire therapy hour. Score.
Now it was mealtime. Everyone else in the girls’ wing was gathered at tables of three and four. Most patients were wearing hospital scrubs or flannel jammies, their hair mussed, their faces without makeup, their fingernails without polish. There were, however, a few tables of pretty girls in skinny jeans, long tunics, and soft cashmere sweaters, their hair shiny, their bodies toned. But no one had noticed Hanna or welcomed her to sit with them. They all seemed to look through her, as if she were just a two-dimensional image drawn on tracing paper.
As Hanna stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, she felt transported back to the Rosewood Day cafeteria on the first day of sixth grade. Sixth graders were officially part of the middle school, which meant they ate lunch with kids in seventh and eighth. Hanna had stood at the edge of the room just like this, wishing she were pretty and thin and popular enough to sit with Naomi Zeigler and Alison DiLaurentis. Then Riley Wolfe bumped Hanna’s elbow, and Hanna’s spaghetti-and-meatballs lunch splattered all over her shoes and the floor. Even today, she could still hear Naomi’s high-pitched laugh, Ali’s demure chuckle, and Riley’s apathetic and insincere “Sorry.” Hanna had run out of the cafeteria in tears.
“Excuse me?”
Hanna turned around and saw a short, dumpy girl with dull brown hair and braces. She would’ve mistaken her for a twelve-year-old except that the girl had enormous boobs. Her melon-colored hoodie stretched tight across them, making them look rather like melons themselves. With a sad twinge, Hanna thought of Mike. He’d probably make the same boobalicious remark.
“Are you new?” the girl asked. “You look kind of lost.”
“Uh, yeah.” Hanna wrinkled her nose at the sudden, grandmotherly smell of Vicks VapoRub. It seemed to be wafting from this girl’s skin.
“I’m Tara.” The girl spat a little as she spoke.
“Hanna,” Hanna murmured apathetically, moving aside to let an aide in pink scrubs pass.
“You want to eat with us? It sucks to eat alone. We’ve all been there.”
Hanna lowered her eyes to the polished wood floor, considering her options. Tara didn’t seem crazy—just dorky. And beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Uh, sure,” she said, struggling to be polite.
“Great!” Tara—and her boobs—jiggled up and down. She wove through the tables, leading Hanna to a four-top at the back. A rail-thin girl with a long, hangdog face and goth-pale skin was picking at a plate of plain penne noodles, and a pudgy redhead with a noticeable bald patch above her right ear was nibbling furiously on an ear of corn. “This is Alexis and Ruby,” Tara announced. “And this is Hanna. She’s new!”
Alexis and Ruby shyly said hi. Hanna said hi back, feeling more and more unsettled. She was dying to ask these girls why they were here, but Dr. Foster had emphasized that diagnoses were not to be discussed except in private sessions or group therapy. Instead, patients were supposed to pretend that they were here by choice, like this was some kind of freaky camp.
Tara plopped down next to Hanna and immediately started cutting up the impressive pile of food on her plate—she had a hamburger, a square of lasagna, green beans bathed in butter and almonds, and a giant hunk of bread as big as Hanna’s palm.
“So this was your first day, right?” Tara asked cheerfully. “How was it?”
Hanna shrugged, wondering if Tara had overeating issues. “Kind of boring.”
Tara nodded, chewing with her mouth open. “I know. The no-Internet thing sucks. You can’t Twitter or blog or anything. Do you have a blog?”
“No,” Hanna answered, trying not to scoff. Blogs were for people who didn’t have lives.
Tara shoved another forkful of food into her mouth. She had a tiny cold sore at the corner of her lip. “You’ll get used to it. Most people here are really nice. There are only a couple girls to stay away from.”
“They’re bitches,” Alexis said, her voice surprisingly husky for someone so thin.
The other girls giggled naughtily at the word bitches. “They spend all their time at the spa,” Ruby said, rolling her eyes. “They can’t go one day without getting a manicure.”
