First Date by R.L. Stine, Sammy Yuen Jr.

hand under her apron into her jeans pocket and searched the pocket until she felt Agent Martin’s card.
    â€œSparks? Are you okay?”
    He giggled again, a high-pitched sound, almost an animal sound. He took an unsteady step toward the counter.
    â€œCome here,” he said, his eyes staring into hers but not quite focusing.
    â€œSparks—you’ve been drinking,” Chelsea accused, backing up till she hit the wall.
    â€œA few beers,” he said with an awkward shrug. “Come here. Be friendly.”
    â€œNo. Go away,” she insisted. “I mean it, Sparks.”
    He shook his head. His expression became angry. “Hey, give me a break,” he said, leaning against a counter stool. “I can tell you like me.”
    Staring at Sparks, wondering what he planned to do, Chelsea thought of Agent Martin’s warning. She remembered the look on the FBI agent’s face when she asked if Sparks was dangerous.
    Yes, he’s dangerous. Very dangerous.
    What has he done? What crimes has he committed? They must be really horrible if the FBI is after him, she decided.
    â€œHey—come here,” Sparks repeated more forcefully. As he leaned over the counter toward her, she could see that his forehead was covered with drops of perspiration.
    â€œSparks, please—” she started.
    A grin spread across his face. He dived toward her, clumsily bumping into the counter.
    â€œErnie!” she screamed. But the fry cook wasn’t there.
    Gripped with panic, Chelsea turned and ran toward the kitchen. Just past the doorway she stopped and turned around.
    Sparks was shaking his head as if confused, as if trying to clear his mind. “Hey—I’m just playing!” he called. “Just kidding around. Come here!”
    Ignoring his plea and gripped with fear, Chelsea ran, sliding on the long, black rubber floor mat that ran the length of the kitchen. She headed toward the back door. Once out in the alley, she could run around to the front of the building and find help. It was still early, a little before seven-thirty, and the streets of the Old Village should have people on them.
    â€œHey, give me a break!” Sparks cried, stopping at the kitchen door, raising his powerful arms, pressinghis hands against the doorframe, blocking the door. His eyes quickly surveyed the room.
    â€œGo away! Leave me alone!” Chelsea screamed.
    She grabbed the back door and pulled. It didn’t move.
    Her eyes went down to the heavy metal bolt. It was latched and locked. She was trapped.
    â€œHey, I won’t hurt you,” Sparks said, moving unsteadily toward her. “I’m just playing. Don’t you want to play?”
    â€œSparks—please—go away!” Chelsea pleaded. She tore off the apron and tossed it to the floor. My only way out of here is to run right past him, she decided. He seems so unsteady, maybe it won’t be too hard.
    She took a deep breath and ran right at Sparks.
    His eyes went wide. His grin grew wider. He reached out, intending to tackle her.
    Chelsea dodged away from him, nearly banging into the still-sizzling grill.
    Laughing loudly, he dived for her.
    She made it past him.
    Then she heard a
thud,
followed by a loud
hiss.
    She turned and saw that he had landed up against the steaming hot grill, his hand flat against the top surface.
    He opened his mouth in a silent scream. Then finally the sound came, and he howled like a wild animal.
    â€œMy hand! My hand!” he shrieked and dropped to his knees in pain.
    Chelsea stopped at the doorway.
    â€œMy hand! Oh—the grease! It’s
killing
me!” Sparks howled. He rolled into a ball on the floor.
    I’ve got to help him, Chelsea decided, hurrying back into the kitchen. I’ve got to help him—then call the FBI.
    She got him to his feet and pushed him to the sink. “Here, Sparks,” she said, turning on the faucet. “Cold water. Keep the hand in cold water.