Double Date (10 page)

Bobby guided the car off Fear Street and onto Old Mill Road. “I didn't have much homework,” he
explained, his eyes on the road. “And I didn't feel like sitting home. I've been kind of restless lately. Stressed out.”

“Poor baby,” Samantha murmured.

“I figured you were probably bored too,” Bobby said.

“You figured right,” she replied, smiling at him.

Bobby turned up the air conditioner. Even though the sun had gone down, the air was still hot and damp. There was no breeze at all. The trees they passed were still as death.

“You're very quiet tonight,” he told her as the trees ended and flat fields, one after the other, rolled past the windows.

Samantha sighed. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about
me,
I hope,” Bobby teased. Then he added, “I've been thinking too, Samantha. About your sister.”

Samantha's eyes grew wider. She turned to him. “About Bree? What about her?”

“Did she say anything to you about my guitar? About what happened at the spring show?”

Samantha bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “No. Not a word, Bobby. But she never talks about you to me. Bree and I haven't been talking as much as we used to. I—I guess you know why.” Samantha turned her face to the window.

“Well, do you think Bree might be the one who—”

Samantha placed her hand over Bobby's to stop him. “Let's not talk about Bree tonight, okay? I really don't want to talk about her.”

Bobby glanced at her. “Okay. No problem,” he said.

Samantha is acting very strange tonight, he thought. It's not like her to be so quiet, so moody.

“I just want to ride and ride and ride!” Samantha declared, shutting her eyes and resting her head against the seat. She scratched her arm.

And as she scratched, the slender strap of the tank top dropped, revealing her left shoulder.

Bobby turned his eyes from the windshield, glanced at her shoulder—and gasped.

No butterfly tattoo.

No tattoo!

Her shoulder was smooth and unmarked.

She quickly pulled the strap back into place.

But too late.

Too late.

Bobby had already seen the smooth, bare shoulder.

He realized to his horror,
This is not Samantha!

B
obby's heart pounded. He struggled to concentrate on his driving and keep the car in the lane.

He watched her reach out to turn on the radio. It came on with a loud blast. She laughed and turned down the volume.

“Where's your tattoo?” Bobby asked.

“What?” His question, he realized, had been drowned out by the loud music.

“What station is this? Q-One hundred?” she demanded. He could barely hear her over the music, a reggae-rap song. “Have you seen the video for this song? It's so
weird!
”

“Your tattoo,” he repeated. “Samantha, you—”

“What?” She couldn't hear him.

Was it Bree or Samantha? Bree or Samantha?

Samantha had the butterfly tattoo. So this girl had to be Bree.

Bree had taken Samantha's place. Bree was pretending to be Samantha.

That meant that Bree
knew.
Bree knew about Bobby and Samantha.

A dozen questions jammed Bobby's head at once: Did Samantha know that Bree knew? Did Samantha know that Bree was taking her place tonight? What did Bree plan to do? Why was Bree doing this?

He accidentally swerved the car onto the soft shoulder and bumped along the tall grass. Trying to shake all the questions from his head, he guided the car back onto the road.

I've got to find out some answers, he decided. He slowed the car, pulled it onto the grassy shoulder, and stopped. Then he clicked off the radio.

She smiled at him, a devilish smile. “Bobby, parking so early? What
do
you have in mind?”

She started to lean toward him, shutting her eyes and raising her face to kiss him.

“You're Bree, aren't you,” he said.

Her eyes opened wide. She pulled her head back. “Huh?”

“You're Bree, aren't you?” Bobby repeated, staring intently at her.

She laughed. “Bobby, are you still in shock or something? Can't you tell us apart after all this time?”

“Yeah, I can,” Bobby told her. “And I know that—”

“Are you totally losing it?” she demanded shrilly. “I
told
you Bree wasn't home. You know Bree doesn't know about us.” She let out an angry sigh. “I don't
believe
you, Bobby. I am really hurt. How can you think I'm my sister? I mean, is that all I mean to
you—just one of the Wade twins? It doesn't matter which one?”

