Her gaze clapped on an emerald-green Elizabeth and James wrap dress hanging on a rack. She breathed in, already picturing herself in it—it would make the perfect caroling outfit. The only one left on the rack was a size four, but she was sure she could fit into it. She moved toward it, but a figure stepped in front of her, grabbing it first.

“Hey!” Hanna cried. “I was going to take that!”

“Sorry,” a familiar voice said. Then the figure turned. “Hanna?”

“Dinah,” Hanna growled, taking in the dark-haired girl in the ugly fifties-style white wool coat, poodle skirt, and quilted mock-Chanel bag. It was like Dinah was her new A.

Hanna’s gaze fell to the dress in Dinah’s hands. “That isn’t your size,” she said, unable to hide the disdain in her voice. “It isn’t really your style either.”

Dinah clutched the dress to her chest. “How do you know what my style is? And I’m smaller than I look, Hanna. Not all of us have a flat ass and no boobs.”

Not all of us have a flabby waist, either, Hanna wanted to snipe. She gestured to the dress. “Where were you planning to wear it?”

A sly smile washed over Dinah’s face. “Somewhere,” she said cryptically, and instantly Hanna’s heart began to pound. Had she made a date with Vince? Were they doing another volunteer activity together?

“How do you know about Elizabeth and James, anyway?” Hanna demanded.

An exasperated snort emanated from Dinah’s nostrils. “My aunt works at Bazaar in New York. I went to the Elizabeth and James runway show at Fashion Week last year.”

“You did?” Hanna bleated before she could stop herself. She was dying to go to a 7th on Sixth show, even for one of the smaller designers—hell, even for one of the winners of Project Runway. And it must be amazing to have an aunt who worked for Bazaar.

Hanna wavered, considering letting Dinah have the dress, but then she pictured Vince grinning at her across the table in the ice cream shop. “I saw the dress first,” she insisted.

“I touched it first.” Dinah pressed the dress to her chest. “It’ll look better on me, anyway.”

“It absolutely won’t look better on you.” Hanna held out her hands. “Your boobs are too big.”

“Yeah, well, your body is too straight-up-and-down.” Dinah lifted the hanger over Hanna’s head so she couldn’t reach it.

Hanna grabbed for it. “You’ll look pathetic in it.”

“You’ll get sick of it in a week.” Dinah hid the dress behind her back. “I can tell you’re a fickle bitch.”

“I am not fickle!” Hanna shrieked. “You’re whiny! And your tattoo is hideous! It’ll clash!”

The girls glared at each other.

“Just give it to me!” Hanna lunged behind Dinah’s back. “It isn’t right for you, okay?”

Dinah stepped out of her way. Hanna let out a huff and dove for her again, yanking the dress out of her hands. “Ha!” she crowed, waving it over her head like a flag and running for the dressing rooms. A couple of shoppers looked up in surprise. A saleswoman paused at the counter, her mouth hanging open.

“Come back here!” Dinah screeched, right on Hanna’s heels. Hanna wove around the racks of clothes, the entrance to the dressing rooms in full view. All of a sudden, she felt two heavy arms wrap around her waist and pull her down. Dinah fell on top of her, and for a moment Hanna was squished into the tattoo on her arm. She felt the dress being pried from her fingers.

“How dare you!” she muttered. “Get the hell off me!”

To Hanna’s surprise, Dinah rolled off her, the dress still securely in Hanna’s grip. Dinah wasn’t even looking at her, instead staring at something in the dressing rooms. “Shh!” she whispered.

Hanna pricked up her ears, afraid she was going to hear the eerie high-pitched giggle that had been haunting her lately. But instead, she heard a loud smacking sound coming from inside one of the dressing rooms.

“What is that?” Hanna said, slowly rising to her feet. She crept closer to the dressing rooms, which were empty except for the noisy stall. Two pairs of shoes peeked under the door, one of them dark black boots, the other prissy black-and-white heels that looked vaguely familiar.

Hanna exchanged a knowing look with Dinah. With a slight nod of her head, Dinah encouraged her to move closer. Hanna tiptoed a few more steps toward the room. The shoes and boots under the dressing room shuffled. The slurping sounds increased in intensity.

Suddenly, the door flung open, and two people tumbled into the corridor. Hanna pressed against the wall, pulling Dinah with her. There, reflected in the three-way mirror, was a guy in a red Santa suit, Santa hat, Santa beard, and shiny black boots. “You’re so hot,” Santa said in a skeevy voice.

He was sucking on some skinny girl’s neck, and the girl was running her hand through his beard. Hanna stared at her. The girl’s chestnut hair was swept into a messy French bun, her ass was nonexistent, and on her thin, ballerina-like wrist was a very familiar silver David Yurman bangle.

It was Kate.

Hanna grabbed her phone, which was conveniently in her bag’s front pocket, and snapped a picture. Then she and Dinah sprinted out of the dressing room. Out of breath, they collapsed on a table of jeans and stared at each other for a pregnant pause. At the exact same moment, they both burst into peals of laughter.

