Pink-cheeked babies carefully nestled in their Burberry-by-Maclaren strollers. Shiny-coated golden retrievers that loped around the town’s well-kept dog parks. Whatever it was made everything else in Rosewood extra gorgeous, too.

It was like something in the air made the leaves there extra gorgeous.

Every year, tourists from up and down the East Coast drove to Rosewood, Pennsylvania, to see the brilliant red, orange, yellow, and purple fall foliage. It was mid-September, a few weeks into the new school year, and autumn was officially here. “This is huge,” she said in her sweet, high-pitched voice.Ī gust of wind kicked up a few stray leaves from a carefully raked pile. Jenna Cavanaugh bit a baby pink fingernail. “Look!”Ĭhassey Bledsoe shoved her purple cat-eye glasses up the bridge of her nose. Mona Vanderwaal pointed at the piece of paper. “What is it, Mona?” Phi Templeton was busy untangling the string of her new butterfly-shaped Duncan yo-yo. “Guys,” she called to her three friends by the water fountains. Seconds after the last bell of the day sounded and the sixth-grade class began to pour into the commons, a frizzy-haired girl skipped clumsily to the rack, gave the scooter an affectionate pat, and began to undo the bright yellow Kryptonite U-lock around its handlebars.Ī flyer flapping against the stone wall caught her eye. The bike racks outside Rosewood Day overflowed with colorful twenty-one-speeds, a limited edition Trek that Noel Kahn’s father had gotten directly from Lance Armstrong’s publicist, and a candy pink Razor scooter, shined to a sparkle. Maybe if someone had, a certain beautiful girl would still be alive.

In fact, four years ago, a certain Rosewood golden boy dropped a huge hint about something horrible going on inside his nasty little head. But more often than not, the most telling signs go unnoticed. Sometimes people give away clues to what’s going on inside-like the casting director’s grimace when you missed that high A-sharp, or how your best friend frostily ignored all your texts on January 1. Unfortunately, everyone’s heads are locked tighter than the Pentagon. And, best of all, you wouldn’t have to guess whether your best friend was mad that you ditched her for the hot senior with the crinkly-eyed smile at the New Year’s Eve party. Or that your cute mixed doubles partner thinks your butt looks hot in your Lacoste tennis skirt. Wouldn’t it be nice to know exactly what people are thinking? If everyone’s heads were like those clear Marc Jacobs totes, their opinions as visible as a set of car keys or a tube of Hard Candy lip gloss? You’d know what the student casting director really meant when she said, “Good job,” after your South Pacific audition.

Pretty little liars book unbelievable