Todd Strasser - Wish You Were Dead

The story sounded disturbingly familiar. Halothane was involved. Both girls were popular. Mysterious mutilation? What could that be about?

The problem with texts, e-mails, and phone conversations is you can’t see the face of the person you’re talking to. Most of the time it doesn’t matter, or you can use emoticons, but I wanted to talk to Tyler, and I wanted to see his face when I did.

Dad was away on a trip and Mom had an important board meeting at the hospital. Since I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere at night, I called Tyler and asked if he would come over.

“Why?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“I have to talk to you about something.”

“Well, here I am. Talk away.”

“In person, Tyler. Please? It’s important.”

Half an hour later, the guard called me from the gatehouse and asked if it was all right to let Tyler Starling through. I said it was and waited by the front door while he drove up the driveway and parked in the circle. He got out of his car and gave me a perplexed look. “Hi.”

I held the door open for him. “Thanks for coming.”

Tyler stepped into the house and looked around with that slightly wondrous expression most people displayed on their first visit. Sometimes people said, “Quite a place you have here,” or “Nice digs,” but Tyler preferred to remain silent. I led him into the kitchen, and he gazed out the windows at the glass-enclosed indoor-outdoor pool.

“Someone likes to swim?” he asked.

“My mom, mostly. Would you like something?”

“Sure. How about, ‘Why did you want to see me?’ ”

I gestured for him to sit down at the kitchen table. “You work at the garage?”

Tyler leaned back and stared at me. “That’s what you called me here to ask?”

“I’m just wondering why you didn’t tell me.”

“Oh, sure, Madison, that’s just what I’d want everyone to know. That I’m a closet gearhead. Then I’d really fit in around here.”

“I thought you didn’t care about fitting in.”

“Look, I’m not ashamed that I work there, okay?” he said. “I just don’t see the point in broadcasting it. You know people have preconceived notions about the kind of guys who like to work on cars.”

I couldn’t help a small smile.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You’re just”—I wasn’t sure how to say it—“complicated.” Tyler smirked.

“Did you change the tires on my car?” I asked.

He frowned. I could see that he had no idea what I was getting at. “Matter of fact, I did. Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Did you also leave a note in it?”

He scowled. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I think I’d know if I left a note. Why? What did it say?”

I didn’t want to tell him. Instead, I said, “Tyler, where do you come from?”

Consternation deepened the furrows in his forehead. “What is this?”

“I’m just asking where you come from.”

“Why? And why am I being interrogated by you? Am I under suspicion for something? Who gives you the right to ask me this stuff?”

“Is there a reason why you won’t tell me where you come from?”

He placed his hands on the table and started to get up. The part of me that was attracted to him didn’t want him to go. But the part of me that was frightened of him did. I watched him stand, and good manners dictated that I do the same. I followed him out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door. All kinds of things whirled around in my head. I felt tempted to apologize for being nosey, but I did want to know where he was from, and I didn’t feel that was something I had to be sorry about.

He reached for the door, but it was locked and he wound up yanking haplessly at the handle.

“Let me do it.” I opened the door and turned to face him. The cold air rushed in around us. This was as close as we’d ever stood. Our eyes locked and suddenly everything changed. He gave me a curious, uncertain look. It was like neither of us was sure what we were doing. But I was no longer wondering where he was from, or what had happened to my friends. I was only thinking about how many times in the past month I’d imagined this moment.

His face moved closer, then stopped, as if he was asking if it was okay.

I closed my eyes and lifted my mouth to his. A moment later I felt his lips on mine.

It was a long, passionate kiss. The kind of kiss you don’t want to end. Since it was completely unexpected, I was surprised, but even more surprised by the urgent passion I felt from Tyler. He slid his arms around me and pulled me to him. Was it possible that he’d been yearning for this as much as I had? I put my arms around him, felt his back under my hands as I pressed against him. I wasn’t thinking about anything except this moment—this kiss, this embrace—and staying in it as long as I could.

It was only the cold that made it end. Tyler pulled his lips away. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s okay,” I said, my arms still around him, not wanting to let go.

Our eyes met again. This time, his were softer but no less intense. “Listen to me,” he said in a low voice. “There are things … you don’t know about. You have no idea what’s going on. The best thing you can do is stay out of it. Don’t go to parties. Not that there’ll be any from now on. Don’t go anywhere at night, especially alone.”

He started to back away, but I held on to his jacket. “If you know something, why don’t you go to the police?”

He shook his head. “No way. I have to go.”

Tuesday 1:07 P.M.

“HAS ANYONE READ this story?” Mr. Osmond held up the local paper featuring a headline about the police bringing in an FBI profiler to help them with the case. A few hands went up. One of them was Tyler’s. This was the first time I’d seen him since we’d kissed. In the midst of all these terrible developments, I felt privately embarrassed that I’d spent so much time thinking about his lips on mine. But I was frightened and uncertain, too. He’d hinted that he knew something about what was going on. How was that possible? And why, I wondered, hadn’t he even looked in my direction since the class began?

“What did you think of it?” Mr. Osmond asked.

“Do we have to talk about this?” asked Reilly. “I mean, can’t we just for one class not think about it?”

Mr. Osmond sent a searching gaze around the rest of the class as if asking if we agreed.

“Doesn’t matter what else you talk about, we’re still gonna be thinking about what’s going on,” said Greg. “I mean, how can anyone not think about it?” He pointed out the window at the line of media vans parked across the street. Others around the room nodded in agreement. A shroud of anxiety, fear, and sadness had settled over the school. Teachers tried to get on with the normal task of teaching, students tried to learn, but mostly we were just going through the motions.

Mr. Osmond turned to Reilly. “If it would make you more comfortable, I can give you a pass to the library.”

Reilly sighed as if to signal her displeasure. But she didn’t take the pass.

Mr. Osmond pointed at the newspaper. “According to the FBI profiler, the suspect is almost certainly a male, probably in his twenties, white, and a loner.”

“Why does he have to be a male?” Sharon asked.

Mr. Osmond turned to the class. “Any answers to Sharon’s question?”

“Maybe because he had to be strong enough to subdue someone like Adam?” Jake guessed. “He was a pretty big strong guy.”

Greg raised his hand. “Don’t you mean, Adam is a pretty big strong guy?”

This crisis had made people change in unexpected ways. Greg, who had always come across as a cutup who cared about sports and partying and little else, had become morose and thoughtful ever since his best friend disappeared.