Eyes of a Stalker Read Online Free

was different. It seemed like a long walk for him to make for nothing.
    I didn’t argue, though, since his mind was clearly made up. Anyway, I was glad to be able to spend some extra time with him.
    As we walked, I told him about the drama club, and Ms. Lubowski agreeing to let the group perform at least one comedy instead of the old classics she’d picked out.
    â€œSo, what did she say when you suggested
The Americans are Coming?
” he asked.
    â€œNot much,” I admitted. “She just said she’d think about it. And she said something about getting permission from the author, Herb Curtis, and about adapting it to make it suitable for a school production.”
    â€œIt sounds like she’s interested, anyway,” he said.
    â€œI guess.” I realized then that Greg was looking around as we walked. It had taken me a few minutes to notice it because he was hardly moving his head at all, but his eyes were moving the whole time, searching ahead and to the sides of us.
    â€œSo, you see anything suspicious?” I asked.
    He smiled. “Not much gets past you, does it? And no, I haven’t noticed anyone around. Not yet, anyway.”
    A thought hit me. “So, what if this person doesn’t tell me who he is for weeks, or even months? What if he never does? Are you going to walk me home every day for the rest of the year?”
    â€œTo make sure you’re okay? If I need to, I will.”
    â€œWell, that’s really sweet, but I think you’re making way too much of this. I mean, it was just a plant.”
    â€œRight. And if the message on the card hadn’t been so, well, weird, or if the guy had signed his name, it would be different. The thing is, you don’t know who you’re dealing with or what might be going on in his head.”
    â€œBut this is Little River!” I said, half pleased and half exasperated. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of psychos running around town.”
    â€œPsychos, as you call them,” he said with an eyebrow raised, “can be found anywhere. Little River is no exception.”
    I blushed a little. Greg’s dad is a Doctor of Psychology and I knew Greg had been brought up witha respectful attitude toward people with psychological problems. They’d
never
be referred to as psychos in the Taylor house.
    â€œSorry,” I mumbled. Then I changed the subject to the selection we were reading for the book club. The group had decided to read both old and new works, and had chosen an interesting variety, including one book I’d suggested.
    It was called
Seventeen
by Booth Tarkington and I’d read it earlier this year, after it had been recommended to me by Ernie’s previous owner, Mr. Stanley. It was great, but nearly a hundred years old, so I hadn’t really expected anyone else in the room to be familiar with it.
    And so, when I’d mentioned the book to the club, it had surprised me to see Webster jump up and shout, “Yes!” and then rave about it with so much enthusiasm that the whole group agreed to put it on our list.
    I was curious to know what Greg thought of it. I asked him whether he’d finished it.
    â€œNot yet,” he said. “It’s really good, though. I just haven’t had much time for reading, with all the homework they’re piling on this year.”
    â€œTell me about it,” I said. “I have so much homework in history and biology that I’ll never get through it again before we meet this weekend. It’s just lucky for me that I already read
Seventeen
… though I
do
want to read it at least one more time. It’s
so
funny!”
    â€œIs it ever,” Greg agreed. “And it really shows what society was like back then — the racial attitudes and the kinds of stereotyping that went on. Some of it’s shocking, but it kind of helps you to see prejudice for what it is: pure ignorance and stupidity.
    â€œAnd the