by R. L. Stine
“Let’s check one of the boxes,” Gretchen said.
Coach Walker bent down and picked up a box.
“Where did it come from?” Gretchen repeated. “Where do the uniforms come from?”
The coach pulled off the box lid. She pulled out a slip of paper. She slowly raised her eyes to Gretchen. “They come from Dalby’s Department Store.”
21.
Gretchen took a shower in the locker room, then took another long, hot shower as soon as she got home. But she couldn’t stop her skin and her hair from itching. Thinking about the cockroaches crawling all over her head and body sent chill after chill down her back.
How could she stop thinking about it?
The uniforms came from Dalby’s. That proved that Devra had to be the culprit. But Coach Walker wasn’t about to accuse Devra or investigate in any way. And Gretchen knew that Principal Hernandez wouldn’t do anything, either.
The Dalbys’ money was too important to Shadyside High. Devra could do whatever she wanted and no one would ever make a move to stop her or punish her.
And, of course, the question that kept preying on Gretchen’s mind was: Just how far will Devra go? How dangerous is she?
Gretchen paced back and forth in her room. She rubbed her arms. She could still feel the cockroaches prickling her skin. She had her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and her hair at least had stopped itching.
Maybe I should wrap my whole body in towels. Make a nice cocoon to hide in.
Finally, she decided she needed to talk to Polly back in Savanna Mills. That might distract her, take her mind off her itching skin. She decided not to tell Polly about the cockroaches. It would only worry her and gross her out, and she would feel sorry for Gretchen.
Gretchen felt sorry for herself, but she didn’t want anyone else to feel that way.
She’d always been a winner back in Savanna Mills—at least until the trouble started. She wanted everyone back home to think of her as a winner now.
Gretchen stretched out on her bedspread and rested her head on the headboard. It felt good to lie down. She could feel the anger and the anxiety floating off her. She shut her eyes and just breathed for a while, taking slow, steady breaths.
Then she punched Polly’s number into the phone. Polly answered after the first ring. Somehow, she always answered after only one ring.
“How’s cheerleading?” Gretchen asked after they greeted one another. “Do they miss me?”
“No way. They have me,” Polly joked.
Polly had always been the only one who could compete with Gretchen. She was tiny, at least a head shorter than Gretchen, and energetic as if she had a powerful electrical current running through her. She was so light, she could jump higher than anyone. Her jumps and moves were so effortless, Gretchen accused her of being weightless.
“I miss you so much,” Gretchen blurted out without intending. And to Gretchen’s surprise, she had tears in her eyes. “Hold on a minute, Polly,” she said. She lowered the phone and took a few deep breaths to get herself together.
All of the disappointment, anxiety, and anger in her new school had obviously gotten to Gretchen. She was more tense than she knew, and she felt as if her emotions were all tingling just beneath her skin.
“I’m totally psyched for the first game of the season on Friday,” she told Polly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “You won’t guess what my assignment is.”
“Sit on the bench and watch the other girls perform?” Polly said.
“Ha-ha. You’re so funny. Remind me to laugh.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I can’t believe you’re an alternate, Gretchen. You were the best.”
“Anyway, my job is to light the fire batons. We never had fire batons. I think everyone thought they were too dangerous. Or maybe the school was just too cheap to buy them.”
“We were lucky to have pom-poms,” Polly said. “Remember? They were shedding all over the place?”
“I’m a little freaked about the fire batons,” Gretchen confessed. “I mean the kerosene really flames up when you light it. I have to be really careful. I mean, what if I mess up and…” She didn’t finish her sentence.
Her mother burst into the room.
Gretchen said a quick goodbye and ended the call.
“Hey, Mom—” Gretchen started. She sat up and fiddled with the towel around her hair.
Her mother picked up a T-shirt from the floor and started to fold it. “You took a shower?”
“Yeah. I … uh … felt grimy from practice,” Gretchen said.
“Did you use my bath gel? It’s almost out.”
