Only If You Dare Read online

  Somebody, she thought, should do something.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” Hazel said.

  “Don’t,” Ava whispered. “He’s just a stupid substitute.”

  “He picked on you,” Hazel said. “He did it on purpose.”

  And that was true. But for Hazel, there was something else hanging in the air. Something else she needed to do.

  “It’ll only take a second,” she said. “I’ll meet you at lunch.”

  She pulled Ava up, and as Ava shuffled through the classroom door, Hazel checked to make sure she and Mr. Fernsby were really alone.

  She walked to the front of the class. She flexed her fingers.

  She didn’t quite know how to start. She wanted to say something to Mr. Fernsby about what he had done. About how he’d picked on Ava and how afterward, he’d chosen not to notice her.

  He was one of those adults—she’d seen so many of them—who think they’re being funny when they’re really being mean.

  But she couldn’t find the words to tell him this.

  So instead, she walked up to Mr. Fernsby and asked him a question, one that had been on her mind all class.

  “Where did you hear about Them, Mr. Fernsby?” she said. “Where did you learn it all?”

  Without looking up, Mr. Fernsby waggled his book.

  “I read a lot,” he said. “I like old books. The ones most people have forgotten about.”

  Hazel nodded. She knew the books he meant.

  “My friend Ava,” she started to say, and then looked down.

  She didn’t know how to go on. Maybe it didn’t matter. Some adults never learned anyway.

  “I guess I just wanted to say thank you for the lesson, Mr. Fernsby,” Hazel said. “And happy Halloween.”

  She reached out her hand.

  Mr. Fernsby looked at it for a second. It must have seemed strange to him, Hazel realized, being offered a handshake by someone who was one-third his age.

  Or someone who he thought was one-third his age.

  Hazel smiled innocently.

  You’re a twelve-year-old girl, she told herself. Just a twelve-year-old girl at school.

  And Mr. Fernsby must have believed that. Because despite his own story and all the old books he’d read, he smiled and said, “Happy Halloween to you too, young lady.”

  And he took Hazel’s hand.

  At once, she started drinking.

  It was true, what Mr. Fernsby had said. Them weren’t murderers. Just thieves. And Hazel had always been generous. She’d always left people at least ten years. Or fifteen. Usually more.

  But as she drank, and as Mr. Fernsby’s body went still and his mouth fell open, she remembered the way Ava had slumped in her desk, the way she’d closed her eyes at Mr. Fernsby’s words, the way she’d become so silent and so afraid.

  So afraid of…Them.

  And so this time—for the first time—Hazel took everything.

  IT’S a stupid rule,” Lucas said, stepping off the school bus. All day he’d been trying to get people to agree with him.

  “I don’t know,” Cole answered, following him down the bus stairs. “It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal to me.”

  Lucas shook his head. Cole could be so…clueless.

  The rule was one Coach Gonzales had announced in gym class that morning. It had to do with the school Valentine’s dance coming up in just one week.

  “Since we’ll be canceling gym on Valentine’s Day to make time for the dance,” Coach Gonzales had said after the boys had finished their warm-up calisthenics, “all students will be required to dance at least five songs. It will count as your physical activity for the day.”

  Lucas had groaned when Coach had said this.

  “And you must share each of your five dances with a different partner,” Coach went on.

  Lucas had really groaned when Coach had said this.

  The bus rumbled away, and Lucas and Cole began walking the two blocks to their homes.

  “Shouldn’t we get to choose whether we dance or not?” Lucas said. “Shouldn’t that be up to us? And shouldn’t we get to choose how many people we dance with?”

  The boys turned onto Crestview Drive.

  “It might not be that bad.” Cole shrugged. “It might even make the dance more fun, you know? Getting people to dance instead of just leaning against the walls?”

  “But five different partners?” Lucas said. “Who am I going to dance with?”

  Next to him, Cole laughed. “Anyone,” he said. “Dance with anyone.”

