Mike hefted his bag over his shoulder and sauntered into the hall, knocking over the enormous frog-faced totem pole Ella had found at a junk shop in Turkey. The front door slammed heavily. Aria heard an engine gunning…and then nothing.

The house was maddeningly still. The only thing Aria heard was the Indian sitar music Ella always listened to before work—she often left it on all day, maintaining that it was soothing for their cat, Polo, and the plants.

“Do you want a part of the paper?” Xavier broke the silence.

He held up the front page. Splayed across the top was the headline Ian Thomas Vows to Find Real DiLaurentis Killer Before Trial Tomorrow. Aria shuddered. “That’s okay.” She quickly poured herself a cup of coffee and headed back toward the stairs.

“Wait,” Xavier said loudly. Aria stopped so abruptly, some of her coffee spilled to the floor. “I’m sorry if I might have made you uncomfortable at the restaurant last night,” Xavier said solemnly. “That’s the last thing I meant to do. And I wanted to be gone before you came down today—I didn’t want to skeev you out more. I know how weird this must be.”

Aria wanted to ask if he meant that it must be weird because he knew she had been interested in him, or because he was dating her not-yet-divorced mom.

“It’s…fine.” Aria set her coffee down on the telephone table next to the door. It was littered with a whole bunch of flyers and postcards of Xavier’s recent shows—Ella must have been boning up on his work. Then she adjusted her way-too-short gray terry-cloth pajama shorts. If only she hadn’t been wearing the ones with the enormous pink Pegasus silk-screened across the butt.

She thought about the A note she’d received at Rabbit Rabbit yesterday. Wilden had promised to call her once he traced the origin of her latest A note. She hoped she’d hear from him today so she could put the whole thing behind her.

Aria had debated just explaining the photos of her and Xavier to Ella before A had the chance. She tried to picture it. The thing is, I kind of liked Xavier before you started dating him, she could say. But it’s not like I do now! So if anyone sends you a note or pictures, ignore them, okay? But their relationship was just too fragile to broach something like this—especially if she didn’t need to.

In truth, Wilden was probably right. The notes had to be from some dumb kid. And there wasn’t much of a reason to be angry at Xavier—all he’d done was draw a sketch of her—a really good sketch. That was it. Even if Ella saw the pictures A had sent Aria, Xavier would jump in to explain that nothing had been going on. He probably hadn’t even realized the message he’d sent, drawing Aria’s portrait in such detail. Xavier was an artiste, after all, and artists weren’t the most socially adept creatures in the world. Take Byron: When he’d held cocktail parties for his Hollis undergrad students, he’d often hidden up in the bedroom, forcing Ella to entertain.

Xavier stood up, wiping his chin with a napkin. “How about I make it up to you? I’ll go get dressed and then give you a ride to school.”

Aria lowered her shoulders. Ella had taken the car to work that morning, and getting a ride definitely beat taking the Rosewood Day bus, which was filled with elementary school boys who never got tired of farting contests. “Okay,” she agreed. “Thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, Aria was shrugging into the black bouclé coat she’d bought at a vintage shop in Paris and stepping out onto the front porch. Xavier’s car, a pristinely restored, late-sixties BMW 2002, chugged in the driveway. Aria slid into the front seat, admiring the sleek chrome interior. “Now this is how an old car should look.” She whistled, impressed. “Have you seen my mom’s ancient Honda? There’s mold growing on the seats.”

Xavier chuckled. “My dad had one of these when I was growing up.” He began to back out of the driveway. “After my parents divorced and he moved to Oregon, I missed the car more than him.”

He glanced at Aria, giving her a sympathetic look. “I really do know how weird this is, you know. My mom started dating right away after she got divorced. I hated it.”

So that’s what he’d meant. Aria stared pointedly in the other direction, watching a couple of younger public school students crunch clumsily over the quickly melting snowdrifts at the bus stop. The last thing she wanted to hear was another I’ve been there story. Sean Ackard, who she’d gone out with for about a minute this fall, had earnestly revealed his struggles with his mom’s death and his dad’s remarriage. And Ezra had bemoaned that when his parents divorced, he’d smoked tons of pot. Woo-hoo, everyone else’s lives sucked ass too. It didn’t really make Aria’s problems any easier.

“All my mom’s boyfriends tried to bond with me,” Xavier went on. “Every single one of them brought me sports equipment, like baseball gloves, basketballs, once even a whole hockey uniform, complete with pads and stuff. If they’d really attempted to learn anything about me, they would’ve known to bring me a handheld mixer. Or Bundt cake pans. Or muffin tins.”

Aria looked over, intrigued. “Muffin tins?”

Xavier smiled sheepishly. “I was really into baking.” He hit the brakes at a crosswalk, waiting for a bunch of little kids to pass. “It helped to calm me down. I was especially good at meringues. This was before I discovered art. I was the only guy in my school’s home ec club. Actually, that’s where my Match.com nickname comes from—Wolfgang. I was obsessed with Wolfgang Puck when I was in high school. He had this restaurant in L.A. called Spago, and this one time, I drove down there from Seattle, where I went to high school, thinking I could just walk in without reservations.” He rolled his eyes. “I ended up eating at Arby’s.”

