Read Online Eye Candy by R.L. Stine - Free Book Online Page A

left that message or not. I just won’t go out with them anymore.”
    She squinted at me. “Even Colin?”
    I hesitated. “Well . . . I don’t know. I have to think about Colin.”
    Are you the guy, Colin? Are you?
    â€œBut I’m through with the others. When they call, the answer is no.”
    In the bedroom, my phone rang.
    My mouth dropped open. Ann-Marie and I stared at each other.
    I strode stiffly into my room and hesitated in front of the phone. Finally, I picked it up and clicked it on. “Hello?”
    â€œPlease don’t say no,” a voice said.

12
    Dad? Is that you? You sound funny.”
    â€œI’m on my cell. Do you believe it? I’m walking down Twelfth Street.” He was shouting. He cleared his throat.
    â€œYou got a cell? Dad, you never go anywhere. Why do you need a cell?”
    â€œEveryone has them now.”
    â€œBut what are you going to do with it?”
    â€œTalk to you, of course. I wanted to ask—”
    â€œHow’s the gallbladder thing? You better?”
    â€œIt only hurts when I laugh. Ha ha. I’m fine. It’s eight o’clock at night and I’m out walking around like a human.”
    â€œI can’t hear you too well. You keep going in and out. What kind of phone did you get?”
    â€œIt doesn’t flip. They tried to sell me one that flips. But why should a phone flip?”
    â€œYou got the cheapest one, huh? Well, why did you call?”
    â€œDon’t hang up on me. Please don’t say no. I want to take you out for your birthday on Monday.”
    Monday?
    â€œDad, I completely forgot. Do you believe I completely forgot my birthday?”
    Silence on his end. And I understood it.
    My birthday hasn’t been a happy date since I was ten. That’s because it’s also a horrible anniversary. The day my mother died.
    And the truth is, she died
because
of my birthday.
    When I turned ten, we still had the big town house duplex apartment in the Village. I don’t remember that day too well. My mind is jumbled with pictures—like bright color snapshots—of red and white balloons and streamers, party hats and a pile of wrapped presents, and then . . . the crowd in the street and the cake box, the white cardboard cake box smashed, the yellow icing oozing out.
    Most of what I know about that day comes from what my dad told me later, not from memory. Twelve kids were invited to the party, and my grandparents, and a magician. The Great Amazo. Why do I remember his stupid name?
    Mom picked up the cake at Greenberg’s bakery and was rushing home. She started across Christopher Street and didn’t see the taxi. She was hit and killed half a block from the apartment. Crushed like the cake.
    So you can see why I might forget my birthday. You can see why birthdays were not exactly occasions I remembered with great fondness. Dad tried to make them nice when I was a kid. He tried to be brave. And of course I had a Sweet Sixteen, all girls and giggles and loud singing and doing and redoing our hair, with the memories pushed to the background like sad music in another room.
    But I could still hear it.
    Dad was so busy running his chain of camera stores. I really needed a mom. Aunt Rebecca tried to step in. But it was such a chore for her, such hard work to help me with my French homework or take me shopping for summer clothes. I knew she was only doing a favor for her brother.
    When the boys started coming around, I didn’t know how to handle it. They told me I was beautiful. I stared at the faces of models in
Vogue
and other magazines. Was I beautiful like them?
    One friend insisted I was a perfect double for Heather Graham. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t see anyone but me.
    In high school, I just felt too tall and gangly. My arms and legs looked so skinny to me, like broomsticks. But I was aware of people looking at me, boys watching me in the halls.
    What was I supposed to do