The Confession

by R. L. Stine

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me, man,” Al said angrily.

  “Al, please—” Sandy pleaded.

  “Like you’re better than me,” Al muttered nastily.

  Sandy took a step back. He is at least a foot shorter than Al, and not at all athletic.

  “Like you’re better than me,” Al repeated. “Think you’re better than me, Sandy? Think you’re some kind of cool dude or something?”

  “Al, please close the refrigerator and come sit down,” Sandy insisted, motioning to the kitchen table.

  “We didn’t do anything to you,” I chimed in, trying to distract him from Sandy. “We’re your friends.”

  He kept his eyes focused on Sandy. “Think you’re better than me? Think you’re sssso hot because Taylor pretends to like you?”

  “Al, shut up!” Taylor cried shrilly from behind us.

  “Yeah—shut up,” Hillary growled in a cold, tense voice.

  “You’re a fat little wimp,” Al sneered at Sandy.

  Sandy’s face reddened. I saw the veins throb in his neck.

  Al giggled. I have no idea what struck him as funny. “Fat little wimp,” he repeated, whispering this time.

  Challenging Sandy. Daring him to do something.

  “Hey, Al—haven’t you been in enough fights for one day?” Vincent called out.

  “Please close the refrigerator door,” Sandy requested again, his jaw clenched, his face still red.

  Al grinned at him, an ugly, unpleasant grin. “Make me.”

  “Sandy—no!” I cried. Too late.

  Sandy reached for Al’s arm. Grabbed him just above the wrist. Gave him a hard tug away from the refrigerator.

  Al shouted a curse—and swung his other fist.

  Al stumbled, off-balance. But his fist made a sickening thock against the side of Sandy’s face.

  Sandy uttered a sharp cry. He stumbled back, and his hand shot up to his cheek.

  Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, Al leaned heavily against the refrigerator door. Eyes wide, locked on Sandy. Watching to see if Sandy would hit him back.

  Bright red blood trickled from Sandy’s mouth, onto the tile floor. There was now a small cut on his cheek. “My tooth … ” Sandy spit out more blood. “You knocked out a tooth.”

  Al rubbed the back of his fist, his eyes on Sandy. Sandy glared back at him, holding his cheek, blood pouring from his open mouth.

  I heard an angry cry behind me. Spun around in time to see Hillary dive at Al.

  “No—don’t!” I shrieked. “Hillary—don’t!”

  Hillary slammed Al back hard against the refrigerator.

  He grunted in surprise. Then a smile spread quickly over his perspiring face as he grabbed Hillary’s arms and pushed her back.

  “Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “Okay. No problem. I’ll fight you too.”

  Chapter

  6

  Gripping each other by the shoulders, Hillary and Al glared face-to-face, wheezing, gasping for breath.

  “I’ll fight you. I don’t care. I’ll fight you,” Al chanted. With a burst of strength, he tried to shove Hillary away.

  But she was stronger than he thought. She held on to his shoulders. He couldn’t budge her.

  “I’ll fight you. Want to fight? I’ll fight you,” he threatened. But the wild light faded from his eyes. His whole body appeared to sag.

  He let go of Hillary, and his arms dropped to his sides.

  He stared at her, standing unsteadily, his chest rising and falling under his sweat-drenched black T-shirt, gulping in mouthfuls of air.

  Hillary didn’t back up. She stood with her fists hard at her sides. Her long braid had come apart. Her black hair fell over her face. She made no attempt to brush it away.

  Al shrugged his broad shoulders. “Okay, okay. Forget about the beer.” He stepped around Hillary. Gave Sandy a hard, two-handed push on the chest that sent Sandy stumbling back. Then he strode to the door, a triumphant sneer on his face.

  “Some friends I got,” Al muttered. “Can’t get a lousy beer.” He cursed at us and banged the door on his way out.

  As the door slammed, Taylor and Vincent rushed forward to help Sandy. “I’ll get some water. A cold washcloth,” Taylor offered. She disappeared toward the bathroom.

