by R. L. Stine
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, wow. I’m late. Got to run.” She gave Chelsea a quick, dry kiss on the forehead and, after gathering up her keys and wallet from the hallway table, hurried out the door.
Chelsea sighed.
What was that all about? she asked herself. Mom’s right. I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself.
She carried her saxophone into her room and slid it into the closet. Then she pulled off her white sweatshirt, which suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable, and searched for something cooler to put on.
I’ve got to get out of this house, she thought, yanking a lime green T-shirt out of her drawer. Maybe Nina can cheer me up.
Nina Darwin lived a few blocks away, only a ten-minute walk from Chelsea’s house. Chelsea had met Nina in the Shadyside High marching band.
They had met by accident.
A real accident.
Nina played flute, and the two of them had marched right into each other during the band’s first after-school practice. Chelsea’s saxophone had received a slight dent, and Nina’s knee was slightly scraped. Other than that, they were both uninjured.
They had become good friends after that, although at practice Nina always insisted on marching on the other side of the field from Chelsea.
Nina was short and perky looking, with sharp, small features and straight, white blond hair. Unlike Chelsea, she had a relaxed, easygoing personality and seemed to have a million friends.
She looks about twelve, Chelsea sometimes thought. When we walk together, people probably think I’m her mother!
“Don’t get down on yourself,” Chelsea said out loud, repeating her mother’s advice.
Nina was a good friend. The only friend she’d made at Shadyside High so far.
So don’t start finding fault with her, Chelsea warned herself.
Chelsea felt herself cheering up a little as she walked to Nina’s house. It was a clear autumn day, the air tangy and dry. Leaves on the trees were just starting to turn. Some of the houses on Fear Street were old and run-down, but they didn’t seem frightening or evil, the way she’d heard kids describe them.
As she crossed onto Nina’s street, a car drove by, windows down, its radio blaring. Chelsea recognized some kids from school inside. They were laughing and singing and didn’t seem to notice her as they roared past.
Nina’s house—a long, redwood, ranch-style house—stood at the top of a steeply sloping lawn. Even though it was autumn the grass had recently been cut.
Just as Chelsea stepped up to the front door, it opened. Nina appeared, followed by her boyfriend, Doug Fredericks, a lanky, handsome boy with long blond hair and a friendly, winning grin.
Nina’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Chelsea! Where’d you come from?”
“Home,” Chelsea replied, pointing in the general direction of her house.
“Hi,” Doug said, moving Nina out of the way so he could close the glass storm door.
“I didn’t know—” Nina started.
“I should’ve called,” Chelsea said quickly.
“We’re just going to Doug’s cousin’s,” Nina said. “Why don’t you come?”
“Yeah. Come on,” Doug said, motioning for Chelsea to follow him as he headed for his car, a shiny red Toyota. “We’re just going to talk and stuff.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Chelsea said. “Thanks. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.” Nina shrugged. “You’re welcome to come.”
Go with them, urged a tiny voice in Chelsea’s mind.
But then another tiny voice said, Three’s a crowd.
“No. Go ahead,” Chelsea said.
Doug was already in the car. He blew the horn. Nina went running down the walk. A few seconds later Chelsea watched them drive away.
Walking home, she felt sorry for herself all over again.
Doug blows the horn and Nina comes running, she thought bitterly.
I’d come running too, if I had a boyfriend.
A boyfriend? I’d just like to go out on a date, she thought.
Here I am fifteen, and I haven’t gone out on my first date yet.
Just as she thought that, Chelsea heard a car pull up behind her. Startled, she stopped walking as a boy called out, “Hey, how about a date?”
chapter 3
Chelsea spun around to see four grinning boys in a tiny Honda Civic. The kid in the front passenger seat had stringy brown hair tied back in a ponytail and a diamond stud in one ear. He stuck a hand out of the open window as if reaching for her. “How about it?”
Chelsea made a face and started to walk away, taking long, fast strides.
The car inched forward slowly, keeping right at her heels.
“How about it?” the kid repeated. “How about a date?”
“Plenty of room in here,” another voice said.
The car rang with high-pitched laughter.
Chelsea kept walking, picking up the pace. The car inched forward, staying right beside her.
She heard more laughter. One of the boys made loud kissing noises.
“Come on. We’re nice guys,” the kid with the ponytail said, grinning at her, his hand still out the window.
“We’re great. We’re really great,” a boy called from the backseat.
“Bet you’re great too,” another voice from the backseat echoed.
More laughter.
Chelsea spun around angrily. “Leave me alone,” she snapped, glaring at the four boys.
“Aw, that’s not friendly,” one of them said.
“Don’t you want to be friendly?” another called out.
They all laughed.
“I’m warning you—” Chelsea started.
“Ooh, she’s getting steamed,” the driver said.
“That’s not friendly,” another boy said.
Chelsea realized her heart was thudding in her chest. Her anger was giving way to fear.
Were they just teasing her? Were they eventually going to drive away? Or did they really plan to harm her?
She stared into the car, studying each grinning face. She didn’t recognize any of them. They didn’t go to Shadyside, she was fairly certain.