  Lucas rolled his eyes. Clueless, he thought. “You can’t dance with just anyone at a Valentine’s dance.”

  Cole raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

  “Because dancing is…” Lucas didn’t know how to explain it. “Valentine’s Day should be…It should be with someone you like. A lot.”

  “So dance with Hiromi Lin,” Cole said. “You like her.”

  “I don’t like her like that,” Lucas said. “We’re friends. Besides, she’s way too tall. Dancing together, we’d look goofy.”

  “Well, what about Emily Rogers?”

  “She’s nice, I guess, but have you heard her laugh?” Lucas said. “It’s like a foghorn. If I accidentally told a joke while we were dancing, my ears would ring for hours.”

  “Brittani Cook?”

  “She plays the ukulele.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Cole said.

  Lucas didn’t answer. Cole, he decided, just wasn’t getting it. Clueless.

  Well, Lucas wasn’t clueless. He knew about Valentine’s dances, and he didn’t want to spend his time dancing with just anyone. He wanted to spend it with a girl who was…perfect.

  He thought through the girls in his classes.

  Miley Armstrong? No. She spent too much time reading sappy romance novels.

  Maya Jimenez? She painted her fingernails weird colors.

  Abbi Hammari? She had wild hair.

  He reached his house and climbed the three steps to his front porch.

  “Why not just dance for fun?” Cole called from the sidewalk. “I mean, you’re not exactly flawless either, you know.”

  Lucas turned and stared at Cole. Then, without answering, he stepped into his house and closed his front door.

  Just dance for fun, he thought. He made a pfft sound.

  He went into his kitchen to grab a snack. He pulled cheese, salami, and mustard out of the fridge and dumped them onto the counter.

  That’s when he saw her.

  The Perfect Girl.

  Her picture was sitting on top of a stack of mail piled up on the kitchen counter. It was in an ad for some clothing store Lucas had never heard of called Janson Trevor’s.

  He pushed his sandwich stuff aside and picked up the ad.

  Whoa, he thought.

  Because this girl really was perfect.

  She had dark hair and dark eyes and smooth-looking skin. She wore red lipstick, a zipped black hoodie, and a red skirt. Her hair was curly and messy, but in just the right way, and she was leaning one shoulder against a graffiti-stained wall. She looked about thirteen—close to Lucas’s age.

  A flutter rose in his chest.

  “Wow,” he whispered.

  Usually, the kids in clothing ads looked ridiculous, posed with fake smiles and perfectly combed hair. But there was something in this girl’s eyes, a glance at the camera that said, Yeah, I know. This is pretty silly, right?

  Lucas stared at her. He focused on the girl’s cherry-red, half-puckered lips.

  It felt like his chest was being pressed in from all sides. He held the ad gently, careful not to crinkle it.

  He sat down at the kitchen table, forgetting about his sandwich.

  This is who I want to dance with, he thought. Everything about this girl—her hair, her crooked smile, the look in her eyes—was perfect. He could tell she was smart. He could tell she was funny. He could tell she didn’t play the ukulele or read too many sappy romance novels or laugh so loud she’d make your ears ring for hours.

  A strange thought flickered in Lucas’s head. Maybe he could write to Janson Trevor’s and ask for this girl’s name and email address. Maybe he could send her a message, and maybe, if he did, she’d write him back.

  No. He shook himself.

  He was being crazy.

  This girl was a model in a clothing store ad, and he was Lucas Rawlins, a normal sixth grader at Canyons Middle School. He would never meet this girl.

  Never.

  The thought made him slump in his chair.

  At least I have her picture, he thought. Slowly, he began tearing it out of the ad. He tore carefully. He didn’t want to rip through the Perfect Girl. When he had her out, he folded the picture once, down the middle, and slid it into his back pocket.

  He looked around to make sure his parents hadn’t come home and seen him. He remembered the cheese and salami and mustard on the counter, but he stood and touched his pocket to make sure the Perfect Girl was still there.

