by R. L. Stine
Mom and Dad slid into seats near the back. I walked down the aisle to talk to Hillary and some other kids. They were clustered near the front, somber expressions on their faces, talking in low tones over the organ music.
Everyone was so dressed up. The boys looked stiff and awkward in their ties and dark blazers. It was all so unreal, like a scene in a movie.
That’s what I remember about the funeral.
The boys so uncomfortable in ties and jackets. The soft, unnatural whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the mournful, depressing organ music.
The smell of lilies. So sweet it became overpowering.
The cold, damp touch of Hillary’s hand as she gripped my arm in greeting.
The long, dark coffin in front of us.
Al couldn’t really be lying inside it—could he?
A tiny woman with tight curls of white hair, her head bowed, her lips moving, tears dripping onto the lap of her black dress.
Those are the things I remember.
And the whispered rumors.
Someone said that Al’s mother was too overcome to attend the funeral. She had to be sedated and was in the hospital.
Someone said that Al’s father had offered a reward to anyone who helped find the killer.
Someone said that the police knew who the killer was. That it was one of Al’s friends from Waynesbridge. He had run off, and the police were searching for him.
Rumors. And the smell of the lilies. And the tiny woman letting her tears fall onto her lap.
I remember all that.
And the faces of my friends.
I had a seat in a side pew. I could see all of my friends, their faces pale and drawn and sad. While the minister talked, my eyes moved from one to another.
Sandy leaned forward in the pew, elbows on the bench in front of him, his face buried in his hands. I waited for him to sit back up. But he didn’t.
Vincent’s features were set and hard. I could see him clenching and unclenching his jaw. He stared straight ahead blankly, as if he were thinking himself somewhere else, somewhere far, far away.
Hillary’s face was a blank. I couldn’t read it at all. She sat erect, one hand toying with her long, black braid, tugging it, smoothing it. No expression.
Taylor cried softly into a wadded-up tissue. Her white-blond hair had been pinned up on her head. But it had come loose and fell over her face as she dabbed at her eyes.
These aren’t the faces of murderers, I thought, watching them, studying them as the minister droned on in front of Al’s coffin.
I know these kids.
These are my friends.
Not murderers. Not murderers. Not murderers.
♦ ♦ ♦
After the funeral, we all met at Sandy’s house. Sandy’s mom put out plates of sandwiches, which we gobbled up. We were starving!
We all chattered at the same time. We were all tense, I think. Eager to put the funeral behind us. It wasn’t easy since we were still in our funeral clothes.
Vincent pulled off his tie and looped it around his forehead. He seemed a little more like himself. I think he was relieved that his parents allowed him to come to Sandy’s house. He’d been grounded for days!
He told us a story about his grandmother’s funeral. According to Vincent, she had been a very proper person, very strict, very eager that everything should be done in the right way.
The priest gave a touching eulogy that had everyone in tears, Vincent told us. Then the coffin was opened so that everyone could file past and pay last respects.
But when they opened the coffin, the church filled with horrified gasps. Vincent’s grandmother was not inside. Instead, everyone stared at an enormous, three-hundred-pound bald man with a bushy Santa Claus beard.
The wrong coffin had been delivered to the church.
The gasps turned to shocked giggles. Then the church echoed with laughter. “People roared,” Vincent told us gleefully. “They rolled in the aisles. Really. It was so perfect. My grandmother spent her whole life complaining that no one ever did anything the proper way—and she was right!”
We all laughed. Everyone but Sandy. He seemed even more tense than usual. He stood by himself beside the mantel. He had picked up a small bronze bust of himself and was rolling it nervously between his hands.
Sandy’s mom is a shrink, but she’s also a really talented sculptor. The living room is filled with heads she did of Sandy and Sandy’s older sister Gretchen, who is away at college at Cornell. The likenesses are perfect.
I watched Sandy move the bronze head from hand to hand. He barely listened to Vincent’s story. I was surprised that he wasn’t paying any attention at all to Taylor.
