Bruce thought back to his conversation with Amy . . . or rather, to Amy's monologue. What was that she'd said—about how you had to listen to people if you wanted to learn their story? I sure didn't listen to Pamela, Bruce reflected. I saw something, and I heard some rumors, and I made a judgment, just like that. I never gave her a fair hearing.

  It was kind of like Elizabeth Wakefield's trial, or anybody's trial for that matter, Bruce decided. You couldn't convict people of crimes without giving them a chance to defend themselves. That wasn't justice. And since when am I qualified to judge anybody, anyway? Like I'm such a saint myself!

  Now that he thought about it, Bruce realized that Pamela's lifestyle, the one that had earned her such a bad reputation, hadn't been all that different from his own. He'd bounced from girl to girl, toying with each one until he got bored and then moving on with absolutely no regard for their feelings—and no intention ever of making a commitment. Being a guy, he'd gotten away with it. He hadn't been branded with a reputation as easy and fast; the double standard worked in his favor.

  Talk about unfair, Bruce thought. And I know why I was running around—how could I have forgotten? He'd dated around because, after losing Regina, he was empty inside. He turned to other girls—lots of them—to try to fill that space, but it never worked. Until he met Pamela. And then, he'd felt it in his bones, in his heart. His playing around was over. She was the one.

  Bruce wrinkled his brow. Maybe it was the same for her. Maybe she knew about my past, but she accepted me anyway. Maybe she knew her dating around was over, too, because I could fill the empty place in her heart. Maybe . . .

  He shook his head and quickened his pace. "Maybe, maybe, maybe," he muttered out loud. "A million maybes aren't going to get you anywhere." The thing to do was to get on the stick and talk to Pamela. He didn't know, though. After all the negative stuff that had passed between them, could they ever find their way back to the feeling they had when they first met?

  Bruce's thoughts were disrupted by a harsh male voice, just ahead of him around the corner of the school building.

  ". . . parked right over there," the voice said. "C'mon, let's take a ride."

  Bruce walked forward slowly, his body tensing at the belligerent and threatening tone. Sounds like trouble, Bruce suspected.

  "But I don't want to go with you," he heard a girl insist in a strained whisper. "Now, please just leave me alone."

  The blood drained from Bruce's face and he froze in his tracks. He knew that voice; he'd been hearing it in his dreams. It was Pamela.

  "You didn't used to play hard to get," the guy joked roughly. "Hey, it's OK with me if you want the Sweet Valley High boys to think you're a virgin, but I know different, so just get in the car."

  "I said no!" Pamela cried.

  The fear in her voice stung Bruce like a whip, galvanizing him into action. He sprang forward, rounding the corner at full speed. The guy was big and broad-shouldered, and Bruce recognized him as a Big Mesa football player. He was a good fifty pounds heavier than Bruce was, but Bruce didn't hesitate for an instant. "Get your hands off her!" he roared. Pulling back his arm, he aimed a rock-hard punch at the guy's jaw, knocking him flat.

  Bruce didn't spare another glance for the guy, who pulled himself to his feet and stumbled off, groaning in pain. He had eyes only for Pamela, huddling with her back against the brick building, her arms folded tightly across her chest and her face streaked with tears.

  Bruce gave her a shaky smile, his own eyes brimming. "Are you OK?" he asked anxiously.

  Pamela nodded wordlessly, her tears streaming faster.

  Bruce knew there was only one thing to do. He had to stop those tears. He was going to dry them all, one by one, and then he was going to make sure Pamela Robertson never had another reason to cry, ever again in her life.

  Stepping toward her, Bruce wrapped his arms gently around the girl he loved. "I'm sorry, Pamela," he whispered into the tangle of her hair, holding her close as she cried, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Chapter 14

  The wet, salty wind whipped a strand of hair across Jessica's face and she brushed it away, turning to look up at Todd. "It's cool tonight, isn't it?" she murmured, pressing close to his side.

  "Umm." He tightened his arm around her shoulders, but the gesture was automatic; there was no warmth in it. He'd rather be somewhere else, Jessica knew, with someone else. . . .

