The Wrong Girl

by R. L. Stine

I gasped as Jack burst out laughing.

  He pumped both fists in the air. “That was awesome!” he cried. He turned to Manny. “Did you stop it? Is the live stream off? Any way to know how many people were watching?”

  Manny didn’t reply. He kept the phone aimed in front of him.

  Jack spun around and threw his arms around me. He pressed me in a tight hug. Our ski masks slid together in a scratchy embrace.

  “Poppy, you were great! Great!” Jack cried. “I believed it. Everyone will believe it. Poppy, you made it so real!”

  I was too stunned to speak. I wanted Jack to hold on to me. I needed his arms around me to stop the trembling. I wanted his face pressed against mine, even through the masks.

  But he quickly turned away. “Okay, Mr. Harlow,” he called. “The video is over. You can get up now.”

  We all stared at the front counter.

  “You were great,” Jack called to him. “Thanks for playing along with us.”

  Silence. No reply. And no movement behind the counter.

  I sucked in a deep breath and held it. We all watched as if we were frozen, stared at the counter, at the cigarette display behind it, at the red Coca-Cola sign at one side.

  “Mr. Harlow? Are you okay?” Ivy was the one to call out. She took a cautious step toward the counter.

  But Jack dodged around her and stepped behind the counter. He dropped to his knees.

  I realized I was still holding my breath. “What is happening?” The words slipped from my mouth. “Jack—tell us!”

  And then Jack’s voice rose from down on the floor, high and shrill. “Oh nooooo. No! No!”

  “Jack? What’s wrong?” I choked out.

  “He’s dead. You really shot him, Poppy.”

  “But, Jack—”

  I screamed when I saw the dark-red puddle spread out on the floor from under the counter.

  “I thought it was loaded with blanks,” Jack said, still down on the floor, hidden behind the counter. “I really did. But he’s dead. You killed him.”

  Silence. And then Jack’s shrill cry—

  “Everyone, run. Run. Let’s get out of here!”

  Part Two

  28

  Poppy Continues the Story

  “What do we do now?”

  “We can’t just drive home and pretend we’re okay.”

  “But where can we go?”

  “How many people watched the whole thing online? They must all be calling the police.”

  We were speeding away in Manny’s car. Ivy and Jeremy in the back seat. I was hunched in the front beside Manny, hugging myself, trying to stop the racking shudders that ran down my whole body.

  I felt sick. I struggled to keep from throwing up as Manny sped along River Road.

  I killed a man. I killed him. I saw his blood pooling on the linoleum floor.

  “Where are we going?” Ivy cried.

  “Away,” Manny said.

  “Why did Jack stay?” Jeremy cried, his voice revealing his fear. “Why didn’t he run like we did?”

  “Who knows?” Manny replied. He slowed at a stoplight. He raised his phone. I couldn’t believe he still had it gripped in his hand.

  “Ohmigod,” he murmured. “I messed up. I never turned off the live stream. The whole thing went online.”

  A wave of nausea rolled over me. I felt my dinner rise up to my throat. I choked it back down. “But . . . when Jack said Harlow was dead, he used my name. My real name.” My head was spinning. I tightened my throat and battled my nausea.

  “You all heard him,” I continued. “You all heard him say, ‘You really shot him, Poppy.’ And everyone else heard it, too.”

  Ivy leaned forward from the back seat and patted my shoulder. “That doesn’t mean—” she started.

  I pushed her hand away. “How many Poppys do you know?” I screamed. I was losing it, but I couldn’t help myself. “How many Poppys are there in Shadyside? How many have this stupid name?”

  “Poppy, you’re screaming,” Jeremy said. “Take a breath. Try—”

  “My life is over!” I wailed. “Don’t you understand? My life is done. Finished. ‘Poppy, you killed him.’ How many people heard that? And there it is. It’s still online, right? Everyone will know I’m a murderer. I killed that nice man. Everyone will know. Everyone. I—I—”

  I started to gag. I couldn’t keep it down any longer. “Manny,” I groaned. “Pull over.”

