blackmail. But, for the moment, Faye seemed to be leaving her alone.
It was Friday afternoon, car-pooling home after school, that Laurel mentioned the Halloween dance.
"Of course you're coming, Cassie," she said as they dropped Cassie off at Number Twelve. "You have to. And you've got plenty of time, two weeks, to think of somebody to ask."
Cassie walked into the house with her legs feeling weak. Another dance? She couldn't believe it.
One thing she knew: It couldn't be anything like the last one. She wouldn't let it be. She'd do what Laurel said, she'd find somebody to go with-and then she'd just stick with him the entire time. Somebody, anybody. Sean, maybe. Cassie winced. Well, maybe not anybody. Starved for attention as he was, Sean might end up being a problem himself. She might never get rid of him.
No, Cassie needed some guy to be an escort and nothing else. Some guy who would absolutely not get interested in her, under any circumstances. Some guy who'd be completely indifferent. . .
A vision flashed through her mind, of mahogany eyes, rich and deep and absolutely dispassionate. Nick. Nick didn't even like girls. And Faye wouldn't care; Faye wasn't even speaking to Nick anymore. Nick would be safe-but would he ever want to go with her to a dance?
Only one way to find out, she thought. Nick was Deborah's cousin, and lived with her parents at Number Two Crowhaven Road. The peach-colored house was run-down, and the garage was usually open, showing the car Nick was continually working on.
Adam had said it was a '69 Mustang coupe, which was something special. Right at the moment, though, it looked like a skeleton up on blocks.
When Cassie walked in late that afternoon, Nick was bent over the workbench, his dark hair shining faintly in the light of the naked bulb hanging from the rafters. He was doing something with a screwdriver to a part. "Hi," Cassie said.
Nick straightened up. He didn't look surprised to see her, but then Nick never looked surprised. He didn't look particularly happy to see her either. He was wearing a T-shirt so covered with grease stains that it was difficult to read the slogan underneath, but faintly Cassie could make out the odd words Friends don't let friends drive Chevys.
Cassie cleared her throat. Just walk in and ask him, she'd thought-but now that was proving to be impossible. After a moment or two of staring at her, waiting, Nick looked back down at the workbench.
"I was just walking to Diana's," Cassie said brightly. "And I thought I'd stop by and say hi." "Hi," Nick said, without looking up. Cassie's mouth was dry. What had ever made her think she could ask a guy to a dance? So what if lots of guys had wanted to dance with her last time; that had probably just been a fluke. And Nick certainly hadn't been hanging around her.
She tried to make her voice sound casual. "So what are you doing ..." She had meant to ask "for the Halloween dance" but her throat closed up and she panicked. Instead she finished in a squeak, "... right now?"
"Rebuilding the carburetor," Nick replied briefly.
"Oh," Cassie said. She searched her mind desperately for some other topic of conversation. "Um . . ." She picked up a little metal ball from the workbench. "So-what's this for?"
"The carburetor."
"Oh." Cassie looked at the little ball. "Uh, Nick, you know, I was just wondering"-she started to set the ball back down-"whether you might, um, want to-oops."
The ball had shot out of her sweaty fingers like a watermelon seed, landing with a ping somewhere under the workbench and disappearing. Cassie looked up, horrified, and Nick slammed down the screwdriver and swore.
"I'm sorry-honest, Nick, I'm sorry-"
"What the hell did you have to touch it for? What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I . . ." Cassie looked at his wrathful face and the last of her courage left her. "I'm sorry, Nick," she gasped again, and she fled.
Out of the garage and down the driveway. Without thinking she turned right when she got
It was Friday afternoon, car-pooling home after school, that Laurel mentioned the Halloween dance.
"Of course you're coming, Cassie," she said as they dropped Cassie off at Number Twelve. "You have to. And you've got plenty of time, two weeks, to think of somebody to ask."
Cassie walked into the house with her legs feeling weak. Another dance? She couldn't believe it.
One thing she knew: It couldn't be anything like the last one. She wouldn't let it be. She'd do what Laurel said, she'd find somebody to go with-and then she'd just stick with him the entire time. Somebody, anybody. Sean, maybe. Cassie winced. Well, maybe not anybody. Starved for attention as he was, Sean might end up being a problem himself. She might never get rid of him.
No, Cassie needed some guy to be an escort and nothing else. Some guy who would absolutely not get interested in her, under any circumstances. Some guy who'd be completely indifferent. . .
A vision flashed through her mind, of mahogany eyes, rich and deep and absolutely dispassionate. Nick. Nick didn't even like girls. And Faye wouldn't care; Faye wasn't even speaking to Nick anymore. Nick would be safe-but would he ever want to go with her to a dance?
Only one way to find out, she thought. Nick was Deborah's cousin, and lived with her parents at Number Two Crowhaven Road. The peach-colored house was run-down, and the garage was usually open, showing the car Nick was continually working on.
Adam had said it was a '69 Mustang coupe, which was something special. Right at the moment, though, it looked like a skeleton up on blocks.
When Cassie walked in late that afternoon, Nick was bent over the workbench, his dark hair shining faintly in the light of the naked bulb hanging from the rafters. He was doing something with a screwdriver to a part. "Hi," Cassie said.
Nick straightened up. He didn't look surprised to see her, but then Nick never looked surprised. He didn't look particularly happy to see her either. He was wearing a T-shirt so covered with grease stains that it was difficult to read the slogan underneath, but faintly Cassie could make out the odd words Friends don't let friends drive Chevys.
Cassie cleared her throat. Just walk in and ask him, she'd thought-but now that was proving to be impossible. After a moment or two of staring at her, waiting, Nick looked back down at the workbench.
"I was just walking to Diana's," Cassie said brightly. "And I thought I'd stop by and say hi." "Hi," Nick said, without looking up. Cassie's mouth was dry. What had ever made her think she could ask a guy to a dance? So what if lots of guys had wanted to dance with her last time; that had probably just been a fluke. And Nick certainly hadn't been hanging around her.
She tried to make her voice sound casual. "So what are you doing ..." She had meant to ask "for the Halloween dance" but her throat closed up and she panicked. Instead she finished in a squeak, "... right now?"
"Rebuilding the carburetor," Nick replied briefly.
"Oh," Cassie said. She searched her mind desperately for some other topic of conversation. "Um . . ." She picked up a little metal ball from the workbench. "So-what's this for?"
"The carburetor."
"Oh." Cassie looked at the little ball. "Uh, Nick, you know, I was just wondering"-she started to set the ball back down-"whether you might, um, want to-oops."
The ball had shot out of her sweaty fingers like a watermelon seed, landing with a ping somewhere under the workbench and disappearing. Cassie looked up, horrified, and Nick slammed down the screwdriver and swore.
"I'm sorry-honest, Nick, I'm sorry-"
"What the hell did you have to touch it for? What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I . . ." Cassie looked at his wrathful face and the last of her courage left her. "I'm sorry, Nick," she gasped again, and she fled.
Out of the garage and down the driveway. Without thinking she turned right when she got
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