  She pushed the thought from her mind as they strolled down the moonlit beach. She held on to Todd, both arms locked around his waist, as if she were holding on to a life raft, the only thing keeping her afloat in a raging flood. If Todd didn't know enough to be happy with her, well, she'd just have to work that much harder to make him see that they were meant to be together.

  Because if Todd left her . . . if Todd left her, Jessica knew her life would become like this Thursday night: cold and dark, with the sea pressing close, the waves threatening to crash over her head, to tear her to pieces. . . .

  "I like being with you," Jessica said boldly, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. "It's that simple, Todd. You know, I never did understand what you saw in Elizabeth," she chattered on. "I mean, even before she started wrecking people's lives and killing people, she wasn't exactly a prize. Everyone always thought she was so sweet and good, but I knew her—I knew the real Elizabeth. And she's cold and selfish and conniving. She uses people to get what she wants and then twists it around to make it look like she was doing them a favor."

  Todd shot a startled, troubled glance at her. "I can tell you don't believe me," Jessica observed. "You want to hold on to your happy memories. I just don't want you to be fooled, Todd. Don't imagine she's wasting any time moping around over you. You were just a status symbol to her, a prop. You made her look good—love didn't have anything to do with it."

  Todd shook his head. "It wasn't like that," he said, pulling back from her slightly.

  Jessica didn't relinquish her hold on him. "OK, OK," she relented, with an attempt at a playful, flirtatious laugh. "Have it your way. Cling to your fantasy. I won't be jealous of the past, of a ghost. It's the present that I care about. And you're with me now, aren't you, Todd?"

  He shrugged, his eyes on the dark, rolling sea.

  "I knew it would end up this way," she continued, laughing again, this time almost hysterically. "Remember the night of the Jungle Prom, Todd?"

  Jessica felt the muscles in Todd's arms tense. "Remember?" he hissed. "God, I wish I could forget."

  "But why?" Jessica wondered, tipping her head to one side. 'That was the night it really started for us—for you and me. Remember? You were named Prom King and I was chosen Queen." She gazed up at him, her eyes glittering obsessively. "It was like a sign that we were intended to be together, just like this."

  Todd stared down at her, his eyes wide with shock.

  "What?" Jessica demanded. "Why are you looking at me as if I've gone mad?"

  "Because you have," Todd said hoarsely. "Don't you remember, Jessica? That was the start of the whole tragedy. That was the night Sam died. Don't you remember?"

  Jessica shook her head. She didn't want to remember those things. Why did Todd keep bringing them up? "No," she whispered, standing on tiptoe so she could press her lips against his. "No."

  Steven checked the numbers he'd written on a scrap of paper. "One-thirty-eight Idlewild Drive, Apartment C," he muttered nervously to himself. "This is it."

  He'd gotten Billie's new address from the university operator the day before, but it had taken a full twenty-four hours to screw up his nerve to make it there. And now here he was: standing on the sidewalk in front of her door, a bouquet of her favorite flowers in his hand. It seemed like such a corny gesture—flowers and an apology—but Steven couldn't think of any other way to get his message across. A letter would have been too impersonal; even a phone call didn't seem adequate.

  Plus, if I called her, she might just hang up on me, Steven thought. Not that she doesn't have a similar option here. I already know she's a pretty good door slammer!

  But he had to risk it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And in this case, there was so much to be gained. . . .

  Steven raked a hand through his dark hair and took a deep breath. Then he knocked on the door.

  His heart pounded out the seconds. One, two, three, four, five . . . It's nine o'clock—maybe she's at the library, studying, he guessed, after waiting for what seemed an interminable time. Maybe she's out to dinner. On a date . . .

  He started to turn away, chastising himself for being so presumptuous, for imagining he was entitled to be a part of her life anymore. Then the door eased open, and Billie looked out at him, her eyes round with surprise.

  She didn't slam the door in his face, as he was afraid she might. Steven's knees nearly buckled with relief and gratitude.

  "Billie," he said softly. "I . . . I owe you an explanation. I owe you an apology." He held out the flowers. "These are for you."