“No. I used soap. Why do you always accuse me of using your stuff?”
“Because you do?” She set down the T-shirt on top of the dresser and began to straighten some books on Gretchen’s bookshelf. “Practice was so hard, you had to lie down in bed?”
“I’m just relaxing, Mom. At least, I was until you came in.”
“Can’t you ever be civil to me? I’m not allowed to spend any time with you?”
“Sorry.” Gretchen stood up and removed the towel. She walked to the dresser mirror to brush out her hair, which was still damp. She turned. “Mom, please don’t rearrange my room.”
Mrs. Page shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“It isn’t helpful,” Gretchen snapped. “It’s annoying. You wouldn’t like it if I went into your bedroom and started pawing over everything.”
Her mother’s cheeks reddened. “I wasn’t pawing.” She sighed. “Can’t we have one conversation without snapping at each other’s throats?”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Very dramatic, Mom.” She gave her head a shake and her blonde hair fell into place. She set down the hairbrush and adjusted her top over her jeans. “I’m going out.”
Her mother studied her. She brushed a strand of hair back from Gretchen’s forehead. “Where?”
“A cheerleader meeting,” Gretchen lied. She didn’t care where she went. She didn’t want to stay here with her mother. It wasn’t just anger at her mother’s attitude. Gretchen was afraid she might break down and tell the horrible things that were happening to her because of Devra.
Gretchen knew if she started to tell everything to her mother, the tears would start to flow. And Gretchen never wanted to cry in front of her.
When Gretchen cried, Mrs. Page was seldom sympathetic. She would freeze up. Clamp her teeth shut in a hard expression. Like putting up a wall in front of her face.
Gretchen’s tears brought out a coldness in her mother that Gretchen never wanted to see. Better to keep things inside. Her relationship with her mother was hard enough without adding more emotion.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Mrs. Page said, following Gretchen out the bedroom door and down the hall.
Uh oh, Gretchen thought.
“I think maybe being an alternate is a good thing for you, dear. It will give you time to adjust.”
Gretchen exploded in a roar of curses.
“Language, dear,” her mother said softly. “Please—watch your language.”
Gretchen sucked in a deep breath. She waited for some of her anger to cool. “Mom, why do you say those things? You knew that would make me furious. You knew how disappointed I was. Why do you want to bring it up now and make it worse?”
Mrs. Page’s eyes widened in shock. She placed an open hand at her chest, as if she had been punched. “I didn’t mean—”
Gretchen stormed out the door. She could feel the blood pulsing angrily at her temples. Why do I let her get to me like that? Why can’t I ever just ignore the horrible things she says?
She realized she had left the house without any idea of where she was going.
Maybe I’ll take a long, aimless walk. Maybe I should get the car keys.…
She heard violin music from Madison’s open window next door. Without thinking about it, she turned, walked across the lawn, and rang the bell at Madison’s front door.
Madison greeted
her warmly. “Hi. Come in. I needed an excuse to take a break.” She led Gretchen into her bedroom and picked up the violin. “Listen to this. This is the most difficult section. I think I’ve almost got it.”
Gretchen perched on the edge of Madison’s pale blue bedspread and listened. The notes came fast and furious. Gretchen stared at Madison’s fingers on the fingerboard, sliding so rapidly, Gretchen could barely see the movement.
“Awesome!” she declared when Madison finished. “It’s … beautiful.”
Madison laughed. “Aw, shucks. It was nothing.” Then she added, “Just three days of practicing that one part.”
Madison carefully slid the violin into its case. “What’s up?”
Gretchen sighed. “More of the same. You really won’t believe this.”
Madison’s expression grew serious. “Try me.”
She told Madison about the cockroaches in the new cheerleader uniform.
“You’re right. I don’t believe it,” Madison said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense, Gretchen. Devra knows she’s won. She has the spot on the squad.”
