First Date

by R. L. Stine

  What would she do then?

  chapter 16

  “So where’s this mystery boy?” Nina asked, scraping her chair against the floor as she pulled it up to the table. She pulled her lunch from the brown-paper sack. A vanilla yogurt and an apple.

  “He wasn’t in homeroom this morning,” Chelsea said unhappily. Her lunch was spread out in front of her. A ham sandwich, a bag of potato chips, a container of chocolate pudding, and a Coke.

  Nina must think I’m a total pig, she thought miserably. But if all I had for lunch was yogurt and an apple, I’d be starving all afternoon!

  “Want some of this yogurt?” Nina asked. “I can never finish a whole container.”

  “No, thanks,” Chelsea replied, taking a bite of her sandwich to keep herself from punching Nina.

  Nina absently reached across the table and took a handful of Chelsea’s potato chips. “So tell me about Will,” she said, her eyes on the double doors across the lunchroom.

  “He’s real shy,” Chelsea told her. “And cute. His cheeks blush bright pink all the time.”

  “Cute,” Nina repeated, not really paying attention.

  “Who are you looking for?” Chelsea asked impatiently. She took a long drink from her can of Coke.

  “Doug,” Nina said, reaching for more of Chelsea’s potato chips. “He and I made up last night.”

  “That’s great,” Chelsea said enthusiastically. “Maybe the four of us can do something this weekend.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nina nodded without really hearing. “Hey—what happened to Will when I showed up at your house Saturday night? Why the disappearing act?”

  Chelsea wasn’t sure how to answer. She hesitated, then told Nina all about how it had been a first date for both of them, how Will had wanted to keep it a secret, their special night.

  “Weird” was Nina’s reply. Then she jumped up from her seat, having spotted Doug at the doorway, and ran to greet him.

  Chelsea chewed on her sandwich, staring without focusing at Nina’s uneaten yogurt and thinking about Will. She wondered why he wasn’t in homeroom. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to meet her after work.

  She was eager to see him, to talk to him. She was dying to tell him that she had talked to a real FBI agent. She was dying to tell him about Sparks, about how Sparks was dangerous and was wanted by the FBI, and how she had almost had her first date with Sparks instead of with him.

  Will would like the story, she knew. He’d find it as interesting as she did.

  She and Will were a lot alike.

  That night the restaurant got crowded at dinnertime. Chelsea had trouble concentrating on her customers. She kept staring up at the neon clock, wondering if Will would show up at seven.

  “Pick up!” Ernie called from the kitchen. He slammed his hand against the metal counter where he had set out the food plates. “Chelsea, you deaf or something?”

  “Sorry.” Chelsea hurried to pick up the plates.

  “You’re acting weird tonight,” Ernie rasped, working a toothpick between his teeth. “You in love or something?”

  Chelsea laughed. She could feel her face grow hot. She glanced back at the clock. Only six-thirty.

  As she headed back to the counter, carrying an armload of dirty plates, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Sparks!

  Chelsea shrieked, and the plates fell out of her arms and clattered to the floor.

  She spun around to see a middle-aged man with a shocked expression on his face. No Sparks.

  “Oh, sorry, miss,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to ask for the ketchup.”

  Chelsea uttered a loud sigh of relief. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scream. I just—”

  The man bent down with her and started to pick up pieces of the broken dishes.

  “No,” Chelsea insisted. “Please. I’ll take care of it. Really. It’s my job.”

  She finally persuaded him to return to his booth. Then she picked up the biggest pieces of china, swept up the rest, along with the spilled food, and dumped everything in the trash.

  The half hour before closing seemed the longest half hour of her life. From his place behind the smoking grill in the kitchen, Ernie kept teasing her about being in love, cackling to himself, grinning at her and winking, which made the time seem even longer.

  Calm down, Chelsea. Calm down. She repeated the words over and over, but they didn’t seem to help.

  By ten after seven the restaurant had cleared out. Chelsea turned the lights down, almost to off, and emptied the cash register.