  Then he put all the food away without even making a sandwich.

  * * *

  For the next few days, Lucas carried the Perfect Girl everywhere. Every time someone mentioned the Valentine’s dance, he thought of her.

  In his back pocket, she began to crinkle a little, but he kept her there anyway. He liked having her close.

  When he thought no one was looking, he’d pull her out, unfold the picture, and look at her.

  He especially liked the way he
r head was tilted in the picture, slightly toward the graffiti-stained wall. It was just right. Clever and quick and smart.

  And he liked her lips.

  Her cherry-red, half-puckered lips.

  One day, he took her out and unfolded her under his desk while Mrs. Wallace was teaching everyone the properties of exponents. He looked at her for a long time without blinking, and suddenly, he wished he knew her name. He’d been thinking of her as the Perfect Girl for days, but now, he wanted her to have a real name. A perfect name.

  He focused on her face and ran through a list of names in his head.

  Riley. Olivia. Samantha.

  He let out a little puff of air. No. Not good enough. Not for her.

  Sophia. Bridget.

  He puffed again. Not even close.

  Diana. Bobbie. Valerie. Celeste.

  He stopped.

  Celeste.

  Yes, he thought.

  That was it.

  That was her name. Celeste. It was pretty. Strong. Easy to say. And it was different. Unique, without being too weird.

  “Celeste,” he whispered, and in the picture, the Perfect Girl seemed to tilt her head a bit closer to the graffiti-stained wall and smile.

  * * *

  The day before the Valentine’s dance, Lucas was looking at Celeste during free work time in Mr. Barton’s chemistry class, when suddenly, a hand shot beneath his desk and snatched the picture away.

  “What’s this thing you’re always looking at?” It was Cole. Clueless Cole.

  “Hey,” Lucas said. “That’s mine.” He tried to snatch the picture back, but Cole shifted. Lucas’s face flushed. He didn’t know how he was going to explain Celeste.

  Cole squinted at the picture. “Who is this?”

  Lucas shrugged.

  “Wait a second,” Cole said. “This is, like, magazine paper. Is this a picture from a magazine?”

  Lucas didn’t speak.

  “Seriously,” Cole said. He waved the picture. “I’ve seen you looking at this all the time. What’s up?”

  “That girl is…” Lucas said. “She’s…”

  He tried to think of something to say.

  “What?” Cole said. “What is she?”

  “She’s the reason I don’t want to follow Coach Gonzales’s stupid rules at the Valentine’s dance tomorrow,” Lucas said. “She’s…my girlfriend.”

  Just like that, the words were out. My girlfriend.

  “No way,” Cole said. He shook his head. “Your girlfriend?” Cole held up the picture. “This is your girlfriend?”

  Lucas gave a half nod.

  “So why’s this picture on magazine paper?” Cole said, his voice dripping with doubt. “You obviously ripped it out of something.” Cole fingered the torn edges.

  “It’s from an ad,” Lucas said, finally snatching it back. “From a store called Janson Trevor’s.”

  Cole raised his eyebrows.

  “Celeste is…kind of a model.”

  “Celeste?” Cole said.

  Lucas folded the picture and slid it back into his pocket.

  “No way.” Cole stared at him.

  Lucas didn’t answer.

  Cole pointed to Lucas’s pocket and scowled. “If that’s your girlfriend, where’d you meet her?”

  Lucas could tell this was a test. He tried to answer naturally.

  “We met two months ago at the mall in front of Juicy Straws.”

  Cole stared at him. “What was she wearing?”

  “Ripped jeans and a black jacket,” Lucas answered.

  Cole shook his head again. “Let me see the picture,” he said.

  Slowly, Lucas slid Celeste out of his pocket and passed her over.

  Cole squinted. Lucas could tell he was starting to consider it.

  Clueless Cole, he thought.

