First Date (2 page)

What a shame. What a shame.

“How old are you?” she asked suddenly.

I'm twenty, he thought.

“Seventeen,” he said.

“How did you lose your driver's license so soon? Were you in an accident or something?”

You're
the one who's going to have an accident, he thought.

A fatal accident.

If only you hadn't tried to suffocate me.

If only your hair wasn't the same dark color as—hers.

“No. I just lost it,” he said softly.

He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close as he led her under the trees. “I like you, Candy,” he said, whispering into her ear.

Again, he smelled oranges in her hair.

Did he really like her?

Was he lying to her?

He couldn't be sure. He didn't know.

He only knew it was a shame she had to die.

A real shame.

A few minutes later he walked slowly, calmly back to the car. Alone. His heart was racing in his chest, but otherwise, he felt fine.

Just fine. Killing her was so easy.

He zipped his leather jacket, then climbed behind the wheel. The car started quickly. He started the defroster and sat waiting for the windshield to clear.

The air from the defroster felt dry and cold.

He laughed out loud, a giddy laugh, a laugh of release.

The fog on the windshield began to clear.

“Joe Hodge,” he said aloud. I told her my name was Joe Hodge.

Why should I tell her my real name? It was our first date, after all.

Our first date.

He hadn't planned on murdering her tonight.

He liked her. He really liked her.

She didn't remind him so much of the others. Just her hair. The long brown hair.

He wasn't really prepared for this one.

Why did she have to suffocate him? Why did she have to toss her hair like that? Why did she have to see the driver's license?

Why did she have to ask so many questions?

Why didn't she let him
breathe?

He wasn't prepared. He hadn't planned it.

He always liked to plan it.

But she was dead anyway.

I'll be out of here by the time they find her, he thought.

I haven't left any traces. No one was here.

I'll be okay.

Now at least I can breathe again.

The windshield was clear. He turned on the headlights and started to back up onto the road.

On to another town.

Sooner or later it was time to move on.

He didn't really like it that way, but what choice did he have?

What choice did he have if girls looked like that? If they asked him questions and wouldn't let him breathe?

He pushed the gearshift into Park, then reached into the glove compartment.

His hand wasn't shaking.

That was a good sign.

He could breathe again, and his hand wasn't shaking.

He turned on the light, pulled out the road map, unfolded it carefully, his hands steady. His eyes darted over the map and stopped at the name of the next town.

Shadyside.

He mouthed the word several times, silently to himself.

Shadyside.

Sounds like my kind of place.

He replaced the worn, wrinkled map, switched off the ceiling light, then, humming softly to himself, roared off into the cool, silent darkness.

chapter 2
 

C
helsea Richards blew a sour
honk
and pulled the saxophone from her mouth in disgust. “I hate my life,” she said flatly and without emotion.

“Don't start,” her mother said quietly from across the small living room. She lowered the newspaper enough to give Chelsea a warning look, a look that said “I'm not in the mood to hear your usual list of complaints.”

Chelsea fingered the saxophone, leaning over in the folding chair she used for practice, nearly bumping her head on the music stand in front of her. “Sometimes I think I'm not a real member of this family,” she complained, ignoring her mother's warning glance. “I mean, like I'm adopted or something.”

“You weren't adopted. You were hatched,” Mrs. Richards cracked, hidden behind her newspaper. “Are you through practicing that thing—I hope?”

“You hate my saxophone playing,” Chelsea accused.

“You were playing it? I thought you were
torturing
it!” Mrs. Richards said and laughed.

Chelsea was used to her mother's dry sense of humor. Sometimes it helped snap Chelsea out of a bad mood, but not now. “You really crack yourself up, don't you?” Chelsea said angrily.

I don't have my mother's good looks, and I don't even have her sense of humor, she thought bitterly.

“If I'm not adopted, how come you're so tall and thin and I'm so short and dumpy?” Chelsea asked, pulling off the mouthpiece and blowing the saliva out of it.

“Chelsea, please!” her mother cried impatiently. She lowered the newspaper to her lap and shook her head. “Why do you like to have the same conversations over and over?”

