by R. L. Stine
♦ ♦ ♦
Pam Dalby slammed the receiver down so hard, she knocked the phone off the desk. She groaned unhappily and bent down to pick it up.
“That liar!” Pam cried out loud.
She sank down onto her bed and angrily tossed her ragged, old teddy bear against the wall. I’d love to pay Reva back someday, Pam thought bitterly.
Just once. I’d love to find a way to pay her back!
Chapter 3
A VIOLENT TEMPER
Pam picked up the phone, determined to call Reva back and tell her what she really thought of her.
What have I ever done to her? Pam wondered, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone receiver in her hand. I’ve always been nice to her. I’ve never told her how everyone at Shadyside High hates her guts.
A strong gust of wind rattled her bedroom windows. Pam felt a breeze, shivered, and reached for a tissue to wipe her runny nose.
It’s no wonder I have colds all winter, she thought bitterly. This old house is so drafty.
The radiator under the windows steamed, but not much heat came up. Another strong wind gust seemed to shake the entire house.
Pam put down the receiver. What was the point of calling Reva? Pam knew there was no way of getting through to her. She could never have an honest conversation with her cousin—Reva was too cold, too hung-up, too sarcastic to really talk to.
Reva only liked to talk about the things she owned, the fancy, exotic places she’d been scuba diving, and the boys she’d broken up with.
I can’t believe two cousins can have so little in common, Pam thought. She retrieved her old teddy bear from the floor, blew a dust ball off its head, and returned it to the foot of her bed.
She still felt edgy, pent up. I’ll call Foxy, she decided.
Foxy was her boyfriend and was always willing to listen to her and her troubles. It was one of his best qualities, she knew. Of course, Foxy has a lot of good qualities, she added. He’s a real teddy bear too.
She started to punch in his number, then remembered that he had a social studies project to finish. Some long research paper on the Brazilian rain forest.
“Oh, well.” She replaced the receiver.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought.
If I have to stay home tonight listening to the wind rattle the windows and thinking about Reva and how I don’t have a job and don’t have a penny to spend on Christmas presents this year, I’ll go bananas!
Maybe I’ll borrow Dad’s car and cruise around for a bit. No. That won’t take my mind off anything. I’ll just think in the car and end up even more angry.
She punched in a different number on the phone and reached her friend Mickey Wakely. Mickey was going to meet his good friend Clay Parker at the 7-Eleven on Mission Street. “I’ll meet you there too,” Pam said eagerly.
The clunky, old Pontiac Grand Prix her father had bought third-hand protested at first, but on the third try the engine did kick over. Pam let it warm up for a while, the way her father had instructed, then backed out of the gravel drive and headed down Fear Street
It was a blustery night, clear and cold. There were a million stars overhead, and the full moon gave almost as much light as the streetlights. The wind howled like a ghost. Pam held her breath as she drove past the Fear Street cemetery, a silly superstition, she knew, but she did hold her breath every time.
As she pulled into the small parking lot in front of the 7-Eleven, Pam could see both boys through the glass storefront. Seeing them immediately made her feel better. She slammed the car door and, wrapping her wool muffler high around her neck, hurried into the store.
Mickey had a candy bar in his hand, as usual. He smiled at her in greeting, his teeth covered with chocolate. Mickey was short and very thin. He had inch-long blond hair and blue eyes and was kind of goofy looking, Pam thought, with his face full of freckles and big jug ears that stuck out a mile on either side of his head. He had a bad complexion, maybe because of all the chocolate bars he consumed, and always managed to appear awkward and uncomfortable, even when he wasn’t.
Clay was also very thin, but taller and lanky. He had brown hair that he wore slicked straight back, a mysterious scar over his right eyebrow, and steel gray eyes, restless eyes. Walking stoop-shouldered, a hard expression on his face, Clay always seemed nervous, jittery, with enough raw energy to make him ready to explode.
