Twisted. (Book Nine)

Six: Oh, Those Insecure Pretty Girls.

"Surprise!" Mike whispered on Monday afternoon as he slid into an auditorium seat next to Hanna. "I got us Tokyo Boy!"

He unveiled a large plastic bag full of sushi rolls. "How did you know?" Hanna cried, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. She hadn't eaten anything at lunch, having deemed everything in the Rosewood Day cafeteria inedible. Her stomach was growling something fierce.

"I always know what you want." Mike teased, pushing a lock of black hair out of his eyes.

They ripped into the sushi quietly, wincing at a sophomore rehearsing a song from West Side Story on the stage. Normally, study hall was held in a classroom in the oldest wing of Rosewood Day, but a leak had sprung in the ceiling last week, so somehow they'd ended up in the auditorium—at the same time the Rosewood Day junior girls' choir rehearsed. How was anyone supposed to get any homework done amid the horrible singing?

Despite the bad voices, the auditorium was one of Hanna's favorite places at school. A wealthy donor had paid for the place to look as tricked-out as any theater on Broadway, and the seats were plush velvet, the ceilings were high and adorned with ornate plasterwork, and the lighting on the stage definitely made some of the chunkier choir girls look at least five pounds thinner. Back when Hanna was BFFs with Mona Vanderwaal, the two of them used to sneak on the stage after school and flounce around, pretending they were famous actresses in Tony-winning musicals. That was before Mona turned crazy-town and tried to run her over, of course.

Mike skewered a California roll and popped it into his mouth whole. "So. When's your big TV debut?"

Hanna stared at him blankly. "Huh?"

"The commercial for your dad?" Mike reminded her, chewing.

"Oh, that." Hanna ate a bite of wasabi, and her eyes began to water. "I'm sure my lines were edited out immediately."

"That might not be true. You looked great."

On the stage, a bunch of girls were now trying a harmony. It was like listening to a gang of wailing cats. "The commercial is going to be all about my dad, Isabel, and Kate," Hanna mumbled. "That's exactly what my dad wants. His perfect nuclear family."

Mike wiped a piece of rice from his cheek. "He didn't actually say that."

His optimism was getting on Hanna's nerves. How many times had she told Mike about her daddy issues? Kate? That was the thing about guys, though: Sometimes they had the emotional depth of a flea.

Hanna took a deep breath and stared blankly at the heads of the study hall students in front of them. "The only way I'm going to end up in a commercial is if I do it on my own. Maybe I should call that photographer."

Mike's chopsticks fell to his lap. "That poseur who was drooling all over you at the shoot? Are you serious?"

"His name's Patrick Lake," Hanna said stiffly. He'd said she was amazing on camera, and had badmouthed Kate right in front of her. That part was her favorite.

"Why would you say he's poseur?" she asked after a moment. "He's totally professional. He wants to take pictures of me and hook me up with a modeling agency." She'd googled Patrick on her iPhone during lunch, gazing at his Flickr photos and Facebook links. On his website, Patrick listed that he'd taken photos for several Main Line magazines as well as a fashion insert for the Philadelphia Sentinel. Plus, he shared a first name with Patrick Demarchelier, Hanna's favorite photographer.

"More like professionally sleazy. He doesn't want to turn you into a model, Hanna. He wants to do you."

Hanna's mouth dropped. "You don't think I'm capable of getting signed by a modeling agency?"