“Come on, let’s all get friendly,” the passenger pleaded, reaching out for her. The driver pulled the car up beside her so the stringy-haired kid could grab for her arm.
“No!” Chelsea cried, leaping out of his grasp.
The four boys laughed.
“Leave me alone! I mean it!” Chelsea cried.
One of them flicked a lighted cigarette at her. It landed on top of one of her sneakers. She kicked it off and started to run.
Their laughter was loud and cruel.
Animals, she thought. They’re just animals.
She was running up on the grass now, running up close to shrubs and low hedges. Breathing hard and gasping out loud as she ran, Chelsea listened for the car, listened for the laughter, the voices, listened for the sound of a door opening, the sound of one of them running after her.
When the tiny car roared past, its horn blaring, she stopped to catch her breath, her fear lingering, her legs trembling, her heart still pounding.
They’re gone, she thought, watching the car squeal around the corner. She felt relieved and miserable.
If only something good would happen to me, she thought.
If only I could meet a guy who liked me.
The new boy at Shadyside High got the seat in homeroom next to Chelsea. It was the only vacant seat in the room, in the back row next to the wastebasket.
Chelsea studied him as he made his way down the long row toward her. He walked quickly, carrying his backpack in front of him, avoiding everyone’s eyes. He was still wearing his leather jacket. Probably hasn’t been assigned a locker yet, Chelsea decided.
He was average in height and weight and had dark eyes and black curly hair. He flashed Chelsea a shy smile as he took his seat, and she saw that he had powerful-looking, muscular arms that seemed too developed for the
rest of him.
He caught her staring at him, and she quickly turned her head to the front, embarrassed.
Will Blakely.
That’s what Mr. Carter had said his name was.
Will Blakely.
He’s kind of cute, Chelsea thought, stealing another long glance at him. His dark eyes were lowered to the floor. His cheeks were bright pink.
He really is shy, Chelsea decided.
She wanted to say hi or welcome or something. But she couldn’t.
I’m shy too, she thought. I hate being shy!
Mr. Carter was racing through the morning announcements, reading faster than the human ear could hear as usual. When he put the announcement sheet down for a minute, he surveyed the room, searching for empty seats.
“All present and accounted for,” he said, marking something on his attendance sheet, his eyeglasses sliding down to the end of his long nose. “I think there’s going to be a fire drill today. Hope you guys can take all the excitement.”
Mr. Carter had a very dry sense of humor. But everyone always laughed and talked in homeroom so it was hard to hear a word he said!
The first-period bell rang. Chelsea glanced at Will, but he avoided her eyes. He ran a hand nervously through his black hair before starting to pull his backpack up from under his seat.
Chelsea stood up and started to hoist her backpack to her shoulder. “Oh, no!” she cried. Her notebooks, books, and supplies tumbled to the floor. She had forgotten to zip the bag.
She looked down to see her brown-paper lunchbag open, her sandwich at her feet, an apple rolling across the room.
With a loud sigh she stooped and began to collect her things. To her surprise, Will let go of his pack and dropped down beside her to help.
“Pretty stupid, huh?” she managed to say.
He smiled. His cheeks turned pinker. He stuffed the sandwich back in the bag and handed it to her.
Their eyes met for only a second. He quickly turned away.
He’s even shyer than I am, she thought.
She found herself staring at his powerful biceps and quickly lowered her eyes to the floor.
Say something. Say something! she scolded herself.
“Thanks for helping,” she said.
Brilliant! What a brilliant remark!
He shrugged and flashed her an awkward smile. Then he picked up his bag and walked quickly to the door without glancing back.
I hate being shy, Chelsea thought, still scolding herself.
But what can I do?
Another girl would have thought of something clever to say, something funny. Nina would have had him laughing his head off. Nina would have had him asking her out before her stuff was back in the backpack.
Why can’t I be more like her?
I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning, she decided, hurrying out into the crowded, noisy hallway.
I have a whole day to figure out what to say.
Having made this decision, Chelsea felt better. She was even smiling as she walked into her first-period English class and headed to her seat in the back row.
That evening Chelsea was thinking about Will while she worked in her father’s restaurant. The All-Star Café was a cramped, too brightly lit coffee shop on one of the narrow, run-down streets of the Old Village. That night Chelsea was the only waitress. There was really only room for one. Ernie, the fry cook, had called in sick. So her father, tired and disheartened, was behind the grill in the kitchen.
There were very few customers. Two old men drinking coffee at the end of the counter. A teenage boy and girl having club sandwiches and Cokes in the next-to-last booth near the back.
Chelsea found herself daydreaming about Will. She had decided what she was going to say to him. She was going to ask him if he worked out. Then she’d ask when his family had moved to Shadyside and where he lived.
A third old man entered and joined the two at the counter, calling to Chelsea for a cup of coffee. She picked up a cup, carried it to the coffeepot, poured it, and started to take it to the old man, all the while daydreaming about the conversation she and Will would have, imagining both roles.
“Oh, no!”