She had tears in her eyes. He could see she was about to explode.

“But what about the tattoo?” he blurted out.

Her face twisted in surprise. “Tattoo? What tattoo? Bobby—I'm really worried about you. That shock—I think it did something to your brain.”

“The tattoo on your shoulder,” Bobby insisted.

“You want me to get a tattoo on my shoulder?” Samantha asked, bewildered. She touched her shoulder. “My parents would
kill
me! Why do you want me to get a tattoo?”

Bobby stared at her, confused thoughts spinning through his head. “But, Samantha—”

“Are you sure I'm not Bree?” she snapped angrily.

Oh, wow, Bobby thought. I'm in major trouble now. She's getting really steamed. How do I get out of this?

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Maybe my brain
was
fried, Samantha. Let's forget the whole thing, okay?” He reached for her, but she leaned back against the passenger window.

“Just take me home, okay?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “I'm really hurt, Bobby. Really hurt. Just take me home. Now.”

The next morning he saw Bree and Samantha outside their homeroom. They were standing close together, talking heatedly, both talking at once, both gesturing with their hands.

They stopped the instant they saw him.

“Hey, how's it going?” he called, waving to them. “Looking good!”

They murmured replies.

Were they talking about me? he wondered. Is that why they stopped the moment I appeared?

Were they discussing who's going to go out with me next time? he asked himself bitterly. He had spent hours the night before, lying in bed, trying to puzzle out the mystery of the tattoo. Finally he had fallen into a fitful sleep. Nothing resolved.

He made his way past them and headed to his locker to pick up some books. It was nearly time for the first bell. The halls echoed with slamming locker doors, laughter, and early morning conversations.

Bobby saw the sheet of white paper first. It was taped to his locker door. As he moved closer, he saw that it was a note.

THIS IS YOU INSIDE.

The words were large, printed in big block letters with a red marker.

As he gaped at the note, an unpleasant odor invaded his nostrils. Something smells here, he thought. Something smells
really
bad.

Where was it coming from? Inside his locker?

Holding his breath, Bobby turned the combination lock, pulled open the door—and gasped.

He saw the dark blood first.

The dark blood smeared on the locker walls.

Then he lowered his gaze to the locker floor and saw the monkey's head.

Cut off just below the chin, the monkey head rested in a dark puddle of blood. Its tiny black eyes stared up lifelessly at Bobby. Its mouth frozen open in a silent cry of terror and pain.

W
ith a low, horrified groan, Bobby lurched backward.

He felt his stomach knot and then toss, and before he could hold back or move away, he began vomiting up his breakfast.

He heard startled shrieks, then cries of concern.

When he had finished, he stood leaning with both hands pressed against the next locker, struggling to catch his breath.

“Ow, wow. I see you had eggs for breakfast.”

Bobby turned to see Arnie, shaking his head.

“Hey, no jokes, Arnie,” Bobby choked out. He pointed to his open locker. “Don't look in there,” he warned. “You'll lose your breakfast too.”

“Huh?” Of course Arnie couldn't resist. He stepped in front of Bobby's locker. “What a mess.”

When he saw the monkey head, Arnie uttered a startled cry. His pale face went even paler.

Then he reached down and pulled the monkey head off the locker floor. He held it in the palm of his hand and raised it to Bobby.

“Put it down, man!” Bobby screamed. “Are you
crazy?
”

“But it isn't real, Bobby!” Arnie cried. “Look—it's plastic!”

“Huh?” Bobby gaped at the monkey's twisted mouth, its black, shiny eyes. “It's not one of mine?”

“No, man,” Arnie replied, holding it closer to Bobby. “It's plastic. It's just a toy.”

Bobby stared at the plastic monkey head in Arnie's hand, feeling a surge of anger rise up from his chest and spread over his entire body.

Without warning, he swung his fist hard against the monkey head, sending it flying down the hall. Two girls leapt out of the way, shrieking in surprise, as the head bounced over the floor.

