Friday afternoon, Hanna sat on the soccer bleachers, watching the Rosewood Day boys' team battle Lansing Prep. Only she couldn't really focus. Her normally manicured fingernails were ragged, the skin around her thumbs was bleeding from nervous picking, and her eyes had become so red from sleeplessness, it looked like she had pinkeye. She should have been hiding at home. Sitting on the bleachers was way too public.
I'm watching you, A had said. You'd better do what I say.
But maybe it was like what politicians said about terrorist attacks: If you holed up in your house, afraid they were going to strike, it would mean the terrorists had won. She would sit here and watch soccer, like she had all last year and the year before that.
But then Hanna looked around. That someone really, truly knew about The Jenna Thing—and was poised to blame her—terrified her. And what if A really did tell her dad? Not now. Not when things might be getting better.
She craned her neck for the millionth time toward the commons, looking for Mona. Watching the boys' games was a little Hanna-Mona tradition; they mixed SoCo with syrupy Diet Dr Peppers from the concession stand yelled sexy insults at the away team. But Mona was AWOL. Since their weird fight at the mall yesterday, Hanna and Mona hadn't spoken.
Hanna caught a glimpse of a blond ponytail and a loose red braid and cringed. Riley and Naomi had arrived, and had climbed up to a spot not that far away from Hanna. Today, both girls carried matching patent leather Chanel bags and wore obviously brand-spanking-new swingy tweed coats, as if it were actually a chilly fall day and not still a summery seventy-five degrees. When they looked in Hanna's direction, Hanna quickly pretended to be fascinated with the soccer game, even though she had no idea what the score was.
"Hanna looks fat in that outfit," she overheard Riley whisper.
Hanna felt her cheeks heat up. She stared at the way her cotton C&C California top gently stretched against her midsection. She probably was getting fatter, with all the nervous eating she'd been doing this week. It was just that she was really trying to resist the urge to throw it all up—although, that was what she wanted to do right now.
The teams broke for halftime, and the Rosewood Day boys trotted to their bench. Sean flopped down on the grass and started massaging his calf. Hanna saw her chance and clomped down the bleacher's metallic seats. Yesterday, after A texted her, she hadn't called Sean to tell him she wasn't going to Foxy. She'd been too shell-shocked.
"Hanna," Sean said, seeing her standing over him. "Hey." He looked beautiful today as usual, despite his shirt being sweat-stained and his face a teensy but unshaven. "How are you?"
Hanna sat down next to him, tucking her legs under her and arranging her pleated uniform skirt around her so all the soccer players couldn't see her undies. "I'm..." She swallowed hard, trying not to burst into tears. Losing my mind. Being tortured by A. "So, um, listen." She clasped her hands together. "I'm not going to Foxy."
"Really?" Sean cocked his head. "Why not? Are you okay?"
Hanna ran her hands through the closely cropped, sweet-smelling soccer field grass. She'd told Sean the same story she'd told Mona—that her father had died. "It's...complicated. But, um, I thought I should tell you."
Sean unfastened the Velcro on his shin guard and then tightened it up again. For a brief second, Hanna got a glimpse of his perfect, sinewy calves. For whatever reason, she thought they were the sexiest part of his body. "I might not go, either," he said.
"Really?" she asked, startled.
Sean shrugged. "All my friends are going with dates. I'd be the odd guy out."
"Oh." Hanna moved her legs out of the way so the soccer coach, who was staring at his clipboard, could pass by. She resisted smacking herself. Did that mean Sean had thought of her as his date?
Sean shaded his eyes and stared at her. "Are you all right? You seem...sad."
Hanna cupped her hands over her bare knees. She needed to talk to someone about A. Except there was no way. "I'm just tired." She sighed.
Sean touched Hanna's wrist lightly. "Listen. Maybe some night next week, let's get dinner. I don't know... We probably should talk about stuff."
Hanna's heart did a tiny leap. "Sure. That sounds nice."
"Cool." Sean smiled, standing up. "See you later, then."