  “Will, where are you?” she asked out loud, carrying the night’s receipts to the small, one-drawer desk in the back.

  Maybe he’s sick, she thought. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t in school today.

  She decided to call him as soon as she got home.

  If he didn’t show up at the restaurant.

  She started to count the money, thought about Will, lost her place, had to start again.

  The grill, she saw, hadn’t been cleaned or turned off. It hissed softly in the background. The only other sound was the loud hum of the big refrigerator against the wall, and the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the faucet into the stainless-steel sink filled with dirty dishes.

  Where’s Ernie? Chelsea wondered.

  He must be out back, all the way down the alley, emptying the trash.

  Chelsea lost count again.

  Okay, one more time, she told herself.

  Then she heard the front door open.

  The bell on the door jangled softly.

  She tensed.

  Normally she locked the door before emptying the cash register. But tonight she had left the door unlocked in case Will showed up.

  The door closed quietly.

  Footsteps out front. Coming closer.

  Single footsteps. Just one person.

  “Will?” she called in a tiny voice not loud enough to reach beyond the kitchen.

  The footsteps stopped.

  “Will?” she repeated, a little louder.

  More footsteps, scraping against the soft tile floor.

  “Will, is that you?”

  Why didn’t he answer her?

  Suddenly frightened, she wadded up the stack of bills and shoved them into the desk drawer, quickly slamming the drawer shut.

  She jumped to her feet, her heart thudding in her chest.

  Where was Ernie? He was probably having a smoke by the Dumpster. Why was he always missing when she was in danger?

  “Will, I’ll be right out!” she called.

  She bent her head and peered through the kitchen window into the darkened restaurant. She couldn’t see anyone.

  “Will?”

  It had to be Will.

  Please let it be Will.

  chapter 17

  Taking a deep breath she stepped out of the kitchen and behind the long counter. “Who’s there?” she demanded, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Will?”

  It was Sparks who stepped out of the shadows, one hand resting on the seat back of the first booth, a strange grin on his face.

  Chelsea froze, gripping the edge of the counter.

  Why was he grinning at her like that?

  His face was covered in shadow, but she could still see his gleaming, dark eyes and the evil leer on his face.

  “Sparks—what do you want?” Chelsea cried, feeling her throat tighten in fear.

  Stepping toward her, he looked so big. So dangerous.

  He took a step nearer, then another. His dark eyes, she saw, were watery. His normally pale face was flushed.

  He giggled.

  Is he trying to frighten me? she wondered.

  If so, he’s doing a good job of it.

  She reached a hand under her apron into her jeans pocket and searched the pocket until she felt Agent Martin’s card.

  “Sparks? Are you okay?”

  He giggled again, a high-pitched sound, almost an animal sou
nd. He took an unsteady step toward the counter.

  “Come here,” he said, his eyes staring into hers but not quite focusing.

  “Sparks—you’ve been drinking,” Chelsea accused, backing up till she hit the wall.

  “A few beers,” he said with an awkward shrug. “Come here. Be friendly.”

  “No. Go away,” she insisted. “I mean it, Sparks.”

  He shook his head. His expression became angry. “Hey, give me a break,” he said, leaning against a counter stool. “I can tell you like me.”

  Staring at Sparks, wondering what he planned to do, Chelsea thought of Agent Martin’s warning. She remembered the look on the FBI agent’s face when she asked if Sparks was dangerous.

  Yes, he’s dangerous. Very dangerous.

  What has he done? What crimes has he committed? They must be really horrible if the FBI is after him, she decided.

  “Hey—come here,” Sparks repeated more forcefully. As he leaned over the counter toward her, she could see that his forehead was covered with drops of perspiration.

  “Sparks, please—” she started.

  A grin spread across his face. He dived toward her, clumsily bumping into the counter.

  “Ernie!” she screamed. But the fry cook wasn’t there.

