The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

The night of the robbery, a Thursday night, we met at Jeremy’s house since his parents were at a meeting across town. Jeremy pulled some cans of beer from the fridge in his basement game room. He said his parents would never notice.

He and Manny snapped open cans and clinked them together as if toasting. Ivy and I decided no. I think we were both too jumpy.

“I want to stay alert,” I said. “You know how I get after one beer.”

“No, we don’t,” Manny said with that grin that is his natural expression. “Show us.”

“Shut up,” Ivy said. “We have to stay sharp, don’t we? It’s not like we rob a store every night.”

Jeremy’s parents have an air-hockey table, a foosball table, and a couple of vintage pinball machines. And they have an actual bar—red vinyl—with rows of sparkly, dark bottles lined up in front of a fancy mirror, and tall stools we used to climb onto when we were younger and pretend to order drinks.

We used to hang out down here all the time when we were kids. We thought it was the coolest place on earth. Now, we were all leaning against the air-hockey table, but none of us was tempted to play.

Manny and Jeremy clinked cans again. Manny had a foam mustache already. He really is a slob.

I felt jittery. My skin tingled. My mouth felt dry as cotton. Maybe I did need a beer.

Ivy kept playing with her hair, tying it behind her head, then letting it go. “Hey, we both wore the same outfit,” she said, eyeing me. Black skirt and tights, dark-blue long-sleeved top.

“It’s my robbery outfit,” I said.

“It’ll look good in the video,” Manny said, checking his phone for the hundredth time. “All powered up.”

“Where is Jack?” Jeremy demanded. “He’s late.”

“He said he had to pick some things up,” I said.

Manny took a long gulp of beer and then burped.

“Fourth-grader,” I murmured.

He grinned. “And proud of it.”

“I don’t like this standing around,” Ivy said. “It’s making me really tense.”

“Why should we feel tense? Just because we’re robbing a store?” I joked.

“We’re taking two cars, right?” Manny said, spinning his beer can on the air-hockey table. “Mine and Jack’s?”

“That’s what he said,” I answered. “I think—”

I stopped when I heard heavy footsteps thudding down the basement stairs.

We all turned to the stairway.

“Everybody freeze!” a voice boomed. “Shadyside Police!”

I gasped. I saw Ivy grip the side of the table.

Jack came bursting into the room, grinning, a cardboard box in his arms.

“You’re not funny!” Ivy cried. “You really scared me.”

Jack snickered. “You’re too easy.”

“Well, we’re all tense,” I said.

He set the carton on the air-hockey table. “No need to be tense. It’s going to be cake. A piece of cake.” He gazed around the table, taking attendance. “Okay. Good. Hey, you got a beer for me?”

Jeremy started to the half fridge beside the bar. But Jack stepped in his way and stopped him. “No. Wait. Better save the beer for celebrating afterward.”

Manny glugged down the rest of his beer and crushed the can in his hand. “I like to celebrate before and after.”

Jack tugged down the sleeves of his black Nirvana sweatshirt. His eyes flashed, silvery under the basement ceiling lights. His smile faded and his expression turned hard, all business.

He pulled the carton closer and reached inside. “Here. Everyone take one.” He pulled out a handful of black ski masks.

I felt a chill at the back of my neck. This was getting real.

Of course, it wasn’t real. Jack had assured us a hundred times that everything was taken care of, that everything was cool with Mr. Harlow, that nothing real or dangerous could interrupt our little fantasy robbery.

But something about the ski masks, maybe the solemn black color, sent a chill, and made my whole body feel tingly and my mind more alert.

Jeremy took a mask from Jack and examined it. “Is this a synthetic fabric or is it wool?” he asked, turning the mask in his hands, searching for a label. “I’m allergic to wool.”

Jack let out an exasperated groan. “It’s not wool, Jeremy. It’s fake. But so what? You only need to wear it for five minutes.”

Jeremy studied the ski mask unhappily. “Are you sure?”

“Do we have to wear them?” Ivy asked. I knew she was probably worried about messing up her hair. “I mean, we want everyone to recognize us, right? We want everyone watching online to know it’s us.”

Jack groaned again and tossed a mask at her. It bounced off her shoulder. “You can’t hold up a store without wearing a mask,” he said, unable to hide his impatience. “Have you ever heard of anyone robbing a store and showing their face to the security cameras? Have you?”

Ivy blushed. “Guess not.”

“No one could be that stupid,” Jack snapped.

“I’m not stupid!” Ivy cried, slapping the mask against the tabletop.

“Let’s all chill,” Jeremy said. “We’re stressed out and—”

“No reason to be stressed out,” Jack said. His eyes flashed. “We’re doing this for a laugh, remember?”

Jeremy shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Lighten up, guys,” Jack said. “We drive to the store. We’re in, we’re out. And we have to make it look as real as we can.” He turned to Manny. “You checked your phone?”

Manny nodded. “Checked and double checked. No worries.”

I ran the mask through my hands. The material felt scratchy and rough. I realized my hands were ice cold. Jack is right. This is supposed to be fun, I scolded myself. Just think about the awesome reaction we’re going to get when we pull this stunt off.

“Focus, everyone,” Jack said. “When we go online, keep it serious, okay? Keep it real. And listen . . .”

“We’re listening,” Ivy muttered, rolling her eyes.

Jack ignored her. “When we’re online, don’t anyone use real names. Just stick to the names we rehearsed, okay?”

Yes. We’d gone over this before. It was my idea. “This is like play-acting,” I told everyone. “We each pick a role to play.” I thought everyone would enjoy it more if they felt like they were actors playing a part.

I was Robin. Jack was Trevor. Robin and Trevor. Ivy was Diana. Jeremy was Thomas. And Manny . . . I couldn’t remember Manny’s character name. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be on-camera anyway.

I watched Jack as he continued his last-minute instructions. He certainly was thorough. All business. I figured that was a good thing. No slipups. No surprises.

Boy, was I wrong.