Read an Excerpt

The Lost Girl

A Fear Street Novel

St. Martin's Press

What I remember most about that afternoon was the shimmering scarlet and yellow of the sky, as if the heavens were lighting up to join our family's celebration. The sunlight sparkled off the two-day-old snow at the curb, as if someone had piled diamonds in the street.

I think I remember everything about that day.

Running all the way home on the slushy sidewalks from my weekend job at the Clean Bee Laundry. The smell of the dry cleaning and the starch still on my clothes and my skin. I remember the blood thrumming at my temples as I ran and the feeling that, if I raised my arms high, I could take off, lift off from the crowded sidewalks of the Old Village, and glide easily into the pulsating colors of the sky.

I'm very sensitive to colors and light. The silver moonlight has special powers over me. And sunlight fills me with life. Sometimes I can actually feel an electrical charge coursing through my body.

Today was such a happy day for the Palmieri family.

I remember thinking about my grandparents, Mary and Mario, such a perfect couple even their names almost matched. They had come to the United States from Italy in their twenties and worked hard their whole lives to start a new life and bring up a family here.

What a shame they hadn't lived to see this day, my father, Angelo Palmieri, their oldest son, his proudest moment. To go from stable boy to owning his own riding stable. We all couldn't have been more proud.

My parents had been giddy for weeks. I'd catch them giggling and nodding to each other, wide smiles on their normally somber faces.

"What are you two giggling about?" I asked.

"We're just happy, Beth," Dad said. "The closing date on the stable is almost here. Why shouldn't we be happy?"

I can't tell you how good it made me feel to see them so bright and cheerful. Our life wasn't easy. The Dooley family was never generous to my father. They owned the Dooley Brothers Ranch, the big riding stable in North Hills.

As a teenager, Dad had worked there as a stable boy. He returned to the stable after two years at a community college. Eventually, he worked his way up to assistant manager. But the Dooleys ran the place as if they were kings and he was their servant.

They never let him forget that he started out with a shovel in his hand. Martin Dooley, the stable owner, was always reminding Dad how grateful he should be, how he'd be nothing without the Dooleys' generosity.

This made today, the opening of Palmieri Stables, even more exciting. A victory. Not just a success story but a triumph over the Dooleys.

"Dad, does this mean we're going to be rich?" I'd asked at dinner last week. I pictured some new sweaters in my drawer. Maybe one of those cute new 45 record players you can carry with you. Perhaps I could quit my after-school job at the dry cleaner's.

Mom passed the salad bowl. "Beth, you're sixteen," she said. "You should know better than to ask a question like that."

I rolled my eyes and stuck out my jaw. "Should I?"

Mom and I weren't getting along last week. She made me miss a school sock hop dance and a Patti Page concert at the Shadyside Pavilion just because I got a D on a geometry final.

Everyone knows girls aren't good at math. Why does Mom expect me to be so special?

"I want to get married and be a housewife like you, Mom," I said. "Why do I need geometry to do that?"

Mom frowned at me. Her dark eyes appeared to grow hard, like she was sending a Flash Gordon ray beam into my brain. "You don't need geometry to be a housewife," Beth," she said softly. "But you need to be smart."

Ouch.

I had an impulse to make Mom's dinner plate float up into the air and smash on the ceiling above her head.

But my parents don't know about my powers. I call them my "tricks," and they're my little secret. And I plan to keep them a secret because Mom and Dad already think I'm a problem child.

Dad jumped up from the table and turned on the radio. He doesn't like it when Mom and I have our scenes. "President Truman is giving a talk tonight," he said. "Did you know he started out as a farmer?"

"Oh, no, Dad," I said sarcastically. "You've never told us that before. Except for maybe a thousand times. How a farmer became President of the United States."

Mom stood up, folding her napkin, and began collecting the dinner dishes. "Listen to you, Angelo. You want to be the first stable boy to become president?"

When Dad laughs, his black mustache bounces up and down. "Only if I could bring the horses with me," he said. His smile was reflected in the yellow glow of the radio dial of the big Philco, his proudest possession.

That was a week ago. Now, Mom and I were friends again.

When we walk arm in arm down the street, a lot of people say we look like sisters. We are both thin and about five-six, and have dark, serious eyes and straight black hair. I take it as a compliment when people say we look alike because I think she's prettier than I am. I think my lips are crooked and too big, and my chin is too small.

But anyway, she stopped rattling my cage, and we're pals again.

And it's a great day for the Palmieri family. Opening day. The snow shoveled off the walks and paths. The stables all freshly painted, the stalls blanketed with straw, and bags of oats stacked up for the first four- legged arrivals. Dad said the newspaper might send a reporter because it's the first new stable-opening in Shadyside since the Dooley's opened theirs nearly forty years ago.

My scarf flew behind me as I darted between people on the street, trotting like a Thoroughbred. Despite the wintry cold, my coat was open. My breath puffed up in front of me, my heart thumping, eager to get to our apartment.

