Twisted. (Book Nine)

Two: Furs, Friends, And Far-Off Giggles.

"Please don't use a wire hanger," a silver-haired matron said gruffly as she stripped off a Burberry trench and hefted it into Emily Fields's arms. Then, without even a thank you, the woman glided toward the center of the Hastings' living room, and helped herself a canapé. Snob.

Emily hung the coat, which smelled like a mix of eau de toilette, cigarettes, and wet dog, on a hanger, affixed a coat check tag to it, and placed it gently in the large oak closet in Mr. Hastings's study. Spencer's two Labradoodles, Rufus and Beatrice, panted behind the doggie gate, frustrated that they were cordoned off for the party. Emily patted both their heads, and they wagged their tails. At least they were happy to see her.

When she returned to her perch at the coat check table, she looked cautiously around the room. Spencer had slipped back into the kitchen and hadn't come out again. Emily wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

The Hastings house was the same as ever: Old paintings of relatives hung in the foyer, fussy French chairs and couches sat in the living room, and heavy gilded curtains covered the windows. Back in sixth and seventh grades, Emily, Spencer, Ali, and the others had pretended this room was a chamber in Versailles. Ali and Spencer used to fight over who got to be Marie Antoinette; Emily was usually relegated to a lady-in-waiting. Once, as Marie, Ali made Emily give her a foot massage. "You know you love it," she teased.

Despair rolled over Emily like a strong ocean wave. It was painful to think about the past. If only she could box up those memories, mail them to the South Pole, and be free of them for good.

"You're slouching," hissed a voice.

Emily looked up. Her mother stood in front of her, her brow wrinkled and the corners of her lips crumpled into a scowl. She wore a blue dress that hit an unattractive spot between her knees and her calves, and she carried a fake-snakeskin bag under her arm like it was a loaf of French bread.

"And smile," Mrs. Fields added. "You look miserable."

Emily shrugged. What was she supposed to do, grin like a maniac? Burst into song? "This job isn't exactly fun," she pointed out.

Mrs. Hastings nostrils flared. "Mrs. Hastings was very nice to give you this opportunity. Please don't quit this like you quit everything else."

Ouch. Emily hid behind a curtain of reddish-blond hair. "I'm not going to quit."

"Just do your job, then. Make some money. Lord knows every bit counts."

Mrs. Fields marched away, putting on a friendly face for the neighbors. Emily slumped in the chair, fighting back tears. Don't quit this like you quit everything else. Her mom had been furious when Emily walked off the swim team last June without any explanation, spending the summer in Philadelphia instead. Emily hadn't rejoined the Rosewood Day team in the fall, either. In the world of competitive swimming, missing a couple of months spelled trouble, especially during college scholarship time. Missing two seasons equaled doom.

Her parents were devastated. Don't you realize we can't pay for college if you don't get a scholarship? Don't you realize you're throwing your future away?

Emily didn't know how to answer them. There was no way she could tell them why she'd quit the team. Not for as long as she lived.

She'd finally rejoined her old club team a couple of weeks ago and hoped that a college scout might take pity on her and give her a last-minute spot. A recruiter from the University of Arizona had been interested in her last year, and Emily had clung to the notion that he would still want her for the team. But earlier today, she'd had to let go of that dream, too.