Eye Candy

by R. L. Stine

  “You saved my life,” she jokes. She holds on to my arm.

  That means this date is going to end in her apartment.

  Chloe points uptown, toward the top of Union Square Park at Seventeenth Street. “Can we stop at the Barnes & Noble up there? I want to get my sister a book before her audition.”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  We cross the street into the park. Union Square has trees and walks with benches along them, but not much grass. It’s mostly concrete. It used to be filled with junkies and drug dealers day and night. But they’ve been chased downtown and replaced by a big farmer’s market where you can buy fresh-baked bread and apple cider and farm produce. Very wholesome. At night, even warm nights, the park is pretty empty.

  We start to follow the path that leads uptown. Suddenly, Chloe stops and turns to me. “I’m a very direct person,” she says. “I like to cut through the bullshit. You know. Cut to the chase.”

  “Me too,” I tell her. Where is she going with this?

  “Do you like me?” she asks. “Just answer point-blank. You know. Be honest.”

  “Do I like you? Well, yeah. I like you a lot.”

  She lets out a sigh and smiles at the same time. “Well, good. Because I like you, too.” She brushes her face against mine, gives me a quick kiss, and takes my hand in both of hers.

  Oh, Jesus. Her hands are suddenly cold and wet. Like kitchen sponges that have just finished cleaning the supper dishes.

  I feel sick.

  And that’s when I realize she’s taller than me.

  I mean, how did that happen? Why didn’t I notice it before? I guess because I met her at the restaurant, and she was already sitting down.

  I’m really sick now. I’m totally nauseous. She’s taller than me and holding on to me with those wet octopus hands.

  My stomach heaves. I feel all my muscles tightening. My hands clench and unclench. I really can’t control them.

  I see her long, pale neck glowing under the streetlamp.

  I glance around quickly. No one around. The park is empty, like a deserted movie set.

  Her throat glows, brighter than the streetlamp. Glows as if sending out an invitation.

  I didn’t know she was taller than me. I didn’t know her hands would be so cold and wet on my skin.

  Is this the night I become a vampire? Can I do it? Can I sink my teeth into the beautiful, throbbing, shimmery throat?

  No. I’m too frightened.

  I raise my hands to the sides of her neck. She smiles at me. What is she expecting? Tenderness?

  Can’t she see how sick I am? Can’t she see me struggling to keep my dinner down? She has fucked up everything. It isn’t my fault. I tried, didn’t I? I really tried.

  I wrap my hands around her neck. I can feel the blood pulsing in her throat. My hands are on their own now. I’m too sick to control them.

  She whispers my name.

  Whispers my name so sweetly.

  I can’t take this. How am I supposed to deal with that?

  My hands slide off her neck. I spin away from her. The white globes of the streetlamps dance in front of me. The lights leap and bounce in a frantic ballet.

  I hear her voice, hear her calling to me.

  She sounds far behind me now. Because I am running. Running out of the park. Running into the darting, dancing lights.

  I tried so hard.

  Why didn’t I get her sister’s name? And her number?

  Chloe’s sister would be small, petite, with tiny, dry hands, dry as the powder they put on their ballet slippers.

  No, don’t be sick on the street. It’s over. It’s time to start again.

  I run all the way to my apartment. People stare at me, but I don’t care. I can’t wait to get online. I can’t wait to see the faces of the girls staring out at me on the screen so expectantly, so sweetly.

  “Be cool. Be cool,” I tell myself, breathing hard. I can’t control my breathing. My hand shakes the mouse. I scroll down quickly from face to face.

  “Be cool. Just be cool.”

  But the women . . . they drive me crazy.

  14

  I like to make lists. They make me feel as if I’m organized. Sometimes I make lists just to kill time. . . . Friends I’d invite to my birthday party if I was having one, clothes I’d like to buy this fall if I could afford them, books I’d like to read . . .

  Tommy Foster told me to forget about the threatening phone call, but I couldn’t. One night after work, I sat down at the little desk in my room, took out a pad of paper, and started to write a list.