Taylor and Hillary were talking quietly on the couch. Taylor had pinned her hair back up. Even from across the room, I could see that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
“Are you still grounded?” I asked Vincent. “Or did your parents spring you?”
I don’t think he heard me. He had his eyes on Taylor. And then he stepped away from me, walking rapidly, and made his way to the kitchen. “Anyone want a Coke or anything?” he called.
I followed him into the kitchen. He had the refrigerator door open and was bending inside. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He pulled out a can of Mountain Dew and stood up. He shrugged. “I guess. It’s all pretty weird, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Weird,” I agreed.
He popped the top on the can. “Are you okay, Julie? Do you have nightmares or anything? I mean, you’re the one who found him there. It must have been … ”
“I keep picturing it all the time,” I confessed. “My parents say it will take a while. They think—”
I stopped when I heard Sandy calling us from the living room. Vincent took a long drink from the soda can. Then we turned and made our way back to the living room to see why Sandy was calling.
“In here,” he said. He ushered us into the den. I tried to read his expression. He avoided my gaze. “In here, everyone.” His voice sounded tense, hoarse.
“What’s this about?” Taylor demanded.
He muttered something, keeping his eyes on the floor. I couldn’t hear him. I don’t think Taylor did either.
We all perched around the small, cork-paneled den. Sandy carefully closed the door behind him. “I—I want to tell you something,” he said softly. He still held the small, bronze bust of himself between his hands.
“Are you selling that thing?” Vincent joked. “Or do you just love yourself?”
Taylor laughed. Hillary and I exchanged glances.
What was Sandy’s problem? I wondered. What kind of big announcement did he want to make?
Sandy coughed and cleared his throat. He set the bronze head down on a bookshelf. “I’m only telling you guys this because you’re my friends and I trust you,” he said, speaking rapidly, his eyes on the window behind my head.
I saw Vincent open his mouth, probably to crack another joke. I shook my head and signaled “no” with my eyes. Vincent dropped back against his chair.
“I want to tell you this, and I don’t want to tell you,” Sandy said mysteriously. “But I feel that … I feel that … ” His voice trembled. He took a deep breath. “I feel that I have to tell you.”
“Sandy—what is it?” Taylor cried, jumping to her feet.
“Well … ” Sandy cleared his throat again. “I—I have a confession to make. You see, I’m the one. I’m the one who killed Al.”
Chapter
12
“That’s not funny!” I shrieked.
Taylor gasped and drew her hand to her mouth.
Behind her glasses, Hillary narrowed her eyes at Sandy but didn’t react.
“You’re joking—right?” Vincent demanded, setting down the soda can and climbing to his feet. “What a sick joke, man.”
Sandy let out a hoarse cry. “It’s not a joke, Vincent. I’m not joking. I’m telling you all the truth.”
“Noooo!” Taylor
shrieked, her eyes wild.
“I did it,” Sandy insisted. “I killed Al. You’re my friends. I want you to know the truth. I know you will keep my secret.”
“Whoa—!” Vincent murmured.
Cold shivers ran down my back. One after the other. I stared at Sandy. I heard his words. But I didn’t believe them.
I didn’t want to believe them.
“It’s not true! It’s not true!” Taylor wailed.
She hurtled across the den and threw her arms around Sandy, sobbing. “It’s not true! I know it isn’t! I know!”
Sandy grabbed her arms and gently pushed her away. “I’m sorry, Taylor. I’m really sorry. But I did it. I’m telling the truth.”
Shaking her head, Hillary stood up. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, walked to the window, and stared out into the afternoon sunlight.
Vincent gaped open-mouthed at Sandy.
I struggled to stop the shivers that shook my body. Finally, I found my voice. “But … why?” I choked out. “Why, Sandy? What made you do it?”
The room grew quiet. I could hear only Taylor’s soft sobs and the rapid pounding of my heart.
