The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

“See? We are going to be famous,” Ivy said.

I shifted my phone to the other ear and continued brushing my hair. “Why? What are you talking about?”

“Our pet-store video. Over ten thousand views. And Manny told me BuzzFeed picked it up.”

“Wow.” To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about becoming famous. I was thinking about Jack . . . his arms around me . . . kissing him that night.

“What should we do next?” Ivy said. “We need to start a channel.”

I set the hairbrush down. “No time. I have to go. I have the play audition.”

“Break a leg,” Ivy said, and clicked off.

Taking a deep breath, I checked myself out in the mirror and headed downstairs.

I have a lot of confidence in myself as an actress. I know I have some good skills. Mom let me take private acting lessons at the Players Theater School in Garden Grove, even though they were expensive, and I think I learned a lot there.

But, no matter how much confidence you have, auditions always make you nervous. A few minutes later, as I made my way down the aisle to the front of the auditorium at school, my hands were icy and damp, and I definitely felt my heart jumping around in my chest like it was playing leapfrog.

(I have to remember that image for a poem.)

Mr. Gregory is the Drama Club adviser at Shadyside High. We all call him Mr. G. He wrote an original play for our annual presentation. It’s a horror-thriller called Don’t Go There! It’s mainly about six teenagers trapped in an abandoned hotel, and some kind of supernatural being starts haunting them and taking them out one by one.

I was trying out for the part of Becka Hastings. Becka is the smartest girl in the group. She’s kind of the leader, and she’s the one who discovers the secret of the old hotel.

I liked this role because Becka is smart and funny, but she also gets to scream a lot. I’d practiced screaming in my room for several days and, even though I had my door closed, I’d managed to drive my mom and sister nuts, and they had to beg me to shut up. When it comes to theater, I dive into the deep end. No shallow waters for me.

I’d memorized all of Becka’s lines, the whole part. And I knew I could do an awesome audition for Mr. G, but, of course, there was Rose Groban, my rival, my comic-book archenemy, the evil Rose Groban, who didn’t even pretend to be my friend.

Rose always acts as if she pities me. Not sure why. She gets this superior look on her face, and then everything she says is ironic and passive-aggressive and said with a kind of indulgent chuckle, like I’m a child she is forced to put up with.

Yes, there was Rose Groban. And what role would she want to pounce on? Becka Hastings, of course. So here we were, trapped in this endless competition, as we had been ever since she transferred to Shadyside in fourth grade.

As I made my way down the aisle, I counted about twenty kids ready to audition for Don’t Go There! They filled the first three rows of the auditorium. Some were talking quietly. A few were on their phones. Others were reading scripts. Mr. G stood on the stage in front of the tall purple curtain, adjusting a floor microphone, so I guessed we would have to go up there and audition in front of all the others when our names were called.

I took a seat at the end of the fourth row, and Rose Groban appeared at my side instantly, as if by black magic. Did I mention that she is beautiful? Really. A stunner. Just gorgeous, as my mother would say. (And has said.)

She has round brown eyes and beautiful long lashes, a broad forehead, a perfect nose, high cheekbones like a fashion model, skin as smooth as milk, a smile bright enough to see in the dark, and cascades of wavy black hair, perfect hair that tumbles over her shoulders and nearly halfway down her back, somehow always in place.

She’s beautiful, and now she was standing in the aisle, one hand on the back of my chair, gazing down at me. “Poppy, I saw the pet-store video,” she said. “What were you thinking?”

“It . . . was a joke,” I said. “You know. Supposed to be funny.”

“Yes. Funny,” she repeated, as if she’d never heard that word before. She tossed her hair back. “Well, all I kept thinking was, I hope Poppy takes a shower after handling all those ugly stray mutts. Who knows what kind of diseases they were carrying.”

“Hey, thanks for thinking of me,” I said. Sometimes I try to be as sarcastic as Rose, but I don’t always pull it off.

“I’m feeling good about the audition,” Rose said, even though I hadn’t asked. “I did a quick script run-through at breakfast this morning. But I didn’t want to over-rehearse, you know? I mean, I like to feel loose and spontaneous up there.”

