Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(19)

“I don’t know,” I said, shifting my weight. “A lot, I guess.” I hoped I didn’t sound overeager, like some kind of junkie. But Sunshine wasn’t a normal drug. I viewed it as simply a boost. That was it. The fact that I had gaps in my memory? Worrisome, sure. But were they so bad that I’d give up my newfound happiness? No way. I had enough bad memories that I could certainly spare a few. “How much can you give me?”

He gestured me around to the other side of the car and told me to sit in the passenger seat. He dropped into the driver’s side next to me and reached over to pop open the glove compartment. He pulled out a zipped leather sheath that looked like it’d contain a car manual. Once open, I saw that instead it held a number of plastic bags, no bigger than the size of a credit card. He sifted through the bags. I knitted my fingers together anxiously and stared out the bug-splattered windshield. “I can give you a couple pills,” he said. “I’ll need to call my brother for more next week. You’re not my only customer, you know.”

I pivoted in my seat and leaned just a fraction of a degree forward. I was still wearing only my sports bra and yoga pants. “But I’m your prettiest, right?” I joked.

He pressed his lips together and appraised me. “You’ve got that right. Okay, fine. I can do a week’s worth, but that’s it. Deal?”

I nodded. My fingers were jittery as I pulled my own gym bag onto my lap and dug around for my wallet. I did some quick math in my head, counted out eighty dollars, and held it out for him. “Discount for buying in bulk,” I said.

A dimple cut into his cheek. “Whatever you say, captain.” He passed me two of the miniature plastic bags and I quickly stowed them in my bag. Members of the Oilerettes were beginning to make their way into the parking lot.

“I should leave,” I said. “Thanks for this.” I popped open the door and climbed out.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Cassidy Hyde.” He gave me a salute and, as soon as I closed the door, he was peeling out of his parking spot and away from the lot.

I stood there in the dust left behind from his tires spinning in gravel. I waved the cloud away, coughing.

“Cassidy!” someone called from a car nearby. “Cassidy, over here!”

My eyes strained against the darkening backdrop. I searched, following the voice, until at last I saw a hand waving through an open car window. I couldn’t make out the face inside.

My shoes crunched the gravel of the parking lot. I walked slowly over to the other car, an old VW Bug, painted an uneven blue, as though that hadn’t been the original color. A girl got out and stood kicking her toe into the ground. I didn’t recognize her. She had thick, dark bangs, wide eyes, and wore a jean jacket that was too big for her.

“Hi,” I said, plastering on a smile. “How’s it going?”

Paisley and I had different philosophies on Hollow Pines’s lower social caste. She preferred the “let them eat cake” approach and hardly deigned to talk to the girls that tended to try to get our attention in hopes of scoring a spot on the Oilerettes—or at least at our lunch table—while I leaned toward a gentler touch. After all, wasn’t I living proof that any of these girls could be a shopping spree and a Weight Watchers membership away from the ladder’s top rung?

I studied her for a moment. Dark clothes. Dark hair. Thin. Skin that had clearly never been touched by the sun—less Gwyneth Paltrow, more Walking Dead. I pegged her either for drama or band, with an outside shot of a glee club member. Either way, she wasn’t exactly going to be up for any class superlatives.

The girl’s bangs fell over her eyes and stuck to her lashes. “I … was hoping I could find you here. Sorry. I just wanted to thank you—”

My forehead wrinkled, not following. “Thank me for what?” Had I donated to her bake sale or charity drive in the last few weeks without remembering? It was possible.

“The other night.” She twisted a silver ring on her middle finger. “I know you … didn’t exactly catch me at my finest and, um, I’m sorry for that. It’s embarrassing. But I wanted you to know that I’m grateful.”

I looked around to see if there was anyone else to whom she could possibly be talking. “I think you must be confusing me with someone else,” I said, when I was clearly the only person within earshot.

She hesitated. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Is it, like, weird that I’m here or something?” For a girl I didn’t even know, she sure did apologize a lot. Then, she clapped her hand to her forehead. “Stupid me. Marcy. You like being called Marcy now, I guess, right? It was late. I wasn’t sure if that was a joke … or something.”

“Marcy?” So this wasn’t the typical Oilerette cling-on. This girl was straight-up delusional. “Look, you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t know a Marcy. My name’s Cassidy.” I held out my hand, if only because my Southern manners were so deeply ingrained that I couldn’t help myself. “Cassidy Hyde.”

The girl unlaced her fingers and hesitantly took my hand. Her skin was ice-cold. “I know,” she said, looking between my eyes and our palms pressed together. “I’m Lena … we met two nights ago … I—I know you remember.”

Without meaning to, I snatched my hand away. She startled as if I’d burned her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said more abruptly now.