The Confession by R. L. Stine
Contents
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 3
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
part
1
Chapter
1
What would you do if one of your best friends took you aside and said he had a confession to make?
What if your friend confessed to you that he killed someone? And he begged you not to tell anyone. He begged you to keep his horrible secret.
What would you do?
Tell his parents? Call the police? Try to convince him to tell his parents? Tell your parents?
Or keep the secret?
Not an easy choice—is it? I’m seventeen and sometimes I think I know a lot of answers. But when a really close friend called our group to his house and confessed to a murder in front of all of us—well … what could we do?
I’ll tell you one thing: On that warm spring day last May when my friends Hillary Walker and Taylor Snook came to my house after school, we did not have murder on our minds.
The air smelled so fresh and sweet. Bright green leaves were uncurling on the old trees in my backyard. And rows of red and yellow tulips swayed gently in the flower bed beside the garage.
The whole backyard shimmered under the bright afternoon sunlight. Hillary, Taylor, and I dropped our backpacks on the grass and sat on them, stretching out our legs, raising our faces to the sun.
Taylor tugged her wavy, white-blond hair back from her face. Her green eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She shut them and tilted her face to the sun. “Julie, have you ever sunbathed nude?” she asked me.
The question made Hillary and me laugh. Taylor was always trying to shock us.
“You mean in the backyard?” I asked.
“No. On a beach,” Taylor replied sharply. She had no patience for my dumb questions. Taylor was a new friend. Sometimes I had the feeling she didn’t really like me that much.
“One winter, my parents took me to an island in the Caribbean called St. Croix, and we went to a nude beach there,” Taylor said, eyes still shut, smiling at the memory.
“And did you take off your swimsuit?” Hillary asked.
Taylor snickered. “I was only seven.”
All three of us laughed.
Hillary climbed to her feet. The long, single braid she always wears swayed behind her head.
“Julie, could we go inside?” she asked me. “I think I already have enough of a tan!”
Taylor and I laughed again. Hillary is African American and has dark brown skin.
I raised my hand so that Hillary could help pull me up. “Can’t you ever stay in one place for more than five minutes?” I scolded her.
Hillary and I have been friends since junior high. So I’m used to her. But I think other people are surprised by how tense she is. How fast she talks. How her eyes are always darting back and forth behind those white plastic-rimmed glasses she wears.
She is intense. That’s the only word for Hillary.
She is smart and nice and funny and … intense.
She reminds me of one of those wind-up toys that’s been wound up too tightly and goes off—too fast—in all directions at once.
Anyway, she tugged me to my feet. And the three of us dragged our backpacks into the house. We settled around the round, yellow kitchen table, with cans of Mountain Dew and a bowl of tortilla chips.
And naturally we started talking about boys. Vincent and Sandy, mostly.
Vincent Freedman is another one of our group. Another really old friend of mine. I have to confess that recently I’ve wished he were more than a friend. I really think Vincent and I could be a great couple. Or something.
But that’s another story.
I don’t think Vincent has the tiniest idea that I have a major thing about him. Not a clue.
Sandy Miller, another good friend, has been going out with Taylor for about a month. That’s how Taylor got to be part of our group.
Poor Sandy. He’s been dazed and confused ever since Taylor got interested in him. No lie.
He’s so shy and quiet, and not exactly considered a major babe at Shadyside High. I think he’s in shock that a girl so beautiful—so hot—seems to think he’s Brad Pitt!
Lucky guy, huh? Well, to tell you the truth, Hillary and I are just as surprised by Taylor’s choice as Sandy is.
But that’s another story, too.
So we sat around the kitchen table, talking about boys and laughing a lot. And then we started talking about the party. The party.
A party at Reva Dalby’s house is a big deal. Reva is the richest girl at Shadyside High. Her father owns at least a hundred department stores. And they live in an enormous stone mansion in North Hills with guard dogs and tall hedges all around.
Reva invited the whole senior class. And she’s hired two bands to play in the backyard—a garage band called Garage Band that plays at the local dance club, Red Heat, all the time. And a hip-hop group called 2Ruff4U that’s flying all the way in from L.A. just for the party—at least that’s what Reva tells everyone.
Reva isn’t the nicest person we know. I mean, no one would vote her Miss Congeniality at our school. But who cares? We’re all dying—dying—to go to her party!
So we were talking about the party. And Hillary was fretting about what to wear. “The party is outside, right?” she was saying. “And it still gets pretty cool at night. But I don’t want to wear anything too heavy. I mean, I plan to dance a lot. So if I wear long sleeves or a sweater … ”
I tuned out at that point. It was typical Hillary, worrying herself into a frenzy, talking so fast it was impossible to get a word in.
She was still talking when we heard a bumping noise at the kitchen door.
I jumped up as someone pulled the storm door open without knocking. A tall figure barged into the kitchen.
All three of us cried out.
And that’s when all the trouble began.
Chapter
2
“Hey, Al—don’t knock or anything,” I said angrily, rolling my eyes.
