None of the others looked nearly as good—Naomi and Kate were wearing DVF dresses from last season, and Riley’s slightly pilled wrap dress was from two seasons ago—horrors. Courtney wasn’t wearing anything by the designer, opting instead for a simple Marc Jacobs wool dress and brown ankle boots. She carried herself so confidently, though, that Hanna wondered if it was actually the chicer decision. What if it was gauche to wear a designer’s clothes to her fashion show, like the out-of-town dorks who wore I NY T-shirts?

Hanna brushed the thought away. The day had been fantastic so far. Hanna had sat with the others at lunch, chatting excitedly about which celebrities they might see at the show—Madonna? Taylor Momsen? Natalie Portman? Then, they’d boarded the Amtrak Acela at Thirtieth Street Station and spent the hour-long train ride to New York City taking swigs of champagne from a bottle Naomi had stolen from her dad, giggling every time the rail-thin, stick-up-her-butt business lady sitting next to them gave them dirty looks. Okay, so they didn’t realize they were sitting in the train’s Quiet Car, which had stricter rules than the Rosewood Day library. But that only made it funnier.

Naomi poked Courtney’s shoulder as they strode down Fortieth Street. “We should go to that restaurant you read about in Daily Candy, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Courtney said, ducking around a pungent-smelling hot dog cart. “But only if Hanna wants to.” She shot Hanna a covert smile. Ever since they’d shared that weird moment about Iris, Courtney had had Hanna’s back.

They turned into the park. The place was mobbed with fashion people, each skinnier, prettier, and more glamorous than the last. In front of a big sign for Mercedes-Benz, E! was interviewing a woman who’d been a guest judge on Project Runway. A film crew was positioned right at the entrance of the DVF show, shooting every invitee who paraded into the tent.

Naomi grabbed Riley’s arm. “Oh my God, we’re going to be totally famous.”

“Maybe we’ll be in Teen Vogue!” Kate gushed. “Or Page Six!”

Hanna was smiling so broadly that her cheeks hurt. She waltzed up to the coordinator manning the door, an angular black man wearing pink lipstick. Cameras swiveled and focused on her face. She tried to pretend they weren’t there. That was what famous actresses did when confronted with the paparazzi.

“Hi, our reservations are under Marin,” Hanna said in a cool, professional voice, whipping out the five tickets she’d carefully printed out on heavy-stock paper last night. She shot Naomi and the others an excited smile, and they grinned back graciously.

The coordinator studied the invites and smirked. “Aw, how sweet. Someone knows how to use Photoshop!”

Hanna blinked. “Huh?”

He handed the invites back. “Honey, to get into this tent, you need a black key with the DVF logo on the front. One hundred people received them a month ago. These flimsy things won’t get you squat.”

It felt as though the guy had kicked Hanna in the spleen with his silver platform shoe. “My mom sent me these!” she wailed. “They’re real!”

The guy jutted out a hip. “Mommy’s got some explaining to do.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go on back to day care, girls.”

The buildings around Bryant Park crept in closer. Sweat began to slowly snake down Hanna’s forehead. The camera crew panned over Hanna’s face, and someone whispered Pretty Little Liar. A couple of skinny girls were typing frantically on their PDAs. This would probably be splashed all over fashion blogs and Twitter feeds in minutes. They’d probably be “random fugs” on Go Fug Yourself.

Naomi yanked Hanna out of line and pushed her against a scrawny tree. “What the hell, Hanna?”

“She did this on purpose,” Riley hissed nastily, sidling up behind them. “You were right, Naomi. Someone like her could never get tickets to this thing.”

“I didn’t know!” Hanna protested, her heels sinking into the slushy dirt around the tree trunk. “I’ll call my mom. She can work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Kate spat, her face inches from Hanna’s. Her breath smelled like stale pretzels. “We gave you a chance, and you blew it.”

Courtney crossed her arms, but didn’t say anything.

“You’re never going to be popular at Rosewood Day again,” Naomi threatened. She pulled her BlackBerry out of her clutch and grabbed Riley’s arm. “Let’s go to the Waverly Inn.” She shot a menacing look at Hanna. “Don’t you dare follow us.”

The four of them disappeared into the crowd. Hanna turned away, staring into a nearby trash can that was filled with plastic champagne glasses. Two girls with long, shiny hair passed, each holding a black key with the DVF label stamped on the front. “I’m so psyched for the show,” one of them trilled. She was wearing the same dress Hanna had on, except in a size zero instead of a four. Bitch.

Whipping out her cell phone, she dialed her mom’s number in Singapore, not caring that it probably cost a trillion dollars to connect. The phone rang six times before her mom picked up. “I can’t believe you!” Hanna howled. “You ruined my life!”

“…Hanna?” Ms. Marin said, her voice sounding tinny and far away. “What’s going on?”

“Why would you send me fake tickets to a fashion show?” Hanna kicked a pebble, causing a few nearby pigeons to scatter. “It’s bad enough you ditched me and left me with Dad, who hates me, and Kate, who wants to ruin my life! Did you have to embarrass me in front of everyone, too?”

