First Date (5 page)

Why isn't that
me
with a guy on the couch? she asked herself. Why do I have to be the one by myself in the corner?

I'm so tired of being lonely, she thought.

I'm so tired of never going out, of never being with a boy, of never having a boy care about me.

Then she thought, If that tough-looking boy who came into the restaurant—Tim Sparks—yeah, if Sparks comes back and asks me out, I'll say yes. I won't hesitate for a second.

Chelsea closed her eyes.

She pictured her father being hit over the head again. She pictured the surprise on his face, the way his eyes rolled back in his head, the way he slumped to his knees, then fell forward. She pictured the blood gushing from the top of his head.

A frightening thought flashed into her mind just then. A thought about Sparks.

He had left so suddenly. Without even eating his hamburger.

He left as soon as he saw Chelsea's father.

As soon as he saw that Chelsea and her father were the only ones working in the restaurant.

What if Sparks was sent ahead to check out the place for the other three guys?

That would explain why he hurried out so quickly.
And why the kids had appeared a short while later.

It can't be possible—
can
it? Chelsea asked herself.

Well, if he
is
one of them, he'll never come back.

He knows if he comes back, he could be caught.

Her mind spun faster than the images of the MTV video. She suddenly felt as if her brain were about to burst. She shut her eyes tight, the sound of the video throbbing in her ears.

What if he
does
come back?

What will I do?

chapter 6
 

I
t was cold by the river, but pretty.

He liked cold weather. He liked the sharpness of wind that cut right through him. He liked the heaviness of it in his nostrils and against his forehead.

The morning sun was still low over the trees. Droplets of cold water clung to the shock of curly black hair protruding from under his wool ski cap. The wind gusted past him, then calmed.

The river was wider than he had imagined. He liked the cold, trickling sound it made as it moved past. Standing in the tall grass, he stared motionless into the bubbling brown waters for a long time, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.

The wind swirled and returned to blow the grass almost flat against his ankles. It felt good. Good
against his face too. His face was burning, burning. He needed the wind to cool it.

The river was called the Conononka. That's what the sign had said. It was probably an Indian name. What did it mean? Small, muddy river?

He chuckled to himself.

Across the river, wooded cliffs rose. He could see a road winding up them to the top. River Road it was called. He had read his map, studied it carefully.

He pulled off the wool ski cap and jammed it into his jacket pocket. It was keeping him warm. He wanted to feel cold. Especially his face. His face always felt so hot, as if he were under a burning sun, as if he were sunburned. The air was so cold, so sharp. But still it didn't cool his face.

He started walking again through the tall grass, his boots making squishing sounds in the soft ground, his cuffs soaked through from the morning dew.

Shadyside wasn't a bad town, he decided.

He'd made a good choice.

It was a pretty town, for the most part. And the river was nice.

He liked looking at the big houses in North Hills with their big, clean front yards, their tall hedges and perfectly trimmed evergreens. Of course, he could never fit in there. He didn't belong, and he knew it.

He liked the Old Village too, a more friendly part of Shadyside, more comfortable, more familiar.

Not a bad town, he thought, picking up a large, flat pebble from near the shore and trying to skip it across the rapidly flowing water.

It sank out of sight.

Of course, there were girls in this town who needed to die.

Girls just like you, Mom, he thought, jamming his hands back into his pockets.

He felt the anger begin again.

It always started in his stomach, then worked its way up his back until his neck muscles tightened. Then his head started to throb, throb with pain, throb from the anger.

And his face felt so hot, so burning hot.

The cold, trickling water, the cool, gusting wind, the damp, swaying grass at his feet—none of it helped.

None of it could stop the anger once it started.

And once he started thinking about his mother, the anger always came.

Some girls need to die, Mom. Just like you.

He had felt the anger for so many years. Since he was four.

Since his parents divorced.

Since his mother went away and took his big sister to live with her.

Since he was left with his father.

You knew what you were doing, Mom, he thought, heaving another stone into the river, heaving it with all his might, with all his anger, not trying to make it skip, trying to bury it deep, deep in the murky, brown waters.

You knew what you were doing.

You knew that Dad got drunk every night. You knew that Dad beat me when he got drunk.

But still you took my sister and ran. You left me behind. You left me with—him.

Every night I thought of you, Mom.

Every beating, I thought of you.

I thought only of you. And of my revenge.

I'm going to pay you back, Mom. I've already started to pay you back. In every town I visit.

If only I could find you. If only I knew where you lived.

A white kitten suddenly appeared at the edge of the trees. It stared across the grass at him with bold, black eyes.

“Here, kitty,” he called, bending down and motioning with his hands. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

The kitten stared back, tilted its head, but didn't move.

Sometimes I get my revenge, Mom, he thought, squatting down, motioning to the timid, white puffball. And it makes me feel better.

It makes me feel better to kill.