Chapter 12

Soul Mates

A few hours later, Hanna sat on a ripped barstool at Snooker’s, a college bar in Hollis. There were sports jerseys all over the walls and ugly green banker’s lamps behind the counter, and the air smelled like fried mozzarella sticks and stale beer. An old Bruce Springsteen song played on the jukebox, and the room was packed with loud college kids.

“Okay, who would you rather hook up with,” Hanna said, scanning the crowd, “Mr. I’m Taking Over Daddy’s Company in Five Years, or Mr. The Only Interesting Thing About Me Is That I’m Irish?” She pointed at two college boys nursing beers in the corner. The first guy wore a preppy button-down and had a smug look on his face that only someone with a trust fund could pull off. The second guy had doughy features, red hair, was wearing a T-shirt that said DUBLIN on it, and was drinking—of course—a Guinness.

“Ugh, neither.” Dinah popped the olive from her martini into her mouth. “Look at the girls they’re with! Is that a Burberry bag she’s carrying? That is so 2001!”

“Says the girl who wears poodle skirts,” Hanna teased, poking Dinah on the arm.

Dinah pretended to be offended. “Poodle skirts are retro,” she said haughtily.

“I forgive you,” Hanna said. “After all, you’ve got an awesome bag.” She pointed to Dinah’s quilted Chanel on the stool. It turned out it wasn’t a fake—Dinah’s aunt who worked at Bazaar had put her at the top of the waiting list and scored her one from the New York flagship store.

The bartender set down another martini for Dinah and another vodka-cranberry for Hanna, and they clinked glasses. A warm sense of happiness washed over Hanna as she took the first sip. After she and Dinah had scampered away from Kate and Santa in the dressing room, they’d ditched the Elizabeth and James dress on a random table, called a truce, and decided to hit the college bars. Dinah had left her car at the mall, and on the drive over in Hanna’s Prius, they’d chatted about fashion, beauty products, celebrities, and their favorite suburban boutiques, Hanna’s four most favorite topics. The conversation had come naturally, as though they’d been friends for years.

But when they’d approached Snooker’s, Hanna had been apprehensive. She didn’t have a fake ID, and after getting caught shoplifting last fall, she didn’t really want the cops after her again. Dinah had squeezed her hand and said, “Leave everything to me.” She breezed up to the bouncer, who had a crew cut and wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and said, “Hey, Jake! Remember me?”

The bouncer had smiled at Dinah appreciatively, but then asked to see the girls’ IDs. Dinah had stuck her lip out in a pout. “C’mon, Jakie-poo. Don’t be like that.” She traced her fingers up and down his arm. Finally, the bouncer just shrugged and opened the door for them. Inside, Hanna gave Dinah a thumbs-up. It was just like something Ali might have done.

Dinah reached for a French fry from the plate they’d ordered. “We are so going against our boot camp pledges right now. I bet Vince is going to know and make us work out for five hours next session.”

“Yep, I can feel the fat oozing back to my thighs,” Hanna joked.

Dinah waved her hand. “As if you ever had fat in your thighs! Why did you join boot camp, anyway?”

Hanna rolled her eyes. “Uh, because I’m horribly out of shape and can’t fit into any of my clothes?”

Dinah stared at her like she was crazy. “Are you one of those girls who looks in the mirror and sees a cow?”

“I’m not like that,” Hanna assured her. Or was she? Every time she looked at her reflection, she found something wrong. Her hair looked oily. Her arms were puffy. Her face was too round. A lot of the time, she barely noticed all the hard work she’d put in with Mona in eighth grade. All she saw was the old Hanna, the loser she’d been back in middle school.

Hanna popped a fry into her mouth. “You know, I had this beautiful friend once. She was popular, gorgeous, the kind of girl everyone wanted to be. I was in her clique, but she always made it clear that I was hanging on by a thread. She made fun of the way I ate, how my jeans didn’t fit, everything. After so many years of hearing that, it’s kind of hard to shake.”

Dinah leaned her elbows on the counter. “So what happened to this girl? You ditched her, right?”

Hanna kept her eyes fixed on the Absolut bottles behind the bar. “Actually . . . she’s dead. Her name was Alison DiLaurentis. Maybe you’ve heard of her.”

“Maybe I’ve heard of her?” Dinah’s eyes popped wide. “That was only like the biggest story in all of Rosewood. They found her body not so long ago, right?”

Hanna nodded.

“Wow.” Dinah knocked back the rest of her martini. “You know, I knew Alison.”

“You did?” Hanna’s head whipped up.

“Uh-huh.” A faraway look clouded Dinah’s face. “We met at a field hockey camp—I used to play in elementary school before I finally admitted to my parents how much I hated it. Alison was at the camp, too. She ruled a group of girls there, made them do everything she wanted. And for a while, I was their target. They called me Dinah Vagina. I didn’t even do anything to them.”

“That’s terrible,” Hanna said. “Ali used to call me Hanna Mon-TON-a. And a bunch of other names I don’t even want to think about. Part of me wishes she could somehow see how much weight I’ve lost since then, how I’ve transformed.”

Then Hanna sighed. “Actually, what am I saying? Ali would still probably find something about me to pick on if she was around now.”