  Billie looked at the flowers, and then she looked back up at Steven. And then she smiled.

  Instead of reaching for the flowers, she reached for his hand. Steven gave it to her, his soul flooding with joy, and for an endless, perfect moment they just stood in silence, smiling at each other and knowing that everything was going to be all right.

  Elizabeth sat next to the swimming pool in the backyard, her arms clasped around her knees and her face tilted to the star-filled sky. The night breeze raised goose bumps on her skin, but she barely noticed the chill in the air. She was waiting for something, listening.

  After a long while, she heard it: the sound of a car in the driveway. A door slammed, and then another. Then the engine revved again, the sound receding as the car drove away.

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and walked back into the house to talk to Jessica.

  Their parents were asleep; the house was dark, except for the kitchen. Elizabeth found Jessica standing at the counter, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. "Hi," Elizabeth said tentatively.

  Jessica didn't answer; she didn't even glance in her sister's direction.

  I have to keep trying, Elizabeth determined. I have to keep trying to bridge this gap between us, or soon it will be so wide I'll never be able to reach across it. It was one thing to lose Todd; that was terrible enough. But she couldn't live without her sister.

  "Did you have a nice time tonight?" she asked.

  Jessica turned slowly to look at Elizabeth. "Yes, I did," she replied, her voice as blank as her eyes. "I was with Todd."

  Elizabeth gulped. Jessica smiled. "We did have a nice time. A very nice time," she emphasized.

  "I . . . I'm glad," Elizabeth stuttered. "I . . . I don't mind that you're dating him," she added, lying. "I only want for you and me to talk again, Jessica. I can't stand this."

  The smile never left Jessica's face. Placing her glass carefully on the counter, she turned on her heel and walked from the room.

  "Jessica, please," Elizabeth whispered after her.

  The words fell into emptiness. Elizabeth stared into the dark hallway where her sister had disappeared. What has happened to her? Elizabeth wondered desperately. What have I done to her? Jessica wasn't just mourning Sam's death; she wasn't just sad. She was different. She was turning into a person Elizabeth feared she would never know, never be close to, again.

  Margo stood in the middle of her room at a boardinghouse in downtown Sweet Valley and stretched her arms over her head with a luxurious yawn. She felt wonderfully refreshed: she'd showered, slept, and had something to eat. She was ready.

  Sitting down at the small desk, she briefly scanned the want ads in the local paper. She'd assessed her financial situation, and even with the money from the pawned jewelry, she'd need to find a job fairly quickly if she didn't want to end up back on the street.

  I'll read through those later, Margo decided, tossing the Sweet Valley News aside and reaching for the Los Angeles paper. First she wanted to see if there'd been any news about her. . . .

  She flipped through the pages, skimming the headlines, a smile slowly spreading across her face. Still nothing, despite that hassle with Josh Smith at the L.A. train station!

  Margo couldn't believe it. "Josh was lying," she cackled out loud. "The police were never after me. They don't know anything! I made it—I'm in the clear."

  She was still chuckling when the name "Elizabeth Wakefield" jumped out at her.

  Elizabeth Wakefield! Margo thought, gripping the paper tightly. The girl in my picture!

  Quickly, she read the article, her eyes widening with astonishment. "She was on trial, but she was acquitted," Margo murmured. '"Charged with vehicular manslaughter . . . the night of the Sweet Valley High prom . . . confession by surprise witness . . . Elizabeth Wakefield found not guilty in the death of her twin sister's boyfriend, Sam Woodruff. . ."

  Twin sister? Margo froze, but inside, her brain was whirling and every nerve in her body tingled. She'd always wanted a twin sister.

  Slowly, Margo reached for the shopping bag that sat on the floor next to the bed and pulled out a blond wig. Walking over to the wall, she stood in front of the mirror. Carefully, she placed the wig on her head, tucking away every last wisp of dark hair, working methodically. When she was done, she stood for a long moment, drinking in the transformation. She'd changed the color of her hair . . . and changed her identity. Now all she needed were blue-green contact lenses.