For a while.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” He made clicking noises with his tongue and teeth. “Come here, kitty.”

It has to be the right girl, Mom.

It can't be any girl. It has to be the right girl.

And I've found the right girl here in Shadyside.

She's dark like you, Mom.

At least, that's how I remember you.

I don't have a picture of you. You never sent me a picture. Or a letter.

You just left me behind to be beaten every night.

But I think she looks like you. She's dark and kind of chubby.

She's not real pretty, but she's okay.

And she seems so shy.

So perfectly shy.

She's right, Mom. I think she's just right.

When the anger comes again, I think she'll do fine.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he called.

The kitten took a reluctant step toward him, mewing softly. Then another step. Then another, staring at him, studying him warily.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he said in a soft, high voice. “I won't make you suffer long.”

He picked up the kitten by the neck and strangled it.

chapter 7
 

C
helsea mopped the counter halfheartedly with a wet cloth. She glanced through the open window into the kitchen. No one there. Ernie, the brawny, tattooed fry cook, must have stepped out back for a smoke.

I hate working here without Dad around, Chelsea thought. Come to think of it, I hated working here when he
was
around. She sighed. At least the job paid her enough for some new clothes and an occasional CD.

After four days Mr. Richards was still in intensive care at Shadyside General, but the doctors were encouraged by his progress. Chelsea glanced up at the pink-and-blue neon clock. Twenty to seven, nearly closing time. If she hurried, she'd be able to see her dad at the hospital before visiting hours ended at seven-thirty.

She let her eyes roam slowly over the empty coffee shop. It was kind of scary being alone in there. What if those three creeps came back?

“Hey—Ernie?” she called, suddenly frightened. Ernie was big and very tough looking. He'd protect her if there was any trouble. But where
was
he?

“Ernie?”

No reply. He must still be back in the alley, she realized.

The big stainless-steel refrigerator clicked on loudly, startling her. She decided to think about Will, the new guy at school, to help pass the time.

So far, neither she nor Will had managed to get a real conversation going. Chelsea had rehearsed and rehearsed what she was going to say to him. She had imagined countless conversations, playing both parts in her mind.

In her mind their conversations were easy and fun. They kidded each other and laughed at each other's jokes.

But when she was actually sitting beside him in homeroom in the morning, she panicked. Or Mr. Carter had a full page of announcements to read. Or Will was busily writing in a notebook. Or it just didn't seem to be the right time.

He had smiled at her several times, and even said good morning twice and asked how she was doing. But then he returned to his notebook or a book he was reading.

He's
never
going to ask me out, Chelsea thought dispiritedly.

Despite this slow start to their relationship, she found herself thinking about him a lot. Even while practicing the saxophone, she sometimes pictured his shy smile, his dark, soulful eyes.

She was imagining a conversation with him when the door swung open and two tough teenagers swaggered in, their eyes nervously surveying the empty restaurant.

One of them was big and wide, with his blond hair shaved so close to his head it was like peach fuzz. The other was lean and lanky with a pockmarked face and an unpleasant grin. Both were wearing faded jeans and, despite the autumn cold, only T-shirts with the names of heavy metal groups emblazoned across the fronts.

Gripped with sudden fear, Chelsea stepped back from the counter, edging her way to the kitchen. “Ernie?” she called in a frightened whisper.

No reply.

I can't believe we're being robbed again, she thought, her back against the wall, her eyes searching the two thugs, trying to determine if they were carrying weapons.

The cash register contained less than fifty dollars, she knew. They're not going to hurt me for that amount of money, are they?

She decided she'd give them the money, hand it over without a word of protest.

Once again she pictured her father arguing with the three toughs just days before, trying to fend them off, trying to block their way to the cash register.

If he hadn't resisted, if he hadn't tried to fight them, if he hadn't tried to block their way to the cash register, they probably wouldn't have hit him, Chelsea told herself.

I'm not going to be brave, Chelsea decided. I'm going to be as cooperative as I can.

Having made certain that the coffee shop was deserted, the two young men stepped up to the cash register. “You all alone here?” the lean one asked Chelsea, his grin in place but his eyes tense.

“No,” Chelsea said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I'm not alone.”

The two creeps exchanged glances and laughed.

“We're just about to close up now,” Chelsea said, her voice trembling despite her determination not to sound frightened. She raised her eyes to the clock. Ten to seven.

“Just about?” the skinny one asked.

They laughed again.

“What can I get you?” Chelsea asked.

“You're kind of cute in a way,” the big one said, scratching his fuzzy blond head. His partner's grin grew wider.

“Really. We're closing now,” Chelsea said, feeling her throat tighten. Her mouth felt dry as cotton.

“Yeah. You're the cutest thing in here,” the big one said, resting a meaty hand on the counter just a few inches from the cash register. He stared into her eyes, waiting for her to react.

“What do you want?” Chelsea asked, more of a plea than a question.