“No, I’m not.” Ali had willed tears to her eyes. “It’s too hard on me, Mom. I have nightmares every time I go there.”
For some reason, the pity act wasn’t working. “If you don’t come, you can’t go to the end-of-seventh-grade sleepover with your friends,” Mrs. DiLaurentis proclaimed.
Ali’s mouth dropped. “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do!”
Mrs. DiLaurentis stood. “I’m your mother, of course I can,” she said sternly. “She’s your sister, Alison. I know you two have a lot of bad history, but you need to get past it and try to have some sympathy. Have you thought any more about the therapist I recommended?”
Ali had flopped onto the bed and covered her head with a pillow. Her mom had mentioned a local therapist from time to time, saying it might help her deal with her issues with her twin. But what her mom didn’t know was that she’d been to therapists for years—and they’d never been able to solve that problem.
Now she was a prisoner in the car. The closer they got to the hospital, the tighter the knot in her stomach cinched. As her father continued up the drive, Ali’s phone beeped. She thought it might be a text from Nick—they’d sent messages back and forth all morning, and she was sure he was this close to asking her out. But it was from Emily instead. I’m sorry about last night. Where are you? Can we talk now?
Ali gazed at the building in the distance. The hospital was a big white mansion with impressive columns, looking more like someone’s house than a mental institution. A nurse and a patient hobbled along the path. Another patient sat on a bench, just staring. An ambulance was parked in a side driveway, waiting for a disaster.
Can’t right now, she wrote, then turned her phone off. She’d begun to understand why her parents kept the second twin a secret all these years: There was definitely a stigma to having a daughter or sister in a loony bin. People might assume the DiLaurentises were bad parents for putting her there. Or maybe they’d assume the rest of the family was crazy, too.
Her heart pounded fast as they pulled up to the guard’s gate and gave their name to a khaki-clad man with a walkie-talkie. They circled the driveway and passed the obsessively manicured topiaries and the glassy-eyed patients on the lawn. For a moment, Ali thought she recognized one of them from the Radley, a girl who used to scream in her bed for hours on end, but she couldn’t be sure.
They parked in the visitors’ lot and got out. Ali lagged behind her brother and parents, staring at the names on the plaques of old patients who had passed on that were mounted beside the trees and benches. NELLY PETERSON. THOMAS RYDER. GRACE HARTLEY. That was another thing people said about the Preserve: The suicide rate was worryingly high. People must have thought death was a better option than being trapped in here.
The lobby had marble floors, a big fountain in the center, and modern white couches. After giving their name to a lab coat–wearing receptionist, they were buzzed into the patient ward, which was markedly shabbier and older than the lobby or the outside. They entered the day room, which was big and bright with several large windows, threadbare couches pushed against the walls, and an old, blinking TV playing a movie Ali didn’t recognize. The room smelled of antiseptic cleaner and macaroni and cheese. A nurse listening to headphones sat behind a window in the corner. A woman Ali was almost positive was a psychiatrist was talking to a despondent girl with white-blond hair by a bookcase full of board games.
Then, the door opened, and a familiar girl walked into the room.
Ali sucked in her breath. Her sister’s blond hair had been blow-dried and curled to perfection. Her skin looked flawless, despite the gross hospital food she was no doubt eating, and her boobs were still a teensy bit bigger and her waist a teensy bit smaller than Ali’s. Gold earrings dangled from her ears, and she wore shimmery pink lipstick.
“Hi, everyone,” her twin chirped pleasantly, giving her parents a peck on the cheek and squeezing Jason’s arm. Only when she turned to Ali did her expression shift a little. Fury smoldered behind her eyes.
Everyone sat down on one of the plaid couches near the TV. Mrs. DiLaurentis scrambled around getting everyone Cokes from the vending machine. She presented her daughters with Diet Cokes, looking proud of herself. “I figured you girls didn’t want real sugar.”
Ali wrinkled her nose. “I don’t drink Diet Coke, either. No one at school does.”
Mrs. DiLaurentis looked abashed. “But I bought you a whole case last month.”
“But that was before I read that fake sugar makes you just as fat.” Ali pushed the can away. “I got everyone at school to drink Vitaminwater instead.”
“Courtney” snorted. “It’s fun being a trendsetter, isn’t it, Ali?”
Ali flinched. Not long ago, you weren’t the girl who set the trends, her sister was really saying. You were nothing. “Of course it is,” she said confidently. “Plus, I think it’s much healthier.”
Suddenly, the despondent girl who’d been talking to the therapist in the corner made a flying leap onto the couch and engulfed Ali’s sister in a huge hug. “C!” she whooped.
“Hey, I,” “Courtney” said, slinging her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Everyone, this is Iris, my roommate. And Iris, this is Jason, Mom and Dad, and my sister.” She looked squarely at Ali. “Alison.”
Iris turned her ice-blue eyes to Ali. “So you’re the famous Alison. I’ve heard a lot about you.”