  Gripped with panic, Chelsea turned and ran toward the kitchen. Just past the doorway she stopped and turned around.

  Sparks was shaking his head as if confused, as if trying to clear his mind. “Hey—I’m just playing!” he called. “Just kidding around. Come here!”

  Ignoring his plea and gripped with fear, Chelsea ran, sliding on the long, black rubber floor mat that ran the length of the kitchen. She headed toward the back door. Once out in the alley, she could run around to the front of the building and find help. It was still early, a little before seven-thirty, and the streets of the Old Village should have people on them.

  “Hey, give me a break!” Sparks cried, stopping at the kitchen door, raising his powerful arms, pressing his hands against the doorframe, blocking the door. His eyes quickly surveyed the room.

  “Go away! Leave me alone!” Chelsea screamed.

  She grabbed the back door and pulled. It didn’t move.

  Her eyes went down to the heavy metal bolt. It was latched and locked. She was trapped.

  “Hey, I won’t hurt you,” Sparks said, moving unsteadily toward her. “I’m just playing. Don’t you want to play?”

  “Sparks—please—go away!” Chelsea pleaded. She tore off the apron and tossed it to the floor. My only way out of here is to run right past him, she decided. He seems so unsteady, maybe it won’t be too hard.

  She took a deep breath and ran right at Sparks.

  His eyes went wide. His grin grew wider. He reached out, intending to tackle her.

  Chelsea dodged away from him, nearly banging into the still-sizzling grill.

  Laughing loudly, he dived for her.

  She made it past him.

  Then she heard a thud, followed by a loud hiss.

  She turned and saw that he had landed up against the steaming hot grill, his hand flat against the top surface.

  He opened his mouth in a silent scream. Then finally the sound came, and he howled like a wild animal.

  “My hand! My hand!” he shrieked and dropped to his knees in pain.

  Chelsea stopped at the doorway.

  “My hand! Oh—the grease! It’s killing me!” Sparks howled. He rolled into a ball on the floor.

  I’ve got to help him, Chelsea decided, hurrying back into the kitchen. I’ve got to help him—then call the FBI.

  She got him to his feet and pushed him to the sink. “Here, Sparks,” she said, turning on the faucet. “Cold water. Keep the hand in cold water. I’ll call nine-one-one. I’ll get an ambulance.”

  Uttering a low moan, his eyes shut tight from the pain, he obediently held the burned hand under the cold water. “Huh? Where are you going?” he managed to ask.

  “To call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

  Chelsea ran to the front, picked up the phone on the end of the counter, and reached for the card in her pocket.

  I’ll call Agent Martin first, she decided. Then I’ll call 911.

  Her hands trembling, Chelsea pushed in the numbers on the card. Pressing the receiver to her ear, she glanced back through the kitchen door.

  Sparks was still at the sink, cradling his burned hand in his other hand, his face twisted in agony.

  The phone rang once. Twice.

  “Come on! Pick up!” Chelsea pleaded aloud, watching Sparks.

  “Agent Forrest,” a deep voice on the other end of the line said.

  “Is—uh—Agent Martin there?” Chelsea whispered, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece so that Sparks couldn’t hear.

  “No, he’s out” was the brusque reply. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. This is Chelsea Richards. At the All-Star Café. Please—”

  Holding his hand, Sparks stepped, up behind her.

  “Oh!” Chelsea cried out, startled.

  Had he heard?

  “Did you reach them? Are they sending an ambulance?” he asked, his voice weak, his face twisted in pain, sweat pouring down his face.

  “Sparks—go back and put cold water on your burn,” Chelsea said, speaking into the phone so the FBI agent could hear Sparks’s name. “I’m getting you an ambulance, Sparks.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Agent Forrest said, “We’ll be right there. Keep him there. We’ll bring an ambulance too. Are you in danger?”

  “I don’t think so,” Chelsea replied uncertainly.

  “We’ll be right there.”

  The line went dead.

