The Stepsister (8 page)

♦ ♦ ♦

Shadyside won the basketball game with a foul shot in the final seconds. The score was 49 to 48. The shouts and cheers and raucous blasts from the school band at the final whistle were so loud, Emily thought the old gym might burst at the seams.

Jessie had gone to the game even though she didn't have a date for the dance afterward. Emily saw her once, walking with Krysta up to the top row of the bleachers, the two of them chattering away.

She's so silent at home, Emily thought. I wonder how many different personalities she has. I'll never really get to know Jessie, she thought wistfully. Then she remembered her anger—and her fear. I don't really
want
to know Jessie, she told herself, and shut all thoughts of her stepsister from her mind.

Nancy had been right about Josh. If Emily hadn't pointed out her new hairstyle, he never would have noticed. “I like it a lot,” he had said. But then he had added, “Really,” which meant that Emily couldn't believe him.

The dance in the auditorium, decorated with dozens of paper tulips, was fairly crowded for a school dance. It was the big dance of the year, after all. But school dances in general weren't very well attended. There wasn't much school spirit at Shadyside. Kids didn't seem to have much time for old-fashioned
things like a Homecoming dance. Most of them would rather be cruising around town in their cars or partying in someone's living room with their parents away.

“Do you think I'm really out-of-it for wanting to come to this dance?” Emily asked Josh, shouting in his ear as they stood on the side of the dance floor, watching kids dance to a loud, insistent rap song.

“I think you're very retro,” he said, grinning.

“That means backward, doesn't it?” she joked.

“It means out-of-it,” he said.

She excused herself to go to the girls' room. On her way across the dimly lit auditorium, she bumped into Jessie's friend Krysta. Actually, it seemed to Emily that Krysta had deliberately approached her.

“Hi!” Krysta called enthusiastically.

“Oh, hi, Krysta.” Emily didn't feel like returning the enthusiasm. “Where's Ben?” Ben Ashworth was about the richest kid at Shadyside High. His family had a huge mansion overlooking the river in North Hills. His father owned shopping malls or something. Krysta had latched on to Ben the first day he arrived at school, and in Emily's view, she hadn't let him out of her sight since.

“He's getting us something to drink,” Krysta said, glancing over to the refreshment table. “Emily, I love your hair.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Emily said, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice.

“It's totally different, isn't it,” Krysta said, admiring it. “I love the color. And you cut it short too. It's really great.”

“Thanks,” Emily said uncomfortably. “I've got to go. See you later.”

“Too bad Jessie didn't get a date,” Krysta called after her as Emily continued on quickly toward the girls' room.

Emily didn't bother to reply. She was seething with anger. It was obvious that Jessie had told Krysta about putting the peroxide in the shampoo. The two of them must have had a big laugh at Emily's expense. Krysta must have known all about Jessie's vicious prank. Why else would she have deliberately come up to Emily to rave and carry on so long about Emily's hair?

The more Emily thought about it, the angrier she got. If Jessie told Krysta what she had done, then Krysta must have told the whole school. Everyone in the auditorium tonight probably knew why Emily had this weird new short haircut.

But surely no one else would think it was funny, would they?

Everyone would agree with Emily that it was vicious, terrifyingly vicious—wouldn't they?

Emily tried to enjoy the rest of the dance, but she couldn't stop thinking about all this. She tried dancing her thoughts away, losing herself in the throbbing rhythms, the music so deafeningly loud that the old auditorium floor actually vibrated from it.

“Pump it! Come on
—
pump it! Pump it up! Pump it up!”
the song insisted.

It helped for a while.

The repetition of the words, the pounding, pounding, pounding of the synthesized drums, carried her
away, away from her thoughts, away from Josh even, until she was floating on the vibrating, pulsing sounds.

It ended all too soon.

The wet chill of the night air as they walked to Josh's car brought her back to reality. Their feet crunched loudly over the hard ground. She grabbed on to his arm and held on tightly, leaning against him as they walked.

Parked in her driveway, she lingered, kissing him passionately. She didn't want to go home, didn't want to go inside. She wanted to stay with Josh.

But that was impossible, of course.

It was after one-thirty when she dragged herself out of the steamy car and up the walk to her front door. She pulled her coat around her as the cold air made her shiver. Josh's headlights came on, throwing a harsh yellow light on the front of the house. She waved to him and closed the front door behind her.

The house was dark and silent. Everyone had gone to bed. A dim hall light upstairs provided the only light.

Emily pulled off her coat and tossed it over the back of a living-room chair. Yawning silently, she pulled off her shoes. She could still taste Josh on her lips. She smiled to herself in the darkness, then stopped short.

That's odd, she thought. Where's Tiger?

The little dog was a very light sleeper. No matter how late it was, he always came running out to greet her from his sleeping spot by the heat register in the kitchen.

So where was he?

“Tiger?” she whispered. Where could he be?

Had Nancy taken him upstairs to sleep with her? It was possible. But she hadn't done that in years.

“Tiger?”

Her throat suddenly felt very dry. Emily headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Tiger, are you in here?”

Where could that silly dog be?

Walking in her stocking feet over the linoleum, she turned on the light over the sink. She was about to open the cabinet door to get a glass when she saw him.

“Oh, no! Oh,
no!”

In Hot Water

E
mily sank to her knees beside the dog. Tiger was lying on his back. He was dead. His eyes had already sunk into his head.

“Oh, no! Oh, no!”

He had a large wound in his chest, straight like a cut. It was a cut. A deep cut.

