The Prom Queen (7 page)

Simone wasn't around to get angry anymore, but somehow that made it even worse. She was lying dead somewhere, murdered, and two weeks later he was out with Suki Thomas.

I couldn't believe it. Dawn, Lucas, Justin—was I the only one who cared that a girl in our class had been killed?

I tried not to get angry. I really needed to enjoy this movie. I felt as if I'd been carrying around a giant weight ever since I opened the door to Simone's room that night. Dawn wasn't the only one who needed a release.

But the movie turned out to be really dull. Not even Christian Slater could save it. The couple in front of me made out most of the time, so it was really hard to see. And my sneakers kept sticking to the goo on the floor.

Most of the time I was too distracted to follow the movie anyway. The events of the past few weeks kept flashing through my mind. I just couldn't make them go away.

Nothing was unimportant, Officer Jackson had said.
Was
there some detail I was overlooking?

“I've got to get a drink,” Dawn whispered, climbing over me. She stepped on my toe. “Sorry!” she called back.

I craned my neck to look for Justin and Suki, but I couldn't see them. I tried to pay attention to the movie. About ten minutes later Dawn still hadn't returned.

“What's taking her so long?” Rachel whispered.

I had forgotten all about Dawn. The movie had finally gotten a little interesting. Christian Slater was in love with an incredibly gorgeous spy.

“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe she fell in the toilet.”

Rachel didn't laugh. “I'm going to look for her.”

“Okay, just try not to—
ow!”
Rachel stepped on my foot as she walked past. The same one Dawn had gotten.

Up on the screen the woman spy was gently caressing Christian Slater's cheek. “So,” she purred, “you work for General Frick?”

“We're like this,” Slater answered, holding up two fingers close together.

I got lost in the movie again. Until I heard my name being called.

I turned around and peered up the aisle.

I could see Rachel stumbling toward me through the dark theater.

“Lizzy! Lizzy!” she cried in a loud whisper.

“Huh?” I pulled myself up from my seat.

“Lizzy! Come quick! It's Dawn! Something terrible has happened!”

M
y heart pounding, I stumbled up the aisle after Rachel, who hadn't waited for me. She had burst through the double doors into the bright lobby. I followed a few seconds later, my eyes adjusting slowly to the harsh light.

There was Dawn. She was lying on her back on the red carpet, her legs sprawled out, as if she had fallen from a great height.

She's dead.

That was my first thought.

But then I saw that there was no blood.

Kneeling beside her was a young, overweight usher in a red jacket and blue tie. Standing behind him was a nervous-looking middle-aged man in a blue jacket, who was wringing his hands. He wore a brass name tag that said Manager.

Dawn was unconscious. Out cold.

“Rachel,” I gasped. “What's going on?”

Rachel's face was very white, as white as paper. “I found her lying on the floor in the back of the theater,” she said, her voice no louder than a whisper. “They carried her out here.”

The teenage boy from behind the candy counter now came running up with a cup of Coke. The manager took it and said, “Bring the first-aid kit!”

Suddenly Dawn moved her head. Only slightly, but all our eyes were instantly on her. I knelt beside her. “Dawn!” I said. “It's me—Lizzy!”

Dawn answered with a low moan.

“She must have fainted,” I said.

“I guess,” answered Rachel.

The kid from the candy counter brought the first-aid kit. The manager flicked it open and fumbled for smelling salts. He waved them under Dawn's nose.

She jerked her head back. “Oh, please,” she muttered. “No. . . .”

She turned on her side, holding her head.

The manager stared at Rachel and me. “You girls have any idea what happened?”

The way he said it, it sounded like an accusation. I shook my head. “Dawn!” I tried again. “Wake up!”

Dawn's eyes flitted open, shut again, then opened for good.

Suddenly her head jerked around. “Help me!
Help me!” she cried, and then cringed away from us.

“Dawn,” I said, “it's me. Lizzy!”

Dawn stared up at me as if I were from the planet Mars. Then slowly she focused on everyone else, as if seeing them for the first time.

“No one's going to hurt you,” I assured her. Why didn't I believe my own words?

A new thought had occurred to me about what had happened to her. And it was making my heart pound.

What Dawn said next didn't calm me at all.

“Killer,” she muttered. “The killer.”

I looked up at the manager. “Call the police!” I cried. “And an ambulance.”

The manager snapped his fingers at the usher, who hurried off. Dawn reached up and grabbed my arm. “No, no, no. I'm okay,” she insisted.

She tried to sit up. The manager helped her. Her leather skirt had hiked about halfway up her long tan legs. I smoothed it back down for her.

Dawn reached her hand to the side of her head. “Wow,” she said, “it really—hurts.” Before she could finish the sentence, she had begun to cry.

The manager gave her a tissue, and she blew her nose loudly. “I was coming back from the bathroom,” Dawn said slowly. “I had just walked into the theater. I couldn't really see because it was so dark, but I thought I saw some guy coming toward me. Then he hit me—hard.”

“Did anyone come out this way?” I asked the manager. He shook his head. “So,” I said, getting up quickly, “whoever attacked her must still be in the theater.”

The manager shook his head. He was sweating and was obviously very nervous. “There are two exit doors inside the theater,” he said.

The usher hurried toward us. “The cops are on their way,” he announced.

“Good,” said the manager.

“I don't really have anything to tell them,” Dawn said meekly. “I didn't see who it was. Why don't you call them and tell them to forget it?”

The manager shook his head no.

We helped Dawn to her feet. She was a little wobbly and seemed dazed and terribly frightened.

