Pretty Little Love

By Sara Shepard

The untold story of the relationship of Alison DiLaurentis and Emily Fields of the Pretty Little Liars series, written by the author of the series herself. Previously published on Kindle Worlds, these are the first two stories in the trilogy-- the third will be released soon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781794879805

Sara Shepard

Sara Shepard is the author of two New York Times bestselling series, Pretty Little Liars and The Lying Game, as well as the series The Perfectionists. She graduated from New York University and has an MFA from Brooklyn College.

Book preview

Pretty Little Love

PRETTY LITTLE LOVE

PART ONE

Dear Readers, I realize that in my books, Real Ali lives in Rosewood in sixth grade and returns when the girls are in 11th. But for this story, I took some creative liberties and decided to age everything up a little. So imagine Real Ali is a senior here, still living in Rosewood. Her sister Courtney (Their Ali) is also 17-going-on-18, stuck at the Radley Hospital. The reason why I did this is because this is an Emison story, and though I don’t doubt many girls realize their sexual orientation by sixth grade, I’m not sure how many actually act on it…and I wanted to infuse as much romance as possible. Enjoy!

INTRODUCTION

Have you ever wondered what being adored feels like? What it’s like when yours is the first name on a guest list, or you’re the first pick someone wants to take to a dance, or you’re the one all eyes are on, constantly, hungrily, desperately?

Well, that’s me, so I’ll tell you.

It’s like that first truly warm day of spring when the world is fresh and new. It’s the first bite into a hot fudge sundae, the cool and the warm merging together, puzzling your brain, dancing on your tongue, filling you with delight. It’s the high when you win a race. When you win an argument. When you know, with just one gesture, that you and only you can make someone’s year…or ruin them forever.

It’s powerful, bitches. And it’s spectacular.

But here’s the thing: Being adored isn’t the same as being loved. Being loved is special. Being loved doesn’t happen to just anyone. And being loved—and loving back—it feels like the 80% of our brains the scientists say we don’t use suddenly sparks up with activity. It’s as if you open a secret door in your house and find five new rooms you’ve never seen before (and they’re all filled with cool stuff). Being loved is bigger, brighter, better than what you’re used to. World-changing, too. It’s no wonder there are so many damn songs written about it.

But being loved and being in love can be risky. It showcases just how vulnerable you really are. And for me, someone who can never be vulnerable, someone who needs to be in control at all times, it’s out of the question. But my secret love is so heavy around me, tenting so hugely over me, I can’t quite believe it’s not bumping against people in the halls, or messing with my weight on the scale, or adding extra girth to my arms and stomach, preventing me from squeezing into my Rosewood Day P.E. shirt. It’s that big to me. It’s that present.

I want my secret love out in the world. I want to be able to touch it and feel it, roll it on my tongue. And sometimes, just before waking, just before remembering I’m Alison DiLaurentis, I believe it’s possible. I think about a quote by Rumi that hangs on the wall of the coffee bar inside my school: Tear off your mask. Your face is glorious.

But then I wake up. And I realize. No way. Clearly, Rumi wasn’t talking about someone like me.

One

My friends and I always sit on the bench by the Gum Tree before school. I don’t enjoy how close we are to all those bright, wadded-up blobs of petrified human saliva plastered to the bark, but the Gum Tree Bench offers a clear view of the circular drive of Rosewood Day, the private school I attend. Siting here, the three of us—Naomi Ziegler, Riley Wolfe, and me, Alison DiLaurentis—can spot every Rosewood Day student the moment they step off the bus or out of their parents’ Range Rover before they spot us.

I’m on the left side of the bench. Naomi sits next to me, twirling her long blonde hair around her finger and dangling her wedge-heeled, patent leather shoe on her right toe. Redhead Riley Wolfe sits on the far-right side of the bench. She taps away on her phone, an ugly crease in her brow, every so often bursting out with a yes! or a mwah-ha when she’s read something good on everyone’s social feeds.

Ooh, party at the Kahn house on Friday, Riley murmurs as an invite pings in.

I roll my eyes. Same old, same old. People will jump into the Kahn’s fountain, someone will have a near-wreck on one of the family’s ATVs, and of course there’s that photo booth, aka Makeout Central. But we’ll go. No one misses a Kahn party ever.

Look who we have here, Naomi murmurs, motioning as Cody Roland, who’s a senior like us, gets off the bus. Her long, shiny brown hair bounces against her back. A few girls cluster around Cody, hanging on her every word. Cody’s gaze scans the sidewalk, and she steps out of the way of what looks to be a smushed Egg McMuffin, narrowly missing getting fake egg and cheese all over her shoes. One of the freshman girls steps right through it, though. Cody doesn’t bother warning her.

