Another AfterEllen.com writer — who shall remain nameless due to the deep shame this story will (rightly) heap upon her — recently said to me, “I don’t really get Pretty Little Liars.” And even though nothing delights me more than turning a five-word scene into a fifteen page deconstruction, I emailed back this time and said, “Then I am severing our friendship.”
I mean, this week alone, here’s what you get: Two would-be gaymos processing the s–t out of a scarf and a kiss like it’s the most complicated math problem ever committed to paper, like someone asked them to divide by zero over here. You get a passionate, sexy debate by one of the greatest characters in American literature (Gilbert Blythe) about the greatest novel in American history (To Kill a Mockingbird). (You heard me, East Egg.) You get a main character creeping through her house wielding a cleaver. You get a different main character threatening to feed her stepsister to a sea monster. And you get the full-blown heebie-jeebies just because it’s a real possibility that a werewolf ex-boyfriend or a blind robot frenemy or ANOTHER Days of our Lives star is going to wander into the frame and set the whole place on fire!
Like, you know in New Moon when Bella goes, “Is everything true?” This show is the answer to that question. Yes, everything is true — and “A” wrote down all of it in her fookin diary.
This theme song, by The Pierces, I’ve been walking around singing, “Got a secret, can you keep it? Swear this one you’ll save. Gotta Wocket in your pocket, taking this one to the grave.” But, no. It’s not Seussian; I looked it up. It’s locket in your pocket. Like Annie. Like Chuck Bass’ mom.
The PLLs are in the park, working a new angle to build Alison’s shrine in a public place this time, when Spencer concocts the next scheme in their grand plan to rid themselves of “A.” She opens her laptop and starts typing away because Wi-Fi — like evil — is just in the air in Rosewood. She says she’s blocked all emails and text messages and phone calls and house visits and random street encounters with/from people she doesn’t know. She has literally enacted a force-field against unknown persons with the push of a button. Everyone else follows her lead as Mr. Blythe rides by on his bike and waves.
Spencer and Hanna catcall him and are like, “Those bike shorts leave nothing to the imagination about the Wocket in Gilbert Blythe’s pocket!” And, “He can honk my handlebar horn any time!” Aria is mortified as she finishes enacting her invisible stranger shield, and as soon as she’s finished and they’re convinced “A” is out of their lives forever, a flyer drifts over to them on the wings of the wind — because “A” controls the weather too — and scrawled in blood (or red marker) are the words: “You don’t just talk about the Wocket in someone else’s boyfriend’s pocket, OK? It’s like the rules of feminism.”
Hanna’s problems this week are, once again, self-inflicted and revolve around her penchant for petty crime. Though, apparently in Rosewood, PA, the hierarchy of criminal activity, from the very worst thing you could possibly do — like raining-down-Old-Testament-plagues-on-yourself bad — to the a sort of naughty thing you could possibly do — like smack-on-the-wrist bad — goes like this: pinch a pair of sunglasses; obstruct justice; steal a car and wreck it in the Forbidden Forest; poke out a girl’s eyes with a firecracker. Double apparently, there’s also some kind of distinction between stealing a car and destroying it, and stealing a car and just kind of denting it. Like, Hanna keeps going, “I didn’t wreck it; it’s not like it can’t be fixed.”