The Face

by R. L. Stine

  “Hey—what’s happening?” I murmured out loud. “Who are you?”

  My hand moved quickly now, filling in details.

  Wait. No.

  What was happening?

  The charcoal tip scratched the paper. It seemed to be moving on its own.

  Out of my control.

  My hand—it curled over the paper, moved in short circles, dipped and rose up. As if drawing by itself.

  As if drawing without me.

  As if guided by a ghostly hand, I continued to draw. Staring down in amazement—in fear—I let my hand finish the drawing.

  I knew I couldn’t stop it.

  chapter 5

  I was breathing hard by the time I finished the portrait. My hands were sweaty, my fingers cramped.

  I don’t know how long it took. But I knew that I’d never drawn anything that fast in all my life.

  Resting both hands on the desktop, I leaned over the pad and stared down at the face I had drawn.

  A boy’s face.

  Not someone I knew.

  Not someone I recognized.

  He had wavy, dark hair. One tangle of it fell over his narrow forehead.

  He had those dark, serious eyes. Gloomy eyes. Deep, troubled eyes.

  The nose didn’t go with the eyes. It was too small and kind of turned up.

  I lowered my gaze and discovered that I had drawn him smiling. The smile didn’t go at all with the gloomy eyes. He had a pleasant smile. Thin lips. A small cleft in his chin.

  “Wow,” I murmured.

  Was this someone I had seen before?

  He didn’t look at all familiar.

  Was it just a made-up face? Not the face of a real person? Just a creation of my imagination?

  I studied it closely, still breathing hard. Still feeling the pull of the invisible force that guided my hand.

  The portrait had so many details. The face seemed like such a real face. Such a specific face.

  I studied the dark strand of hair falling so casually over the forehead. My eyes scanned lower. I had drawn a dark, round mole on the boy’s right cheek.

  A mole?

  I had never drawn a mole before on any of the portraits I had done, imaginary or real.

  Never.

  “What is this?” I asked myself.

  And then my eyes stopped on the left eyebrow.

  A tiny, white scar divided the eyebrow in two.

  That detail made me gasp. It was so real. So distinct. Could I have created that scar from my imagination?

  Maybe. But why hadn’t I ever drawn a scar like that before?

  I leaned over the portrait. “Who are you?” I asked it.

  The dark eyes stared up at me. The boy’s thin-lipped smile revealed nothing. Nothing at all.

  With a low cry, I tore the page from the pad. Then I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash can beside the desk.

  My hands still felt cold and clammy. The back of my neck tingled.

  My throat had tightened. In fear?

  I didn’t want that drawing around. I didn’t want to see that unfamiliar face.

  I wanted to draw my own portrait.

  I wiped my hands on the legs of my jeans. Then I sifted through the charcoal pencils, searching for one with a broader point.

  I carried the small, square mirror on my dressing table to the desk and stood it up beside my drawing pad. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I straightened my blond bangs. And wiped a smudge of charcoal off my cheek.

  I’m not going to draw my freckles, I decided. I’m going to pretend they aren’t there. I’m going to pretend that I have smooth, creamy skin like Laura.

  Laura.

  I felt tempted to call Laura. I wanted to draw her for the portfolio. I had drawn her before. Those high, perfect cheekbones were so much fun to draw.

  Laura is so vain, I told myself. My drawings never satisfied her. She claimed I made her look like a brainless bimbo. “Martha, why do I always look like such an airhead in your drawings?” she demanded after our last session.

  “I paint what I see,” I teased.

  She didn’t smile. She always takes herself so seriously.

  I guess if I looked as beautiful as Laura, I’d take myself seriously too.

  She made me change her smile, over and over. I never could get it right.

  Now I turned back to my own face in the mirror. “I’m going to make you as sophisticated as Laura,” I told myself.

  I leaned over the pad and started to draw.

  Began with the eyes.

  No. Wait.

