Spencer watched blankly as steam from her stainless-steel coffee carafe evaporated into the air. Andrew Campbell sat across from her, flipping a page of their massive AP econ textbook. He tapped a highlighted chart.
"Okay, this is talking about how the Federal Reserve controls the money supply," Andrew explained. "Like, if the Fed worries that the economy is going into a recession, it lowers its reserve requirements and interest rates for borrowing money. Remember when we talked about this in class?"
"Uh-huh," Spencer mumbled vaguely. The only thing she knew about the Federal Reserve was that when it lowered interest rates, her parents got all excited because that meant their stocks would go up and her mother could redecorate the living room—again. But Spencer didn't recall talking about this in class at all. She felt the same frustrated, helpless feeling about AP econ as she did about her recurring dream of being trapped in an underground room that was slowly filling with water. Every time she tried to dial 911, the numbers on the phone kept moving around on her. And then the buttons turned to gummy bears and the water rose over her mouth and nose.
It was after 8 P.M. on Wednesday night, and Spencer and Andrew were sitting in one of the Rosewood Public Library's private, book-lined study rooms, going over the latest econ unit. Because she'd plagiarized an econ paper, Rosewood Day had mandated that if she didn't get an A this semester, she would be removed from the class permanently. Her parents certainly weren't going to shell out the money for a tutor—and they still hadn't reopened Spencer's credit card accounts—so Spencer had broken down and called Andrew, who had the highest grade in the class. Weirdly, Andrew had been happy to meet with her, even though they had tons of AP English, calculus, and chemistry homework tonight.
"And then there's the monetary equation of exchange here," Andrew said, tapping the book again. "You remember this? Let's do some chapter problems using it."
A piece of Andrew's thick blond hair fell over his eyes as he reached for his calculator. She thought she detected the chestnutty smell of Kiehl's Facial Fuel, her favorite guy soap smell. Had he always used that, or was it something new? She was pretty sure he hadn't worn it to Foxy, the last time she'd been this close to him.
"Earth to Spencer?" Andrew waved his hand in front of her face. "Hello?"
Spencer blinked. "Sorry," she stammered.
Andrew folded his hands over the textbook. "Have you heard anything I've said?"
"Sure," Spencer assured him, although when she tried to remember, her brain called up other things instead. Like the A note they'd received after Ian was released on bail. Or the news reports about Ian's upcoming trial on Friday. Or that her mother was planning a fund-raiser without her. Or, the clincher, that Spencer might not truly have been to the Hastings manor born.
Melissa didn't have much to back up the theory she'd blurted out Tuesday night. Her only proof that Spencer was possibly adopted was that their cousin Smith had teased her about it once when they were little. Genevieve had quickly spanked him and sent him to his room. And, come to think of it, Melissa couldn't remember their mother actually being pregnant with Spencer for nine months, either.
It wasn't much, but the more Spencer thought about it, the more it felt like an important puzzle piece snapping into place. Except for their similarly dirty-blond hair, she and Melissa looked nothing alike. And Spencer always wondered why her mom had acted so spazzy when she caught Spencer, Ali, and the others playing We Are All Secretly Sisters in sixth grade. They'd made up this fantasy that their birth mother was really worldly, rich, and connected, but she'd lost her five beautiful daughters in the Kuala Lumpur airport (mostly because they liked the words Kuala Lumpur) because she was schizo (mostly because they liked the word schizo). Usually Mrs. Hastings pretended Spencer and her friends didn't exist. But when she'd quickly interjected, saying it wasn't funny to joke about mental illness or mothers abandoning their children. But hello? It was a game.
It explained a lot of other things, too. Like why her parents always favored Melissa over Spencer. Why they were always so disappointed in her. Maybe it wasn't disappointment at all—maybe they were snubbing her because she wasn't really a Hastings. But why hadn't they admitted it years ago? Adoption wasn't scandalous Kirsten Cullen was adopted; her birth mother was from South Africa. The first show-and-tell of every elementary school year, Kirsten would bring in pictures from her summer trip to Cape Town, her birthplace, and every girl in Spencer's class would ooh with jealousy. Spencer used to wish she'd been adopted too. It seemed so exotic.
Spencer stared through the study room's porthole window at the enormous blue modern art mobile hanging from the library ceiling. "Sorry," she admitted to Andrew. "I'm a little stressed."
Andrew furrowed his brown. "Because of econ?"
Spencer breathed in, ready to shoo him away and tell him it was none of his business. Only, he was looking so eagerly, and he was helping her. She thought more about that horrible night at Foxy. Andrew had been really excited when he thought they were actually going on a date, but had become dejected and angry when he found out Spencer was just using him. All that A and Toby Cavanaugh stuff had happened right after Andrew found out that she was dating someone else. Had Spencer even properly apologized?
Spencer began capping her multicolored highlighters and putting them back in their plastic sleeve, careful to make sure the markers were all turned the exact same way. Just as she slid the electric blue pen back in its place, everything inside her started to fizz, like she was a science-fair volcano about to bubble over.
"I got this application to Yale's pre-college summer program in the mail yesterday, and my mother threw it away before I could even look at it," she blurted out. She couldn't tell Andrew about Ian or A, but it felt good to at least say something. "She said there was no chance in hell Yale would be letting me in to their summer program. And…and my parents are planning a Rosewood Day fund-raiser this weekend, but my mom didn't even tell me about it. Usually I help her plan them. And then my grandmother died on Monday, and—"
"Your grandmother died?" Andrew's eyes widened. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Spencer blinked, thrown off track. Why would she tell Andrew her grandmother died? It wasn't as if they were friends. "I don't know. But anyway, she left a will, and I wasn't in it," she went on. "At first I thought it was because of this Golden Orchid mess, but then my sister was talking about how the will said natural-born grandchildren. I didn't believe her right away, but then I started thinking about it. It makes perfect sense. I should've known."
