Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(11)

I caught sight of Paisley, her head dutifully bowed, which meant she must have been sneaking texts on her phone since no one else was praying. In the church’s right wing, Ava sat with her mom. Every so often, she’d trace the sign of the cross over her shoulders and breastbone. Her family was Catholic, but since there were no Catholic churches in Hollow Pines, the Presbyterian church had to do.

In unison, the congregation rose and began to sing a song about peace and forgiveness. Honor balanced her hymnal on the pew back in front of us. She slid it over so that I could read from it, too. A black stamp on my left hand caught my eye. Quietly, I lowered my hands off the rail and knitted my fingers together, hoping that Honor hadn’t already seen.

I’d seen, though.

My throat tied itself in knots. The stamp was a picture of two spurred boots and I recognized it instantly. A cold sweat cropped up among the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I’d had that stamp on my hand before—once—the night I went to Dearborn. When I went to Ten Gallon Cowboy.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The images flooded in, rushing through me like a tidal wave. The music. The sticky floors. The boys laughing. Without even trying I could feel again how the night had morphed into something ugly, first slowly and then all at once.

I forced my eyelids back open and pulled myself free from the memory. I would never go back. That was the promise I’d made to myself. Never, ever, ever and as far as I knew, I hadn’t. Or at least that was what I would have thought if I didn’t have the evidence stamped across my hand. My heart beat fast.

Pastor Long raised his hands and held his palms out to us. “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” he said. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Amen,” I chanted. Then the organ blared and everyone was reaching behind them to pick up their belongings. I grabbed my purse and tapped Honor on the shoulder. “I’m running to the restroom before the line gets too long, okay? Tell Mom and Dad that I’ll meet y’all in the atrium.”

I darted out of the pew and up the aisle toward the double doors, panic slimy in my mouth and throat. “Peace be with you,” an elderly usher in a khaki suit called to me as I hustled away.

“And peace be with you,” I responded breathlessly.

The women’s restroom was located at the end of the corridor. I hurried inside. Tiny green tiles covered the floor and walls. I squeezed out a dollop of pink soap, stuck my hand underneath the faucet, and began scrubbing it with my fingernails. I relaxed as the ink dissolved from my skin and I was left with reddening scratches instead. In a few short seconds, I would have never suspected it was there in the first place.

Ladies of the church began trickling in. Still shaken, I slipped into a stall at the end and closed the door. Breathe, I ordered my lungs. Calm down and breathe.

The stamp meant nothing. The night after Ten Gallon Cowboy, I’d woken to full body aches that stretched from the top notch of my spine down to the backs of my knees. Today, on the other hand, I felt fine. I had to keep reminding myself of that. I felt fine. For the first time in a long time.

I reached for my cell and texted Liam. I thought you said there were no side effects?

I waited as flashing dots appeared on-screen. Followed by his message. There aren’t.

I dug my teeth into my lip, unsure how much I wanted to tell him. Who else has tried it?

The answer was immediate. Confidentiality. Part of the job requirement.

I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t like Liam was a doctor or a lawyer. Still, it was nice to know my secret was safe. But there are others?

Of course :)

I tapped my foot on the ground anxiously. And no one has had … My thumbs hovered … memory loss?

Nada. U ok?

Fine. I typed a quick reply and switched my screen to dark. Without pulling up my dress, I sat down on the toilet. It was just me. Lots had happened to me in the last few weeks. And besides, nothing bad had happened. Maybe it was even a good thing. Maybe I’d confronted my fear and just, I didn’t know, blocked it out or something. Like with PTSD. Was that my issue? What sorts of trauma could lead to a brain switch like post-traumatic stress disorder? I’d heard stories of soldiers getting it from war, of children having cases of PTSD when parents were killed, but what about what happened to me?

I still couldn’t say the word. I couldn’t even think it.

Was I … traumatized?

I turned the word over in my mind and thought of the near-catatonic shell of myself that I’d peered at in the mirror, the one who’d been ready to shave off an entire head of perfectly luscious hair. Then I paired that version against who I was before Dearborn: popular, in control, straight As, flirtatious, professional-level best friend. When I put it like that then, yeah, I supposed the word traumatized did seem to fit. Was I stressed, too?

Well, it certainly wasn’t like me to forget to set an alarm. If I had the trauma and the stress and it was post the “Incident,” was it possible that I’d been full-on disordered without even realizing it?

I wiped my hands down my shins. This felt like a positive step. A sign that the old me was just around the corner. Identify a problem. Solve it. That was what the old Cassidy would do and medical problems required medicine. At least until I recovered. And, since my problem wasn’t exactly one I could talk to a doctor about without a dozen questions and a call to my parents—I could already hear Paisley’s singsong voice chiding me about my strolls down easy street—then I would have to self-treat. My breath was coming more steadily now.