Hanna almost choked on a broccoli stalk, certain she’d heard Ruby wrong. “Did you just say this place has a spa?”
“Yeah, but it costs extra.” Tara wrinkled her nose.
Hanna ran her tongue over her teeth. How had she not heard about the spa? And who cared if it cost extra? She was totally charging treatments to her dad’s tab. It served him right.
“So who’s your roomie?” Tara asked.
Hanna tucked her pebbled leather Marc Jacobs bag under her seat. “I haven’t met her yet.” Her roommate hadn’t returned to their shared room all day. She’d probably been sent to a padded isolation room or something.
Tara smiled. “Well, you should hang with us. We’re awesome.” She pointed her fork at Alexis and Ruby. “We make up plays about the hospital staff and perform them in our rooms. Ruby’s usually the lead.”
“Ruby is destined for the Broadway stage,” Alexis added. “She’s really good.”
Ruby blushed and ducked her head. Little corn kernels were stuck to her left cheek. Hanna had a feeling the closest Ruby would get to a Broadway stage would be as a cashier in the lobby snack bar.
“We play America’s Next Top Model, too,” Tara went on, stabbing at the lasagna.
This instantly sent Alexis and Ruby into hysterics. They slapped hands and belted out the show’s theme song, very off-key. “I wanna be on top!Na na na na NA na!”
Hanna slumped in her seat. It seemed like all the overhead lights in the cafeteria had dimmed except for the one directly over their table. A couple of girls at nearby tables turned and stared. “You guys pretend you’re models?” she asked weakly.
Ruby took a swig of Coke. “Not really. Mostly we just put together outfits from our closets and strut down the hall like it’s a runway. Tara has awesome clothes. And she’s got a Burberry bag!”
Tara dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “It’s fake,” she confessed. “My mom got it for me in Chinatown in New York. But it totally looks like the real thing.”
Hanna felt her will to live slowly drain out the soles of her feet. She eyed two chatting nurses near the dessert tray and wished she could hit them up for a double dose of Valium right then. “I’m sure it does,” she lied.
Suddenly, a blond girl watching them by the soup tureens caught Hanna’s eye. She had corn-silk blond hair, pale, gorgeous skin, and an alluring, indefinable presence about her. A shiver snaked through Hanna’s body. Ali?
She did a double take and realized this girl’s face was rounder, her eyes were green, not blue, and all her features were a little pointy. Hanna slowly let out a breath.
But the girl was now making a beeline for Hanna, Tara, Alexis, and Ruby, winding quickly around the tables. She had the exact same smirk on her face that Ali used to get when she was about to tease someone. Hanna gazed despondently at her dinner companions. Then she ran her hands along her thighs, stiffening with alarm. Did her legs feel chunkier than usual? And why did her hair feel so brittle and frizzy? Her heart began to pound. What if, just by sitting here with these dorks, Hanna had instantly reverted to her lame, loserish, pre-Ali self? What if she’d sprouted a double chin and back fat, and what if her teeth had gone instantly crooked? Nervous, Hanna reached for a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table. Just as she was about to shove the whole thing into her mouth, she recoiled in horror. What was she doing? Fabulous Hanna never ate bread.
Tara noticed the girl walking toward them and nudged Ruby. Alexis sat up straighter. Everyone held their breath as the girl approached the table. When she touched Hanna’s arm, Hanna bristled, bracing for the worst. She’d probably morphed into a hideous troll by now.
“Are you Hanna?” the girl said in a clear, mellifluous voice.
Hanna tried to speak, but her words got caught in her throat. She made a sound that was a cross between a hiccup and a burp. “Yeah,” she finally managed, her cheeks flaming.
The girl stuck out her hand. Her long nails were painted Chanel black. “I’m Iris,” she said. “Your roommate.”
“H-hi,” Hanna said cautiously, staring into Iris’s pale green, almond-shaped eyes.