  Not those eyes.

  My hand moved rapidly, out of my control.

  Out of control.

  The slender outline of the face.

  The dark eyes. The wavy hair. The turned-up nose.

  “Wait. No!”

  I was drawing the boy again. The same face.

  I felt a chill. A cold tingle of fear that swept down the back of my neck.

  “No way!”

  I tore the page out of the pad without finishing the portrait. I didn’t bother to crumple it up. I sailed it across the desk and watched it float to the floor.

  I took a deep breath. And ignoring the trembling of my hand, started to draw again.

  This time I kept my eyes on the mirror. Watched my reflection as I drew. Determined to draw myself.

  My own face. Not that boy’s face. My face.

  But it was no use. My hand wouldn’t cooperate.

  “No! Please no!” I uttered an alarmed cry as my arm moved on its own. My hand dipped and glided. Sketching. Scratching. Filling in the details.

  The details of the boy’s face.

  The cleft in the chin. The mole. The round, black mole. And now the scar. The slender, white scar cutting through one eyebrow. The black eyebrows, arched just slightly over the dark, brooding eyes.

  “No way!” I ripped out the drawing and flung it to the floor beside the other one.

  I quickly brought the cover of the drawing pad down. I shoved the pencils into the drawer.

  My heart pounded. I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans legs again.

  And stared down at the two drawings on the floor. The two faces. Of the same boy. The same unknown boy.

  “Who are you? Who?”

  He stared up at me. As if trying to answer. As if trying to tell me something.

  Trying to tell me what?

  “Why am I drawing you? Why can’t I draw what I want?”

  I bent down. Grabbed up both sheets of paper. And ripped them.

  Ripped them again and again. Ripped them into narrow shreds.

  And asked myself: Am I cracking up? Am I totally cracking up?

  chapter 6

  That night I hurried to meet Aaron at the mall at eight o’clock. We had a date for the eight-thirty movie. He works a weekend shift behind the counter at Pete’s Pizza. Aaron’s father is friends with the owner or something. Aaron usually gets off work a little before eight.

  I had trouble finding a parking space near the movie theater. I finally had to park all the way at the other end, near the Doughnut Hole.

  I started jogging across the lot when I realized I’d left my headlights on. “Aaaagh!” I let out a frustrated groan and went running back.

  By the time I finally made it to the theater, it was a few minutes after eight. The lobby was packed with people. I think I saw half of Shadyside High as I searched for Aaron.

  I spotted him finally at the side of the popcorn counter. And to my surprise, I saw Justine too.

  She had an arm draped casually around Aaron’s shoulders. And they were laughing about something with their heads pretty close together.

  What is this about? I asked myself.

  Justine always flirts with Aaron when I’m around. They’re always teasing each other and kidding around.

  But I never stopped to think that she flirts with him when I’m not around.

  Watching them laugh together, with her arm around his shoulders as
if she owned him, gave me sort of a sick feeling.

  Justine was my friend, after all. I didn’t want to start having evil thoughts about her.

  I made my way through the crowd and hurried over to them. Justine dropped her arm from Aaron’s shoulders and took a step back when she saw me.

  “Hey. How’s it going?” Aaron asked. He flashed me his great smile. It instantly made me feel better.

  “Okay,” I said. I had decided in the car not to tell him about my strange afternoon, about the face I kept drawing almost against my will.

  Aaron has been through so much unhappiness with me since the accident. He’s been so good to me, so understanding about my memory loss.

  Sometimes I don’t tell him upsetting things that are on my mind. I don’t want him to think that I’m crazy or anything.

  “What’s up?” I asked him cheerfully. I took his hand. I really was glad to see him.

  “The usual. I had to work.” He motioned to several dark tomato sauce stains on his sweatshirt. “Can’t you tell?”

  I laughed. “You smell like a pizza too. Yum.”