I run my tongue over my teeth. Letting someone else step in McMuffin is my sort of move. Cody might be new here, but the Rosewood Day hierarchy is a delicate balance. You can’t just waltz into school and become an uber-bitch just like that—you have to work your way up to it. Climb the ladder. It’s better Cody understands this sooner rather than later, don’t you think?

My gaze travels from the top of Cody’s down to her purple booties, the ones that avoided certain McMuffin danger. What’s with those shoes? I think I’ve seen them in Target ads, no?

Naomi, who would probably let Cody into our clique in a finger-snap if I gave the go-ahead, snickers. "They’re not good enough to steal. Even for her." (Our dirt on Cody: she got caught in her old town for shoving rolled-up Gap undies into her extra-deep overcoat pockets without paying for them. Thank you, Riley, for sacrificing an entire Saturday to scour, hack, and comb through her old life, for digging up that nugget.)

On it. Riley’s fingers fly.

I lean over and check out what she’s typing. I thought a certain ex-felon’s five-finger discount only extended to boy shorts, not purple Target clearance booties. Eh. Not our best, but it’ll do.

Riley snaps Cody’s pic as she passes, then tags her in a post. In seconds, pockets buzz, and people look at our alert, then at Cody. Cody reads her phone and blushes. She spies us, opens her mouth to protest, but then lets out an exasperated sigh-slash-whimper and marches through the open double doors into the science wing.

That solves that problem for today, I say evenly.

Others stream down the sidewalk: Mason Byers (cute, though what, is his growth spurt going to hit in college?), Natalia Richards (dad owns a software company, and with the stiff way she walks, we started a rumor she’s part cyborg), James Freed (still hasn’t lived down the one day he came to school in a red bow tie). All eyes dart to me as though I am a gatekeeper, a judge, ruling yes or no. I give everyone tight smirks, regal smiles, or impassive stares. I take my job very, very seriously.

Suddenly, I see a glimmer of long, dark brown hair. My head shoots up. My eyes narrow. The air goes out of my lungs, as though sucked through a straw.

It’s her.

My heart speeds to a gallop. The back of my neck grows hot. It’s as though I’ve suddenly spiked a fever. She’s walking toward us, her ponytail bobbing, her eyes shining. An overstuffed swim bag hangs on her shoulder; there’s a little blue ribbon tied on the strap. I wonder what the ribbon is for, what it is she won. Her round, open face searches the crowd, and her eyes sharpen when she sees us—sees me.

Our eyes lock. Hers widen a touch. Then I panic. Turn quickly to Naomi and start to whisper about Jessa Thurman’s cankles. Pretend to look at something on Naomi’s phone, though my eyes don’t quite focus. When I look up, a lock of hair has fallen across the girl’s smooth cheek. She tucks her chin into her chest and hurries by us fast, as though she thinks I’m going to pick a piece of the fossilized gum off the tree and hurl it at her.

My hands tremble beneath my bag. I watch her long, muscular legs in their fitted jeans as she hurries into the side door. The friend she’s walking with makes a joke, and she laughs. Her laugh is silvery, like wind chimes. My throat feels tight. My stomach quakes. I can’t pull in a full breath. What is wrong with me? Is this girl seeping cancer? This has been happening for a while now, but I feel like it’s getting worse. Or maybe it’s this spot on the bench—maybe it’s possessed. I wriggle on the wooden slats. There’s probably some some sort of gas leak right beneath my ass. Rosewood Day is so damn old the staff probably has no clue.

You want me to say something about her? Naomi murmurs.

My head snaps toward her. Huh?

"Emily Fields. Want me to create an alert about her? Not that I know anything…"

Embarrassment fills me suddenly and blindingly, like that first sharp shot of shot of cold air on a winter day. What did Naomi see? What sort of face was I making? How dare she comment on it?

I round on her, my nostrils flaring. Did you brush your teeth today? I snap, covering my nose. Your breath smells like ass.

Naomi claps a hand over her mouth. Her fingers feel in her purse for a piece of Trident. When I turn back to the sidewalk, Emily Fields has gone inside. It pisses me off, and what pisses me off even more is that I can’t figure out why I’m pissed off. I glower at Naomi again, fully aware of the slight but clear tilt of power. Naomi is perceptive. She might have just learned something about me, if she really took the time to think about it. I would think about it. Collecting gossip and weakness is my specialty. It’s practically a sixth sense.

But then Naomi gives me a small, scared, oblivious smile and breathes into my face. I smell cloying, sugary bubblegum. Better? she says.

Yes, but never breathe in my face like that again, I say. I pinch her wrist, and she pinches me back, looking relieved. Time for homeroom, bitches, I add, pulling my besties to

Reviews for Pretty Little Love

[Mercedes Ladouceur · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

When Alison and Emily find their way back to one another!