“Me too,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed with sudden concern. “Poppy, what’s your second choice? Which role do you want if you don’t get Becka? I mean, I’ll probably get Becka. So what other role do you think you’d like? I was thinking about it because I was concerned about you. And I think Gretchen, the weird old lady, might be an exciting challenge for you. Something you could get the most out of.”

Was she kidding me? The old lady? The lamest part in the play? Gretchen doesn’t even appear until the last ten minutes!

I laughed out loud.

“I was just thinking you don’t want to be too disappointed,” Rose said. “You should definitely have an alternate plan. You know. Just in case.”

“Rose, I know what you were thinking,” I said.

That made her blink.

Onstage, Mr. G tapped the microphone. “People, I believe we’re all here. Let’s get started. I’m going to audition the role of Becka Hastings first. I need you all to listen and watch carefully. Put your phones away, please. And don’t be nervous, everyone. You’re among friends. You can feel the support in the room, can’t you?”

Not with Rose standing over me. No, I thought, I don’t feel the support, Mr. G.

Mr. G shielded his eyes from the bright lights with one hand and surveyed the rows of kids. “Poppy?”

I jumped when I heard my name.

“Poppy? Want to audition first?”

I climbed to my feet. I felt my heart leap up into my throat. To my surprise, Rose didn’t step back. She blocked my way to the aisle.

“Rose—?”

She lowered her head and brought her lips close to my ear. “One more thing,” she said in a raspy whisper. “I don’t mean to be unsubtle. But stay away from Jack. He’s not your type.”

Her words caught me by surprise. My script fell from my hands and hit the floor. I felt my throat tighten and started to choke. To hide my shock, I bent down and collected the script.

Get it together, Poppy.

I knew I was overreacting, but her warning had just been so unexpected.

Had she seen us together in his truck? Or had she only seen us together in the pet-store video?

I was still fluttery when I climbed onto the stage, and I kept clearing my throat as I stepped up to Mr. G. I tried to push Rose’s words from my mind. I mean, what was the big deal, really? Why should I be so surprised that Rose would say something nasty to me?

“I’ll read the part of Christopher,” Mr. G said. “Let’s start on page six. Where they first step into the house.”

I took a deep breath and flipped through the pages of the script. You can do this, Poppy. You’ve practiced enough. A low hiccup escaped my throat.

Mr. G squinted at me. “Do you need water?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m okay.” I glanced down from the stage. All eyes were on me. Rose was leaning against the auditorium wall, the only one not sitting down. I guessed she was getting ready to audition next. Or maybe she just wanted me to see her there watching me.

My stomach gurgled. I wondered if Mr. G could hear it.

He began, reading the part of Christopher: “This old house has to be haunted. Any house with cobwebs like this has to be haunted, right?”

“I hope you’re right, Christopher,” I read. “I’ve always wanted to see a poltergeist.”

Mr. G raised his eyes from his script. “The word is pol-ter-geist, Poppy.”

I blinked. “I know. What did I say?”

“You said pollergeist.”

I caught the smile on Rose’s face. A few kids whispered in the seats below me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Do-over?”

We started again, but I didn’t get much better. I knew even as I was acting up there that I was totally screwing up. And when it came time for me to shriek in horror at the end of the scene, a cough interrupted my scream.

“Thank you, Poppy,” Mr. G said, waving me to the stage stairs.

The kids in the seats didn’t make a sound. Sometimes they applaud when someone gives a really good audition. My hand was icy and wet on the railing as I stepped down from the stage. I curled my script into a tight roll. I wanted to pound it against the wall.

“Rose Groban?” Mr. G called from the stage. “You can be next.”

I turned away from her as she approached the steps so I wouldn’t have to see her smug face. And I gasped when I saw the familiar figure storming down the aisle toward me.

“Heather?” I cried. “What are you doing here? And what are you doing with that knife?”

Her eyes were wide, crazy. She didn’t answer. She stopped a few feet from me. Kids turned to see what was happening. Before I could call out, before I could scream, Heather raised the knife high—and plunged it deep into her own chest.