  He slowed the car and edged onto the grassy shoulder. I shoved open the passenger door, leaned out, and vomited. I couldn’t stop it. It just came spewing up, and I made horrible groaning, grunting sounds as wave after wave poured from my mouth.

  When I was finished, I leaned back into the car, pressed my back against the seat, swallowing hard and waiting for the shudders to stop. Manny pulled some paper towels from the glove compartment, and I wiped off my mouth. He edged the car back onto the road.

  “Poppy, we can explain this whole thing,” Ivy said.

  “Huh?” I gasped. “Explain? How?”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s Jack’s,” Ivy said. “He gave you the gun. He said it wasn’t loaded. He told you to shoot.”

  “But I did it!” I screamed, making my raw throat ache. “I did it, Ivy. I killed Harlow. It was supposed to be a joke. He was a good sport, and now he’s dead. I killed him, and the police will never believe it was an accident.”

  “We can talk to my brother,” Manny said, honking at a driver who turned without signaling. “Benny will believe us. He’ll—”

  “Just take me home,” I snapped. “I need to think. I have to get myself together. I . . . I’m not ready to talk to anyone. I . . . have to figure it out—”

  “We should stick together,” Jeremy said. “Not split up. If we all go to the police . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Maybe Jeremy is right,” Ivy said. “We can tell the story better—”

  “No!” I screamed. “No! No! No!” I grabbed Manny’s arm. “My house is right over there. Let me off. I . . . can’t deal with this right now.”

  “Okay, okay.” Manny shoved my hand away. “No problem.”

  A few seconds later, he slowed the car and rolled up my driveway. The lights were off. Mom and Heather weren’t home. I felt a wave of relief. I won’t have to tell them right away. I’ll have some time to get my head together.

  I pushed open the door and turned to slide out of the car. “I’ll call you,” I said.

  “Yes, we’ll keep in touch,” Ivy said. She was gripping Jeremy’s hand tightly. “I’m sure Jack will hurry to your house as soon as he can. Let us know what he says.”

  “Yeah, let us know what you decide to do,” Jeremy said. “We’ll be waiting.”

  “You should brush your teeth,” Manny said. “Get that sour taste out of your mouth.”

  I sighed. “Good old Manny. Always so helpful. I killed someone and he’s worried about my breath.”

  Manny flinched. I could see I’d hurt him. He was trying to be helpful, I guess. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. My life was over.

  I stopped at the front door, fumbling for my key in my bag. I expected to hear sirens approaching. I knew it would be easy for the police to figure out where to find their murderer.

  Everyone had seen it online. And everyone had heard it.

  “Poppy, you killed him.”

  I shoved open the front door and stumbled into the dark living room. I tossed my bag against the wall. I didn’t turn on any lights. I made my way in the dark to the back hall and into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, thinking about Manny, and drank two glasses of water from the sink tap, and my mouth still felt dry and sour, my throat tight, aching.

  I flashed on the ceiling light in my room and dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed. I raised my phone and glanced at the screen. No messages.

  Jack, where are you?

  Why have you disappeared? I need you here. I need to talk with you. I need . . .

  Where wa
s he? And actually, what could he do for me? He couldn’t help me or save me.

  But I had to talk to him. I wanted him to hold me tight and tell me everything will be all right, even though it wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t ever be right again.

  I needed to talk to him. “Where are you, Jack?” I said out loud, my voice ringing off the walls of the empty house.

  I raised the phone to call him. I punched his number with a trembling finger. The phone went right to voicemail.

  “Jack—where are you?” I screamed. “Are you on your way here? Pick up! Pick up!”

  I stood up and began pacing the length of my room, arms crossed tightly over my chest. I needed to think. I wanted to concentrate on what I would say to the police, how I could describe it so they would know it was an accident, so they would believe me.

  But who would believe it?

  A robbery that wasn’t really a robbery? Just an internet prank?

  Who would believe that?

  A silly prank with a loaded gun?