  “What’s her favorite food?” Cole asked.

  “Peanut butter,” Lucas said. It was a dumb answer, he knew, but he tried not to flinch.

  “When’s her birthday?”

  “August third.”

  “What kind of music does she like?”

  “She calls it indie-pop.”

  “Where does she go to school?”

  “East Jordan across town, but she hates it and wants to transfer here.”

  His answers came surprisingly easy, but he’d spent so much time thinking about Celeste—wondering about her—that he didn’t feel like he was lying to Cole as much as he was sharing details that were already in his head, that already felt true.

  “Have you held her hand?” Cole said.

  “Uh, well, yeah,” Lucas said, trying to sound casual. “She is my girlfriend.”

  Cole leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  “Have you kissed her?”

  Lucas paused. He wasn’t sure how to answer this one. The truth was, he’d thought about what it might be like to kiss Celeste. He’d never kissed a girl before, but how could he not think about it when her head was tilted and her cherry-red, half-puckered lips were always turned up…toward him.

  But he’d nearly convinced Cole. He could tell. His answer to this one question might, he knew, settle things for good. If Lucas said he had kissed the Perfect Girl, Cole might never believe him. It would be too much to swallow. But if Lucas said he hadn’t kissed her…

  Lucas sat up. He looked Cole in the eyes.

  “We haven’t kissed,” he said. “Not yet.”

  Cole raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re waiting for the right moment,” Lucas said.

  The right moment.

  Lucas pictured meeting Celeste in real life. He pictured leaning close to her, closing his eyes, and actually…

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Cole said. He passed Celeste back to Lucas. “You actually have a girlfriend! And she’s a model!” Cole folded his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  * * *

  Clueless Cole, it turned out, had a pretty big mouth. By the next morning, Valentine’s Day, everyone knew about Lucas’s girlfriend. His model girlfriend.

  Braxton Moore, a football player who’d never even talked to Lucas, high-fived him in the hallway as Lucas came in the main entrance. A few seconds later, Luis Perez—an eighth grader who called all sixth graders untouchables—sidled up to Lucas in the hallway and asked if he could see the picture Lucas kept in his pocket.

  As he walked to class, all around him, people whispered, conversations stopped, and students’ heads turned.

  Blood rushed to Lucas’s face.

  This isn’t what I wanted, he thought as he sat down in Mrs. Wallace’s algebra class. This isn’t what I wanted at all.

  He knew what to do, though. He’d let it go on for a couple of weeks—the rumors, the questions, the head turns—and he’d start keeping her picture in his top dresser drawer at home. Before long, everyone would forget about Celeste. This was middle school, after all. Gossip swirled up, buzzed in the air, and died away. His classmates would probably forget about Celeste in just a few hours when the Valentine’s dance fired up all kinds of new things to talk about.

  The Valentine’s dance, Lucas thought. What was he going to do about it?

  The bell rang. Mrs. Wallace started speaking.

  “Class,” she said. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce a new student who’s just joined us. She’s transferred here from East Jordan across town.”

  Lucas looked up from his notebook.

  Standing beside Mrs. Wallace was…

  No, Lucas thought. It can’t be. But it was. He’d looked at her picture a thousand times. He knew her skin, her eyes, her hair. It was definitely her.

  Celeste.

  She was wearing the same clothes as in the ad—the red skirt, the black hoodie. She was even wearing the cherry-red lipstick.

  Lucas’s chest closed in. It was the Perfect Girl. Right in his classroom. He couldn’t believe it. He’d be able to meet her and talk to her and learn her real name and maybe even do a science project with her and one day…

  Oh, no. He shuddered. Her real name.

  Clueless Cole had seen the picture of Celeste. He knew what she looked like. He was sitting right behind Lucas, and he was about to learn the truth—that Lucas really had just ripped a picture from the Janson Trevor’s ad and given “Celeste” a made-up name and life.