“I know,” Gretchen agreed. “There’s no reason for her to keep torturing me.” She frowned. “Okay, okay. I know Devra doesn’t like me. But there’s no reason why—”
“I know some things about Devra,” Madison interrupted. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Seriously. I know some things about her.”
“Like what?” Gretchen demanded.
Madison smiled, but she didn’t answer.
22.
“Go, Tigers
Down the field!
Go, Tigers
We never yield!
Go, Tigers
We want more!
Go, Tigers
Score, score, SCORE!”
Gretchen tried hard to enjoy the game. But she couldn’t hold back her feelings of frustration as she watched the other girls perform their cheers from the end of the bench on the sidelines.
She tried not to concentrate on Devra, who was the klutziest of all the girls and nearly dropped Becka during a simple Thigh Stand. But she couldn’t help catching the smirk on Devra’s face when she glimpsed Gretchen slumped on the bench by herself.
It had rained during the day. The field was wet and a heavy dampness clung in the chilly night air. The stands in the Tigers’ stadium were nearly full, and the shouts and cheers were enthusiastic, partly because it was the first game of the season, and partly because the Tigers were mauling the visiting Yellow Jackets from Pleasant Springs. It was nearing halftime, and the Tigers were up 17–3 and threatening to score another touchdown.
“Tigers roar
More more more!
Tigers Roar
More more MORE!”
Gretchen mouthed the words along with the cheerleaders. She had to fight down the urge to leap up from her lonely spot on the sideline and perform the cheers on her own.
A renegade cheerleader. The thought made her smile.
A tap on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to see Sid, motioning to her eagerly. “See the clock?” he pointed. “Two minutes till halftime. I set up the kerosene and the batons over here.”
She let him pull her to her feet. She thought he was about to kiss her, but he turned his face away quickly.
Stacy might be watching.
Had he told her the truth about breaking up with Stacy?
No time to think about that.
A roar went up from the stands as Cory Wagner, the Tigers’ tailback, crushed through the Yellow Jackets’ line into the end zone. Gretchen didn’t see the touchdown. She was inspecting the kerosene bucket, then unfolding a rag to keep handy for wiping the baton down.
Her heartbeats began to race. She felt happy to be off the bench and contributing to the squad. Actually doing something. She picked up one of the batons and twirled it in front of her.
“Devra, then Stacy,” she murmured to herself.
The plan was for Devra to take the first fire baton, Stacy the second. Then the two of them would run in front of the stands together and do their fiery routine side by side.
Gretchen’s throat tightened as the teams ran off the field for halftime. The Tigers band began to play. Gretchen glanced up at the crowd. Many were standing and stretching. The aisles were filled with people heading down to the hotdog booth in the student parking lot.
As soon as the band finished its two numbers, it was time for the cheerleaders’ halftime routines. Gretchen silently went over her instructions one more time. She held the first fire baton tightly, preparing to dip one end, then the other into the kerosene bucket.
Maybe I should test the lighter, she thought. But then she saw Coach Walker waving to her from the cheerleaders’ bench. Gretchen set the baton down on the grass and trotted over to her.
“Is anything wrong?”
Coach Walker shook her head. “I just wondered if you are ready, Gretchen. Are you sure you’re okay with this? Do you need Sid or anyone to help?” She had to shout over the blare of the band.
Gretchen shook her head. “I’m fine, Coach Walker. I’m on it!”
Coach Walker flashed her a thumbs-up. Gretchen turned and trotted back to the fire batons.
A light cheer went up as the band finished its second song. The stands rang with laughter and shouts, people talking to friends, standing in small groups, gulping hotdogs and sodas.
“Show time,” Gretchen murmured. “Here we go.”
She lowered the baton into the kerosene. Dip one end. Swipe the rag across the middle. Dip the other end. Okay. Okay. Now hold it carefully. Click the lighter. The flame rolls out. One end catches. The other end flames up. Yes. Yes.
Now hand it to Devra.
She shoved the flaming baton to Devra. But to her surprise, Devra took a step back. She grabbed her stomach. “Ohhhh.” Devra groaned.