  Vincent led Sandy to a kitchen chair. “You’ll have to see someone about that tooth. But the cut isn’t too deep,” Vincent assured him. “It shouldn’t mess up your beautiful face.”

  That’s right, Vincent, I thought. Keep it light.

  I started to feel a little calmer. My hands were still cold as ice. But at least my heart had stopped pounding like a bass drum.

  I turned back to Hillary—and froze.

  She hadn’t moved from in front of the refrigerator. She stood so stiffly, her hands still clenched into fists. Her entire body was clenched.

  She was staring straight ahead, staring at nothing. And she was biting her bottom lip, biting it so hard it bled.

  “Hillary … ?” I whispered.

  She didn’t hear me. She seemed to be in some kind of a trance.

  “Hillary … ?”

  Watching her, I felt a chill run down my back. I realized I had never seen so much hatred on her face before. I had never seen so much hatred on anyone’s face!

  Just how hard a time has Al been giving Hillary? I found myself wondering.

  Just how much does she hate him?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I didn’t see Al for several days after that horrible afternoon. But I heard from some friends of his that he was suspended from school for two weeks.

  It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I felt glad that he couldn’t come to school. It meant I didn’t have to be afraid of him trapping me in the hall, demanding lunch money or my history notes or something.

  Hillary and I didn’t talk about it. But I’m sure she felt the same way.

  On Thursday, I was supposed to meet Vincent at his house after school. We were doing a chemistry lab project together.

  I hoped maybe it would help get a special chemistry going between us! Ha-ha.

  Anyway, I got hung up, talking to Corky Corcoran and some of the cheerleaders about helping out with their spring car wash. So I didn’t get to Vincent’s house until after four-thirty.

  It was a warm, humid day, and I jogged most of the way. To my surprise, I found Vincent out on his driveway, pacing nervously up and down.

  “Sorry I’m late!” I called, brushing back my hair. I felt something kind of dry and flaky caught in my hair. I pulled it out and examined it. A huge, gray moth.

  Nothing like looking your best when you’re with a guy you have a crush on!

  Vincent growled a greeting. He stared past me to the street.

  I thought maybe he would notice the sexy new spring outfit I was wearing. A short, blue, pleated miniskirt from the sixties and a blue-and-black-striped sleeveless top. I bought it at a new store at the mall called Street Grunge. And I saved it until a time I knew I’d be alone with Vincent.

  But of course he didn’t even look at me.

  “What’s your problem?” I demanded. “What are you doing out here, anyway? I thought maybe you’d start the experiments.”

  “Huh? You want me to do all the work?”

  Grumpy, grumpy. This wasn’t like Vincent at all. What happened to Mr. Funnyman?

  “Well, why are you out here?” I persisted. “Just getting some fresh air?”

  “I wish,” he muttered bitterly. “I’m waiting for Al. He’s late.”

  “Al?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  “Yeah. That big creep Al.” Vincent scowled and kicked a small rock across the driveway.

  I pulled the backpack off my shoulder and tossed it to the grass. Then I straightened my new top over the skirt. “You’re waiting for Al out here?”

  Vincent nodded glumly. “He took my mom’s car.”

  I gasped “He stole it?”

  “No. I loaned it to him,�
�� Vincent replied, shaking his head. “I mean, he forced me to loan it to him.”

  “Oh, wow,” I murmured, swallowing hard. Big Al strikes again.

  “He promised he’d bring it back an hour ago,” Vincent moaned. “He said he’d have it back here by the time I got home from school.”

  He turned his gray-green eyes to the street and searched in both directions. A warm breeze fluttered his rust-colored hair. He looked so adorable. I had a sudden impulse to kiss him and tell him everything would be okay.

  How do you think that would go over?

  “If my parents find out I loaned that jerk their car, they will murder me!” Vincent exclaimed. “No lie. They will murder me.”

  “So why did you let him take it?” I asked softly.

  Vincent scowled again. He was always so mellow. It really upset me to see him so stressed.