"Slow down," Andrew said, shaking his head. "I don't understand. You should've known…what?"
Spencer took a breath. "Sorry," she said softly. "Natural-born grandchildren means that one of us is not naturally born. It means I'm…adopted."
Spencer tapped her nails against the wood-grain patterns in the study room's big mahogany desk. Someone had etched Angela is a slut into the surface. It felt weird for Spencer to say the words out loud—I'm adopted.
"Maybe it's a good thing," Spencer mused, stretching her long legs under the table. "Maybe my real mother would actually care about me. And maybe I could get out of Rosewood."
Andrew was silent. Spencer glanced at him, wondering if she'd said something offensive. Finally he turned and looked straight into her eyes.
"I love you," Andrew announced.
Spencer's eyes popped out. "Excuse me?"
"It's a Web site," Andrew went on, unfazed. His chair creaked as he leaned back. "I love you dot com. Or maybe you is just the letter u, I'm not sure. It matches adopted kids to their birth mothers. This girl I met on the trip to Greece told me about it. She wrote me the other day saying it worked. She's meeting her birth mother next week."
"Oh." Spencer pretended to smooth down her already perfectly ironed skirt, feeling a little flustered. Of course she hadn't thought Andrew was actually saying he loved her or anything.
"Do you want to register for it?" Andrew began to load his books into his backpack. "If you're not adopted, they just won't find a match. If you are…maybe they will."
"Um…" Spencer's head spun. "Okay. Sure."
Andrew made a beeline through the library for the computer lab, and Spencer followed. The main reading room was mostly empty save for a few late-night studiers, two boys hovering around the copier, no doubt contemplating whether to cop their faces or their butts, and what looked like a cult meeting—every single middle-aged woman was in some sort of blue hat. Spencer thought she was someone quickly duck behind one of the autobiography shelves, but when she looked again, no one was there.
The computer lab was at the front of the library, surrounded on all sides by large glass windows. Andrew sat down at a console and Spencer pulled out a chair next to him. He wiggled the mouse, and the screen flickered on. "Okay." Andrew started typing and tilted the screen toward Spencer. "See?"
Reconnecting families, announced flowery pink script at the top of the page. On the left of the screen were a series of pictures and testimonials from who had already used the service. Spencer wondered if Andrew's little Greece friend was pictured—and if she was pretty. Not that she would have been jealous or anything.
Spencer clicked on a link that said, Sign up here. A new page popped up, asking her to answer various questions about herself, which the site would then use to match Spencer with her potential mother.
Spencer's eyes floated back to the testimonials. I thought I would never find my son! Sadie, age forty-nine, wrote. Now we're reunited and best friends! A girl named Angela, twenty-four, exclaimed, I always wondered who my true mother was. Now I've found her, and we're starting an accessories business together! Spencer knew the world wasn't this innocent and naive—things didn't work out this easily. But she couldn't help but hope all the same.
She swallowed hard. "What if it actually works?"
Andrew pushed his hands into his blazer pockets. "Well, that's good, right?"
Spencer rubbed her jaw, took a deep breath, and started to type her name, cell phone number, and e-mail address. She filled in the blanks of where and when she'd been born, any health problems she'd had, and her blood type. When she got to the question that asked, Please explain why you're conducting this search, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, searching for the appropriate answer. Because my family hates me, she wanted to type. Because I mean nothing to them.
Andrew shifted over her shoulder. Curiosity, Spencer finally typed. Then she took a deep breath and hit Send.
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" tinkled over the computer's tiny speakers, and onto the computer's tiny speakers, and onto the screen floated an animated picture of a stork flying around the world, as if diligently searching for Spencer's match.
Spencer cracked her knuckles, numb to what she'd just done. As she looked around, everything suddenly seemed unfamiliar. She'd been coming to this library all her life, but she'd never noticed that all the oil paintings on the computer room's walls were of woodsy landscapes. Or that the big sign on the back of the door said, Library Users: When On Internet, No Facebook Or MySpace, Ever! She'd never really looked at the sand-colored wood floors, or the huge, pentagon-shaped lamps that hung majestically from the library ceiling.
When she glanced at Andrew, he was kind of unfamiliar too—in a good way. Spencer blushed, feeling vulnerable. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Andrew stood up and leaned against the door jamb. "So, you feel less stressed?"
She nodded. "Yeah, I do."
"Good." Andrew smiled and checked his watch. "I have to go, but I'll see you in class tomorrow."
Spencer watched as he strode through the library, waved to Mrs. Jamison, the librarian, and pushed out through the turnstile. She then turned back to the computer, logging into her e-mail. The adoption site had sent her a welcome message, stating that she would most likely hear results in anywhere from the next few days to six months. As she was about to log out, a new e-mail popped up in her inbox. The sender's name was a jumble of letters and numbers, and the subject line read, I'm watching.
Prickles ran up Spencer's back. She opened the e-mail and squinted at the words.
I thought we were friends, Spence. I send you a sweet little note, and you call the cops… What do I have to do to keep you girls quiet? Actually, don't tempt me! —A
"Oh my God," Spencer whispered.
A thumping noise sounded behind her. Spencer turned, her muscles rigid. No one else was in the computer room. A spotlight shone on the courtyard behind the library, but there wasn't a single footprint in the bright white snow. Then Spencer noticed something on the outside of one of the windowpanes—a quickly fading smudge from someone's breath.
Spencer's blood turned cold. I'm watching. Someone had been right there just seconds ago…and she hadn't had any idea.