I knew my parents were waiting for me there. Dad had borrowed a station wagon from Mr. Shaw down the block to carry us to the stable.

A tall, skinny black dog tied to a lamppost barked at me as I passed. I nearly stumbled over two boys in plaid snowsuits dragging Flexible Flyer sleds behind them.

I turned the corner onto Village Road — and uttered a sharp cry as two hands grabbed me around the waist. My shoes slid on the slushy sidewalk. The hands held tight, kept me from falling.

"Hey —!" I spun around and gasped. "Aaron! Let go of me."

Heart still pounding in surprise, I blinked into the sunlight and stared at Aaron Dooley's smirking face. Aaron had a red-and-blue wool cap pulled down over his long, straggly black hair. Despite the cold, his face was marshmallow white, like a vampire who had never seen sunlight. His blue eyes glowed like marbles stuck in ice.

I didn't like Aaron Dooley. Actually, I hated him.

But that didn't stop him from pursuing me. I'd told him a dozen times this girl wasn't interested. But he's so smug and conceited, he thought I was just playing hard to get.

He was in a lot of my classes at Shadyside High. And he'd stare at me from across the room and make kissing sounds and flash that thin-lipped smile at me that, I suppose, was supposed to make my heart melt. Instead, it turned my stomach.

I tried to squirm free, but his gloved hands were inside my open coat and he tightened them around my waist.

"Aaron, get off," I snapped. "Get your paws off me. I'm in a hurry."

The icy blue eyes flashed with excitement. He tightened his grip and pulled me to the side of the apartment building. "I'm tired of playing games with you," he said. He always speaks in a gruff growl. I think he's trying to be like John Wayne in the movies.

"There's no game, Aaron," I said. "I told you. I want you to leave me alone." I squirmed again but couldn't free myself. "Come on. I'm really in a hurry."

He pulled me forward and pressed his cold cheek against mine. "You have to give me a chance, Beth."

"No, I don't," I said. The touch of his skin made my stomach lurch. "Let go of me. Go away. I mean it. I'm not interested —"

A frightening roar escaped his throat. His pale face darkened to red, and his lips pulled back tight, as if he was baring his teeth like an animal.

"I won't go away!" he screamed through his gritted teeth. He shoved me off balance. I stumbled. His hands grabbed my arms roughly, and he jerked me forward.

"Aaron —" My breath caught in my throat. "No —!"

He pulled me into the deep shade of the small park between the two buildings. Actually just a snow-covered empty lot with two tall trees near the street.

The snow had hardened to ice here, and my shoes slid as he pulled me behind a wide-trunked tree. He was breathing hard, wheezing, his breath steaming up in front of his glowing blue eyes. His face was crazy, out-of-control crazy.

"You have to give me a chance. You have to," he murmured, his hot breath in my ear. Then he pushed his face against mine. His lips moved till they found my lips. He pressed them harder, and I felt his teeth.

I swung my head back, but he held me in his grasp and pushed his mouth over my lips, forcing me to kiss him. And then he gave a hard shove. Knocked me off balance My shoes slid. I fell to the ice-hard ground on my back.

And before I could move, Aaron was on top of me. He held down my arms and spread his legs over my body. He lowered his head and began frantically planting kisses on my cheeks.

"No! Please!" I screamed. "Aaron — get off me! Get off me!"

He didn't stop. Sitting on top of me, he pressed my arms to the ground. His lips felt hot and hard on my face. I knew I wasn't strong enough to shove him away.

I knew I had to act. I had no choice. I had to use my powers. I shut my eyes. I concentrated hard. I said the words to myself. Repeated them silently.

After a few seconds, Aaron's angry, desperate kisses stopped. I opened my eyes. I watched him sit up abruptly, his eyes wide with surprise. And panic.

He let go of my arms and raised his hands to his throat. A sick gagging sound erupted from his mouth. And then he uttered a choking animal wheeze when he realized he couldn't breathe. His eyes bulged. His face darkened to a deep scarlet.

"Why, Aaron," I said. "You seem to have swallowed your tongue. How did that happen?"

He slid off me. Climbed to his knees on the ground. His hands slapped furiously at his throat. He made that disgusting wheezing sound as he struggled to get air. His eyes pleaded with me. They begged me to do something to help him.

But I was enjoying the moment too much to interrupt it. "You deserve it," I said. "You know you deserve it." I climbed to my feet and stood over him, watching his face turn purple, watching him wheeze and gag. His arms flailed helplessly. He groaned and made loud frog croaks. I could see his fat pink tongue curled in his gaping mouth.

"Poor guy," I said with mock sympathy. "That must feel terrible. You can't breathe at all, can you?"

He shook his head. His whole body shuddered. He snapped off a glove and dug his fingers into his open mouth, struggling to pull his tongue back into place. But it was jammed deep in his throat, smothering his windpipe.

He was weakening. His wheezes came more slowly now. His skin was nearly sky blue. He raised both hands to me, pleading.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Would you like me to pull your tongue back out?"

