License to Spill Read online

  Digital Galley Edition

  This is uncorrected advance content collected for your reviewing convenience. Please check with publisher or refer to the finished product whenever you are excerpting or quoting in a review.

  This book is dedicated to the

  2012–2013 Phoenix Five:

  Sheridan Spencer,

  Andrew Duffy,

  Lily Bader-Huffman,

  Vanessa Riley,

  and Jagger.

  Forgive me.

  Also by Lisi Harrison

  Pretenders

  Monster High

  Monster High: The Ghoul Next Door

  Monster High: Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way

  Monster High: Back and Deader Than Ever

  Alphas

  Movers and Fakers

  Belle of the Brawl

  Top of the Feud Chain

  The Clique

  Best Friends for Never

  Revenge of the Wannabes

  Invasion of the Boy Snatchers

  The Pretty Committee Strikes Back

  Dial L for Loser

  It’s Not Easy Being Mean

  Sealed with a Diss

  Bratfest at Tiffany’s

  The Clique Summer Collection

  P.S. I Loathe You

  Boys R Us

  Charmed and Dangerous: The Rise of the Pretty Committee

  The Cliquetionary

  These Boots Are Made for Stalking

  My Little Phony

  A Tale of Two Pretties

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisi Harrison

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Poppy

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at lb-teens.com

  Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company.

  The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  First Edition: June 2014

  [CIP to come]

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  RRD-C

  Printed in the United States of America

  E3

  Contents

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  Also by Lisi Harrison

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Lily

  Jagger

  Vanessa

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Lily

  Jagger

  Vanessa

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Jagger

  Lily

  Lily

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Jagger

  Lily

  Vanessa

  Duffy

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Lily

  Duffy

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Jagger

  Vanessa

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Vanessa

  Sheridan

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Lily

  Duffy

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Vanessa

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Jagger

  Lily

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Lily

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Lily

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Lily

  Duffy

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Jagger

  Duffy

  Lily

  Duffy

  Vanessa

  Lily

  Jagger

  Sheridan

  Vanessa

  Duffy

  Sheridan

  Duffy

  Lily

  Vanessa

  Jagger

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments (for Real)

  October 2012

  I know X-actly what you’re thinking. I read your comments online; I hear you whispering in the halls. Many of you say it straight to my face because you don’t know I’m X. Things like: “Pretenders had zero resolution.” “You call that an ending?!” “Will Duffy win his friends back? Does Lily get pulled from Noble High? Arrested for stalking? Both? Who is sending snail-mail threats to Vanessa? Can Sheridan stop Octavia from stealing her spotlight? And who is Jagger? Simply put; that was 293 pages of cliffhanger, 0 pages of closure.”

  Don’t worry, License To Spill will be much more satisfying. I ended Pretenders abruptly to see if you wanted more. And it sounds like you do. Which means this is no longer my crime, it’s ours: The Phoenix Five’s for keeping secrets, me for spilling them, and the readers’ for soaking them up. Remove any one of these players and and no one gets hurt. It takes all three.

  Which role did you play?

  Not that I care. I’m just glad you came back for more.

  Oct. 12 (continued).

  Dad just left my bedroom but not before a thorough interrogation.

  Q: Son, are you aware of the time?

  (It was 10:16 PM.)

  A: No.

  Q: You missed curfew.

  A: My bike chain fell off.

  Q: Why didn’t you call?

  A: Battery died.

  Q: You said you were getting a ride to Octavia’s party. A friend’s father?

  A: My friend got food poisoning. Anyway, biking is better for the environment.

  Dad said, good point. He likes when I think on a global scale.

  I yawned and told him I needed sleep. What I really needed was for him to cut the third degree because my forehead was starting to sweat. It must be the secrets inside of me trying to get out. I’m leaking lies. My skin can’t hold them back. What if they get out?

  I’d.

  Be.

  Ruined.

  Audri would know the real me. My parents would know the fake me. And I’d go back to being the old me.

  Only worse.

  Way worse.

  Like if Way Worse got jumped by Total Disaster, Living Nightmare, and Public Humiliation and the whole thing was posted on YouTube. Translated into 130 languages. Turned into a cautionary tale and sold in a boxed set with The Boy Who Cried Wolf and The Fall of Icarus.

  Like that.

  Only worse.

  Way, way worse.

  INT. BEDROOM—NIGHT.

  SHERIDAN SPENCER taps “play” on her iPhone. Pink’s “F**kin’ Perfect” begins. Even though her night was a F**kin’ Disaster.

  It started when I asked Lily Bader-Huffman if she actually thought Duffy invited her to the fashion show as his date. She, like Audri, channeled Meryl Weep and took off. I was merely try
ing to assess the motivation behind her glossy hair and tight red dress. Now I feel all Guilty Hawn.