  Satisfied, Margo turned away from the mirror. Picking up her purse, she headed for the door. Twin sister, she thought, something clicking as the final puzzle piece fell into place and a plan gelled in her brain. I am Elizabeth Wakefield, and I have a twin sister. She smiled, the tiny dimple in her left cheek deepening. Watch out, Sweet Valley!

  Get ready for Jessica and Elizabeth's hottest adventures ever when they go to

  SWEET VALLEY UNIVERSITY!

  Join Lila, Todd, Enid, and all your favorite Sweet Valley characters as they become wilder and wiser in Love, Lies, and Jessica Wakefield due in October!

  Here's an exciting excerpt from SVU #2, Love, Lies, and Jessica Wakefield

  It was an off-campus party, filled with loud music, laughter, and handsome guys, but still Celine Boudreaux was bored.

  Idly playing with the miniature white rose she'd taken from the vase beside her, she stared back at the attractive but exhaustingly dull guy in front of her. His name was either Darren or Daryl and he was a philosophy major. For some reason he was trying to seduce her by explaining Aristotle's ethics to her. Celine wasn't interested in anybody's ethics. Ethics were like rules; they cramped your style.

  "Excuse me," she said in her soft, sexy drawl. "But I just want to go refill my glass."

  Even though he'd been in the middle of a sentence, he smiled back at her.

  That was the advantage of having a Southern accent among Yankees. No matter what you said, they thought it must be something nice.

  Without a backward glance, Celine floated out of the room, her perfume drifting behind her like a train of blossoms. She could feel the eyes on her. Celine considered her Granny to be a first-class witch in many ways, but she had to admit that her Granny often gave good advice. Always make an entrance and always make an exit, her Granny had always told her. And that's what Celine always did.

  Coming into the kitchen, she caught her reflection in the window over the counter. You look gorgeous, she told herself, pouring another drink. You look stunningly, devastatingly, eat-your-heart-out gorgeous.

  Behind her, in the window, she could see other reflections. There was a drippy guy from her English class, and Nina Something from her hall.

  And suddenly there appeared someone she'd been looking for all night. The reflection showed a young man wearing an expensive black linen suit. He was as beautiful as a fairy-tale prince. And he looked as bored as she felt.

  A shadow crossed Celine's heart. She was extremely good at manipulating people. There were very few people she couldn't get around. One was her ghastly roommate, Elizabeth Goody-Two-Shoes Wakefield. The other was standing behind her, talking to a guy who looked as if one of his parents must have been a tank.

  Celine took a deep breath and swung slowly around. She was good at getting what she wanted. And she wanted the young man in black like she had never wanted anyone—if only because he didn't want her.

  "William!" she gushed, gracefully sliding between him and the tank, and tapping the flower against his chest. "I didn't know you were here. What a nice surprise!"

  He looked from her to the rose. For just a second the bored expression in his eyes was replaced with something else: disdain. Then he took the flower from her hand and went on talking as though she weren't there. He sounded just a little bit drunk.

  "It sounds to me like your friend went to the wrong part of Mexico," he said to the guy. "It's too bad you didn't tell me he was going. I could have recommended an incredible beach."

  Celine's smile grew brighter. "Oh, Mexico." She sighed. "I love Mexico. Isn't it just the most romantic place?"

  William continued to ignore her, but the tank began to speak. "Um . . . uh . . . William," he said, his eyes on Celine. "I don't believe I've met your friend."

  William looked at him blankly. "My friend?"

  It was times like these that Celine wished her Granny was a real witch. If she were, Celine would be able to put a spell on William White that would destroy his happiness for the rest of his life.

  "Celine," she said, her voice as soft as velvet and as sweet as pecan pie. "Celine Boudreaux."

  The tank grabbed her hand so roughly she thought he was going to shake it loose from her wrist. "I'm glad to meet you, Celine. I've wanted to since the beginning of year. I'm Steve Hawkins." He grinned at her mindlessly. "I've seen you around."

  Well, I haven't seen you. She looked down for a second, so he would think she was blushing modestly. And if I had, I would've run.