  “I did a stupid thing,” he confessed. “I took my parents’ car Saturday night without telling them. They were down the street at a party. I just felt like getting out. You know. Spring fever or something. So I took the car and cruised around town for a while.

  “I guess I was going too fast or something,” Vincent continued, his eyes on the street. “I was two blocks from home. I got pulled over by a cop. I got a fifty-dollar speeding ticket. Do you believe it? And who comes walking up while I’m getting the ticket? Yeah. You guessed it. The Man. Al.”

  “Bad news,” I murmured.

  “The cop drove off,” Vincent continued. “I told Al he’d never see me again because my parents would definitely murder me. I mean, I took the car without asking. Then I got the ticket for a big five-oh. I was dead meat.”

  A high cloud rolled over the sun. A blue shadow swept over the front lawn.

  Vincent’s expression darkened too. “So Al says no big deal. He’ll help me. My parents will never know.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  Vincent shook his head. “He took the speeding ticket and ripped it into tiny shreds. He said the police computers never work. My parents will never find out about the ticket.”

  “Big help,” I muttered.

  “Well, maybe he’s right,” Vincent argued. “But then he came over here yesterday and made me promise to lend him Mom’s car today. He said he only needed it for two hours. He said if I didn’t let him have the car, he’d tell my parents I sneaked out Saturday night and tore up a speeding ticket.”

  “He’s doing it to you too,” I said.

  “What choice did I have?” Vincent moaned. “I let him take the car. But where is he? Mom’s office car pool gets her home a little after five. If the car isn’t back by then … ”

  “He’ll be here,” I said. But I didn’t sound real convincing.

  I didn’t trust Al. Why should I?

  Vincent and I both turned to the street and watched. I tried talking about our chem experiments. But Vincent couldn’t concentrate on anything but waiting. We both kept glancing at our watches, watching the time slip quickly toward five.

  And then at about five till five, we heard a rattling sound from down the street. A clatter of metal against metal.

  I recognized Al as he turned the car into the driveway.

  Vincent gasped. His mouth dropped nearly to the ground.

  “Oh noooo!” he wailed. “I don’t believe it!”

  Chapter

  7

  “Hey, it wasn’t my fault, man!” Al cried, sticking his head out the driver’s window.

  He pulled the car to a stop in front of Vincent and me.

  The front of the car was just about totaled. The left front fender was crushed in. The hood was mangled. One end of the bumper dragged on the ground.

  Vincent didn’t say a word. I think he was in shock. His mouth hung wide open and he kept swallowing noisily.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. I wanted to say something comforting, something hopeful. But I couldn’t think of anything.

  Vincent moved slowly from one side of the car to the other, his eyes locked on the smashed-in hood and fender, the sagging bumper. He was so upset, I don’t think he even knew that I was standing beside him.

  “Really. It wasn’t my fault,” Al repeated out the open window. He climbed out of the car, wearing black as usual. A black baseball cap covered his blond hair.

  The driver’s door made a loud squawk as he pushed it open. I saw that the door was banged in too.

  “N-not your fault?” Vincent stammered in a choked voice.

  “I couldn’t see the stop sign,” Al explained. “There were tree leaves in front of it. Really, man. How could I know it was there? It wasn’t my fault.”

  Vincent let out a long moan. He stared at the mangled car, shaking his head.

  A grin spread across Al’s face. “At least I got it back on time!”

  And that’s when Vincent lost it.

  He leaped onto Al like some kind of wild jungle animal. Growling and scratching and screaming and cursing and tearing at him.

  I froze for a second. Startled. Frightened.

  Then I shot across the driveway. Grabbed Vincent from behind. Swept my arms around his waist. And pulled.

  “Stop it, Vincent! Stop it!” I shrieked.

  I pulled him off Al. But he was still swearing and swinging his fists, bellowing like a furious lion.

  “Let go of me, Julie! Let me go!” Vincent struggled to free himself.

  “Vincent—please! Please!” I pleaded.

  Al had fallen back against the car. I saw him pulling himself up. He straightened his black T-shirt. Picked up his cap from the driveway. I saw his little blue eyes narrow menacingly. Saw his face tighten in anger.

