Stunning by Sara Shepard Read Free Book Online Page B

his sister.
    As Aria moved closer, considering asking the woman where she got her dress—Ella would love it—the woman pivoted, revealing more of her face. Something suddenly soured inside Aria, and she ducked around the corner. After a moment, she snuck another peek at the woman’s face and gasped.
    The woman wasn’t Mr. Kahn’s sister. She was Mr. Kahn .

6
    SPENCER’S IN
     
    That night, shortly after six, Spencer walked into Striped Bass, a restaurant on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. The place had echoing high ceilings, Brazilian cherry floors polished to a glossy shine, and Corinthian columns around the perimeter. Huge, barrel-shaped lights swung overhead, waiters swirled around white tablecloth–draped tables, and the air smelled like melted butter, grilled swordfish, and red wine.
    PRINCETON EARLY ADMISSIONS WELCOME DINNER read a small sign just past the maître d’ stand, pointing to a small room off to the right. Inside, thirty eager kids her age were standing around tables. The guys were all dressed in khakis, button-downs, and ties, and had that slightly nerdy, overconfident look of every class valedictorian Spencer had ever met. The girls wore sweater sets, knee-length skirts, and demure, I’m-going-to-join-a-law-firm-someday high heels. Some of them were whip-thin and looked like models, others were chubbier or wore dark-framed glasses, but they all looked like they had 4.0 GPAs and perfect SAT scores.
    A flashing TV screen above the main bar caught Spencer’s eye. THIS FRIDAY, AN ENCORE PERFORMANCE OF PRETTY LITTLE KILLER , a banner announced in bold yellow letters. The girl playing Alison DiLaurentis appeared, telling the Spencer, Aria, Hanna, and Emily actresses that she wanted to be their BFF again. “I’ve missed all of you,” she simpered. “I want you back.”
    Spencer turned away, heat rising to her face. Wasn’t it time they stopped showing that stupid docudrama? Anyway, the movie didn’t tell the whole story. It left out the part about all of the girls thinking Real Ali had surfaced in Jamaica.
    Don’t think about Ali—or Jamaica , Spencer scolded herself silently, squaring her shoulders and marching into the dining room. The last thing she needed was to freak out, Lady Macbeth–style, at her first Princeton fete.
    As soon as she swept through the double doors, a girl with blond hair and wide, violet eyes gave her an enormous smile. “Hi! Are you here for the dinner?”
    “Yes,” Spencer said, straightening up. “Spencer Hastings. From Rosewood.” She prayed no one would recognize her name—or notice that a slightly heavier, twenty-something version of her was on TV in the room behind them.
    “Welcome! I’m Harper, one of the student ambassadors.” The girl shuffled through a bunch of name tags and found one with Spencer’s name written in all caps. “Hey, did you get that at the D.C. Leadership Conference two years ago?” she asked, eyeing the silver Washington Monument–shaped keychain that hung from Spencer’s oversize leather tote.
    “I did!” Spencer said, glad she’d stuck the keychain on the zipper pull at the last minute. She’d hoped someone would recognize it.
    Harper smiled. “I have one of those somewhere. I thought they only asked college students to that.”
    “Normally they do,” Spencer said with mock-bashfulness. “You were there, too?”
    Harper nodded eagerly. “It was pretty great, don’t you think? Meeting all those senators, doing those mock-UN meetings, although that opening dinner was kind of . . .” Harper trailed off, making an awkward face.
    “Weird?” Spencer ventured, giggling. “You’re talking about that mime, right?” The event coordinators had hired a mime as entertainment. He’d spent the entire dinner pretending he was trapped in an invisible box or walking his imaginary dog.
    “Yes!” Harper snickered. “He was so creepy!”
    “Remember how that senator from Idaho loved him?” Spencer tittered.
    “ Totally