  Sparks slumped into the nearest booth. He was moaning softly, resting the burned hand palm up on the table.

  Chelsea clicked on all the lights. She stepped around the counter and stood over the booth.

  “Are they coming?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Let me see the hand.”

  She lowered her head to examine it. It was red and swollen. The skin had peeled in several places, and the open wounds were oozing. Pieces of skin were charred black where hot grease had clung.

  After a few seconds Chelsea had to look away. She took a deep breath, forcing down a wave of nausea.

  “Pretty bad,” she managed to say.

  To her surprise, he climbed to his feet. “It’s not so bad,” he muttered, avoiding her glance. “Maybe I’ll go.”

  “No!” she cried, louder than she had intended.

  He turned his eyes to her, his face filled with suspicion.

  “The ambulance will be here any second,” she told him. “You’ve got to get that treated. It’s a really bad burn.”

  He stumbled toward the door. “No. It’ll be okay. I’ll go home and put a bandage on it.”

  “No—please,” Chelsea pleaded.

  She had to keep him there. She had to make him stay until the FBI arrived. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. She couldn’t let him go free.

  “Here,” she said, shoving a glass under the soda dispenser. “Drink this. Sparks, please. Sit down.”

  He hesitated, then turned back to her. She held up the glass of Coke. “Here.”

  “Hey, a free drink. This is my lucky night,” he said bitterly.

  Chelsea heard a siren outside.

  Hurry. Please—hurry! she thought.

  “Here, Sparks.” She held the glass out to him.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, raising his good arm and wiping the perspiration off his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “I’m kind of dizzy. Got to lie down.”

  “It’s from shock,” she said. “Sit down. Come on, Sparks.”

  The siren grew louder.

  What’s taking so long? she wondered. It seems like hours.

  “Come on, Sparks. Drink this. It’ll make you feel a little better.”

  He accepted the drink. “Hey, I was only kidding around,” he said. “Just playing
, you know?”

  “I know,” Chelsea said, eyes on the door.

  Hurry! Hurry! she thought.

  “I had a few beers, but—”

  “Take it easy,” she urged. “Drink the Coke. Please.”

  He had taken only a few sips when the front door burst open and two white-uniformed paramedics rolling a stretcher hurried into the room. “Where is he?” one of them, a tall, lanky young man with bright red hair, cried. He pointed to Sparks. “You?”

  Sparks set the glass of Coke down carefully on the counter. He turned to the tall paramedic. “Burned my hand,” he said quietly.

  “Oooh—how’d you do that?” the other paramedic asked, staring at the hand, making a disgusted face.

  “Just lucky,” Sparks said dryly.

  “Can you walk okay?” the tall paramedic asked.

  Sparks nodded.

  “We’ll take you to Shadyside General.”

  “Wait—” Chelsea started. Where was the FBI agent? She couldn’t let them leave without him.

  To her relief a man in a long, black overcoat appeared in the doorway. “Agent Forrest,” he said, introducing himself loudly, holding up a badge and an ID card. His eyes went across the room to Chelsea. “You okay?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Yes. I’m okay. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  Sparks groaned in pain, then turned groggily to Chelsea. “What’s going on?”

  Agent Forrest pocketed his badge and stepped up to the paramedics. “Take him to the hospital. I’ll ride with him.” Then he said to Sparks, “I’m Agent Forrest from the FBI. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “What’s going on?” Sparks repeated, dazed and confused. He stared hard at Chelsea, trying to focus his eyes.

  She looked away.

  Forrest put a hand gingerly on Sparks’s shoulder. “Let’s get that hand looked at. Then we’ll have a little talk.”

  “What have I done?” Sparks demanded. “What’s this all about?”

  He was still protesting as the two paramedics led him out the door, followed by the FBI agent. Agent Forrest disappeared, then poked his head back in. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Chelsea nodded.

  “Want me to stay while you lock up?”

  “No. I’m fine, really,” Chelsea insisted. “I’ll close up, then go straight home.”