  How could I ever make anyone believe me?

  The whole thing was on video. And it sure looked real. Especially when I shot Mr. Harlow and he went down and didn’t come up.

  It sure looked real.

  I stopped with a sharp cry when I heard the front doorbell chime. And then a hard, pounding knock on the door.

  The police. Of course. It hadn’t taken them long. Another doorbell chime. So impatient.

  They must have seen the lights on in my room. They must know I’m here.

  I took a deep breath and strode into the hall. Still holding my breath, I grabbed the front door handle, pushed open the door—and gasped.

  29

  Poppy Continues

  “Mom!” I cried.

  “I forgot my house keys,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Did you go out? You don’t have any lights on.”

  “I . . . was in my room.” I stepped aside so she could come in.

  She flipped on the entryway light, then the living room lights. “Poppy, you went out?”

  Yes, I went out, and I killed a man during a fake robbery.

  “Yeah. For a little while.”

  I knew I had to tell my mom what happened. But I wanted to talk to Jack first. I know it was completely irrational, but I still clung to the idea that Jack could help me.

  Mom dropped her purse and briefcase on a chair. She shook her dark hair out, like a dog shaking itself dry. “Whew. I’m toast.”

  I followed her toward the kitchen. “How come you’re so late, Mom?”

  “We had an emergency at the lab,” she said, pulling open the fridge and taking out a bottle of coconut water. She practically lives on coconut water. “Some of the hornets escaped, the ones we were experimenting on today.”

  I groaned. “Ugh. Don’t remind me of those hornets. That day Keith and I visited your lab, we couldn’t believe how big they are. It was like a horror movie.”

  Mom tilted the bottle to her mouth and took a long drink. “Well, today really was like a horror movie,” she said when she finished. “Rounding up hornets is a nightmare job. Much harder than just killing them.” Mom finished the bottle and began rummaging in the fridge. “I didn’t have dinner. Is there anything in the house?”

  “I think there’s some egg salad,” I said. “And maybe some ham.”

  I can’t believe we’re talking about egg salad when a few minutes ago, I killed a man.

  Where is Jack?

  I glanced at my phone. No text. No call.

  My mind began to spin again with all kinds of frightening thoughts.

  The police were alerted about the live stream. They hurried to the store. Jack was arrested.

  Or . . . the police burst in. They shot Jack before he could explain.

  Jack was dead because of a stupid joke.

  No. Stop it, Poppy. Don’t get carried away.

  But where was he? Did he think he could run off by himself and get away?

  Didn’t he care what was happening to me?

  I thought hard, picturing everything again. How we pulled on our masks and burst through the front door. And how Jack shoved the gun into my hand. My hand. He gave the gun to me.

  Why?

  Why didn’t he keep it? Why did he want me to be the one with the gun?

  A question I couldn’t answer. My brain was filled with questions I couldn’t answer. My head suddenly felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

  I knew I had to tell my mother what I had done. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I had to let the whole story out.

  She was pulling cold cuts and cheese from the fridge, trying to put together a dinner for herself, carrying it to the kitchen counter with the tall stools.

  I took a seat at the table with my back to her. I guess I didn’t want to look at her when I told the horrible news. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t want to see her face when she heard what I had done.

  Where should I start?

  “Mom . . . uh . . . I need to tell you something. I’m afraid something very bad has happened.” She didn’t react, so I continued. “My friends and I, we have sort of a club. We pull off stunts. You know. Pranks. And we put them online so everyone can be in on the joke. We’re not the only ones who do it. A lot of people have the same idea. So tonight . . .”

  I took a deep shuddering breath. This was harder than I’d thought. But I had no choice. I needed my mother to know. I needed her to understand and to help me.

  So I told her everything. The whole night from beginning to horrible end. Once I started talking, it just burst out of me, like a waterfall. It just flowed. I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to. It didn’t feel good to tell the story. I kept my eyes on the wall cabinets in front of me. I didn’t dare turn around to face her.

