“Um, same.” Hanna eyed Mona carefully. Hanna’s bullshit-radar told her that Mona might be lying. But then, maybe Mona could sense the exact same thing about her.

“Well, I’m off.” Mona tugged on her burgundy tote. “I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” Hanna croaked. They walked in opposite directions. Hanna turned back and glanced at Mona, only to see that Mona was looking over her shoulder at her.

“Now, pay attention,” said Ingrid, the portly, stoic, German head nurse. They were in an examination room, and Ingrid was teaching Hanna how to change out the trash cans. As if it was hard.

Each exam room was painted a guacamole green, and the only posters on the wall were grim pictures of skin diseases. Ingrid assigned Hanna to the outpatient checkup rooms; some day, if Hanna did well, she might be allowed to clean the inpatient rooms instead—where serious burn victims stayed. Lucky her.

Ingrid pulled out the trash bag. “This goes in the blue Dumpster out back. And you must empty the infectious waste bins, too.” She gestured to an identical-looking trash can. “They need to be kept separate from the regular trash at all times. And you need to wear these.” She handed Hanna a pair of latex gloves. Hanna looked at them as if they were covered in infectious waste.

Next, Ingrid pointed her down the hall. “There are ten other rooms here,” she explained. “Clean the trash and wipe down the counters in each, then see me.”

Trying not to breathe—she despised the antiseptic, sick-person way hospitals smelled—Hanna trudged to the utility closet to get more trash bags. She looked down the hall, wondering where the inpatient rooms were. Jenna had been an inpatient here. A lot of things had made her think of The Jenna Thing in the past day, although she kept trying to shove it out of her mind. The idea that someone knew—and could tell—was something she couldn’t even comprehend.

Although The Jenna Thing had been an accident, Hanna sometimes felt like it wasn’t exactly. Ali had given Jenna a nickname: Snow, as in Snow White, because Jenna had an annoying resemblance to the Disney character. Hanna thought Jenna looked like Snow White, too—but in a good way. Jenna wasn’t as polished as Ali, but there was something oddly pretty about her. It had once occurred to Hanna that the only character she looked like from Snow White was Dopey Dwarf.

Still, Jenna was one of Ali’s favorite targets, so back in sixth grade Hanna scrawled a rumor about Jenna’s boobs just below the paper-towel dispenser in the girls’ bathroom. She spilled water on Jenna’s seat in algebra so Jenna would get a fake pee stain on her pants. She poked fun at the way Jenna put on a fake French accent in French II…. So when the paramedics carried Jenna out-of the tree house, Hanna felt sick. She’d been the one to agree to pranking Toby first. And in her head, she’d thought, Maybe if we prank Toby, we can prank Jenna, too. It was like she’d willed this to happen.

The automatic doors swished open at the end of the hall, breaking Hanna out of her thoughts. She froze, heart pounding, wishing for the new arrival to be Sean, but it wasn’t. Frustrated, she pulled her BlackBerry out of her cardigan pocket and dialed his number. It went to voice mail, and Hanna hung up. She redialed, thinking maybe he was just fumbling for his phone and hadn’t gotten it in time, but it went to voice mail again.

“Hey, Sean,” Hanna chirped after the beep, trying to sound carefree. “Hanna again. I’d really like to talk, so, um, you know where to find me!”

She’d left him three messages today saying she’d be here this afternoon, but Sean hadn’t responded. She wondered if he was at a V Club meeting—he’d recently signed a virginity pledge, vowing not to have sex, like, ever. Maybe he’d call her when he was done. Or…maybe he wouldn’t. Hanna swallowed, trying to shove that possibility out of her mind.

She sighed and walked to the employee closet/supply room. Ingrid had hung Hanna’s pewter Ferragamo hobo bag on a hook next to a striped vinyl thing from the Gap, and she suppressed the urge to shudder. She dropped her phone into her bag, grabbed a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle, and found an empty exam room. Maybe actually doing her job would keep her mind off stressing about Sean and A.

As she finished sponging off the sink, she accidentally bumped open a metal cabinet right next to it. Inside were shelves of cardboard containers all emblazoned with familiar names. Tylenol 3. Vicodin. Percocet. Hanna peeked inside. There were thousands of drug samples. Just…just sitting there. Without a lock.

Jackpot.

Hanna quickly shoved a few handfuls of Percocet into the surprisingly deep pockets of her cardigan. At least she could get a fun weekend with Mona out of this.

Then someone placed a hand on Hanna’s shoulder. Hanna jumped back and whirled around, knocking the Fantastik-soaked paper towels and a jar full of cotton swabs onto the floor.

“Why are you only on room two?” Ingrid frowned. She had a face like a grumpy pug.

“I…I was just trying to be thorough.” Hanna quickly tossed the paper towels in the trash and hoped the Percocet would stay in her pockets. Her neck burned where Ingrid had touched it.

“Well, come with me,” Ingrid said. “There’s something in your bag that’s making a noise. It’s disturbing the patients.”

“Are you sure it’s my bag?” Hanna asked. “I was just at my bag, and—”

Ingrid led Hanna back into the closet. Sure enough, there was a tinkling sound coming from her purse’s inside pocket. “It’s just my cell phone.” Hanna’s spirits jumped. Maybe Sean had called!