  Maybe if I wrote down what I knew about the guys I recently met, something would click. Something would tell me who the caller was.

  Also, I knew that if I got it all down on paper, I could stop running it over and over again in my mind. Had I been able to think of anything else? Not much. I think even Saralynn had begun to notice how distracted I was.

  Luisa was in her room getting ready for work. I could hear her radio blasting Hot97. Luisa is really into hip-hop and rap—has been ever since she met Dr. Dre at a party.

  I admit I went through a short Eminem period, and there’s a new Outkast single I really like. But I’d much rather dance to that music than listen to it.

  In the livingroom, Ann-Marie was arguing loudly on the phone with Lou. Trouble in paradise? No. It didn’t sound like a major battle. Some mix-up in plans.

  I closed my bedroom door, settled down at the desk, and forced myself to shut out everything else and concentrate on my list.

  First I wrote down the names of the guys in the order I’d met them: Brad, Jack, Shelly, Colin. I left plenty of space under each name. Then I tried to write down everything I remembered—not about their looks, but about their lives and the way they acted. Anything that might help me figure out which one had threatened me.

  BRAD FISHER

  Took me to a noisy restaurant, then to a comedy club.

  Not much conversation.

  Smoked a lot, drank a lot of beer, but it didn’t seem to affect him.

  A real New Yorker, grew up near Coney Island.

  Writes for a weekly newspaper; very ambitious.

  At comedy club, laughed hardest at jokes that were insulting to women. Laughed and clapped at all the antifemale remarks and put-downs. (IS THIS IMPORTANT? DOES THIS TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT BRAD? OR AM I MAKING TOO MUCH OF IT? EVERYONE ELSE WAS LAUGHING, TOO.)

  Grabbed me and forced me to kiss him really hard at end of date. I felt like he was being violent. Or did he slip from the taxi? Maybe just an awkward moment?

  Seemed okay till that last moment. Maybe too many beers explains it. (DOES HE DRINK TOO MUCH AND GET VIOLENT? OR AM I TOTALLY WRONG ABOUT THIS?)

  JACK SMITH

  Boring as hell. Talks mainly about his work, which is also boring as hell. Does this mean he’s repressed?

  Cheap. Date was a total freebie.

  Became emotional, had tears in his eyes over sucky patriotic musical. Further sign of repressed feelings? Does bland exterior hide an unbalanced mind?

  Emails every day and phoned four or five times even though I discouraged him. (Only one of the four guys to call so often.)

  Ran into me in the Village and pretended it was a coincidence. (Was it really a coincidence? Why did I have a strong feeling he’d been following me?)

  SHELLY OLSEN

  Seems sweet. Very baby-faced and cute-looking. Haven’t been out with him yet. Only met him for a few minutes. (By mistake.)

  He’s funny. Good sense of humor.

  Eager to see me. Eager enough to track down my phone number on the Internet.

  Called soon after the threatening phone call. IS THAT A COINCIDENCE?

  Seems unlikely he’d say, “Keep saying yes to me,” in a threatening phone message since I hadn’t yet said yes to him. SHOULD I CROSS HIM OFF THE LIST?

  COLIN O’CONNOR

  We hit it off right away. Just seemed to click.

  I liked his pas
sion for movies. He could get really stoked just talking about films he liked. DOES THAT MEAN HE GETS OBSESSED ABOUT OTHER THINGS, TOO?

  I liked his passion for ME.

  Is he obsessed with me??

  I couldn’t write anything more about Colin. I felt totally mixed up about him, because . . .

  Because . . .

  I wasn’t ready to face what I was thinking—the dread that had kept me awake nights.

  I set the pen aside and scanned the list. Lindy, you should have been a psych major.

  Well, I did take two psych courses at NYU. I think I got B’s in both. I was your solid B student without having to work hard. Even with two majors, I didn’t work hard in college. It was easier than Stuyvesant High. I read a lot, got high with Ann-Marie and my other roommates, and worried about my so-called social life.

  We all went out a lot. To movies and dance clubs and museums and concerts in the park. There’s a lot to do in New York City. It’s not like going to college anywhere else. It’s the City That Never Sleeps, you know. So we seldom slept.

