The Dare (3 page)

“Well, maybe you should just shoot him,” I joked.

“Not as much fun as folding him up first,” Dennis replied. He wasn't smiling. I stared at him, trying to determine just how serious he was.

I mean, I knew he couldn't
really
be serious about killing Mr. Northwood.

“You could fold him up and
then
shoot him,” I suggested.

Dennis's eyes lit up.

I think Dennis likes me, I thought. He keeps staring at me, studying me with his eyes.

“I could fold him up, shoot him, then
drown
him!” Dennis exclaimed.

“You could fold him up, shoot him, drown him, then
hang
him!” I added, getting into the game.

Dennis laughed.

Hey, I made him laugh! I told myself.

I suddenly wondered if my hair was messed up. I brushed a hand through it.

“You could fold him up, shoot him, drown him, then—”

I stopped when I saw Mr. Northwood standing in the classroom doorway, staring hard at us.

Oh, no!
I thought, feeling my heart leap to my throat.

How long has he been standing there?

Has he heard everything?

M
r. Northwood glared at Dennis, then at me.

I let out a choking sound. I was sure he had heard me. I could feel my face grow hot. I knew it must be bright red.

But then, without saying a word, Mr. Northwood turned and headed away from us down the hall.

I just stood there, watching his head and shoulders bob as he took his usual long strides. I didn't start breathing again until he disappeared around the corner.

“I have to be nice to him,” I whispered to Dennis. “He's my next-door neighbor. On Fear Street.”

Dennis's mouth dropped open. “Huh? You live next door to Northwood?”

I nodded. “Do you believe it? I see him all the time. He's always messing around in the backyard, even in winter. It's like … it's like having a spy from school
next door. I always have the feeling he's checking up on me. I mean, I know he isn't. But still—”

I realized I was running on a bit at the mouth. I guess I was just so relieved that Mr. Northwood hadn't heard my diabolical plans to bump him off.

And I liked being able to confide in Dennis.

I'm usually really shy around boys. The old self-confidence problem. You know. But I suddenly had this feeling that I could talk to Dennis, that he and I were on the same wavelength.

“Northwood's neighbor. Weird,” Dennis muttered, zipping his maroon and gray school jacket. “Weird.” He slammed his locker shut and swung his backpack onto his shoulder.

“Weird enough living on Fear Street,” I muttered.

Dennis snickered. “You believe all those stories? About ghosts and scary creatures on Fear Street?”

“Mr. Northwood is the scariest creature I've seen there!” I joked.

We both laughed.

We were walking side by side toward the parking lot exit. Our shoulders bumped a couple of times.

I was feeling super-charged. Really excited.

Dennis is just a great guy, I thought. So great-looking with that black hair over his broad forehead, and those eyes that could burn right into you like green fire.

I have to admit, it felt really great walking down the hall with one of the most popular guys at Shadyside High. I suddenly wished the school weren't empty. I wanted the halls to be crowded with kids so that everyone could see that Dennis and I were together.

We stepped out of the building into the dark gray afternoon. The air was heavy and wet.

“Looks like snow,” Dennis commented, his eyes on the low clouds. “I'm glad Coach called off practice today.” He headed along the walk to the student parking lot, and I followed.

Maybe he'd like to go get a Coke with me, I thought. We could just walk to The Corner. The Corner is a small coffee shop a couple of blocks from school, where Shadyside kids hang out.

A picture flashed into my mind: Dennis and me, sitting across from each other in a booth in The Corner, holding hands over the table, staring dreamily into each other's eyes.

What a picture.

I took a deep breath and worked up my courage to ask him if he wanted to get a Coke. “Uh … Dennis—?”

I stopped when I saw where Dennis was headed.

Right to the little red Miata stopped with its engine running at the end of the walk.

Caitlin's red Miata.

I could see her behind the wheel. She smiled and waved at Dennis as we approached.