Al Freed snickered. He lumbered up to the table, grinning his lopsided grin at us. “What’s happening, girls?”
“You’re not happening!” Hillary snapped instantly. “You’re definitely not happening.”
Taylor and I laughed, but Al didn’t think it was funny.
Al is also a senior at Shadyside High. He is big and blond and kind of tough-looking.
With his tiny, round blue eyes set close together around a big beak of a nose, he always reminds me of a vulture about to pounce on his prey.
He always wears black, like a vulture. And his lip is always curled in a sneer, as if he’s trying to show the whole world just how tough he is.
I know I make him seem kind of creepy. But actually, Al used to be part of our group. We all liked him a lot. But then he started hanging out with some “hard dudes” from Waynesbridge. Really bad-news characters.
Al changed. He started drinking a lot of beer. At least, that’s what I heard from some other guys who know him. And he started getting into trouble. I mean, serious police-type trouble.<
Too bad. Whenever I see Al, I always remember the way he used to be, and I wish he could forget his new friends and go back to the way he was.
But I don’t think that ever happens—do you?
Al stepped up to the kitchen table. “I can tell that you girls were talking about me,” he teased. He narrowed his tiny eyes at Taylor. “You’re hot for me, aren’t you?”
“You’ve got that wrong,” Taylor replied coldly. Her green eyes can go cold as marble when she wants them to.
“You know you want to dump Sandy and come riding with me,” Al insisted, practically drooling on her.
“What kind of a tricycle are you riding these days?” Hillary cracked.
I told you. Hillary is real quick.
Al’s big ears turned red. That’s how you can tell when he’s angry.
I didn’t see that he had a can of beer in his hand until he tilted it to his mouth. He took a long swallow, lowered the can, and burped.
“You sure know how to impress a girl,” Taylor cracked.
Hillary tapped her long purple fingernails nervously on the tabletop. The sunlight from the window reflected off her glasses, but I could see she was watching Al carefully.
I think she’s a little afraid of Al now. I know I am.
He slid the beer can into the crook of his arm, bent his arm, and crushed the can easily. “I’ve been working out,” he told us.
“Bet you can crack walnuts between your teeth,” Hillary muttered.
Al ignored her. He tossed the can across the room. It clattered into the sink, leaving a trail of beer droplets across the white linoleum.
“Hey—watch it!” I cried. “What do you want, Al? Why are you here?”
He turned his blue eyes on me. “You’re my favorite, Julie. You’re the best.” He waved at Hillary and Taylor. “They’re trash. But you’re the best.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you want, Al?” I repeated impatiently.
“Twenty dollars,” he said, sticking out his big paw. It had black grease stains on it. His fingernails were caked with black dirt. He’d probably been fiddling with his car. “That’s all. Just twenty bucks.”
“I don’t have it,” I replied curtly. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Really.”
“You’re the best, Julie,” Al insisted. He didn’t lower his hand. He kept it in my face. “You’re great. You’re awesome. Twenty bucks. I wouldn’t ask you unless I really needed it.”
I uttered a cry of disgust. “Al, I’m totally broke,” I told him. “And you already owe me twenty bucks.”
“Go away, Al,” Hillary chimed in. “Why don’t you get a job?”
“Who would hire him?” Taylor asked sarcastically.
I was a little surprised that Taylor was joining in. She moved to Shadyside at Christmastime. She’d only been part of our group for a month. So she didn’t really know Al well enough to be making cracks about him.
I guessed she just wanted to help me out.
Al pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his black flannel shirt. He lit it and tossed the match onto the floor.
“Hey—no way!” I shouted. I shoved him toward the door. “You know my parents don’t allow smoking in this house!”
He danced away from me, grinning. He took a long drag and blew the smoke in my face.
“Give her a break, Al,” Hillary insisted, climbing to her feet and pushing her chair out of the way. She and I both closed in on him.
“Hey, whoa!” He raised both hands as if trying to shield himself.
“Get out!” I cried. “If my mom comes home and smells cigarette smoke—”
He flicked the ash onto the kitchen table. He sneered as he narrowed his eyes at me. “Julie, your parents don’t allow you to smoke. But I know a little secret, don’t I? You smoke anyway.”
“Shut up!” I insisted.
His sneer spread into a grin. “I saw you smoking at the mall last weekend. Puff puff puff.” He blew more smoke in my face. “Julie is bad. Julie is baaaaad! Maybe I should tell your mom… . ”
“No way!” I shrieked.
Mom caught Hillary and me smoking in my room when we were in ninth grade, and she went ballistic. She’s such a fanatic about smoking. She promised me a reward—a thousand dollars—if I never smoked again in high school.
I hate to think what my parents would do if they found out that sometimes I smoke a few cigarettes when I’m out with my friends. I know Mom would have a cow. It would get ugly. Real ugly.
And I knew Al wasn’t kidding. He’d tell my mom about my smoking. Unless I stayed on his good side.
Which was why I loaned him the first twenty dollars.