“He was ruining our lives,” Sandy replied in a low voice just above a whisper. “He was ruining all of our lives. It was getting worse and worse. I—I did it for all of us.”
“But, Sandy—” I started.
“We all wanted Al to die, right?” Sandy broke in shrilly. “We all hated him—right? We all hated the way he bullied us, the way he pushed us around, the way he forced us to … to … ” His voice cracked.
“It’s not true!” Taylor wailed again. “It’s not true! Not true!”
“I’m sorry,” Sandy told her softly. “I’m sorry you’re so upset. But I’m not sorry I did what I did. I’m not sorry I killed him.”
I glanced up in time to see Hillary spin around from the window. She still had her arms tucked tightly over her chest. To my surprise, her expression was angry.
“Sandy, you shouldn’t have told us,” Hillary snapped.
Sandy’s eyes grew wide. He gaped at Hillary, obviously confused. “Huh? I thought—”
“You shouldn’t have confessed to us,” Hillary insisted. “Now you’ve made us all part of it. That isn’t fair.”
“But—but … you’re my friends!” Sandy stammered, taking a few steps toward Hillary, his arms outstretched.
Hillary stepped back until she bumped against the windowsill. Her eyes were lost for a moment behind a curtain of light reflected in her glasses. She moved, and her angry glare came into view.
“It isn’t right,” she told Sandy through gritted teeth. “Even if we are your friends, how can you involve us in a murder? What are we supposed to do? Just keep the secret and never think about it again?”
“But I did it especially for you, Hillary!” Sandy cried hoarsely. We heard a noise outside the den door—and all of us turned. Sandy went white. I’m sure he thought his mom was at the door.
It must have been a car or something out on the street. The door remained closed.
Sandy turned back to Hillary. “Why are you giving me a hard time? I did it especially for you,” he repeated shrilly. “Al was ruining your life more than anyone’s. He was blackmailing you and forcing you to give him money, and—and … ”
Hillary shook her head, frowning at Sandy.
“You should thank me!” Sandy protested. “You really should, Hillary. Instead of staring at me like that, you should be thanking me!”
“But you killed him, Sandy!” Hillary cried in a trembling, emotional voice I’d never heard from her before. “You killed him! He was ruining my life, true. He was pestering me all the time. Demanding things. Annoying me. But—”
Hillary took a deep breath. “But I would never kill him! Don’t you get it, Sandy? Don’t you see what you’ve done? You killed a human being. You killed Al!”
Sandy opened his mouth to reply. But Hillary cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“You don’t kill someone just because he’s annoying you,” Hillary said, speaking slowly, saying each word clearly and distinctly. “And then you don’t confess. You don’t tell what you did to a roomful of people.”
“You’re not people—” Sandy insisted. “You’re my friends. I told you because you’re my friends.”
“And what are friends for?” Vincent broke in. He may have meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.
Even Vincent couldn’t make us smile now. I studied him, wondering what he was really thinking. It was so hard to know with Vincent. His jokes always covered up his true feelings.
“You put us in a horrible position, Sandy.” Hillary sighed, finally lowering her arms to her sides. “Now we have no choice. We have to tell your parents. Or call the police.”
“No!” Taylor shrieked. She turned on Hillary. “What are you saying? We’ve got to protect Sandy. We’ve got to keep his secret.”
“I trusted you guys,” Sandy murmured, lowering his eyes to the carpet.
“I think Taylor is right,” I said thoughtfully. “We can’t turn Sandy in. It—it’s just too horrible to think about!” For a second, I could feel myself about to burst into tears.
It was all too much. Too much sadness. Too much horror. Too much tension.
“He’s made us part of a murder,” Hillary argued.
“But he did it for us,” Vincent chimed in. “Believe me, when Al totaled my parents’ car, I wanted to kill him. I really wanted to. But I didn’t have the nerve.”
“You didn’t want to take a human life,” Hillary told Vincent. “You weren’t being a wimp. You knew you don’t just kill someone because they’re trouble.”