The heavy china cup slipped out of her hand and landed on the counter before crashing to the floor in front of it. It shattered into several pieces, coffee splattering everywhere.
Chelsea saw her father glaring at her from the kitchen. “I’ll clean it up,” she called to him.
Chelsea brought the old man another cup of coffee. Then she picked up the broom and dustpan and bent over the broken china on the floor.
She picked up several large shards carefully by hand and dropped them into the dustpan. Then she climbed to her feet—and bumped into someone who had just entered.
“Oh! Sorry!” she cried, startled.
He grinned at her. “I enjoyed it,” he cracked.
He looked about seventeen or eighteen. He had laughing dark eyes, a handsome, high-cheekboned face, and thick black hair.
He looks tough, Chelsea thought, staring at his black leather jacket with silver pocket zippers, his faded jeans torn at both knees. The jacket was partly unzipped, revealing a black and red Rolling Stones T-shirt underneath.
“Sorry. I’m in your way,” Chelsea said, retreating behind the counter. She watched him walk to the far end of the counter. He seemed to swagger as he walked, as if daring someone to get in his way. When he wasn’t flashing a crinkly-eyed smile, his expression was hard, tough.
Chelsea deposited the broken china into the wastebasket, then hurried to bring the boy a menu. He held up his hand, shaking the menu away. “I know what I want. Just a hamburger and a Coke.”
“How would you like your hamburger?” Chelsea asked, wiping her hands on the long white apron her dad made her wear.
“Cooked,” he said.
Chelsea could feel her face growing hot. She suddenly felt embarrassed. I must look like such a geek in this stupid apron with my hair pulled back, standing here asking him how he wants his hamburger.
“That was a joke,” he said, his expression not changing.
Chelsea forced an awkward laugh. “I know,” she said. She turned and called the order through the window to her father. He nodded, and she could hear the splat and sizzle of a hamburger hitting the grill.
“So what do you do for a living?” the boy asked, his dark eyes gleaming.
Chelsea stared at him, unable to think of a reply.
“That was another joke,” he said. “Guess you’re not in a joking mood, huh?”
“I don’t hear too many jokes in here,” Chelsea replied, picking up a rag and wiping the Formica counter.
“What’s your name?” He was staring hard into her eyes as if challenging her to speak to him.
“Chelsea. Chelsea Richards.” She realized he was the first customer ever to ask her name.
“I’m Tim Sparks,” he said. “But everyone calls me Sparks.” He surprised her by reaching out and shaking her hand. He had big hands and a powerful handshake. He didn’t seem to know his own strength.
“Hi, Sparks,” Chelsea said, managing a smile.
Chelsea refilled the coffee cups for the three men at the other end of the counter. Then she checked Sparks’s order. Not ready yet. She drew him a Coke from the dispenser on the counter and brought it to him.
“I just moved here,” he said, spinning the glass between his hands, staring at her again. “To the Old Village.”
“I just moved to Shadyside about a month ago,” Chelsea said.
The two teenagers in the booth were signaling for a check.
“Is this town as nowhere as it looks?” Sparks asked, his lips forming a sneer.
“Yeah. I guess,” Chelsea said.
Talking with this boy was making her feel really uncomfortable. Despite his jokes, there was something hard about him, something cold, something—dangerous.
“Hey—how about going to a movie with me?” he asked.
chapter 4
&n
bsp; “ Huh?”
“Come on, let’s do something wild!” he urged.
Chelsea stared at Sparks, her mouth open. The question had been so unexpected, she found herself completely tongue-tied.
Sparks was looking across the counter at her expectantly.
Just then Chelsea felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see her father directly behind her, his forehead dotted with perspiration, an angry expression on his face.
“Those kids in the booth are waiting for their check,” he said, speaking in a low voice, slowly and distinctly the way he did when he was trying to control his temper.
“Sorry,” Chelsea said, pulling the check pad out of her apron pocket.
She glanced at Sparks. To her surprise, his face was bright red, and his dark eyes glowed with anger. He flashed a furious glance at Mr. Richards, then pushed himself up from the counter stool and quickly strode to the doorway.
“Hey—your hamburger!” Chelsea called after him.
He was gone. The door slammed hard behind him.
That was weird. Did he really ask me out? Chelsea thought.
Why did he run away? I guess he got mad because Dad interrupted us.
Wow.
She scribbled out the check and dropped it onto the table, thinking about Sparks.
So much for my first date, she thought regretfully.
She started to feel sorry for herself but forced her thoughts to the bright side. At least he asked me out. A boy actually asked me out on a date.
But would she have said yes? Would she have gone out with him?
He was so tough looking. Something about him seemed so old, so hard.
She thought about how angry Sparks had become when her father stopped their conversation, how his face had grown so—hateful.
No, Chelsea decided. I wouldn’t have gone out with him.
No way.
I would’ve said no.
If I’d had the chance.
She glanced through the window into the kitchen. Her dad was tossing the burned hamburger into the trash, a sullen expression on his face.
Two more elderly customers came in—regulars. They took their usual booth by the window.