Pam was really fond of Mickey. They’d been friends since childhood. Until fairly recently Mickey had always been just a funny, goofy guy, always great fun to be around. In recent months, though, he’d become more quiet, even sullen. He didn’t joke around as much, and he often seemed to be daydreaming, lost in thought.
Clay was Mickey’s friend, so Pam tried to like him too. But there was a side of Clay that frightened her. An angry side. Clay couldn’t seem to control his temper. He’d been in several fights in school and had even been suspended once for a week.
“Yo!” Clay called to her from the potato chip rack.
Mickey turned away from the candy bars. “Hey—how’s it going, man?” He called everyone “man,” even Pam.
“I’ve been better,” Pam said, searching her jeans pocket for a tissue to wipe her nose. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t see any Zagnuts,” Mickey complained, scratching his short blond hair before pawing through a shelf of chocolate bars.
“Zagnuts? Who eats Zagnuts?” Pam asked.
“They don’t even make ’em anymore,” Clay said, selecting a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips.
“They don’t?” Mickey looked really worried.
“Have you tried the dark-chocolate Milky Ways?” Pam asked.
“Of course,” Mickey replied.
“That’s his breakfast,” Clay cracked.
“Hey, man, did they really stop making Zagnuts?” Mickey asked, upset.
“Why don’t you write to the company and ask,” Pam suggested, reading the headlines on the Star and the National Enquirer.
“Yeah,” Clay said. “Write to Mr. Zagnut himself. ‘Dear Mr. Zagnut, I am desperate.’”
“I don’t think there is a Mr. Zagnut,” Mickey said seriously.
Pam and Clay both laughed.
Pam glanced up to the front of the store and saw the cashier, a heavyset young guy with long, frizzy hair down to his shoulders and a thick, ragged mustache, staring at them suspiciously. “We’re being watched,” she told her two friends.
They both followed her glance. “Let’s get out of here,” Clay said, making a disgusted face.
Mickey grabbed up a few more candy bars. Clay picked up a two-liter bottle of Coke to go with the potato chips. Pam followed them to the cashier.
They dumped the items on the counter. The cashier grunted disapprovingly. “The rest of it,” he said, staring hard at Clay with his little black bead eyes.
“Huh?” Clay replied.
“The rest of it,” the cashier repeated mysteriously, pointing with a pudgy hand.
Clay glared back at him, his hands resting on the counter.
“What are you talking about, man?” Mickey asked.
“Empty your coat pockets, please,” the cashier insisted in a low voice.
Mickey’s mouth dropped open. Clay didn’t move, but Pam saw that his face had turned bright red.
“They don’t have anything in their pockets,” Pam told the cashier.
He ignored her, his eyes leveled on Clay. “Just empty your pockets,” he said wearily.
“You want to see my gloves?” Clay asked, pretending to be confused. “That’s all I’ve got in my pockets. Just my gloves.”
“Empty your pockets,” the cashier repeated.
“Hey—he’s some kind of miracle,” Clay said loudly, turning to Mickey and pointing at the cashier.
“Huh? Miracle? What do you mean?” Mickey asked, confused.
“Well, you ever see a pig that could grow a mustache?” Clay asked. He and Mickey laughed loudly, nervously.
The cashier didn’t move a muscle.
“Really. They’re not stealing anything,” Pam insisted shrilly. “There’s nothing in their pockets.”
“Ring this stuff up,” Clay told the cashier, narrowing his gray eyes menacingly, leaning over the counter toward the man.
“Not till you empty your pockets,” the cashier insisted, not backing away from Clay. “Empty them now, or I call the cops. I’m not going to have you punks stealing from this store.”
“Come on, man,” Mickey said to Clay, his eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Let’s just go.” He pulled at the sleeve of Clay’s cotton jacket, but Clay jerked his arm away.
“I’m not a punk,” Clay told the cashier in a low, threatening voice.
“Eddie—” the cashier yelled to the back of the store. “Call the police!”
“Come on! Let’s go!” Mickey pleaded.
“Mickey’s right,” Pam told Clay. “Let’s just go.”