“At least it's a conversation,” Chelsea replied with growing anger. “Usually we just grunt at each other before you hurry off to work.”

“Boy, you have a million complaints today—don't you,” her mother said. “I'm very sorry, but your father and I have to work very hard. It's not like you're bringing in a fortune with your saxophone playing.”

“Hey, I work in Dad's restaurant. I earn my own money,” Chelsea snapped. “Stop giving me a hard time about my music. It's the only thing I enjoy.”

The
only
thing, Chelsea repeated to herself.

The only thing in my whole miserable life.

“Why are you feeling so sorry for yourself these days?” Mrs. Richards asked. She put the newspaper down on the coffee table and walked over to Chelsea.

Chelsea shrugged. “It's this new town. Shady side. And this creepy old house.”

“Please stop complaining about the house. We'll fix it up,” Mrs. Richards said, crossing her slender arms over her pale blue turtleneck. “You know your father has always dreamed of owning his own restaurant, Chelsea. Moving here is a great opportunity for him. For all of us.”

“The kids at school tell stories about this street. Fear Street. They say all kinds of weird things happen here.”

“Weird things happen everywhere,” her mother said dryly. She glanced at the window. The clouds were drifting apart. Afternoon sunlight filtered into the room.

Chelsea finished taking apart her instrument. She placed the sections carefully into their slots, then closed the case.

“Why don't I have straight hair like yours?” Chelsea demanded, realizing she should quit but
unable to do it. “Why does my hair have to be so curly and this awful mousy brown color?”

“You want to change your hair color?” her mother asked, surprised. “That's easy to do.”

“Then how do I change my face?” Chelsea cried, glancing into the mirror on the wall by the entryway.

My nose is too wide and my chin is too small, she thought for the millionth time.

“Chelsea, you're a very attractive girl,” her mother said, her arms still crossed. “If you'd lose a little weight and put on some lipstick—”

Chelsea uttered a cry of disgust and jumped up from the chair. Her mother, startled, took a step back.

“Mom, give me a break. Don't say I'm
attractive.
That's what you say about people who aren't. Why don't you just say I have a
nice
personality and be done with it? That's what people always say about ugly girls. They have nice personalities.”

“Frankly, your looks are great. It's your personality I'm not crazy about,” her mother said, doing her impression of a stand-up comic.

“Mom—”
Chelsea screamed, feeling herself lose control. “Can't you
ever
be serious?”

Mrs. Richards stepped forward and wrapped her daughter in an awkward hug. The gesture caught Chelsea by surprise. Her mother was not given to
outward displays of affection. Chelsea couldn't remember the last time her mother had hugged her.

“I-I'm sorry, Mom,” she blurted out, not exactly sure why she was apologizing.

“Ssshhh.” Mrs. Richards raised a finger to Chelsea's lips. Then she took a step back. “It's having to move here, dear,” she said, staring reassuringly into Chelsea's eyes. “It's having to start all over again in a new town, at a new high school. That's what's making you so—edgy.”

Chelsea nodded, thinking about what her mother was saying.

“And you're unhappy because your dad is always at the restaurant and I'm always at the nursing home taking care of patients instead of being home with you. But we can't help it, Chelsea. This is a great opportunity for us. Especially for your father. If he can make this restaurant work, he'll be so happy. And we can get out of debt.”

Mrs. Richards shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and began to pace back and forth across the small room. “Don't get down on yourself. That's all I ask,” she told Chelsea. “You can be down on your situation, on having to move. But don't start doubting yourself.”

Chelsea glanced in the mirror again. Easy for her to say, she thought unhappily. She's tall and pretty. And I look like a cow.

“Okay, Mom,” she said with false brightness. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

Her mother's face revealed her worry. “You've made one good friend here already, haven't you?”

Chelsea nodded. “Nina Darwin.”

“Why don't you give her a call?” Mrs. Richards suggested. “She seems really nice. And really popular. I'm sure she'll introduce you to a lot of other kids.”

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.”