  Yes, yes. Simpler times.

  Hey, I’m only twenty-four. How can I be nostalgic already?

  Twisting a strand of hair around one finger, I held the list up close to the lamp. I read it over one more time, trying to find some clue . . . any clue.

  Trying to ignore the one thought I hadn’t written on the list. The one thought that kept me shuddering at night, even with the blankets pulled up over my chin.

  Colin.

  The whispered voice on the tape. The last few times I listened to it, I thought I recognized him. Recognized the voice.

  Colin.

  15

  Where are you going?” Ann-Marie appeared at my bedroom door. She was chewing on one of those energy bars with about twice as many calories as a Snickers bar. She eats about five of them a day. She thinks they’re okay because she buys them in a health food store.

  “Out,” I replied, fixing my hair in the mirror. I was trying out a new lipstick color. Bubblegum pink. Kind of kicky.

  “Who with?” Ann-Marie stepped into the room and sat down on the edge of my bed.

  “A guy.”

  I pulled a white, Triple 5 Soul baseball cap down over my hair and scrunched the bill down on the sides. Cute.

  Luisa stepped up beside the bed. “You’re going out with one of those Internet guys, aren’t you.”

  I turned to her. “No, I’m not. Mom.”

  Luisa raised both hands, like for a truce. “Whoa. We’re not in a bitchy mood tonight, are we?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I’m a little stressed. I don’t know.”

  “So you are going out with one of those guys,” Ann-Marie accused. She finished the energy bar and crumpled the wrapper in her hand.

  “Why do you eat those things? Do you really think they give you energy?”

  She tossed the wrapper at me. “Sure, if I drink a lot of coffee with them. Don’t change the subject, Lindy.”

  “I like your hat,” Luisa said. “Where’d you get the T-shirt?”

  “Banana Republic, I think. It’s pretty old.”

  “It matches your lipstick.”

  “I’m not sure about the lipstick,” I said, turning back to the mirror. “Too teeny-bopper. Shelly is going to take me out for a milkshake and a pony ride.”

  Ann-Marie narrowed her eyes at me. “Shelly, huh?”

  “Which one is he?” Luisa asked.

  “The one I didn’t meet on the Internet,” I said.

  Ann-Marie picked up one of my hair scrunchies and twisted it around in her hands. “He’s the one you met by accident.”

  “Yeah. A lucky accident,” I said. “He’s nice. Sweet. Baby-faced.”

  “Baby-faced.” Ann-Marie snickered. “What makes you think Baby Face is okay?”

  I shrugged. “Just a hunch.” I turned to her. “Hey, don’t worry, okay? It’s just dinner.”

  “Have any of those other guys called?” Luisa asked.

  “Well . . . Brad emailed me.”

  “He’s the reporter?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to take me to Belmont to watch horse races. And of course Jack emailed and called.”

  “The freebie guy.”

  “Yeah. He keeps trying. I haven’t called him back once. But he doesn’t give up.”

  Ann-Marie slid the scrunchie around her wrist and twirled it. “Is he, like, a stalker? Think he’s the one who made that creepy call?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  “So what did you tell these guys?” Luisa asked.

  “I told them I was busy, that’s all.”

  “You’ll just keep telling them you’re busy till they get the idea?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Luisa fiddled with one of her dangling red earrings. “But Shelly is okay?”

  I jumped up and headed to the door. “I’ll let you know after tonight.”

  16

  Shelly was waiting for me in the lobby downstairs. He wore faded jeans and a pale blue Polo shirt under a blue blazer. He flashed me a warm smile as I stepped out of the elevator.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you Shelly? Am I sure you’re the right guy?”

  His eyes flashed. “You’ve got the right guy this time,” he said.

  I followed him out the door. It was muggy out, hot with a wet wind blowing. “Where are we going?” I grabbed my cap in time to stop a gust of wind from lifting it off my head.

  “How was that Colin guy?” he asked, grinning at me. “Gay, right? I knew I had his number.”

  I laughed. “No. He was nice. Stop talking about him.”