  “I was shopping and ran into Aaron,” Justine chimed in. She twirled a ringlet of red hair around one finger. “He said you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along to the movies.”

  “Of course not,” I replied quickly. Just keep your paws off him! I thought.

  Then I felt bad for thinking it.

  “I have the tickets. Let’s go in,” Aaron said.

  “We need popcorn,” Justine insisted. She made her way into the line at the counter.

  A few minutes later she returned with an enormous bucket of buttery popcorn. “I got a small!” she joked.

  Aaron guided me by the shoulders into the theater. The trailers had already started. We found seats near the front. I always like to sit as close as possible. I don’t like people in front of me. I like to lose myself in the screen.

  Aaron sat between me and Justine with the bucket of popcorn on his lap. Justine and I helped ourselves.

  A couple of times I saw Justine’s hand brush against Aaron’s. I wondered if it was deliberate.

  Each time she touched him, I felt a cold chill.

  My phone rang a little after midnight. Startled, I grabbed up the receiver before the end of the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Justine?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Aaron and I had just dropped her home half an hour earlier. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. I … just wanted to talk.”

  I yawned and glanced at the clock. What is Justine’s problem? I asked myself. I spent the whole night with her.

  “We didn’t really get a chance to talk,” she explained. “Pretty dumb movie, huh?”

  I carried the phone across the room and dropped down onto the edge of my bed. “Jim Carrey was funny,” I replied. “He’s so gross. He always makes me laugh.”

  “Aaron laughed so hard, I thought he was going to choke!” Justine exclaimed.

  “You know Aaron,” I said, straightening the sleeve of the long T-shirt I usually sleep in.

  And then I thought: How well do you know Aaron, Justine?

  “He’s usually the only one laughing at these movies,” I continued, shaking my bitter thought from my mind. “Aaron laughs at anything. Especially if it’s gross.”

  There was a long silence at Justine’s end. Then she blurted out, “I’m really so jealous of you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  My cat, Rooney, jumped up beside me on the bed. I gently pushed her back to the floor. She leaves white fur over everything.

  “You heard me,” Justine said sharply. “I said I’m jealous. Aaron is such a great guy.”

  “Yeah. He is,” I replied. Pretty lame. I admit it. But I didn’t know what else to say.

  I mean, what could I say to Justine? “Is that why you’re coming on to him all the time?” I could never say that. She’s my friend.

  And tonight she sounded kind of troubled.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Another silence. I could hear her pacing back and forth in her room. I pictured her in pajamas, her red hair loose over her shoulders.

  “Guess I’m a little down,” she admitted, speaking softly.

  “What’s wrong?” I demanded, pushing Rooney off the bed again. I leaned down to pet the cat, but she scurried out of my room.

  “Nothing really. Everything. Nothing. Everything,” Justine replied. She loved talking in puzzles.

  I waited for her to explain.

  “I just started thinking about things tonight. Before the movie,” she continued. “You know. Different things. I had this long talk with my parents.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Justine’s parents were the gloomiest, most depressing people in the world.

  “You know I can’t go to college next fall.” Justine sighed, “There’s just no money. And my grades aren’t good enough for a scholarship.”

  She let out a bitter laugh. “I couldn’t get a scholarship to Waynesbridge Junior College!”

  The junior college is kind of a joke with Shadyside kids. We all call it High School II!

  “So I have to stay home and work for a couple of years,” Justine continued. “You know. Save my money.” She sighed again.

  “It’s a bad break,” I agreed. “But it isn’t the end of the world, Justine. I mean—”

  “You’re lucky, Martha,” she interrupted. “You have nice parents. And they have enough money. You have Aaron. You’ve got really good grades. You’re a talented artist—”

  “Justine—stop!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “You’re wrong. I know you think I have a perfect life. But—”

  “No, I don’t,” Justine cut in.

  “Huh?” Her reply surprised me.

