Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) by Emily Kazmierski (summer reads .txt) 📗

Taryn rolls her eyes when I mention it. “Probably someone’s parents picking them up,” she says,

“But that doesn’t explain seeing it everywhere.”

“It’s probably not even the same car. You must be imagining it.”

Biting my lip, I watch my classic black Converse eat up the pavement. Flip my backpack around to my front to ease the soreness running along my spine. Mom said that even though our city was mashed together with a bunch of others, it’s still small. It’s not unheard of to run into the same person in different places.

But when I saw that car outside the school? It was hard to take Mom’s assurance seriously.

“You look like such a dork when you do that. “ Taryn flips her blond curls back over her shoulders, hiking her own bag up with both hands. “Did you have to stay late to talk to your teacher? Couldn’t you have done it tomorrow during lunch?”

“The camera launches tonight. I had to know if she thought it was worth the hype first. I don’t want to spend all of my babysitting money on a camera that I won’t use.”

“Why’s it better than the one you use, again?”

I’ve answered this question a hundred times. I’ve been gushing about this new camera for months since it was announced. And by taking all of the babysitting gigs I could get, I have just enough money saved up to buy one.

We round the corner to our street. Sweat drips down my back. Despite the cloud cover, it’s humid today, making our walk home seem longer than it is. Everyone else peeled off a couple of streets ago to their own homes, leaving Taryn and me alone for the final few minutes.

Our street is quiet. Probably because all of the adults have day jobs to stay on top of the bills and all of the latchkey kids plunk down in front of their screens as soon as they get home. I do it too.

“Hey, look.” Snagging my arm with one hand, Taryn points with her other.

I stiffen. Fear hunches on my shoulder like a bird of prey about to dig in its claws.

The rusted brown car with the rock-and-roll sticker is parked under an overhanging tree right across the street from my house.

“It’s real,” Taryn whispers, making my heart pick up the pace.

She thought I was imagining it this whole time?

“Weird.” Dropping my arm, she walks ahead.

I can’t move. It’s as if my brain is no longer able to send signals to my legs. They won’t obey my commands.

“Come on,” Taryn says, taking my hand and dragging me forward. “I bet your mom made cookies. You know how she is on cloudy days.”

“How about your dad? Last time he ate them all before I got even one.”

“And that’s my fault how?”

Her teasing eases me into a slow walk, but I’m thankful when we cross the street away from the strange car.

Taryn stops too quickly on the sidewalk and I run into her, almost topping us both over.

“What’re you doing?” I grumble.

“Look.” Her tan face has blanched white.

Following her gaze, my eyes lock on my front door. It’s standing open.

“Wait!” Taryn yells as I float closer to the open portal. “Shouldn’t we call the police? Have them check it out first?”

I’m no-longer listening. The car was an omen. I know it now. It wasn’t in my head. It was a sign that something was coming. Dread unfurls in my gut. Something bad.

“I’m coming too,” Taryn whispers, somewhere behind me.

I pause on the front step. Somehow I know instinctually that once I set foot inside, my life will be irreparably changed.

An alarming stench hits me as I step inside, making me gasp.

Taryn wrinkles her nose. “Oh, that’s bad,” she murmurs, wandering toward the bedrooms.

My eyes land on one of Mom’s house shoes. It’s sitting abandoned in the middle of the living room. It’s not like her to leave it there. Mom’s latest crochet project is lying upended on the couch. The yarn ball has rolled across the floor to rest at the foot of the television stand. A cup of coffee lies spilled on the rug.

“We should go back outside. Call 911.” Taryn pulls at my arm.

I ignore her. Inching further into the house, I move toward the kitchen, where the smell of freshly baked snickerdoodles mixes with something sharper and rust-tinged. A smell I don’t recognize.

There’s a low, moaning gurgle. I clutch at my chest like I’ve been struck.

“T-Taryn…”

There’s a puddle of crimson ebbing across the hardwood floor. A red handprint is smeared along the beige wall.

It points toward the kitchen.

Chapter 24

Day 137, Thursday

The whir of Viv’s sewing machine is a settling drone in my ears as I sit on a black box, going through Act 3 with Marisa. Above our heads, Fiona and Dariel have the stage lights cued to my lighting design. It looks fantastic. Even Esau grudgingly admitted it during rehearsal last week.

I grin as I watch Marisa prepare to go through the scene again.

She’s pacing back and forth in the middle of the stage, treading over the place where Esau placed her blocking tape, shaking out her hands and stretching her jaw muscles. For some reason she keeps flubbing the same line. She even asked Esau if she could change it, but our particular director declined. “It’s written that way for a reason,” he’d said.

I don’t disagree, but I feel bad for Marisa. Her castmates are starting to tire of her mistakes. Even I have to admit, deep down where I hope she can’t see, that she should have all of her lines memorized by now. But for some reason she seems rattled during rehearsals. Valley High’s leading lady is falling apart before our eyes.

We begin, and she misses the line yet again.

In a low tone I hope is covered by the holler of one of the stage crew up to the booth, I feed it to her.

“I know!” Marisa snaps. “I’m sorry. You’re just trying to help.”

“You’re supposed to have everything memorized now, Marisa.”

I