The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

Heather and I walked to school together. It was a gray April morning, the clouds low in the sky, threatening rain. Perfect for my mood.

I guess I felt depressed because Mr. G was scheduled to announce who’d won parts in the play, and I just dreaded having to look at the smirk on Rose Groban’s face when she was announced as Becka.

I knew Mr. G would find a good part for me, maybe as Becka’s sister Traci, or maybe even as the crazy old lady, Gretchen. And eventually, I’d have fun being part of the production. But it would be nice to be a winner. I could put a smirk on my face as good as Rose’s if I was only given the chance.

As we walked, Heather was talking about some guy in her class she had a crush on but didn’t have the nerve to talk to. I should have listened. She seldom confided in me, and I think she was really making an attempt to be close. But I tuned her out and thought about Jack.

I knew things were going too fast with him. I knew he’d been in some kind of trouble at his last school, and I knew people had issues with him, the way he roared around in that dust-covered pickup truck, and the way he sort of strutted through the halls at school, as if he was above it all. The way he kept his jaw stuck out, like he was looking for trouble. Yeah, sure. He acted tough, and that wasn’t exactly the way kids rolled at Shadyside High.

But that’s what attracted me, I knew.

For some reason, I kept remembering Rose’s warning, the words she’d whispered in my ear just before I went onstage for my audition. Why did Rose tell me to stay away from Jack? Why did she care? What did she know about him?

Or was she just being mean? Trying to throw me off balance for my audition?

If that was the case, it had definitely worked.

“I don’t think you heard a word I said,” Heather snapped, shaking her head, her eyes angry behind her round glasses.

“Of course I did,” I lied.

But she took off, running ahead, backpack bouncing on her shoulders, her sneakers pounding the sidewalk loudly, and I realized our walks to school often ended this way, with her angry or disappointed in me, or whatever. I watched her charge across the street like an angry bull, without even looking to see if there were any cars coming, and I made a note to myself. I really did. Memo to self: Be nicer to Heather.

I ran into Manny in the hall near my locker. He was bouncing a tennis ball off the metal lockers, catching it in one hand. Ka-chang. Ka-chang. “Kellog isn’t in homeroom today,” he said. “Some strange teacher is in there. Kellog is probably hungover again.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said, struggling with the combination on my locker. “What makes you think Miss Kellog is a drunk?”

Manny grinned his toothy grin, all his gums showing. “What makes you think she isn’t?” Ka-chang. Ka-chang. Having delivered his punchline, he moved on down the hall, bouncing the tennis ball off the lockers, the sound echoing down the long hall.

Before Manny was out of sight, Rose appeared beside me, and sure enough, she had that superior smirk on her face. Her hair was pulled to one side in a single braid, perfect, not a hair out of place, and she wore a green-and-yellow summery sundress with a very short skirt, a necklace of red plastic beads around her neck. She looked awesome, and of course, she knew it.

“Just wanted to share my good news with you,” she said.

I had stooped to pick up a notebook from the floor of my locker. I had the sudden urge to dive headfirst into the locker and hide in there until she left. “Good news?” I straightened up to face her. She uses some kind of citrus-type cologne so she always smells lemony.

“A scholarship.” Her smile grew wider. “I got a drama scholarship for the summer at Wellesley. Do you believe it?”

She was probably expecting me to be sarcastic or to sigh in disappointment that I hadn’t won it, so I decided to gush. “Oh, wow, Rose! That’s awesome!” I high-fived her. Yes, I actually touched her. It was the most enthusiasm I could muster, and I think it caught her by surprise.

“Yeah, uh, I’m pumped,” she said. “Now I have to find a place to live up there. Maybe an apartment of my own.”

“Sweet,” I murmured.

Her grin faded. It was like her lips collapsed. No, not just her lips—her whole face. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I am so, so sorry, Poppy, that you and your sister didn’t get parts in the play. I’m devastated. Seriously.”

My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t hide my shock. I didn’t get any part at all?

I could feel my muscles tighten. My stomach suddenly churned. I didn’t want to give Rose the satisfaction of seeing my dismay and how upset I was. But I couldn’t help it.

Rose narrowed her eyes at me. She saw my surprise. She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “You hadn’t heard?”

I shook my head.

She formed a pouty look on her face, puckering out her lips. “Wow. There I go again. Shooting off my big mouth. I thought you already got the word from Mr. G. I’m so sorry, Poppy.”

Anger. Anger. Anger.

In that moment, I could write whole books of poems about anger. Was my face red? Was I trembling? I didn’t care.

I lifted my backpack and dug my hand to the bottom. You’re going to be very sorry, Rose. I found the knife I keep in there. I wrapped my fingers around the handle, raised it quickly—and plunged the blade into Rose’s stomach.

She gasped and drew back in pain.

“Oh, now I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry, Rose. I thought that was the stage knife. The fake. But it isn’t. Whoa. My mistake. I’m so, so sorry.”