“Who is doing this to me?” Bobby cried. “Who?”

“Where are you taking us?” Bobby asked.

He stared out of the car window at the thick woods. The trees shivered in a strong breeze. Fresh spring-green leaves shimmered like bright emeralds.

“A secret place,” Samantha replied, not smiling, her eyes on the road.

It was Saturday afternoon. Bobby had a date with Bree that night. But Samantha had called a little before noon and said she desperately had to talk to him.

Bobby had picked her up in his red Bonneville a few blocks from her house on Fear Street. Samantha
insisted he let her drive. She promised she would take it easy, so he climbed out and let her get behind the wheel.

As soon as she pulled away from the curb, she opened all the windows and the moon roof. The warm wind blew through the car, making her black hair flutter behind her as she leaned over the steering wheel.

She looked very springlike, Bobby thought, in a white tank top and yellow-and-white-striped shorts. But her mood wasn't as bright as her appearance. She had barely said a word as she guided the car out of town and into the woods.

Bobby realized he had been quiet too, lost in his own troubled thoughts. He watched the trees whir by, feeling the warm sun on the back of his neck through the open moon roof.

Suddenly Samantha turned sharply onto a narrow dirt road. The car bumped along for several yards. Then she pulled to a stop under a canopy of overhanging trees.

“Why'd we stop?” Bobby asked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the shade. “Where are we?”

“We have to talk,” Samantha replied, not answering his questions. She turned off the ignition and stared straight ahead. The breeze fluttered her hair.

“Talk? About what?”

“About the other night,” she replied softly. “About how you mixed me up with Bree.”

“Hey, I'm sorry about that,” Bobby said quickly. “_—”

“I asked you to break up with her,” Samantha interrupted. “Remember? Weeks ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bobby replied uncomfortably.

“Well, now it's too late,” Samantha said, still avoiding his eyes, still staring out to the woods.

“Too late? What do you mean?” Bobby demanded.

“It's gone too far,” Samantha murmured. “I don't want to share you anymore. It's too hard on me, Bobby. It's too confusing. We're both too confused. You know?”

“Well …” Bobby hesitated. He stared hard at Samantha, trying to guess what she was about to say. He always liked to stay at least one step ahead of the girls he was with. He didn't like feeling ten steps
behind,
as he did with Samantha and Bree.

“We have to kill Bree,” Samantha said casually.

Bobby blinked. He knew he hadn't heard her correctly.

“We have to kill her,” Samantha repeated. “We really have to.”

Bobby laughed. “I don't get the joke, Samantha. You're about as funny as Arnie today.”

She grabbed his hand, her eyes fiery in the shadowy light. “No joke. For real,” she murmured. She squeezed his hand in both of hers. “Let's kill Bree, Bobby. Let's really kill her. She's such a total pain. You know she is.”

Bobby gaped at her, startled by her growing enthusiasm.

“We'll kill her, Bobby,” Samantha continued. “Then it'll be just you and me. It'll be great! So great!”

Bobby stared intently into her eyes. Is she serious? Is she teasing me? Is this a joke?

No.

No joke, he realized.

Samantha was serious. She meant it. She really wanted to kill her sister.

She let go of his hand and grabbed his shoulders. “Okay?” she demanded, pulling him close. She began smothering his face with rapid kisses. “Okay, Bobby? We'll kill her? Okay?”

She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. “Okay, Bobby? Can we kill her? Can we?”

“Okay,” Bobby replied. “Let's kill her.”

S
amantha smiled as she raised her hands to push back her hair. The strap on her shirt moved, and Bobby caught a glimpse of the tiny blue butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder.

What is going on here?
Bobby asked himself, gaping in shock at the tattoo. Samantha absently pulled the strap over it and settled back behind the wheel.

“I knew you'd agree,” Samantha whispered, the pleased smile still on her face. She started the car.

Bobby stared at her. “The tattoo,” he murmured. “You didn't have it when we drove around. You—”