Dennis turned to me at the end of the walk. “Sorry,” he said. “I'd offer you a lift, but it's only a two-seater.” He shrugged, then crossed to the passenger side to get in.

“That's okay, Dennis,” I told him with a devilish smile. “I'll make room.”

I pulled open the driver's door and grabbed Caitlin's arm with both hands. “Get out,” I ordered.

“Huh?” Caitlin's dark eyes went wide in shock. “What?”

“Get out!” I cried.

I gripped her arm tight with one hand. Then I raised my other hand to her dark brown hair.

She screamed as I started to tug.

But I was too strong for her.

I jerked her out of the car, knocked her to the ground, and gave her a hard kick that sent her sprawling.

Then I slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and drove the car away with Dennis beside me.

I glanced over at him to check out his reaction.

He was staring back at me with amazement and admiration.

A
fter that Dennis realized that he and I belonged together. He dumped Caitlin, and we lived happily ever after.

Do you believe that?

No way.

Of course I didn't really pull Caitlin from the car.

Of course that wild little scene was all in my skinny little head.

What
really
happened was that I stood and watched as Dennis climbed into the car. Behind the wheel Caitlin stared right through me, as if I weren't even there.

Then she drove away with Dennis. Dennis didn't even look back.

And I was left standing there, my imagination playing out all kinds of evil scenes.

Why do I have such violent fantasies?

Why am I always picturing myself socking people in
the jaw, pushing people down stairs or off cliffs, tearing people's heads off and watching the blood gush up from their necks?

Why do I always imagine myself doing the most horrible, unspeakable things?

I guess it's because in real life I'm such a total mouse.

A week later there was an empty seat in history class. Dennis had gone to the Bahamas with his family.

Poor Dennis, I thought bitterly. He's missing the midterm exam tomorrow—and today he's missing a fascinating lecture on the separation of powers.

I was sitting in the back row, next to Melody Dawson. She held a pocket mirror in one hand and was brushing her perfect blond hair.

I had sat next to Melody all year and she had barely said two words to me. Every afternoon she would sit down, arrange her notebook on the desk, then brush her hair.

What a snob! Melody was always spotless and perfect. She wore French designer jeans that had been dry-cleaned. They had a perfect crease down the front. And almost all of her T-shirts and sweaters had the little Ralph Lauren polo pony on them.

Once I saw her changing into white sweat socks for gym—and
they
had polo ponies on them! Designer sweat socks! Do you believe it?

Melody has these perfect little lips and a perfect little upturned nose and perfect, creamy white skin.
The boys all think she's hot stuff. I just think she's a stuck-up snob.

Anyway, we were sitting in the back row on another dreary gray afternoon. I was thinking about Dennis. He was probably on a beach in the sun, swimming in sparkling blue water.

At the front of the room Mr. Northwood clicked on his little tape recorder and set it on the corner of his desk. “Do you know why I record our classes?” he asked. “I listen to them again later, at home.”

He cleared his throat, his big Adam's apple bobbing under his gray turtleneck. “The tapes help me remember what we talked about,” he continued in his thin, high voice. “I tape myself at home too. It can be very instructional.”

Melody looked up from her mirror. “Why doesn't he get a life?” she said in a low voice.

Several kids snickered.

Mr. Northwood turned to Melody. “I heard that, Miss Dawson.”

Melody stared back defiantly at him.

I would have turned bright red and shrunk back in my seat. I would have been totally mortified.

But Melody just glared back at him, almost challenging him.

“Melody, I'd like you to come see me after school,” Mr. Northwood said sternly, scratching a craggy cheek. “You and I need to have a little talk.”

“I can't,” Melody replied coldly.

Mr. Northwood turned his watery blue eyes on her. “What did you say?”

“I can't,” Melody repeated. “I have a tennis lesson.”

The teacher tapped his long, bony fingers on the desktop. “I'm afraid you'll be late for your tennis lesson today,” he said quietly.

“I'm afraid I won't!” I heard Melody mutter to herself.