What’s happening?
Devra’s eyes rolled up. She waved the baton away. “I … feel sick,” Devra said. “Ohh, my stomach. Something wrong.” She waved frantically at Gretchen. “Give it to Stacy. I don’t feel well.”
Holding the baton out in front of her, Gretchen turned to Stacy. The smell of the burning kerosene invaded her nose, strong enough to make her eyes water. Everything suddenly became a blur.
She shoved the baton into Stacy’s hand. Stacy flashed her a smile. Stacy spun around and, twirling the baton slowly, ran in front of the stands.
The drummers of the band began a roaring drumroll. Stacy turned to the onlookers in the stands and began to twirl faster. The bright orange-yellow flames danced and darted.
Gretchen began to dip the second baton into the kerosene. She glanced over at Stacy—just as the flames began to roll up Stacy’s sleeve. One arm. Then both arms.
The flames shot up her sleeves and over the front of her sweater. They dipped and swirled, sunlight yellow against the purple night sky.
Stacy screamed, a shrill cry of panic, a hoarse, inhuman wail.
She dropped to her knees and the flames shot higher. A jagged, shimmering outline around her writhing body.
Stacy’s head was tilted back, her mouth locked open in wail after wail of horror. Her cries were muffled by the roar and crackle of the flames.
And then Courtney’s scream drowned out Stacy’s wails. “Somebody help! Stacy’s on fire! Help her! Somebody! Stacy’s on fire!”
PART TWO
23.
“We just want to talk about it,” Hernandez said. He motioned for Gretchen to take the leather chair opposite his desk and next to Coach Walker. He carefully closed the door to his inner office.
Gretchen lowered herself into the chair and rubbed her cold, wet hands on the legs of her jeans. Coach Walker kept her eyes on the wall behind the principal’s desk. She appeared to be avoiding Gretchen’s gaze.
Gretchen cleared her throat. Her mouth suddenly felt so dry. She followed Hernandez as he brushed aside a stack of papers on his desktop, then dropped heavily into his big desk chair.
&
nbsp; “Cold in here,” Gretchen murmured, rubbing her hands on her legs again.
Coach Walker nodded but didn’t reply.
Gretchen noticed a stain on the lapel of the principal’s gray suit jacket. Ketchup, maybe? He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a red handkerchief. With his glasses off, his eyes looked tiny, she thought, too tiny for his large square face.
The three of them remained silent as Hernandez wiped his glasses. Gretchen heard some girls laughing out in the hall. She wished she could be out there with them.
It was the Monday after the Friday night football game. A weekend of sadness and tension had somehow passed. Gretchen spent most of the time alone in her room with the door closed and music cranked up really loud—to help keep her mother from intruding, and to help drown out her guilt-ridden thoughts.
She wished Sid would come over. Sid could comfort her. Sid could assure her it wasn’t entirely her fault, whether that was true or not. Sid could hold her and maybe stop the chills that shook her body, the coldness that gripped her and wouldn’t let go.
But he texted that he was at Shadyside General with Stacy and her family. He texted on Saturday that Stacy was in the ICU, that doctors couldn’t say how badly she had been hurt. And then on Sunday afternoon, Sid texted that Stacy was “stable,” whatever that meant. He said she was being moved to a private room.
Gretchen couldn’t breathe any sighs of relief. She had set someone on fire. She didn’t really know how it happened. But she had set Stacy on fire, maybe ruined her life forever—if she lived.
If she lived.
That thought made Gretchen’s stomach heave, and she had to force her lunch back down.
And then the principal had called her house and asked her to come for a meeting after school on Monday. Thank goodness her mother wasn’t home. The call filled Gretchen with troubled questions. Was she going to be suspended from school? Expelled? No. They’d want her mother to be there if that was true.
Would there be police at the meeting? Were Stacy’s parents pressing charges?
Attempted murder?
Was Hernandez going to accuse her? Did someone think the whole thing was deliberate?