  Then I accepted Octavia’s last-minute party invite when I should have known it was a trap. She wasn’t looking for a fresh start. She wanted to prove that Logan was using me for Dad’s BMW M3 GTR. And she did, super publicly, thankyouverymuch.

  I was so humiliated my limbs seized up. So when Duffy called and Logan answered and told Duffy that he was my boyfriend I was powerless to stop him. I just tried to call Duffy, but he sent me straight to voice mail so that’s all messed up too.

  But the worst part of my night is the result of a different terrible night. One that haunts me like Banquo’s ghost haunts Macbeth in “The Scottish Play” whose name I shall never mention because every actor knows it’s bad luck to do so. Only instead of Banquo, this harbinger of regret comes in the way of Vanessa Riley, that smart girl from my science class. The one who saw me torch my Massie Block scarf with a Bunsen burner. The one who somehow knows about that puke-inducing joyride I took with Logan.

  It turns out the salesman who got blamed for taking the car was her brother, A.J. Now I have 72 hours to make Dad rehire him at the dealership or Vanessa is going to rat me out. Feeling dizzy.

  I need soda.

  No, a snack.

  No, a rainbow.

  Skittles.

  CUT.

  To Be Continued…

  Friday

  Officer Boyle showed up five minutes after I called 911. I thought he’d come inside and wait for Lily to get home so he could question her about stealing my basketball, Nike Air Maxes, and my Adidas Roundhouses, my glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, blue water bottle, Nerf pistol, my used sparklers, a crushed can of Mountain Dew, and a Popsicle stick, and hiding them in her closet. But Officer Boyle just stood on my porch and asked me a bunch of questions.

  COP: Has she been lurking?

  ME: Lurking?

  COP: You know, hiding in the bushes? Hanging nearby? Following you?

  ME: No.

  COP: Calling you several times a day?

  ME: No.

  COP: Watching you with surveillance equipment?

  ME: How would I know?

  COP: True. Sending inappropriate gifts?

  ME: No.

  COP: Showing up the moment you need saving?

  ME: Huh? No.

  COP: What about—

  ME: I mean, yes! I Wiped down the stairs once and she helped me up.

  COP: How did you react?

  ME: I thanked her.

  COP: After you thanked her, did she leave or linger?

  ME: Linger.

  COP: What did you do?

  ME: I gave her a dollar.

  COP: Why?

  ME: I thought she was waiting for a tip.

  COP: A tip?

  ME: You know, for helping.

  He wrote something on his pad. I tried to peek. He angled it toward his badge.

  COP: Has she ever manipulated a situation so she could be alone with you?

  Feeling = Yes! Lily was always in my room buying Trendemic clothes. She was my best customer. But my job has to stay a secret so I withheld evidence.

  ME: No, Lily has never tried to be alone with me.

  Feeling = Does he know I’m lying?

  COP: Have you talked to your parents about this?

  ME: They’re out.

  He closed his notebook. It sounded like a slap across the face. It kind of felt like one too.

  COP: This girl needs guidance.

  GUIDANCE? GUIDANCE? GUIDANCE?

  GUY DUNCE! Lily is a GUY DUNCE!

  Officer Boyle started walking down the porch steps.

  ME: That’s it? Guidance?

  COP: What do you want from me, Kid?

  Feeling = Why do police officers say slick things like “kid”?

  ME: Arrest her!

  COP: For what?

  ME: Stealing! Stalking! Being weird.

  COP: I need evidence. And let me tell you, weirdness is a tough thing to prove.

  ME: My things were in her closet!

  COP: Why were you in her closet?

  Feeling = Whose side is he on?

  ME: My dogs led me there.

  COP: Incredible creatures, aren’t they?

  ME: I guess.

  COP: Did you take your shoes back?

  ME: No.

  COP: Why?

  ME: I didn’t want to tamper with a crime scene.

  Officer Boyle laughed when I said that. Not the way Hud or Coops do when I Wipe. More how Mandy did when I told her Robert Pattinson has chlorine-eyes. Like, wow-he-just-made-a-good-point.

  COP: Sounds like an innocent crush, to me.

  ME: Innocent?

  COP: You’re a good-looking boy, Andrew, and you’re at that age. Girls are going to do some wild things to get your attention. Get used to it, son. Heck, enjoy it. There are worse problems, Kid.

  ME: Can you at least give her that thing Chris Brown got after he punched Rihanna?

  COP: A restraining order?

  ME: Yeah.

  Right when he started writing up the order a call came in on his walkie-talkie. The public bathrooms at Regal Park had been vandalized.

  Feeling = He should have said: I’m knee-deep in an investigation. Assign someone else. But he looked at me and said to ME: Duty calls.

  Feeling = He said duty.

  I would have cracked up if Hud and Coops were there. But they weren’t. They still aren’t talking to me. So even though my face wanted to laugh at “duty” my brain wouldn’t let it.

