The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

I heard gasps. Screams rang out.

Heather pulled the knife blade from her chest and laughed. “Did I get you? You really believed it?” She pushed the blade into the handle, then let it pop out. “It’s a stage knife. Didn’t you recognize it? I found it in the Drama Club prop closet downstairs.”

She plunged it into her chest and pulled it out again.

Kids were shaking their heads, chattering about my sister’s little joke. “Am I missing something?” Mr. G called from the stage. “Is there another show going on down there?”

“Sorry, Mr. G,” I called. I grabbed Heather’s arm and pulled her toward the side of the auditorium. “That was very funny. A riot,” I said, rolling my eyes. Onstage, Rose had begun her audition. She said the word poltergeist perfectly.

“Let go of my arm.” Heather tugged herself free. I hadn’t realized I was gripping her so tightly.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came to audition,” she said. She scowled at me, the patented Heather Miller scowl that could make milk go sour and paint curl off the wall. “You’re not the only talented one in the family, you know.”

I sighed. “Did you see my audition? Not too impressive talent-wise.”

Onstage, Rose was finishing up. She gave a piercing horror-movie scream that actually made my skin tingle. She wins, I thought. Maybe Mr. G will let me do Gretchen.

“I got a script from Mr. G last week,” Heather said. “I’m going to audition for Claire. It’s a small part, but she’s kind of funny. I think I can be funny.”

I flashed her a thumbs-up. I didn’t know what else to say. Heather had never shown any interest in the Drama Club before. Was she just copying me? Or was this a good thing—Heather finding something she really wanted to devote herself to?

I didn’t want to be discouraging. But she had already given up on her keyboard lessons and her horse dressage and her online “Secrets of the Universe” college course, and just about everything else she had ever tried.

Kids applauded as Rose stepped down from the stage. Mr. G called Sari Bakshi to the stage. Sari was also auditioning for Becka. She was new to our school, so I didn’t know how she rated as an actress. I wanted to sit down and watch her audition, but Heather grabbed my arm.

“Will you stay for my tryout?”

Her intensity startled me. She suddenly looked so needy. “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be here rooting for you.”

I was trying to be nice but my words sounded phony. She noticed. Her mouth twitched into a two-second frown. “I . . . wanted to surprise you,” she said.

I laughed. “Well, you certainly made an entrance.” I lowered my gaze to the stage knife, still clasped in her hand.

“I’ve memorized all of Claire’s lines,” Heather said. “It wasn’t so hard. You know I’ve always had a good memory.”

She’d always had a good memory for the supposed crimes I had committed against her. I don’t think she ever forgot any argument we had or any fight or disagreement about anything. Heather could bring up something that upset her when she was five just as easily as something that happened last weekend.

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” I said. Why did I sound so fake? Was I upset that she was invading my space? Drama Club had always been my thing.

I led Heather to a seat on the aisle in the fourth row, and we watched the other auditions. The part of Claire was the last role in the tryouts, and only one other girl besides Heather was interested in the part.

“This is a lock,” Heather whispered, squeezing my hand.

Mr. G called Heather up to the stage. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden stage floor because the auditorium was nearly empty. Most everyone had auditioned and left.

As Heather began, I realized I was holding my breath. Of course, I’d never seen her act or perform. I had no way of knowing that she would be so awful. I mean, her performance was so lame, so . . . dead, I was waiting for Mr. G to hold a finger under her nose to see if she was breathing.

She said every line in a low monotone. Even though she was speaking into a microphone, I could barely hear her. She never changed her tone, and she read everything so seriously, so earnestly, she didn’t seem to realize that most of the lines were supposed to be funny.

When she finished, a smile spread over her face. Mr. G smiled back at her. “Thanks for auditioning. We’ll let you know, Heather.” Then he called Kathy Taylor, the other girl who wanted to be Claire, to the stage. I knew that Kathy didn’t really have to audition. She had the part without saying a word.

Heather still had that triumphant smile on her face as she walked up the aisle to me. It was easy to see she was happy with her performance. Her hands were balled into tight fists and she was swinging her arms as she walked.

