Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(12)
Just as much as I felt the old, better version of myself hovering tantalizingly close, I also felt the sad, nasty version haunting me like a ghost. If I wasn’t careful, it would suck me under. I needed to preserve cheerleader, straight A Cassidy stat.
There was one thing that had made me feel the best I’d felt in weeks. If I was the problem, then perhaps it could be the solution. I opened my purse and fished for the small clear bag that contained another couple drops of Sunshine. Maybe if I took a half now and saved half for later that would get me back to the feeling I had the night of the party. And yesterday and—
I pinched a tablet between two fingers, positioned it between my two front teeth, and bit the pill in half. A chalky texture coated my tongue. I quickly swallowed the half-portion down, wishing I could get to a water fountain to wash the taste away.
Sealing the bag, I returned it to my purse. The reaction was slower this time. At first nothing happened. I listened to the flush of toilets and waited. Then, gradually, a warmth built underneath the beds of my fingernails. It spread to my knuckles and up to my elbows until, at last, the glow seeped into my chest and filled the cavity there with a pleasant heat, soft and wonderful, like a mug of hot cocoa on the coldest day of the year.
I slid open the lock and stepped out of the stall. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I noticed that my skin had an attractive rosy tint to it. A faint smile pulled at the corners of my lips. No one would know that I’d thrown my hair up and my outfit together in five minutes flat. No way. I looked fantastic.
A silver-haired woman trundled past me in her floppy Sunday hat and scooted her way into the stall I’d occupied. I waved as she passed.
That was it. I’d been overreacting. About all of it. It was so like me. Type A. Closet perfectionist. Every ounce of worry, which had felt so pressing only moments before, floated off to an unreachable distance.
“There you are.” Paisley strode over to the sink and washed her hands. “I thought we were going to go see a movie last night. Do you not return texts anymore?”
She wore a floral dress with a Peter Pan collar, perfectly tailored to fit her minute stature.
Movie … movie … It sounded vaguely familiar. Paisley fussed with a few stray blond strands, flattening them into her sleek shoulder-length bob.
I couldn’t recall what movie we’d wanted to see or receiving any texts from Paisley, but this time, when confronted with the gap in my memory, the panic wasn’t there. It felt almost funny, as though Paisley and I were in on a joke. “Sorry,” I said cheerily. “Must have given my secretary the night off.”
Paisley huffed as we wandered together back into the atrium. Organ music still trickled in from the sanctuary. Pastor Long stood at the main doors, shaking hands with families as they hurried out to catch their eleven o’clock brunch reservations.
I could tell Paisley wasn’t actually mad. That was the thing about the two of us—we could never stay mad at each other. Especially because our popularity multiplied when we came in a pair. We both knew it. Blond and brunette. Pick your flavor. Or your poison.
“Okay,” she continued. “So then what had you so occupied that you needed to subject me to another night of watching the Billys play Xbox in William’s basement?” She idly strolled over to a nearby snack table and took a store-packaged cherry Danish from the tray.
“Liam,” I replied without thinking. It was the first thing that popped into my head. That was what I remembered from last night. Liam. I was certain of it.
Paisley stopped before she could take a bite. “Liam?” She lowered the pastry. “So much for that long-winded speech you gave about swearing off boys. How long did that last? One month? Two, tops. That has to be some kind of record for you, Cass.”
I remembered the speech in question. It was only days after Paisley, Ava, Ashley, Erica, and I had visited Dearborn for our big girls’ night out. We were at our usual table in the cafeteria and Ava had asked who I thought would invite me to prom this year. When I’d insisted I wasn’t going and that, even more shockingly, I was giving up boys altogether—like they were carbs or something—my friends had been ready to declare my depression clinical.
Maybe they’d been right.
“It’s not like that,” I said, trying not to stare at the jam-filled Danish.
When Paisley took a bite, some of the frosting flaked off and I fought the urge to lunge after it. I’d already gorged myself on pancakes this weekend, so church pastries weren’t on the agenda. Not when I’d decided that I wasn’t ready to return to chubby mathlete obscurity quite yet after all. Not when I’d just reminded myself of all I had to lose. Not when Sunshine had reminded me, that was. Girls did not claw their way to the top for nothing. That was important for me to remember.
Paisley followed my eyes, smirked, and took another monster bite. “It’s Liam Buckley,” she mumbled, mouth full. “If it’s not like that, you’re doing it wrong. Trust me.”
I chewed on my lip, debating how much to tell her. Would Liam let anyone in on our little secret? Were other people using Sunshine, too, and I never knew? Part of me wanted to tell her. For better or worse—let’s face it, many times it was for worse—Paisley was my best friend. But did that mean she had to know every little thing about me?
She didn’t know about Dearborn or the boys or the aches that followed in my body and in my heart.