  “Let me go!” Vincent screamed.

  I held on tight. “No, Vincent. No way! He’ll only pound you,” I insisted. “You know I’m right. You can’t fight him. He’ll pound you!”

  “But he can’t keep getting away with this stuff!” Vincent cried. “He can’t!”

  I glanced up.

  To my surprise, Al had turned away and was jogging down the driveway. Without calling to us, without uttering a word, he turned at the sidewalk and disappeared, jogging, behind a tall hedge.

  Al never looked back.

  That was on Thursday.

  The next night—Friday night—I killed him.

  part

  2

  Chapter

  8

  Well … some people thought I killed Al.

  But of course I didn’t.

  After dinner on Friday, I called Vincent. He greeted me with a glum hello. Even over the phone, I could tell that he was upset and very depressed.

  I tried to cheer him up. “We’re all going blading at the Shadyside Rink,” I told him. “Want to come?”

  Vincent is a terror on Rollerblades! He whirls around wildly and waves his arms like a crazy person. He always skates about five times faster than everyone else. Which is bad news because he’s a terrible skater!

  I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had to scrape him off the wall or pull him up off the floor, mangled and dazed. He just can’t ever do anything seriously. He always has to be funny—even when he risks trashing himself for good!

  “I can’t go,” Vincent moaned. “I can’t go anywhere, Julie. I’m grounded. I think, forever.”

  “Oh no,” I murmured. “Because of the car?”

  “Yeah. Because of the car,” Vincent repeated unhappily. “I’m grounded forever. I’ll never see you guys again.” He sighed. “And that’s not the worst part.”

  I took a deep breath. “What’s the worst part?”

  “I can’t take that job as a camp counselor this summer,” Vincent replied. His voice cracked. I knew he really wanted the camp job.

  “I have to stay in Shadyside all summer and work in my dad’s shop,” Vincent groaned. “It’s to help pay for the car damage.”

  “You mean you don’t get to keep the money you earn?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t.” His voice was so low, I had to pr
ess the phone against my ear to hear him. “No. It all goes to my dad to pay for what that creep Al did to the car.”

  “Oh, wow,” I murmured.

  I felt so bad for Vincent. He didn’t total the car. Al did. Vincent didn’t even want to lend Al the car.

  “Al should pay for the car,” I said.

  Vincent let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You go tell that to Al.”

  A long silence. I could hear Vincent breathing on the other end. I tried to think of something cheerful to say.

  I was worried about him. I really was. This was the first time I’d ever talked with him when he didn’t crack a single joke. I felt as if his whole personality had changed. He sounded so totally down, so totally depressed.

  All because of that big jerk Al.

  “Can I come over to your house?” I suggested. “I’ll forget about going blading. We could just hang out.”

  “Not allowed,” he answered glumly. “I can’t go anywhere, and I’m not allowed to have visitors. I’m a prisoner. A total prisoner.”

  “Well, maybe—” I started. But I could hear his father yelling at him in the background.

  “Okay, okay! Give me a break! I’m getting off!” Vincent shouted angrily to his dad. He returned to me. “Got to go. Tell everyone hi.” And he hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and paced back and forth in my room for a short while. Vincent’s parents will get over it, I decided. They’ll calm down. They’re let Vincent go back to his normal life.

  A long blast from a car horn snapped me from my thoughts. I peered out the window to the driveway and saw Hillary’s blue Bonneville.

  I gave my hair a quick brush, grabbed my Rollerblades, and hurried down to the car. “Hey, guys.” I slid into the front passenger seat. Taylor and Sandy were in the backseat, pressed together, her white-blond hair falling onto his shoulder. I glimpsed her sleeveless top and the short blue skirt she wore over dark tights.

  “Is Vincent coming?” Hillary asked, backing down the drive.

  “Vincent isn’t going anywhere,” I reported. I told them the whole story.

  When I finished, Hillary and Taylor both burst out in angry attacks on Al, both protested how unfair Vincent’s parents were being. Sandy remained strangely quiet.