  “No, I don’t, Martha,” she repeated. And then her voice became strange. Kind of tight. And cold. “Your life isn’t as perfect as you think,” she said.

  I took a deep breath. “What do you mean?” I demanded, almost shyly.

  Silence.

  “Justine—what did you mean by that?”

  “I’ve got to go,” she whispered. “My dad is shouting at me to get off the phone.”

  “But wait—” I insisted.

  I heard a click, and the line went dead.

  I tossed the phone onto the bed. Crossed my arms in front of me. Tapped my bare foot on the rug.

  “Your life isn’t as perfect as you think.”

  What did she mean by that remark?

  Something about Aaron? Something about Aaron and Justine?

  Or was it something much worse?

  chapter 7

  “Come on, Rooney. Come here.” I patted my lap.

  I was stretched out on the couch in the den in torn jeans and an old sweatshirt, and I felt like holding Rooney and petting her. But of course she wouldn’t come near me.

  Why do cats always have to act like cats?

  It was Sunday evening, and I was feeling pretty lonely. Mom and Dad were visiting friends across town. I finished my homework early. There was no school the next day, anyway. Some kind of teachers’ meetings.

  I called Laura to see if she wanted to hang out or something. Not home. Adriana wasn’t home either.

  So now I was stretched out in the den, half-watching wet snow drizzle down outside the window, half-watching a skiing show on ESPN on the TV across the room.

  “Rooney—come here!”

  The cat turned and strutted away with her tail in the air.

  I settled back against the couch arm. And gazed up at the TV screen.

  And saw a cabin. A wooden cabin surrounded by snow. Snow tumbling off the sloping roof.

  “Oh!”

  I sat up.

  My head was spinning. I felt dizzy.

  A flash. A flash of memory.

  The cabin. The snow. I was starting to remember.

  I jumped to my feet. My heart was pounding. I suddenly felt cold all over. As if I were in that snow. As
if I were standing outside that snow-covered wooden cabin.

  I shut my eyes, struggling to concentrate. Struggling to pull more memory back.

  I had a picture in my mind. The scene on the TV had brought back a picture. But I needed more than a picture. I needed to remember more.

  Keeping the snowy cabin in my mind, trying not to lose the strange feeling, I hurried upstairs to my room. I dropped down at my desk. Shut my eyes again.

  And tried to drift into the scene. Tried to slide myself into the snow. Tried to see everything. To remember …

  Whoa. Two cabins. I saw two cabins side by side.

  Snow piled up against the cabin walls. Drifts sloping up to the curtained windows. The windows glowing golden, reflecting the bright sunlight.

  The snow glowing too. Everything so bright and clear and cold.

  Where am I? I wondered. Do I know these two cabins? Have I been there?

  Is this real memory? A piece of memory coming back?

  Or is it imagination?

  I tried not to think. I just wanted to see.

  And I did start to see. I saw some colorful figures, a bright blur in the shimmering, silvery snow.

  So hard to see in the bright glare. As if the white light had formed a curtain, a curtain hiding their faces from me.

  I concentrated harder.

  I stared at the colors moving over the snow. The colors formed themselves into people.

  I saw four girls.

  “Hey—!” I cried out as I recognized the girl in front.

  Me. I recognized me. Recognized my long blond hair poking down from my blue wool ski cap. Recognized my blue-and-white ski suit.

  Concentrate. Concentrate.

  I forced myself deeper into the scene. Deeper into the memory.

  And my three friends moved through the curtain of light, moved through the snow, into clear view. Adriana, Justine, and Laura.

  They were there with me.

  I could see their smiles. Could see their red cheeks. Could see their breath streaming up in front of them as they walked, boots crunching in the deep snow.

  And suddenly we were inside the cabin.

  Warm and bright. An orange fire blazing in the stone fireplace. Mugs of hot apple cider.

  Yes. The four of us were sitting around the table. I could see the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The white mugs. They stuck to the plastic tablecloth when we lifted them.