“What tickets?” Ms. Marin said.

Hanna gritted her teeth. “Tickets to the Diane von Furstenberg show in Bryant Park? The ones you e-mailed me the other day? Or are you so consumed with your job that you’ve already forgotten?”

“I never sent you tickets,” her mother said, her voice suddenly laced with concern. “Are you sure the e-mail was from me?”

A bunch of lights in a skyscraper across the street snapped on. Pedestrians crossed from one side of Forty-second Street to the other in an amorphous herd. Goose bumps rose on Hanna’s arms. If her mom hadn’t sent those fake invitations, who had?

“Hanna?” Ms. Marin asked after a pause. “Honey, are you all right? Is there something we need to talk about?”

“No,” Hanna said quickly, stabbing the END button. Then she staggered back to the library and sat down below one of the stone lions. There was a newspaper kiosk on the sidewalk, a copy of today’s New York Post face out. Billy Ford’s wild eyes glowered back at Hanna, his expression spellbindingly chilling, his long blond hair plastered to his sallow forehead. Ford Didn’t Do It blared the headline.

A stiff wind gusted, blowing the top newspaper loose. It fluttered across the sidewalk, coming to a stop at a pair of familiar brown ankle boots. Hanna’s gaze traveled from the boots all the way up to the heart-shaped face topped with blond hair. “Oh,” she spurted, surprised.

“Hi,” Courtney said, a smile on her face.

Hanna lowered her head. “What do you want?”

Courtney plopped down next to her. “Are you okay?”

Hanna didn’t answer.

“They’ll get over it.”

“No they won’t. I blew it,” Hanna wailed over a grumbling Big Apple tour bus. She had a sudden craving for Cheez-Its. “I’m officially a loser.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Hanna set her jaw. Maybe this was something she had to accept. “Before I met your sister, I was really lame. I don’t even know why she wanted to be friends with me. I’m not cool. I’ve never been cool. I can’t change that.”

“Hanna,” Courtney said sternly. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

Hanna snorted. “You’ve known me for two days.”

Headlights flashed across Courtney’s face. “I’ve known you for a lot longer than that.”

Hanna raised her head and stared at the girl on the steps. “Huh?”

Courtney cocked her head. “Come on. I thought you’d known for a while. Since the hospital.”

A chilly wind kicked up, blowing around cigarette butts and spare bits of trash. “The…hospital?”

“Don’t you remember?” Courtney smiled hopefully. “I visited you when you were in a coma.”

A hazy memory of a blond figure wavered and wobbled in Hanna’s mind. A girl had leaned over her bed murmuring I’m okay, I’m okay. But Hanna had always thought that girl was…

Hanna blinked in disbelief. “Ali?”

The girl next to her nodded. She extended her arms out ta-daa! style.

“What?” Hanna’s heart thundered. “How?”

Ali told her story. Hanna gasped at the end of almost every sentence, barely believing her ears. She gazed at the pedestrians walking down Fifth Avenue. A woman pushed a Silver Cross baby carriage, yakking on a Motorola Droid. A gay couple in matching John Varvatos leather jackets walked their French bulldog. It was amazing that their mundane lives could proceed apace amidst such a life-altering revelation.

She took Hanna’s hands. “Hanna, I never thought you were a loser. And seriously, look at you now.” She leaned back and gestured to Hanna’s hair and outfit. “You’re stunning.”

The surface of Hanna’s skin throbbed. In sixth grade, she’d felt like the Michelin Tire Man next to Ali. Her stomach bulged and her braces made her cheeks puffy. Ali had always looked so flawless—whether she was in her field hockey skirt or the white dress she’d worn to seventh-grade graduation. For years Hanna had longed to show Ali her makeover, to prove that she was fabulous, too. “Thanks,” she whispered, feeling thoroughly disembodied, as if caught in a dream.

“You and I are the ones who deserve to be popular, Hanna.” Ali’s eyes hardened for such a brief moment that Hanna wondered if she’d imagined it. “Not your stepsister. And especially not Naomi or Riley. So you know what we need to do?”

“W-what?” Hanna stuttered.

A coy smile slunk onto Ali’s face. All of a sudden, she was pure Ali again—irresistible, intoxicating, and utterly in control of everything. She stepped off the stairs and extended her arm for a cab. One pulled up immediately. Ali climbed in and motioned for Hanna to follow.

“Penn Station,” Ali said to the driver, slamming the door. Then she turned back to Hanna. “We ditch the bitches,” she said. “And then we take them down.”

15

WHEN YOU WISH UPON A WELL

Late Thursday night, Aria stood in her bedroom at Byron’s new house, examining the fringed red dress she’d bought for the Valentine’s Day dance. Would Noel think it was artistic and stylish…or kooky?

Suddenly, a flicker outside the big bedroom window caught her eye. A figure jogged past the house, her lithe body illuminated by the amber-hued streetlight. Aria immediately recognized the pink Windbreaker, black running tights, and dirty blond hair tucked into a silver beanie. Spencer’s sister, Melissa, religiously ran the neighborhood roads every afternoon.