“Well? Poppy? What do you think?” she asked me. “Was I okay?”

I hesitated. Should I start World War III and break up the family by telling her the truth? Should I lie? Would it be better for Heather if I told the truth?

“You were awesome,” I said.

She nodded, as if agreeing with me. “Thanks. I won’t be home for dinner. Brie and I are studying for our science test together.”

Brie? I’d never heard that name before. A new friend, I guessed.

I watched her trot up the aisle. I suddenly felt sorry for her. I mean, I love my sister. We used to be a lot closer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her and care about her.

And I hated to see her be so totally clueless.

Keith was waiting for me in the hall as I stepped out of the auditorium. He had been typing furiously on his phone, but he slid it into his pocket when he saw me. He kissed my cheek. “How’d it go?”

I frowned. “I would describe my audition as not great.”

He blinked. “Not great? What does that mean?”

“I sucked out loud.”

He locked his eyes on mine. “You’re always so hard on yourself.”

Ha. I knew he was trying to say the right thing. But I also knew that he was completely wrong. I’m almost never hard on myself. I have a totally upbeat attitude. One of my best qualities is that I never get in my own way.

I’ll admit I can be hard on other people. Maybe I can be too judgmental. But I have a good, balanced view of myself. I think, unlike most kids my age, I’m confident and enthusiastic, and I’ve found the things I like to fill my life with.

So . . . Keith saying that I’m always hard on myself just showed how he didn’t know me at all. And I suddenly found myself thinking about Jack. Truth is, I kept having flashbacks about that night we were together in his truck. And I kept wondering when I would see Jack again.

“Why are you here so late?” I asked.

“Debate Club meeting,” he said. “And I wanted to catch up to you, see how the tryout went.” His eyes flashed. “I can’t believe you didn’t kill it.”

“Believe it,” I said. I started toward the front doors.

He followed me. “Want to hang for a bit? Get a coffee or something? A Coke?”

I didn’t want to hang for a bit. In that moment, I realized that Keith was history. I just had to figure out how to break up with him.

It wasn’t Jack’s fault. But Jack had helped me see that I was spending too much time with the wrong guy, a guy who didn’t really ring my bells or push my buttons or whatever people say when they’re trying to say they’re just not crazy about someone.

“I can’t,” I said, walking faster, hoping to get away without too much explanation. “I promised my mom.”

“Promised her what?”

But I was out the door now, into the late afternoon sunlight, gold on the lawn in front of the high school, shadows dancing across the grass as the sun filtered through the shifting trees. The air smelled fresh and sweet, and I turned and saw that Keith hadn’t followed me. A wave of relief spread over me.

Weird. I had thought I really liked Keith once. But when was that? I couldn’t really remember anymore.

My house is four blocks from school. I started striding along the sidewalk, my brain spinning, a mix of Keith and Jack and my lame audition and Heather, Heather plunging that knife in her chest . . . Why did she want to frighten me like that? Was she so desperate for my attention?

I waved to some guys who drove by in a blue SUV, hip-hop music blasting from the open windows. One of them was pounding the side of the car in rhythm with the thumping beats.

I crossed the street and was halfway down the block when I saw the patrol car. Black and white, the words Shadyside Police in stern black letters on the door. The car slowed nearly to a stop. I could see the cop behind the wheel. His face was hidden in shadow, but I could see that he was turned toward me. Watching me.

I gave him a wave, but he didn’t react. Just stared out at me. I started to walk a little faster. He inched the patrol car forward, keeping it at my side.

I turned toward him again and yelled, “Hey.” But he still didn’t react in any way.

I realized my heart had started bumping against my chest. My muscles tightened. This was definitely creepy. I kept walking. He kept his car sliding along with me.

I stepped off the sidewalk and began to approach him. Before I could get there, he hit the gas and roared away, tires squealing against the pavement.

I stood there watching the patrol car until it sped around a corner and vanished. A chill rolled down my back. My heart was still thumping.

What was that about?

I had no way of knowing that I’d be seeing him again. . . . Seeing a lot of police officers. No way of knowing that the people I cared about would start dying . . . one by one.