She wasn't much better when two cops rushed in to question her, their walkie-talkies crackling with scary-sounding reports of a burglary and a fire.

Dawn repeated her story. The manager kept interrupting with comments about how he and his staff had done everything they could and how it wasn't his fault. The police assured us that it was probably just some jerk, and not a killer.

“Why would he hit me?” Dawn asked.

“For no reason,” one of the cops answered. “There are plenty of maniacs in this world. They don't need a reason. The guy probably saw you, saw it was dark, and let you have it. Just for the fun of it.”

One of the cops offered to drive Dawn home, but she said she'd go home with us.

“Okay,” said the cop. “Then I'm going to stick around till the movie finishes and see what I can find.” The manager wiped his forehead with the back of his jacket sleeve and said, “What I'd really like to do is give you all free passes for another show. Come anytime you like. Anytime at all.”

Rachel and I exchanged glances. “Thanks,” I said, taking the passes, but somehow I didn't think we'd feel like coming back very soon. Then the two of us helped Dawn through the lobby and out to my car.

It was chilly outside, and dark—too dark for seven-thirty. I couldn't see a single star. The wind was whipping against us, as if trying to push us back into the theater. It was about to storm. I hoped it held off till we got home.

Slipping behind the wheel, I glanced at Dawn, who was leaning her head against the passenger-side window. In the light of a streetlamp I could see the bump beginning to form on the side of her head.

What's going on? I wondered, starting up the car and heading toward Dawn's house.

Was it just some deranged creep who had hit her? Or did the person deliberately want to hurt Dawn?

When I got home, my parents had the porch light on, along with a living-room light, the kitchen lights, and the light over the garage.

My mom hurried in from the kitchen when she heard me at the front door.

“You're home early,” she said with a big smile.

My parents are very security conscious. We live near the river. It's just about the nicest part of town. Very safe. When we all go to bed, my dad puts on the burglar alarm, and we can't go downstairs without setting it off.

We've never had any trouble. The only time it went off was once when my dad got up in the middle of the night and forgot. We found him standing in the kitchen, holding a glass of milk, a bewildered expression on his face, as the siren blared.

I knew that the murders of teenage girls had both of my parents as upset as I was. Probably even more so. This was certainly the most excited my mom had ever been to see me come home from a movie!

“You got mail,” my mother told me.

I stared at the pile of letters on the hall table. On top was a long white envelope with familiar-looking handwriting. “Kevin,” I said with a grin.

I waited until I was up in my room to read the letter. His father still wouldn't give him permission to come for the prom. His mom had been in a minor car accident and was wearing a neck brace. He had made a lot of new friends. (That didn't make me happy.) And he still loved me madly. (That made me very happy.)

I was going to write an instant reply, but I had to finish my homework first.

That turned out to be more difficult than I thought. After ten minutes my American history textbook was still open to the exact same page I had started on.

I was trying to read about Lincoln getting shot. But every time I read the first sentence, I thought about Dawn getting whacked on the head. Or about Simone and the horrible things that had probably been done to her. Or about the girl they found dead in the woods.

A flash of lightning zigzagged down outside my window. The thunder followed almost instantly. It was the loudest thunderclap I'd ever heard. I stood up and stared out the window. It was hard to believe everything was still standing. It had sounded like a nuclear bomb.

Lightning flashed again. I heard a light pitter-patter, as if a thousand mice were running over the roof. Then I saw the first big drops of rain hit.

Crack!
A curtain of rain whipped against my window. I jumped back.

Calm down, Lizzy, I told myself. Take a deep breath.

I took a few very shallow breaths. That only seemed to get me more worked up.

The storm was soon raging outside. Sheets of rain now ran violently down my window. The wind howled, as if it were a beast demanding to be let inside my room.

I got into bed and pulled the covers over me. The comforter was pink and ruffly. I'd had it for
years. But it didn't feel very comforting at the moment.

I climbed out of bed and went to sit at my desk. I took out a sheet of the stationery my dad had had printed for me. It says “From the Desk of the Amazing Lizzy” across the top, with a picture of a frolicking pig. Pigs are my favorite animal. Don't ask why. I've got a whole collection of pig dolls and toys.

“Dear Kevin,” I began. “I don't know if it's been in the papers all the way down in Alabama, but some horrible stuff has been happening here in Shadyside.”

I crumpled that up and threw it away. I didn't want to start right off with the bad news. Why didn't I just write, “Dear Kevin, Simone is dead.”

I shivered and covered my face in my hands.

When I removed my hands, I noticed that the door to my room was wide open.

I gasped.

It was my dad. He stared at me in amazement. “Didn't you hear me knocking?” he asked finally.

“N-no,” I stammered. “The rain.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” He seemed pretty startled himself. “Just wanted to see if you were up for a game of chess.”

My father adores chess. He can't get enough of it—even though I always beat him. “Sorry,” I said, “I've got more homework to do.”

He nodded and smiled warmly. “Everything
okay?” he asked, pretending to be casual. But I could tell he was worried, just like Mom.

“Yeah. I guess,” I told him.

“Simone's parents haven't—”

“They haven't heard a thing,” I said.

He sighed. “It's terrible.”

I nodded.

“Lizzy?”

“I'll be extra careful,” I told him.

He sighed again. “If you change your mind about the chess . . .” His voice trailed off as he left.

I examined my face in the closet-door mirror. No wonder he was worried. I looked horrible—dark circles under my eyes, face pasty white. Simone's disappearance was so upsetting. Now the attack on Dawn.