Sure enough, as soon as class ended, Melody jumped up and ran out the door, hurrying to her tennis lesson.

Wow, I thought. That really takes nerve.

If Mr. Northwood had told
me
to stay after school, I'd obediently stay, no matter what I was missing. I'd be too afraid not to show up.

But Melody ran out without a second thought.

I didn't like Melody. I'd never liked her, actually. But I found myself wishing I had the nerve that she had.

I stood up and started gathering my books. Some kids were heading out the door to their lockers. I saw Zack Hamilton and Caitlin talking by the chalkboard.

Then I caught the angry expression on Mr. Northwood's face. “I don't care how many banks her father runs,” he was fuming. “She's just like everybody else in my class!”

I saw Zack and Caitlin both laugh.

Mr. Northwood spun around to face them. “What are you two giggling about?” he demanded angrily. “Perhaps you'd like to stay an extra hour and discuss it with me!”

*   *   *

After dinner that night—a peanut butter sandwich and a small bag of potato chips—I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room, leaning against the bed, talking to Margaret on the phone.

My homework was spread out on my desk. But I just didn't feel like dealing with it.

I was feeling a little weird, a little jumpy. Sometimes living in an old house on Fear Street creeps me out when I'm all alone at night.

Outside the bedroom window, a light snow was falling. The wind gusted and swirled, making the old window rattle. Every once in a while, I could feel a cold burst of air on the back of my neck.

“I keep thinking about Dennis Arthur,” I told Margaret. “You know. Down in the Bahamas, swimming and snorkeling and everything while we freeze.”

“Yeah,” Margaret replied, sighing. “Let's face it, Johanna. We have boring lives. I mean, the most exciting thing that happens to me is when somebody leaves a whole dollar tip at the restaurant.”

“I should be working on my report,” I murmured, yawning.

“Wow. Mr. Northwood is sure losing it these days,” Margaret remarked. “I mean, he's been on everybody's case.”

“Not everybody's,” I corrected her.

“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.

“Well, haven't you noticed how he picks only on Dennis and his friends? You know. The rich kids. Caitlin and Melody—the group that was at the 7-Eleven that night last week.”

Margaret was silent for a moment. I guess she was thinking about what I said. “Well,” she piped up finally, “if he's picking only on the rich kids, I guess you and I have got it made!”

I snickered. “Yeah. I guess we're going to ace the course.”

“Why do you think Northwood is on their case?” Margaret demanded.

I started to reply but stopped.

I heard the slam of a car door. Then I heard a crash downstairs.

Broken glass? A broken window?

“Margaret—I've got to go!” I cried. “I—I think someone is trying to break in!”

I
felt a cold stab of dread as I jumped to my feet and ran to my bedroom window. The crash sounded as if it had come from the front of the house.

I stared down at the front yard. There were no streetlights on my block on Fear Street. But our porch light was on, sending a wash of pale yellow light over the small square of front lawn.

The snow had stopped. It had left small patches of white on the dark grass.

I pressed my forehead against the cold windowpane and stared down. No one on the front stoop or near the front of the house. No one in the front yard.

Then I saw dark shadows moving. At the bottom of Mr. Northwood's driveway. I saw a car parked at the curb. I saw three or four kids huddled behind Mr. Northwood's old Chevy Caprice.

I recognized Zack. Then I recognized Melody and Caitlin. Then I saw Lanny's blond hair. Yes. There
were four of them, ducking low behind my neighbor's car.

What's going on? I wondered. What are they going to do?

I had a sudden picture of them setting Mr. Northwood's house on fire, then speeding away.

But that was too much. They wouldn't do that.

But what
were
they planning to do?

Impulsively I grabbed a big bulky sweater from my closet shelf and pulled it over my head as I hurried downstairs. Then, my breath trailing up in front of me, I ran down to the bottom of Mr. Northwood's driveway to greet them.

“Whoa!” Zack exclaimed in a low voice. “Johanna? What are
you
doing here?”