  He tore a sheet of paper off his pad and handed it to me. It said:

  I.D.E.A.L.

  I—Ignore.

  DE—Don’t Engage.

  A—Avoid.

  L—Leading her on.

  ME: Shouldn’t it say something about Lily going to jail if she takes my things again?

  COP: Speak to your parents, follow my instructions, and you should be fine.

  ME: But—

  COP: Get used to it, Heartbreaker.

  Then he left.

  Feeling = Heartbreaker?!

  Am I really the kind of guy girls have crushes on? (Not including Lily because I still think she has a mental disorder.) Relatives call me “handsome” and Mandy’s friends say things like, “What a total little hottie,” but I figured they were just trying to make me blush. I started to wonder what Sheridan thought but I made myself stop because the guy we wanted to ship to Vietnam is now answering her phone and that’s not cool.

  Anyway, I was on the porch thinking about all this when I heard skateboard wheels grinding along the pavement. That could only mean one thing.

  Feeling = Spooked.

  Lily rolled up my driveway with leaves in her hair and a scrape on her knee. She looked like she’d clawed her way out of a grave which made me wonder what else she’s capable of.

  Feeling = Stay calm.

  Feeling: I couldn’t.

  I ran inside.

  She started throwing rocks at my bedroom window.

  Feeling = This is not an innocent crush.

  LILY: I can help you, I can help you!

  Feeling = The old rescue thing again.

  Feeling: Officer Boyle needs to hear this.

  I was about to record video when her parents pulled her inside.

  Feeling = I am sleeping with Bubbie Libby until Mom and Dad get home.

  Saturday, October 13, 2012

  I wasn’t even close to done with my previous entry when Mom came into my room.

  “Shut your journal,” she said.

  I wrapped up with a quick sentence about lying on Blake’s belly searching the sky for shooting stars. I wanted to write about the policeman who busted Blake and me for hanging on the roof of Noble High. How I made Blake go back to Octavia’s party to find Vanessa so she’d hack into the computer and change my grades. How Blake said everything he could to cheer me up about my non-date with Duffy, but Mom said, “Now!”

  “Would
you mind telling me what happened out there tonight?”

  “It’s a big world, Nora, could you be more specific?”

  “Alan!” she called. “Can you come in here?”

  I knew I was being rude. I knew Mom didn’t deserve it. I didn’t care. I wanted to make her angry. I wanted to know that my behavior affected her. That she loved me enough to hate me. Because the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. And I didn’t think I’d survive the night if one more person acted like I didn’t matter.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asked safely from the doorway. He’s a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out tension, a scaredy-cat when it comes to dealing with it.

  “Bottom line?” Mom said. “Eight years ago I gave up my career as a child psychologist to homeschool our daughter. I knew she was capable of so much more than the standard and I was right. Then one day she begged me to let her try public school and against my better judgment, I gave in. Now, after six short weeks, everything I taught her, everything she was”—Mom snapped her fingers—“is gone.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked.

  “Let’s see.” Mom tapped her chin. “You’ve been coming home late from school, you joined some style club that has you dressing like a European club kid, you lied about your plans tonight, I just found you throwing rocks at the neighbors’ windows, I still haven’t seen any grades, you—”

  “No,” I said. “How can you say ‘six short weeks’ when all weeks are seven days? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Enough!” Dad snapped. (Finally!) “What’s going on, Lily?”

  I considered the truth. That I’m a sheltered veal trying to make it in a free-range world. Which explains why I was foolhardy enough to believe that Andrew Duffy, the leader of that free-range world, wanted to be my guide. With his green eyes and careless hair. His basketball skills and Nike gear, his hoodies and video game high scores. His insouciant gait, loud music, spicy energy drinks, popular sister, adorable yet quirkily nameless dogs, seasonal lawn decorations, and friends with monosyllabic nicknames.

  Then there’s me. With my diarrhea-brown eyes and frizzy hair. My useless ability to quote the classics and say the alphabet backwards in under a minute. My Encyclopaedia Britannicas and frumpy wardrobe. My highlighter manicures, kosher sandwiches, obsession with the word “Coxsackie,” my intellectual Homies, and my best friend, Blake, who refuses to tell anyone he’s gay.

  Guys like that don’t like girls like me. If Sheridan Spencer didn’t tell me that Duffy’s invitation to the fashion show wasn’t a date, I might still think I had a chance. For that I blame my parents.

  Sheltering me from the public school system made me book smart, but socially illiterate. Maybe if Mom taught me how to read people instead of Latin I wouldn’t have needed Sheridan Spencer to translate Duffy. I wouldn’t have had my hair straightened or my makeup done. I wouldn’t have worn a dress. A tight one. A red one! I wouldn’t have been skating home alone in the dark, crying. Tears wouldn’t have blurred my vision and I wouldn’t have fallen off my board. I wouldn’t have scraped my knee or landed in a pile of wet leaves.