“You’re not going anywhere till you empty your pockets,” the cashier said angrily. Then he shouted toward the back again. “Eddie—did you call?”
Clay moved so quickly that Pam let out a startled shriek.
He grabbed the cashier’s shirtfront with both hands and pulled him against the cash register, hard.
“Oh!” The cashier’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He raised his hands as if to protect himself.
Clay vaulted over the counter, his long legs flying, and grabbed the man again, this time by the throat.
“Clay—no!” Pam screamed.
Mickey took a step back, his expression frightened.
“Clay—let go of him!” Pam insisted.
But Clay didn’t seem to hear her. He shoved the cashier this time, slamming him into the cash register.
The fat cashier raised his arms in surrender, but Clay shoved him again, harder.
“Clay—please!” Pam begged.
Then she heard the police sirens. They seemed to be right outside the store.
Chapter 4
FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS
Pam started for the door, the sirens wailing insistently. She turned to see Mickey right behind her. He was very pale, his blue eyes revealing his fear.
She saw Clay finally let go of the cashier. As the shaken man stood staring in disbelief, Clay vaulted back over the counter and ran to join her and Mickey.
A second later the three were racing across the asphalt parking lot to Pam’s car. The sirens were louder now. The police had to be only a block or two away.
They piled into Pam’s Pontiac, Clay taking the wheel, Pam beside him, Mickey in the back. Her hand trembling, Pam gave Clay the key. He jammed it into the ignition, turned it, and floored the gas pedal.
Nothing.
“Try it again—quick!” Pam cried.
The sirens were right behind them, on all sides of them, over them, under them. The sound seemed to be coming from inside the car!
Clay turned the ignition again, his steel gray eyes calmly staring into the rearview mirror, watching for the police black-and-whites.
The engine rumbled.
It creaked. It resisted.
Then it turned over.
Clay shifted into reverse, pulled back, shifted again, then roared toward the exit, all four tires whining in protest on the asphalt.
“The cops—they’re right behind us!” Mickey shouted, his voice almost as high as the wailing siren. He was twisted around in the backseat, staring out the rear window. “I think there’s only one cruiser!”
“Fasten your seat belts!” Clay cried. He tromped down hard on the gas pedal, and the big car shot forward with a jolt that sent Pam’s head back against the headrest.
“Clay—stop!” she shouted. “It’s my dad’s car. He—”
Clay spun the wheel hard, and the car squealed, making the first sharp turn. He roared through a red light and kept going, his eyes straight ahead, not blinking, not revealing any fear, any excitement, any emotion at all.
“Wow!” Mickey exclaimed from the back. “Man, you’ve got this crate up to ninety-five!”
The siren was so close it seemed to be coming from the backseat. Pam closed her eyes and covered her face with both hands as Clay squealed around another corner.
“Pull over! Pull over!” came the distorted voice of an officer from the loudspeaker on the black-and-white.
“This is the police! Pull over!”
Clay laughed a high-pitched laugh. “The police?” he cried. “I thought it was Santa Claus!”
“Pull over! Pull over!”
But instead of slowing, Clay gunned the engine, pushing harder on the gas as they roared from one narrow street to another.
Pam gingerly opened her eyes and gazed at the speedometer. The needle was as high as it could go.
Clay peeled around another corner, then made a sharp right into a narrow street that a trailer truck almost totally blocked.
They’re going to shoot us! Pam thought.
Just like on TV. They’re going to start shooting at us!
“No!” Pam shrieked as the truck slowly pulled out from the curb in front of them.
The car was heading right for the back of it.
“Clay—stop!”
Instead of hitting the brakes, Clay spun the wheel. The car swerved up onto the sidewalk, missing a mailbox by less than an inch, and rolled past the truck, quickly leaving it behind, its horn honking wildly. Then Clay spun the wheel to the right, and they bumped off the sidewalk and, sailing through a red light, took the next right.