“Well, please make it quiet.” Ingrid sighed. “And then get back to work.”

Hanna pulled out her BlackBerry to see who was calling. She had a new text.

Hannakins: Mopping the floors at Bill Beach won’t help you get your life back. Not even you could clean up this mess. And besides, I know something about you that’ll guarantee you’ll never be Rosewood Day’s it girl—ever again. —A

Hanna looked around the coatroom, confused. She read the note again, her throat dry and sticky. What could A know that could guarantee that?

Jenna.

If A knew that…

Hanna quickly typed a response on her phone’s keypad: You don’t know anything. She hit SEND. Within seconds, A responded:

I know it all. I could RUIN YOU.

7

O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

Tuesday afternoon, Emily hovered in Coach Lauren’s office doorway. “Can I talk to you?”

“Well, I only have a couple minutes until I have to give this to the officials,” Lauren said, holding up her meet roster. Today was the Rosewood Tank, the first swim meet of the season. It was supposed to be a friendly exhibition meet—all the area prep schools were invited and there was no scoring—but Emily usually shaved down and got pre-meet jitters all the same. Except not this time. “What’s up, Fieldsy?” Lauren asked.

Lauren Kinkaid was in her early thirties, had perma-chlorine-damaged blondish hair, and lived in T-shirts with motivational swimming slogans like EAT OUR BUBBLES and I PUT THE STYLE IN FREESTYLE. She had been Emily’s swim coach for six years. First at Tadpole League, then at long-course, and now Rosewood Day. Not very many people knew Emily so well—not well enough to call her “Fieldsy,” to know that her favorite pre–swim meet dinner was pepper steak from China Rose, or to know that when Emily’s butterfly times were three-tenths of a second faster, it meant she had her period. Which made what Emily was about to say that much harder.

“I want to quit,” Emily blurted out.

Lauren blinked. She looked stunned, like someone had just told her the pool was filled with electric eels. “W-Why?”

Emily stared at the checkerboard linoleum floor. “It’s not fun anymore.”

Lauren blew air out of her cheeks. “Well, it isn’t always fun. Sometimes it’s work.”

“I know. But…I just don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

Emily sighed. She thought she was sure. Last week she was sure. She’d been swimming for years, not asking herself whether she liked it or not. With Maya’s help, Emily had mustered up the courage to admit to herself—and to her parents—that she wanted to quit.

Of course, that was before…everything. Now, she felt more like a yo-yo than ever. One minute, she wanted to quit. The next, she wanted her normal, good-girl life back, the life where she went to swimming, hung out with her sister Carolyn on the weekends, and spent hours goofing off on the bus with her teammates and reading from the birthday horoscope book. And then she wanted the freedom to pursue her own interests all over again. Except…what were her interests, aside from swimming?

“I feel really burnt out,” Emily finally offered, attempting to explain.

Lauren propped her head up with her hand. “I was going to make you captain.”

Emily gaped. “Captain?”

“Well, yeah.” Lauren clicked and unclicked her pen. “I thought you deserved it. You’re a real team player, you know? But if you don’t want to swim, then…”

Not even her older siblings Jake and Beth, who had swum all four years of high school and gotten college scholarships, had been captain.

Lauren wound her whistle around her finger. “How about I go easy on you for a bit?” She took Emily’s hand. “I know it’s been hard. With your friend…”

“Yeah.” Emily stared at Lauren’s Michael Phelps poster, hoping she wouldn’t start crying again. Every time someone mentioned Ali—which was about once every ten minutes—her nose and eyes got twitchy.

“What do you say?” Lauren coaxed.

Emily ran her tongue over the back of her teeth. Captain. Sure, she was state champion in the 100-meter butterfly, but Rosewood Day had a freakishly good swim team—Lanie Iler got fifth in the 500 freestyle at Junior Nationals, and Stanford had already promised Jenny Kestler a full ride next year. That Lauren chose Emily over Lanie or Jenny meant something. Maybe it was a sign that her yo-yoing life was supposed to go back to normal.

“All right,” she heard herself saying.

“Awesome.” Lauren patted her hand. She reached into one of her many cardboard boxes of T-shirts and handed one to Emily. “For you. A start-of-the-season present.”

Emily opened it up. It said, GAY GIRLS: SLIPPERY WHEN WET. She looked at Lauren, her throat cottony dry. Lauren knew?

Lauren cocked her head. “It’s in reference to the stroke,” she said slowly. “You know, butterfly?”

Emily looked at the shirt again. It didn’t say gay girls. It said fly girls. “Oh,” she croaked, folding the T-shirt. “Thanks.”

She left Lauren’s office and walked through the natatorium lobby on shaky legs. The room was crammed full of swimmers, all here for the Tank. Then she paused, suddenly aware that someone was looking at her. Across the room, she saw Ben, her ex-boyfriend, leaning up against the trophy case. His stare was so intense, he didn’t blink. Emily’s skin prickled and heat rose to her cheeks. Ben smirked and turned to whisper something to his best friend, Seth Cardiff. Seth laughed, glanced again at Emily, and whispered something back to Ben. Then they both snickered.