Pretty Little Liars

Starts and Fitz

‘Hey! Finland!’

On Tuesday, the first day of school, Aria walked quickly to her first-period English class. She turned to see Noel Kahn, in his Rosewood Day sweater vest and tie, jogging toward her. ‘Hey.’ Aria nodded. She kept going.

‘You bolted from our practice the other day,’ Noel said, sidling up next to her.

‘You expected me to watch?’ Aria looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked flushed.

‘Yeah. We scrimmaged. I scored three goals.’

‘Good for you,’ Aria deadpanned. Was she supposed to be impressed?

She continued down the Rosewood Day hallway, which she’d unfortunately dreamed about way too many times in Iceland. Above her were the same eggshell-white, vaulted ceilings. Below her were the same farmhouse-cozy wood floors. To her right and left were the usual framed photos of stuffy alums, and to her left, incongruous rows of dented metal lockers. Even the very same song, the 1812 Overture, hummed through the PA speakers – Rosewood played between-classes music because it was ‘mentally stimulating.’ Sweeping by her were the exact same people Aria had known for a gazillion years . . . and all of them were staring.

Aria ducked her head. Since she’d moved to Iceland at the beginning of eighth grade, the last time everyone had seen her she was part of the grief-stricken group of girls whose best friend freakishly vanished. Back then, wherever she went, people were whispering about her.

Now, it felt like she’d never left. And it almost felt like Ali was still here. Aria’s breath caught in her chest when she saw a flash of blond ponytail swishing around the corner to the gym. And when Aria rounded the corner past the pottery studio, where she and Ali used to meet between classes to trade gossip, she could almost hear Ali yelling, ‘Hey, wait up!’ She pressed her hand to her forehead to see if she had a fever.

‘So what class do you have first?’ Noel asked, still keeping pace with her.

She looked at him, surprised, and then down at her schedule. ‘English.’

‘Me too. Mr. Fitz?’

‘Yeah,’ she mumbled. ‘He any good?’

‘Dunno. He’s new. Heard he was a Fulbright Scholar, though.’

Aria eyed him suspiciously. Since when did Noel Kahn care about a teacher’s credentials? She turned around a corner and saw a girl standing in the English room doorway. She looked familiar and foreign all at the same time. This girl was model-thin, had long, red-brown hair, and wore a rolled-up blue plaid Rosewood uniform skirt, purple platform wedge-heels, and a Tiffany charm bracelet.

Aria’s heart started to pound. She’d worried about how she might react when she saw her old friends again, and here was Hanna. What had happened to Hanna?

‘Hey,’ Aria said softly.

Hanna turned and looked Aria up and down, from her long, shaggy haircut to her Rosewood Day white shirt and chunky Bakelite bracelets to her brown scuffed lace-up boots. A blank expression crossed her face, but then she smiled.

‘Omigod!’ Hanna said. At least it was still Hanna’s same high-pitched voice. ‘How was . . . where were you? Czechoslovakia?’

‘Um, yeah,’ Aria answered. Close enough.

‘Cool!’ Hanna gave Aria a tight smile.

‘Kirsten looks like she’s gone off South Beach,’ interrupted a girl next to Hanna. Aria turned her head sideways, trying to place her. Mona Vanderwaal? The last time Aria saw her, Mona had put a billion teensy braids in her hair and was riding her Razor scooter. Now, she looked even more glamorous than Hanna.

‘Doesn’t she?’ Hanna agreed. She then gave Aria and Noel – who was still standing there – an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry, guys, can you excuse us?’

Aria headed into the classroom and fell into the first desk she saw. She put her head down and took heaving, emotional breaths.

‘Hell is other people,’ she chanted. It was her favorite quote by the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre and a perfect mantra for Rosewood.

She rocked back and forth for a few seconds, in full freak-out mode. The only thing that made her feel better was the memory of Ezra, that guy she’d met at Snookers. At the bar, Ezra had followed her into the bathroom, grabbed her face, and kissed her. Their mouths fit perfectly together – they didn’t bang teeth once. His hands floated all over the small of her back, her stomach, her legs. They’d had such a connection. And okay, fine, some might say it was just a . . . a tongue connection . . . but Aria knew it was more.

She’d felt so overcome thinking about it last night, she’d written a haiku about Ezra to express her feelings – haikus were her favorite kind of poem. Then, pleased with how it turned out, she’d keyed it into her phone and texted it to the number Ezra had given her.

Aria let out a tortured sigh and looked around the classroom. It smelled like books and Mop & Glo. The oversize, four-paned windows faced the south lawn and beyond that, green rolling hills. A few trees had started to turn yellow and orange. There was a great Shakespearean sayings poster next to the blackboard, and a MEAN PEOPLE SUCK sticker someone had stuck to the wall. It looked like the janitor had tried to scrape off the sticker but gave up halfway through.

Was it desperate to text Ezra at 2:30 A.M.? She still hadn’t heard back from him. Aria felt for her phone in her bag and pulled it out. The screen read, NEW TEXT MESSAGE. Her stomach swooped, relieved and excited and nervous all at once. But as she clicked READ, a voice interrupted her.

‘Excuse me. Um, you can’t use your cell in school.’

Aria covered her phone with her hands and looked up. Whoever had said it – the new teacher, she guessed – stood with his back to the rest of the room and was writing on the chalkboard. Mr. Fitz was all he’d written so far. He was holding a memo with Rosewood’s insignia on the top. From the back, he looked young. A few of the other girls in the class gave him an appreciative once-over as they found seats. The now-fabulous Hanna even whistled.

‘I know I’m the new guy,’ he went on, writing, AP English, under his name, ‘but I have this handout from the front office. Some stuff about no cell phones in school.’ Then he turned. The handout fluttered out of his hand and onto the linoleum floor.

Aria’s mouth instantly went dry. Standing in front of the classroom was Ezra from the bar. Ezra, the recipient of her haiku. Her Ezra, looking lanky and adorable in a Rosewood jacket and tie, his hair combed, his buttons buttoned correctly, and a leather-bound lesson planner under his left arm. Standing at the blackboard and writing . . . Mr. Fitz, AP English.

He stared at her, his face draining of color. ‘Holy shit.’

The entire class turned around to see who he was looking at. Aria didn’t want to stare back at them, so she looked down at her text message.

Aria: Surprise! I wonder what your pig puppet will have to say about this . . . —A

Holy shit, indeed.