Taylor stepped up beside Sandy and slid her arm around his waist. “We have to go on with our lives,” she said, leaning her head against Sandy’s shoulder. “We have to try to forget this happened and go on with our lives. If we turn Sandy over to the police, how can we do that? How can we ever get back to normal?”
“She’s right,” I argued. “If we turn Sandy in, one more life will be ruined.”
“Thanks, Julie,” Sandy said softly. He turned to the others. “You all know me. You know I’m a good guy. You know I’m not a killer. I’m just a normal guy. And I’m your friend. We’re all good friends.”
He swallowed hard. I could see he was choked with feeling.
Taylor squeezed his waist. She raised her head and kissed his cheek.
“You know I’m not a killer,” Sandy repeated, his eyes moving around the room. “You know I’ll never ever kill again. Right? Right?”
A week later, Sandy killed again.
Chapter
13
Sandy killed again. But this time it was in a dream I had.
In the dream, Hillary and I were running through an endless green field. And then suddenly, we were skating. Gliding over the field, faster and faster, our bodies leaning into a strong breeze that fluttered our hair and our sweaters.
I remember thinking how strange it was that we could skate so well on grass. And then in the dream, the sky darkened. The grass turned blue, then black as deep shadows swept over us.
We were running again. Running in fear now. I didn’t know what we were afraid of—until I saw Sandy step out from the trees.
He raised his hands. He held two Rollerblades, laced together. He pulled the skates apart and snapped the laces tight.
I’ll never forget the terrifying sound of that snap.
I knew he was waiting to strangle Hillary and me. Strangle us both.
But we kept running toward him anyway. As if cooperating with him. As if helping him murder us.
We ran toward Sandy. He snapped the laces tight again.
And I woke up. Drenched in sweat. My nightshirt stuck against my skin.
Blinking myself alert, I heard the snap snap snap of the laces.
And slowly realized I was hearing the snap of the venetian blinds as the wind tossed them against the frame of my bedroom window.
I shivered. Picturing Sandy. Chubby little Sandy with his round, baby face.
Now he was evil. Now he was an evil figure, come to scare me in my dreams.
I squinted at the clock radio on my bed table. Only six-fifteen. The sky outside the window was still gray.
I lowered my feet to the floor and started to climb out of bed. I knew I couldn’t get back to sleep. I didn’t want to go back to sleep.
I didn’t want to dream again.
♦ ♦ ♦
I told Hillary about the dream after graduation rehearsal the next evening.
Graduation rehearsal! Do you believe it?
There are nearly three hundred seniors at Shadyside High. And I don’t think any of us actually believed we were graduating in a few weeks.
We all acted as if it were a big joke at rehearsal. So much joking and goofing on each other, it was more like a free-for-all!
Mr. Hernandez shouted his head off, but he couldn’t get us to quiet down or line up or anything. Finally, Ricky Shore stepped up to the auditorium mike and boomed at the top of his voice: “Let’s get ready to rummmmmmmble!”
We all laughed. But for some reason, we also got quiet. The principal thanked Ricky for his help, ordered him off the stage, and started telling us what we had to do.
Of course, we all sang the Shadyside High alma mater off-key, howling like dogs and laughing our heads off. And then some of the guys on the football team started blocking each other when it was time to line up. And that started more laughing and shouting.
I guess we acted more like the kindergarten class than the senior class. But I think part of the reason was that most of us don’t really want to graduate.
We don’t want to leave Shadyside High. It’s been our home for four years. We’ve had so many good times here. And we know that after we graduate, we won’t be together like this with all of our friends—ever again.
The rehearsal ended a little after eight o’clock. All over the auditorium, kids were picking up their backpacks, preparing to go home and do their homework. Even though we’re almost out of here, we still have term papers to write and final exams.
Across the room near the stage, I glimpsed Vincent. He was performing for a group of girls. Some kind of wild dance, flinging his arms up in the air, shaking his whole body.
