They were at the front walk by then, right next to the big, bubbling fountain. Hanna’s mom pulled up to the curb, and Hanna waved good-bye as she climbed in. Ali continued toward the flagpole, passing girls carrying economy-size boxes of Toblerone chocolates to sell for a French field trip, and a group of boys bounding toward one of the back buses. She scanned the parking lot for Jason all the while, but she didn’t see him. She took a left and walked to the main drag of shops right down the road. Pinkberry’s happy sign seemed garish and annoying. The Italian flag flapping in front of Ferra’s Cheesesteaks made her dizzy. She needed to get a grip.
But then something materialized in front of her eyes. A gold Mercedes was parked at the end of the block. The engine wasn’t running, but a person sat in the driver’s seat. Ali would recognize that shiny blond hair anywhere. It was her mother.
She crept closer. Her mother held a cell phone to her ear, and there was something about her posture and ducked head that made Ali want to listen. The window was open, and once Ali was only a few cars away, she could hear some of her words. We just need a little more cash, honey. Just to pay the rest of her hospital bills. Then she shifted. I know, I know. But she’s your daughter, too.
Ali shifted. Why would her mom be begging her father for cash?
Mrs. DiLaurentis made a kissing sound into the phone, then hung up. A split second later, the phone rang again. “Oh, hello, Kenneth,” Ali’s mom said with a sigh. Kenneth was Ali’s father’s name. Her mom’s tone of voice was totally different from the one on the last call. Bored. Exasperated. Over it.
Ali’s heart picked up speed. She ducked into Wordsmith’s Books before her mother could spot her. Even though she had no proof, she knew that her mother had just now been talking to two different people—two different men. She’d asked the first one for money, presumably for Ali’s sister’s hospital bills. But then she’d said, She’s your daughter, too. Which made no sense.
Unless . . .
The room suddenly started to spin. Ali listed backward, nearly crashing into a wire rack full of novelty greeting cards. Unless the first man her mother was talking to on the phone was her twin’s real father.
Which made him her real father, too.
19
ON THIN ICE
Two days later, just as Ali was leaving the house, Jason stepped in her path and opened the door for her. “You going somewhere?” he asked.
“Why do you care?” Ali asked, feeling prickly.
Jason winced at Ali’s tone of voice. “I just thought I could give you a ride.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I thought maybe we could . . . talk.”
Ali wrapped her hand around the doorjamb, staring at her brother’s Vans. What did he want to talk about? The last time they’d really talked, she’d voiced her concern about her parents getting divorced. That was even before she’d found out about her mom’s affair. All of a sudden, the desire to tell him about her mother and that strange man pulsed inside her. The old her would have. They would have sat in the Radley’s common room and dissected the thing to death, trying to figure out why Mom was doing it, who the man could be, what was going to happen next. It was way too hard to keep it to herself. With every passing day, she felt like she was going to burst.
“Ali?” Jason prompted.
She shuddered and jerked up, coming back to reality. She wasn’t her old self, and she could never be again. Alison DiLaurentis didn’t have that kind of relationship with her brother—he was too moody and weird to care about. She stepped off the porch. “I can get there myself,” she called over her shoulder. “I doubt we’re going the same direction, anyway.”
Ten minutes later, Ali parked her bike in front of the Orvis Hollis Memorial Ice Rink at Hollis College, where she was meeting Emily. HOME OF THE HOLLIS PENGUINS, said a placard by the sidewalk. Boys with ice-hockey skates slung over their shoulders and long sticks with boomerang-shaped ends sauntered out of the double doors. Even from the street, Ali could smell the rink’s freshly popped popcorn and concession-stand hot dogs.
“Alison DiLaurentis ice-skates?”
Ali turned. A black Escalade had pulled up to the curb, and Ian Thomas’s tanned, handsome face leaned out the window.
Ali walked over to him. “Are you following me, stalker?” she teased.
“You got me.” Ian got out of the car and walked over to her, stopping so close that they were almost touching. “I just wanted to let you know that I kissed Spencer, just like you asked. So when are you going to hold up your end of the bargain?”
Ali removed a tube of gloss and eased it across her lips. The last thing she wanted was to kiss him, but something about the way he was looking at her made her feel superhero-powerful, like she could spin cars over her head or bend bars of steel with her mind. A second later, though, it hit her: Cheating on Nick with Ian made her no better than her mother.
A chill shot through her. Could someone else really be her true father, some random, awful man she didn’t know? It made no sense. Her father had taken her and her sister sledding when they were small. He’d come to her dance recitals. He knew that she liked orange juice without pulp and Wawa French vanilla coffee. Whatever had happened, if something had happened, she was almost certain he didn’t know about it.
And maybe something had happened. Mr. DiLaurentis and Jason had identical toes, the second one larger than the first. And Ali had her mother’s blond hair and ice-blue eyes. But she didn’t have either of their noses—not her mother’s pert little button or her father’s ugly hook. For the longest time, she’d been grateful that she hadn’t inherited her father’s nose, but now she regretted it. And where had her bow lips and sarcastic smile come from? She had stared at her father for so long at dinner last night that he’d asked her twice if there was something wrong.