“Al, I’m broke. I really am,” I insisted.
“Yeah. Right.” He flicked another clump of ash onto the table in front of Taylor.
“What do you need twenty dollars for, anyway?” Hillary demanded.
“So I can take Taylor out,” he replied, grinning again.
“Ha-ha. Remind me to laugh,” Taylor muttered. She stuck her tongue out at Al.
“I love it when you do that!” he told her.
She groaned and shook her head. “Grow up.”
Al turned back to me. I didn’t like the cold expression on his face. I never used to see that kind of hardness in him.
“How about if I burn a little hole in the table, Julie? Do you think you could find the twenty bucks then?”
“Al, please—” I started.
But he turned the cigarette between his fingers and started to lower it to the tabletop.
“Al—don’t!” I screamed. I dove for him. But he swung around and blocked me from the table with his broad back.
He held the cigarette flame close to the yellow Formica. “Come on, Julie. You can find twenty bucks. You don’t want your mom to find a big burn, do you?”
“Stop it! Stop!”
Hillary and I both pulled him away from the table. The cigarette dropped to the floor. Al started to laugh, an annoying, high-pitched giggle.
We pulled him toward the kitchen door. “Goodbye, Al,” I said.
But he yanked himself free and turned to Hillary. “Your daddy is a big-deal doctor. I’ll bet you have twenty dollars.”
Hillary let go of him and sighed wearily. “Why would I give you a nickel?”
Al brought his face close to Hillary’s ear. So close he could’ve bitten her dangling, orange glass earring. “Because of chemistry,” Al whispered, loud enough for Taylor and me to hear.
Hillary gasped.
“You wouldn’t want Mr. Marcuso to know you cheated on the chemistry final,” Al told Hillary.
“You can’t blackmail me!” Hillary insisted through clenched teeth.
Al laughed. “Of course I can! If I can’t blackmail you, who can?”
“But you gave me last year’s final exam!” Hillary protested. “I didn’t ask you for it, Al. You gave it to me!”
“And you used it, didn’t you?” Al asked, almost gleefully. “If some little birdie should tell Marcuso you cheated, Hillary, he’d flunk you. And then you wouldn’t get into that fancy college that accepted you. Boo-hoo.”
“Al, you used to be a nice guy,” I said, shaking my head. “How did you get so obnoxious?”
He pulled my hair. “I studied you!” he shot back, laughing at his own cleverness.
“You really can’t go around threatening people,” Taylor chimed in. She hadn’t budged from the table. I thought maybe she was using the table as a shield against Al.
“Yeah. Get out of here!” I insisted, shoving him again. “Really. Take a walk.”
But Hillary was already digging into her bag. She pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and pushed it into Al’s outstretched hand.
“When are you going to pay it back?” she demanded. She didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes down on her bag.
“Good question,” Al replied, smirking. “Beats me.” He jammed the money into the pocket of his black denim jeans. Then he turned to the doo
He took three steps—then stopped as my mom pulled open the glass storm door. “Oh—hi, Mrs. Carlson.” He couldn’t hide his surprise. I saw his ears turn red again.
My mom stepped into the kitchen, carrying a brown grocery bag under each arm. “Hi, everyone. I’m home early.”
Al took one of the bags and carried it to the counter for her.
Mom set the other bag down. She pushed back her hair. She has dark brown hair, like I do. And the same big, brown eyes. Our best feature.
Mom says I look just like Demi Moore.
Whenever she says that, I tell her she needs glasses.
“We don’t see you around here much anymore,” Mom said to Al.
“I’ve been kind of busy,” Al replied. His ears were still bright red. He said good-bye and hurried out the door.
Mom turned to us. “Why is he dressed all in black?” she demanded. “Did somebody die?”
She didn’t give any of us a chance to answer. She let out a cry of surprise—and pointed furiously at the floor.
I saw instantly what she was pointing at. Al’s cigarette.
“Mom—” I started.
She bent and picked it up, her face tightening in anger. “It’s still lit.”
“It was Al’s!” I cried. “We weren’t smoking. It was Al’s!”
“That’s the truth, Mrs. Carlson,” Hillary said. She and Taylor both stood awkwardly at the table. I knew they wanted to fade away, to disappear. They’d both seen my mother when she went into one of her flying rages.
“I don’t care who was smoking, Julie,” Mom said, clenching her jaw and speaking each word slowly and distinctly. “You’re in charge while I’m away and—”
She carried the cigarette to the sink. And let out a loud gasp.
“A beer can too?” she demanded shrilly.
“That’s Al’s!” Taylor and I cried in unison. I glimpsed Hillary shrink back against the wall, trying to blend in with the flowery wallpaper.
“You just threw it into the sink?” Mom demanded shrilly.
I started to reply, but what was the point? I mean, I knew I was in major trouble.
It didn’t matter that Al left the can and the cigarette butt. Ever since she caught Hillary and me smoking in my bedroom three years ago, I don’t think Mom has trusted me completely.