He nodded. His head slumped. He was running out of air.

"Raise your hand," I ordered him. "Raise your right hand and swear you'll never touch me again."

I waited a few seconds. Finally, he found the strength to raise his hand. He groaned. His eyes rolled up in his head.

Had I waited too long?

I bent down, reached my fingers into his mouth, and tugged the tongue back where it should be.

He didn't move. I waited. After a few seconds, Aaron's chest heaved. His eyes slid open and he noisily sucked in breath after breath. His face slowly regained its color. His eyes stared straight ahead, gazing at the tree trunk. He blinked hard, trying to focus. He kept rubbing his throat.

I stood over him, buttoning my coat, enjoying the fear in his eyes.

Yes, Aaron Dooley, the great Martin Dooley's nephew, was afraid of me. I felt like laughing, but I was still too angry to laugh.

Finally, he began breathing normally. Still on his knees on the ground, he raised his eyes to me, and his expression turned angry. "Witch!" he whispered, shaking a finger at me in the air. "Witch! You're a witch!"

Now, I couldn't help myself. I tossed back my head and laughed. I guess that's what witches are supposed to do. Then I turned away, kicking snow onto him, and took off for home.

I burst into the door of our apartment just in time to leave for the stable opening ceremonies. My parents and my cousins already had coats on and were standing by the door at attention.

Mom eyed me, then glanced down at her watch. "Beth, how can you be late on your father's big day?" she said.

"I'll tell you why I'm late!" I cried. "I was almost home. Aaron Dooley grabbed me and wouldn't let me go. He dragged me into an empty lot, forced me to the ground, and attacked me. But I used one of my tricks. I made him swallow his tongue. I think Aaron will behave from now on. But he's the reason I'm late."

Did I say that to my Mom?

Of course not.

One, my parents don't know anything about my little tricks. And, two, why would I spoil the big day? This was our family's biggest celebration. If I told them about how Aaron had attacked me, my dad would go into a fist-pumping screaming rage, my mom would start crying, and the whole day would be ruined.

So ... I kept my mouth shut. I shrugged and said, "Sorry. They kept me late at the laundry. I ran all the way home."

That seemed to satisfy Mom. She moved to the mirror and adjusted the fox's head on the fox stole around her neck.

I hugged my cousins David and Mariana. Peter, their four-year-old son, hid behind Mariana, his arms around her legs, and wouldn't say hi to me. He's very shy.

"Where's Aunt Hannah?" I asked.

"We're picking her up on the way," Dad said. He pulled a tan fedora down over his balding head, a hat that had to be new because I'd never seen it before. It had a red-and-yellow feather in the band and a much wider brim than Dad usually wears. Fancy.

He wore his only suit, black and shiny, a little too shiny, single- breasted with the wide lapels. I always told him it made him look like a gangster in the movies. You know. Al Capone or somebody. I think Dad liked that.

Mom dressed up, too, in the satiny red dress she wears to parties and baptisms, and at Christmas. She looked very pretty with her black hair piled up, held in place with a rhinestone headband.

It was a big day, and everyone knew it. And everyone was talking at the same time as we squeezed into Mr. Shaw's station wagon, "This car is almost brand-new," Dad said, squeezing his big overcoat behind the wheel. "It's a 1948 model." He was bragging about it as if he owned it. "A Packard Commodore. Plenty of room."

I sat between Mom and Dad in the front seat as we began the short drive. The stable is on the River Road, on a sloping hill overlooking the Conononka River, about fifteen minutes away.

In the seat behind us, Cousin David made horse-whinnying sounds, trying to get a laugh from Peter. But grumpy as usual, Peter refused to get into the spirit of the day. "Be quiet," he snapped at his dad.

"Do you let him talk to you like that?" Dad said. Dad believes all other parents should be strict. He was always a pushover.

"Your uncle Angelo doesn't like you to talk to me like that," David told his son.

"Be quiet," Peter replied.

David whinnied again. "Know what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy a horse and name it Peter."

"No!" Peter protested.

"Why not?" David teased him. "Then we'll have Peter the Boy and Peter the Horse."

"No! I don't want that!" Peter whined.

David didn't stop teasing the boy. "We'll buy a horse and your uncle Angelo will keep it for us for free, won't you, Angelo?"

My dad pretended to choke. He turned the big station wagon onto the River Road. "I'll keep your horse for free, David, after I get down on all fours and win the Kentucky Derby."

Everyone thought that was pretty funny.

I stared out the windshield, trying to force myself to get into the party mood. But I couldn't get Aaron Dooley out of my mind. What did he think he was doing? Did he really think he could win me over by dragging me away and attacking me like that?

Ugh. Like some kind of crude prehistoric caveman.

The same questions kept swimming through my mind. Was Aaron totally out of control? How far would he have gone if I hadn't used one of my tricks?

---

Excerpted from The Lost Girl by R. L. Stine. Copyright © 2015 Parachute Publishing, LLC. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---