Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(14)

She flattened her face into the mattress. “Get off me,” she screamed. She tucked the phone underneath her stomach. I straddled her, one knee on either side of her little-girl hips.

“Who did you send them to, Honor? This isn’t funny.”

“No one! Gross, Cass, you’re all sweaty.”

I wedged my arm between her and the bed. Cheerleading and two extra years had made me twice as strong as her. I felt for her fingers and pried them off the pastel blue case one by one until she lost her grip on the phone.

“Got it!” I yelled triumphantly. I kept her pinned down while I scrolled through the contents of her phone and found the pictures. Three photographs were saved side by side. One with Honor turned to the side, her back arched, her hair cascading until it reached the small of her back. One straight on, but I could tell she was using the sides of her arms to create the small line of cleavage. And one shot over her shoulder to get a view of her butt. “Oh, disgusting, Honor.” My nose wrinkled and I hit “delete” on each of the photos. “Here’s your dumb phone back.” I tossed it on the mattress next to her head and crawled off of her. “Next time I catch you doing something like that I’m telling Mom.”

She rolled over. Her chest was rising and falling like it was her that had just run stadiums. “Oh, I guess it’s okay when you do this stuff because you’re Cassidy Hyde.”

“I don’t do any of that.” I wiped sweat from my forehead. But of course I remembered the boy behind the video recorder in Dearborn, red light blinking in my face, and wondered if she was a little bit right.

“That’s not what I heard.” She scooted off the foot of the bed. From the floor she grabbed a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and immediately looked less like a cyborg had taken over her body. “You must be pleased now that you have Mom and Dad convinced that you’re back to being Miss Perfect.” She tugged on the pants. “But it’s not easy being Miss Perfect’s baby sister, okay? You could at least invite me to one of those parties or something. We are related, you know, and we do go to the same high school.”

My throat tightened. I wasn’t sure I wanted my sister near a party ever. Especially not now.

She waited for a few seconds for me to respond. When I didn’t, her shoulders sagged and she moved for the door.

“You’ll thank me later,” I called after her. But she was already down the hallway and I wasn’t sure if she heard.

I shook my head and slid off the side of the bed. I’d left my purse on my nightstand after church. Honor was right about one thing. The relief I felt seeing my parents’ faces now that they believed I was back to being the old Cassidy left me feeling a hundred pounds lighter. Better than any Gwyneth Paltrow juice fast. And besides, they didn’t just believe it was true, it was true.

I felt strong again, functional, vibrant. The leftover effects of my run still hummed through me like a tuning fork. My sister was just naive. What did she know about the world? Nothing.

I unzipped the top of my purse, fished out the ziplock bag, popped the other half of the tablet into my mouth, then swallowed.





SIX

Marcy

If everyone’s life was a story, then any given night was a scene waiting to be played out. Sure, those boys had momentarily stolen the show, but I was returning to take back the narrative. Surprise. I sure hoped they liked twist endings.

I’d left my car on a side street and now stood at the end of a wide lane. Lamps lit the redbrick street of fraternity row and I hugged the iron fences that hemmed in large colonial homes where I passed a boy with his arm draped casually over his girlfriend’s shoulder. Her oversized sorority T-shirt hung down to mid-thigh. The boy gave me a slight nod as I slipped by and I wondered how well I blended in with the college students. Did I look young to the couple the way I should have looked young—too young—to those boys that night?

I supposed it didn’t matter anymore. Not when I could already taste the coppery, metallic tang of revenge on my tongue. I studied the letters on each of the houses, searching for the funny-looking B and a symbol that resembled either a deformed W or a misshapen trident.

I went by three houses before I spotted it. A two-story house with white columns framing a porch. A sheet hung out of one of the second-story windows. It was painted with neon-green letters to announce a Monday night throwback rave mixer, whatever that was. It sounded pointless and barbaric. So basically, exactly what I’d expect. On the untended lawn was a long table, strewn with red plastic cups.

This was it. Beta Psi.

The fraternity from California’s and Short One’s T-shirts. Heat crept up my neck and burned my ears as I took in the evidence of the days and nights of merriment they’d enjoyed in the weeks since they’d stolen from me what was only mine to give. The one with the long hair who’d told me to chill out—California—and Short One—the boy who’d hid behind the blinking red light of the camera, watching. Funny how the pair of them had given me the clues I needed to track the group. A couple shirts and Greek letters. Not funny ha-ha, mind you. At least not for them.

I hated them both. Hovering outside the iron gate, I watched and listened. It was a Sunday night and the volume of campus life had been turned down to a dull hum of activity that seemed to take place behind closed doors.