  But I managed to get the story out. My voice cracked when I described how Mr. Harlow had grabbed his head and fallen to the floor. And by the time I’d finished telling her everything, my mouth was dry and my hands were wet and ice cold.

  “It was just a prank,” I finished. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone. It was a joke, Mom. A joke that went terribly wrong. Jack told me the gun was filled with blanks. That’s what he told us all. But it wasn’t.”

  My voice tightened to a harsh whisper. “What do we do, Mom? Please—help me. What do we do now?”

  30

  Poppy Narrates

  Silence.

  It took all my strength to stand up and turn around.

  The kitchen was empty. Mom’s dinner plate and the stuff from the fridge was on the counter. But she wasn’t there.

  “Mom?” I called.

  I heard clattering at the back door. The door slammed. Mom entered the kitchen, her arms filled with bottles of coconut water. “I went to the garage,” she said, setting them on the counter. “We’re running low.”

  I stared at her. “You didn’t hear a word I said?”

  “Sorry.” She carried three bottles to the fridge. “I thought you heard me go out.”

  I don’t have the strength . . . I can’t tell the whole story again.

  My phone buzzed. I grabbed it off the table. Jack?

  No. I read the screen. Manny.

  “Hello?” I walked with the phone to the front of the house.

  “Poppy, it’s me.” He sounded frantic.

  “Manny, what’s happening? Have you heard from Jack? Have you heard anything?”

  “No. Listen to me. It’s all over the internet. We’re all going to be arrested.”

  I gasped. My hand shook and I almost dropped the phone.

  “We have to go to the police,” Manny said. “We can’t just sit at home and wait.”

  “Okay,” I started, “but—”

  “Benny is at the precinct house. You know. The one on Village Road near Parkview?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” I wasn’t really hearing his words. I mean, I was hearing them but they weren’t really making sense, as if I was listening to a foreign language.
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  “Benny will listen to us,” Manny said. “He’ll understand. I mean, he’ll get it.”

  “But . . . but, Manny,” I sputtered. “This is murder. How understanding will he be?”

  “We just have to talk to him,” he replied, his voice pulsing in my ear. “He’ll treat us okay, Poppy. He’s my brother. It was an accident. Totally an accident. I know he’ll believe us.”

  The living room lights were dancing in my head. I struggled to think straight. Was I really about to go to the police station and confess to killing someone?

  “Should I bring my mom?” My voice broke as I asked the question. I had the sudden feeling she had followed me. I spun around. She wasn’t there.

  “No. Just go to the station. Make an excuse and just go. Okay? I already told Benny we were coming.”

  “But, Manny—”

  “Hurry, Poppy. Benny is waiting. You don’t have a choice. You have to do this.”

  I clicked off. My hand gripping the phone was shaking. I felt as if I had a bird batting its wings in my chest.

  “Mom, I have to go out!” I shouted down the hall. I didn’t want to go back to the kitchen and face her.

  “At this time of night?” she called back. “Where are you going?”

  “To Ivy’s. She forgot the homework. I’ll be right back.” Amazing how my brain was frozen in panic but I could still come up with a lie.

  She shouted something, but I didn’t hear her. I scooped the car keys from the bowl in the entryway and dove out the front door, stumbling onto the stoop, grabbing the metal rail to keep myself from falling.

  Get it together, Poppy.

  But—how?

  I stuffed myself behind the wheel, started the car, and began to ease it down River Road. I gritted my jaw to stop from screaming. I kept having the feeling that I might go completely berserk, lose my mind and start wailing and shrieking and pounding my fists against the wheel.

  “Whoa!” I cried out. Headlights in my windshield. I’d been driving on the wrong side of the road. I swerved to the right and nearly clipped the mirror off a parked SUV.

  A few minutes later, I pulled into the narrow parking lot at the side of the precinct station. All the lights were on in the three-story brick building. But I was surprised to see few cars in the lot. I spotted two black-and-whites parked at the entrance and two or three other cars at the back. But where were my friends’ cars?