Aria looked at him, noting his serious expression. She burst out laughing. “You are such a girl.”

“I know.” Xavier ducked his head. “I wasn’t very popular in high school. No one really got me.”

Aria ran her fingers through her long, black ponytail. “I used to be really unpopular too.”

“You?” Xavier waved his hand. “Nah.”

“It’s true,” Aria said quietly. “No one understood me at all.”

She sat back in the seat, thrust into thought. Aria had always tried very hard not to dwell on the lonely, friendless years before she’d become friends with Ali, but seeing that black-and-white photo of her the other day—the one from when Time Capsule was announced—had jostled a whole bunch of memories free.

When Aria was in fourth grade, everyone in her Rosewood Day class was friends with everyone else. But in fifth, things suddenly…changed. Tight-knit cliques cropped up literally overnight, and everyone knew their place. It was like a game of musical chairs: after the music stopped, all her classmates easily found a seat, while Aria was still floundering around, chairless.

Aria tried to find a group of friends. One week, she dressed in black and Doc Martens and loitered around the hooligans that shoplifted from Wawa and shared cigarettes behind the dragon-shaped slide before school. But she had nothing in common with them. They all despised reading, even fun things like Narnia. Another week, she dug out her frilly vintage clothes and tried to hang with the prissy girls who loved Hello Kitty and thought boys were gross. But they were so high-maintenance. One of the girls cried for three hours because she’d accidentally stepped on a ladybug at recess. No group fit her, so Aria eventually stopped trying. She spent a lot of time by herself, ignoring everyone else as best she could.

Everyone, that was, except Ali. Sure, Ali was a Typical Rosewood Girl, but something about her fascinated Aria. The day Ali strolled out of the school and announced she was going to win Time Capsule, Aria couldn’t help but sketch Ali’s beautiful, heart-shaped face and stunning smile. She envied how effortless Ali was around boys—even older ones like Ian. But the thing Aria liked most about Ali was Ali’s gorgeous, sensitive older brother.

The day Jason strutted up to Ian and told him to leave Ali alone, Aria had already developed a full-blown, unbridled, very painful crush on him. For weeks, she’d been sneaking over to the high school library during her free periods to watch him studying with his German class. She would hide behind a tree that overlooked the soccer fields to spy on him as he stretched near the goalie pen. Sometimes she would leaf through old yearbooks in the yearbook room to find out all the information she could about Jason. It was one of the few times Aria was glad not to have any friends. She could enjoy her unrequited crush in peace, without having to explain it to anyone.

Right after Time Capsule was announced, Aria slipped Byron’s signed copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in her knapsack—one of the things she’d read about Jason in an old yearbook was how much he loved Kurt Vonnegut. Aria’s heart pounded as she waited for Jason to emerge from the Journalism Barn after his Principles of Newspaper Writing class. When she saw him, she reached into her bag for the book, hoping to show it to him as he walked by. When Jason found out Aria liked Vonnegut too, maybe he’d realize they were soul mates.

But Mrs. Wagner, the high school’s head secretary, cut in front of Aria at the last minute and grabbed Jason’s arm. There was an important call for him in the office. “A girl,” Mrs. Wagner explained. Jason’s face clouded. He brushed past Aria without even looking at her. Aria dropped the book back into her bag, embarrassed. The girl on the phone was probably Jason’s age and stunningly beautiful, while Aria was just some sixth-grade freak. The day after that, Aria, Emily, Spencer, and Hanna had all shown up in Ali’s backyard at the same time. They’d clearly all had the same hope and plan: to snag Ali’s Time Capsule flag. By that point, Aria didn’t care so much about stealing Ali’s flag—she just wanted another opportunity to see Jason. Little did she know at the time that she’d finally get her wish. Xavier pulled up the old BMW’s brake, jolting Aria back to reality. They were in a parking space right in front of Rosewood Day. “I still don’t feel like people get me,” Aria concluded, staring at the stately brick school in front of them. “Even now.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you’re an artist,” Xavier said gently. “Artists never feel understood. But that’s what makes you special.”

Aria ran her fingers along the sides of her yak-fur bag. “Thanks,” she said, really appreciating his words. Then she added with a smirk, “Wolfgang.”

Xavier winced. “Later.” He waved and drove away.

Aria watched as his BMW snaked down the long drive and out to the street. Then, she heard what sounded like a giggle, close in her ear. She whipped around, trying to figure out where it was coming from, but no one was looking at her. The school’s parking lot was packed with kids. Devon Arliss and Mason Byers were trying to shove each other into a dirty patch of slush. Scott Chin, the yearbook photographer, was aiming his camera at the gnarled bare upper branches of a tree, and beyond him, Jenna Cavanaugh and her guide dog were standing on the slippery walk. Jenna’s head was held high, her pale skin shone, and her dark hair fanned out over her red wool trench. If it weren’t for the white cane and the service dog, Jenna would’ve been a gorgeous Typical Rosewood.