The band started playing the Rosewood Day fight song, signaling that the team's break was over. Hanna climbed back to the top of the bleachers, feeling a little better. As she returned to her seat, Riley and Naomi were looking at her curiously.
"Hanna!" Naomi cried, when Hanna met her gaze. "Hi!"
"Hey," Hanna said, mustering up as much fake-sweetness as she could.
"Were you talking to Sean?" Naomi ran her hand through her blond ponytail. She was always obsessively petting her hair. "I thought you guys had a bad breakup."
"It wasn't a bad breakup," Hanna said. "We're still friends...and whatever."
Riley let out a little laugh. "And you broke up with him, right?"
Hanna's stomach lurched. Had someone said something. "That's right."
Naomi and Riley exchanged a look. Then Naomi said, "Are you going to Foxy?"
"Actually, no," Hanna said haughtily. "I'm meeting my father at Le Bec-Fin."
"Ooh." Naomi winced. "I heard Le Bec-Fin was, like, the place people take people when they don't want to be seen."
"No, it's not." Heat rose to Hanna's face. "It's, like, the best restaurant in Philly." She started to panic. Had Le Bec-Fin changed?
Naomi shrugged, her face impassive. "It's just what I've heard, is all."
"Yeah." Riley widened her brown eyes. "Everyone knows that."
Suddenly, Hanna noticed a piece of paper sitting next to her on the bleachers. It was folded in the shape of an airplane and weighed down with a rock.
"What's that?" Naomi called. "Origami?"
Hanna unfolded the airplane and turned it over.
Hi again, Hanna! I want you to read Naomi and Riley the sentences below just as they're written. No cheating! And if you don't, everyone will know the truth about you-what-what. That includes Daddy. —A
Hanna stared at the paragraph below, written in rounded, unfamiliar handwriting. "No," she whispered, her heart starting to pound. What A had written would ruin her flawless rep forever:
I tried to get in Sean's pants at Noel's party, but he dumped me instead. And, oh yeah, I make myself throw up at least three times a day.
"Hanna, did you get a luuuuuve letter?" Riley cooed. "Is it from a secret admirer?"
Hanna glanced at Naomi and Riley, in their shortened pleated skirts and wedge heels. They both stared at her like wolves, as if they could smell her weakness. "Did you see who put this here?" she asked, but they looked at her blankly and shrugged.
Next she looked around the soccer bleachers, at every clump of kids, every parent, even at Lansing's bus driver in the parking lot, leaning against the back of the bus smoking a cigarette. Whoever was doing this to her had to be here, right? They would have to know Riley and Naomi were sitting near her.
She looked at the note again. She couldn't say this to them. There was no way.
But then she thought about the final time her dad asked her about Jenna's accident. He'd sat down on her bed and spent a long time staring at the knitted socktopus Aria had made for her. "Hanna," he finally said. "I'm worried about you. Promise me you guys weren't playing with fireworks the night that girl was blinded."
"I...I didn't touch the fireworks," Hanna whispered. It wasn't a lie.
Down on the soccer field, two Lansing boys were giving each other high fives. Somewhere under the bleachers, someone lit a joint; its skunky, mossy smell wafted into Hanna's nostrils. She crumpled up the piece of paper, stood up, and, stomach churning, walked over to Naomi and Riley. They looked up at her bemused. Riley's mouth hung open. Her breath, Hanna noticed, stunk like someone who was on Atkins.
"Itriedtogetinseanspantsatnoelspartybuthedumbedmeinstead," Hanna blurted out. She took a deep breath. The part wasn't even exactly true, but whatever. "AndImakemyselfbarfthreetimesaday."
The words came out in a fast, unintelligible jumble, and Hanna turned swiftly around. "What did she say?" she heard Riley whisper, but she certainly wasn't going to turn around and make herself clearer.
She stomped down the bleachers, ducking around someone's mother who was carrying a precarious tray of Cokes and popcorn. She looked for someone—anyone—who might be looking back. But nothing. Not a single person was giggling or whispering. Everyone was just watching the Rosewood Day soccer boys advance toward Lansing's goal.
But A had to be here. A had to be watching.