Pam struggled to catch her breath. Mickey hadn’t made a sound in a long while. Clay stared straight ahead, his face still emotionless except for the beginnings of a smile frozen on his lips.
The car tore through a stop sign, then swerved past a group of teenagers crossing the street. The blocks rushed by the window in a blur of yellow light and dark shadow.
It took Pam a long while to realize that they had lost the police car.
Mickey was still silent. She turned her head to the back to see if he was okay. He was sitting stiffly against the door, staring out the window, both hands gripping the seat belt across his waist.
Clay didn’t slow the car until they were a block from his house. Then, peering into the rearview mirror, he took his foot off the gas, and the speedometer needle finally began to slip back.
“Yo!” Clay screamed at the top of his lungs. “Where’d they go?”
Pam could still hear the siren ringing in her ears. She wondered if the sound would ever go away.
“Wow!” Mickey cried, finally speaking. “Wow! Wow wow wow!” He had a silly grin on his face, and his body seemed to collapse. He slumped down in his seat and let go of his grip on the seat belt.
“We lost them!” Pam cried, her heart pounding. “We really lost them!”
Clay pulled the car to the curb in front of his small redbrick house. He threw back his head and laughed with triumph, a laugh Pam had never heard before.
“Man, that was great!” Mickey declared excitedly. “Great!” He pounded Clay on the shoulder. “You did it, man. You did it!”
“When that truck pulled out, I thought we’d had it!” Pam said, squeezing Clay’s arm.
“That’s when we lost the police,” Clay told them, his eyes glowing with excitement. “The truck cut them off—and we were outta there!”
All three of them laughed, a mixture of relief and victory.
“That was awesome!” Mickey declared. “Awesome!” He reached into the front seat to slap Clay a high-five. Then his expression changed. “Pam—your license plate. The police—they must have gotten the number during the chase.”
“Bet they didn’t,” Pam replied, smiling. “The plate is off in back. It fell off last week. Dad hasn’t had a chance to replace it!”
All three of them burst out laughing. They were too worked up to stay in the car. They bounded out onto the sidewalk, whooping and cheering.
“I was so scared!” Pa
m confessed. “I’ve never been that scared before!” Secretly she admitted to herself that she also found the car chase really exciting.
The wind had died down a bit, but she tightened the wool muffler around her sore throat.
Clay suddenly had a very devilish expression on his face. “Hey, guys—look what I got!” he said. He reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a can of jalapeño dip.
“Clay!” Pam cried, truly shocked.
Mickey gaped, swallowing hard. “You mean—”
“It was supposed to go with the chips,” Clay said. He laughed and tossed the can high in the air, catching it one-handed when it came down.
“Whoa. I don’t believe it! The 7-Eleven guy was right!” Mickey said, shaking with laughter.
“I didn’t like his attitude,” Clay said, grinning and twirling the stolen can in his hand.
Pam suddenly didn’t feel like laughing anymore. A picture flashed into her mind of Clay grabbing the cashier by the throat and pushing him into the cash register.
Earlier, she had thought that maybe Clay was justified in losing his temper. Nobody likes to be accused of stealing.
But Clay really had been stealing.
Pam leaned back against the car. “You have to learn to control your temper,” she told Clay softly.
He stepped toward her out of the shadows, and his face glowed under the streetlight. “Hey, I’ve got to have some fun,” he said, sounding bitter.
Pam started to say something, but Mickey interrupted. “Clay is right, man. That ride we had tonight, that was the most fun I’ve had in years.”
“But, Mickey,” Pam started, “we could’ve been arrested. We could’ve been—” She didn’t finish her thought.
“Big deal,” Mickey said, kicking a small rock over the curb. “At least we had a little fun. You know what kind of holiday I’m going to have? My dad was just fired. Do you believe it? He worked at your uncle’s store for twenty-five years, and he gets fired a month before Christmas.”
Pam put an arm around Mickey’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate hug. “Don’t mention my uncle’s store to me,” she said softly.
“How come?” Mickey asked.