Tiger must have been stabbed. He lay in a dark pool of drying blood.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

Emily picked the little dog up in her arms, blood trickling down the front of her white sweater.

There's a killer in this house, Emily thought. We're living with a killer.

She pictured Tiger bounding across the floor, his little legs moving like a speeded-up movie, his stubby tail switching from side to side. Then she pictured Jessie angrily kicking at him, Jessie angrily tossing him hard to the floor.

Jessie hated Tiger.

There's a killer in this house.

“Help me!” Emily screamed. “Somebody—help me!”

Mrs. Wallner came running down the stairs first, followed by her husband.

“Help me! Please!”

They were followed by Nancy, Jessie, and Rich, all in pajamas, all wide-eyed, frightened-looking, all forcing themselves awake.

When they burst into the kitchen, Emily was still holding the corpse in her arms, her hands covered with blood.

“Tiger!” Nancy screamed.

“What on earth—!”

“Emily—are you okay?”

“Tiger's dead,” Emily said, unnecessarily.

“Ugh. Put it down,” Jessie pleaded.

Mrs. Wallner leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to catch her breath. She looked as white as the Formica countertop, and under the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead light, she looked older than usual, and tired, streaks of gray showing in her coppery hair.

“Someone must have broken in,” she said, keeping her head down, avoiding having to look at Tiger.

“But who would break in just to murder a dog?” Emily cried.

“Put it down! Put it down!” Jessie shrieked.

“No sign of any break-in,” Mr. Wallner said after checking all the windows. “Here, Em, let me take that.”

He reached for the dog's body, but Emily turned away, refusing to give it up.

“Your sweater—it's ruined,” Nancy said, tears in her eyes.

Emily looked at Rich. His blond hair was matted against his forehead. His pajama shirt had ridden up, revealing a few inches of pale stomach. His eyes looked red and bloodshot.

He looked away, avoiding her gaze. He hadn't uttered a cry. In fact, he hadn't said a word.

“Emily, let me have the dog,” Mr. Wallner said gently.

Emily relented. He took the dog from her arms and carried it away. “Where are you taking him?” Emily called after him.

“Just to the back stoop. I'll call the ASPCA in the morning. They'll come and take him away.” He pulled open the kitchen door with his free hand and stepped outside in his pajamas.

“It's so awful,” Jessie said, dropping down onto one of the tall stools in front of the counter. “Who would do such a horrible thing?”

Emily glared accusingly at her. “You never liked Tiger.”

Jessie's mouth dropped open. “You're not accusing
me,
are you?”

“You never liked Tiger,” Emily repeated. She tried to clear her mind, but the picture of the murdered dog wouldn't fade from view. She kept seeing it over and over. She felt as if she were in a dream, where everything repeated and repeated. “You never liked
Tiger.” Had she already said that? Hadn't this all happened before? Several times before?

Was it happening now?

“No, I don't like dogs,” Jessie said. “But I wouldn't kill an innocent animal!”

“Somebody did,” Nancy said in a flat, weary voice.

“I don't see what good it will do to stand here and accuse each other,” Mrs. Wallner said. She moved forward and put her arms around Emily.

“But someone in this room murdered Tiger!” Emily cried. “We have to know who did it. We have to.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” her mother said. “Maybe Tiger fell on something. Something sharp.”

“Fell on what?” Mr. Wallner asked.

“I—I just don't want to believe that someone in this house could have—could have—” Mrs. Wallner's words choked in her throat.

Of course not, Emily thought. Mom never wants to believe anything bad about anybody. She doesn't want to believe that Jessie is capable of killing. But the evidence is so clear.

She looked over to Nancy. Her sister had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if trying to hold her feelings in, as if trying to hold herself together. “I heard Rich walking around earlier tonight,” Nancy said.

“I got up to get a drink of water,” Rich whined, his voice cracking. His first words of the night.

“Rich, if you did this,” Mr. Wallner said quietly, looking down at the dark puddle of blood on the linoleum, “tell us now. If you need help from us, let us
know. You won't be punished. I promise. We'll get you the help you need.” He said this softly, caringly.

Emily was surprised. It wasn't the way her stepfather usually reacted. He usually barreled into a situation without thinking of anyone's feelings, especially Rich's. But this was serious, and Mr. Wallner was treating it that way.

“But I didn't
do
it!” Rich cried, his voice rising several octaves. He suddenly looked very frightened.

“This isn't right. We can't just stand here and accuse each other,” Mrs. Wallner said.

“That book you've been reading,” Nancy said to Rich.
“Pet Sematary?
I read that. It's about a pet that dies. And then the people bring it back from the dead.”

“So
what?”
Rich shouted. “So
what?”

“Rich, I mean what I said,” Mr. Wallner said, staring at his trembling son. “You won't be punished. I promise. Just tell us the truth.”

“I
am
telling the truth!” Rich cried. “I'm not a killer! Just because I read books doesn't mean I'm a killer!” He turned and fled from the room. They could hear him running up the stairs. Then they heard his bedroom door slam.

“I think we should all go to bed and try to get a little sleep,” Mrs. Wallner said, holding on to her husband's arm, gripping it so tightly, Mr. Wallner winced.

“How can we sleep?” Emily cried.

“Maybe Rich needs to see a shrink too,” Mr. Wallner said suddenly, lost in his own thoughts. “But I don't see how I can afford to send two kids to the shrink.”

Emily saw Jessie blush. No one in the family was supposed to know that Jessie was seeing a shrink.

“Everything will be clearer in the morning,” Mrs. Wallner said, tugging at her husband's arm.