  “Nice, but gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  We both laughed. I guess he watches Seinfeld reruns, too. I took his arm. “Where are you taking me?”

  He stared at me. “I thought you were taking me! Didn’t you promise me dinner at The Four Seasons and then a show?”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “You’re very funny tonight.”

  “Funny-looking?”

  “No. I like the way you look,” I said. “Sort of a dark-haired Huck Finn in yuppie clothes.”

  He pretended to be offended. “I look like a hick?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed.

  Now he looked really offended.

  “I’m joking.”

  “I hate women with a sense of humor.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said.

  We were walking east on Seventy-ninth Street. When we came to the Museum of Natural History, we turned uptown, then continued east on Eighty-first. The museum, a pale-brick, gothic-like structure, turrets and all, stretches for blocks. Someone told me it’s in the Guinness Book—the biggest museum in the world.

  We walked past the newly built planetarium. The giant sphere inside the Rose Observatory sent its blue glow out into the night. Very romantic. But I was hungry, and we seemed to be walking away from all the restaurants.

  It was a little after eight-thirty. The museum was closed, but several people—couples mostly—sat on the front steps, talking, smoking, hanging out.

  A bus rolled by, then Shelly pulled me across Central Park West. “Lindy, I hope you’re into gourmet food.”

  “Excuse me?” I glanced around. “Where are we going? Into the park?”

  I felt a sudden stab of fear. This part of the park would be deserted this time of night. I pictured Shelly dragging me into the playground . . . forcing me to the ground . . . forcing me.

  God, how awful. I came out for a nice time, a pleasant evening, and here I was thinking the most horrible things. It’s so frightening how one call, one thirty-second phone message, can change the way you think.

  Did he notice my fear? It was too dark here. He couldn’t see my face.

  He grabbed my arm firmly. I glanced up and saw that his eyes were narrowed, his features set.

  He pulled me toward the park entrance. I didn’t see anyone around, except for a hot dog vendor, bending over his
cart, his back turned.

  My throat tightened. I tried to pull free of his grasp.

  Why didn’t Shelly speak? Why didn’t he say anything?

  He was dragging me into the park!

  17

  Shelly? What are we doing? Where are we going?” My voice came out high and shrill.

  “Here we are.” He let go of my arm.

  The hot dog vendor turned. He was a short, dark-haired man in a stained white apron. He smiled when he saw Shelly. “Mr. Shelly, here you are. Buenas noches, señor.”

  My heartbeat began to slow to normal. I whispered to Shelly, “He knows you?”

  “I made a reservation,” Shelly said. “Sometimes it gets very crowded.” Then he introduced us. The hot dog guy’s name was Paulo. “Qué bonita,” he said, eyeing me up and down.

  “What’s good tonight?” Shelly asked him. “Hot dogs?”

  “I’m just closing up shop, Mr. Shelly,” Paulo said. “When the museum closes, I close, too.” He stared up at me and smiled. “But I saved a few of the best for you. What do you want on them? Everything?”

  “Four with everything,” Shelly said before I could answer.

  Paulo opened the lid on his cart and began fishing around in the boiling water. I pulled Shelly to the front of the cart. “Gourmet food, huh?”

  “They’re the best dogs in New York,” he said seriously. “I don’t know what he does to them, but trust me.”

  “Very cute,” I said.

  “What’s cute?”

  “This whole thing. Buying me hot dogs. Being on a first-name basis with the cart guy. Very cute. I feel like I’m in a Reese Witherspoon movie.”

  “You’re cute, too,” he replied. “Everyone’s cute tonight.”

  I laughed. I felt terribly relieved. And angry at myself for thinking such sick thoughts about Shelly.

  We sat down on a park bench across from the museum, ate the hot dogs, and shared a can of Yoo-Hoo. I finished the first dog and half of the second. That was all I could manage, especially since they were loaded down with chili and relish and sauerkraut and mustard. Shelly forced me to agree they were the best hot dogs in New York. Actually, they were a real treat. I don’t eat hot dogs very often—a girl has to watch her calories, right?