Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(20)

“Is it because I’m a sophomore here?” she asked, beginning to take a step forward. She froze when she noticed me tense. “Because it’s not like I’m wanting to sit at your lunch table or anything. I’m not trying to embarrass you. I just wanted to thank you. Properly. Sometimes I think I make people uncomfortable and—”

“Look,” I said, moving my gym bag to the other shoulder. The parking lot was emptying out now. Exhausted, all the other Oilerettes had made it into their cars without the usual gossip and joking around. My own stomach rumbled, reminding me it was dinnertime. “I don’t know you and, trust me, that has nothing to do with your age. It was nice meeting you, Lena, but I—I need to go.”

“Wait.” Her dark eyes held me in place. “Please, take my number.” Before I could stop her she took a notebook from her bag, tore a corner off the top, and was scribbling on it. She shoved it in my hand. I pursed my lips and tried to decide what to do with it. The sound I made was noncommittal. A brush-off.

I backpedaled and then with a final glance at the girl with the dark bangs, deep-set eyes, and too much jewelry, I turned and headed for my car. I was several paces away and had just clicked the button on my keys so that the headlights flickered twice, when Lena called from behind me, “I think we should both stay away from Dearborn.” Icy tendrils branched from my ankles up through my spine at the mention of Dearborn. “Be safe, Marcy.”

Blood thudded against my ears. I didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t stop. I quickened my steps the rest of the gray distance between me and my car and, once inside, ripped the scrap of paper in two and let its remains flutter into my cup holder. And then I fled. Without looking back.





EIGHT

Marcy

The sound of a thudding bass floated down the street and shook the windows of the Beta Psi house. Construction paper blacked out the windows, but the painted white sheet still draped from the second story, announcing tonight’s throwback rave.

A lucky break.

College students stumbled in and out of the house, talking in loud voices as though they hadn’t adjusted to the drop in volume outdoors. I traveled up the walkway, slipping in among them, and made my way into the home of the Beta Psi brotherhood.

Immediately, I was plunged into frenzied flashes of on-off darkness. Strobe lights blinked and the world around me shrank disconcertingly to the distance I could see between blinding flickers of light. I hadn’t known what to expect. What was a throwback rave, anyway? Now I saw girls dressed in neon spandex, ponytails crimped and swept to the side. Boys wore aviator sunglasses and tank tops with atrocious patterns, all homages to a much tackier decade. Glow necklaces were worn around heads, necks, and wrists, giving the illusion of moving targets. And from somewhere a black light shone over the crowd, turning white T-shirts electric blue and Crest-strip smiles eerily radioactive in the dark.

I hovered near the entrance, letting my eyes adjust. Gradually, I began to thread my way through the thrashing bodies, cups of beer, and swirling smoke. The music pounded my chest, egging me on as I searched the faces.

I wouldn’t be greedy tonight. One boy. A tasty appetizer. That would be my prize. I worked the room, passing a banister, a tarp-covered pool table, and a keg.

“Do you know a Beta Psi brother about this height?” I yelled in the ear of a guy filling up his cup from the keg hose and held up my hand to suggest a person only an inch taller than me.

His grin was sloppy. He raised his cup. “Cheers,” he yelled back.

I waved him off and moved on.

I tried again. “A Beta Psi brother. This height?”

The boy appraised me, shrugged, and pointed to his ear like he couldn’t hear before wandering away. Frustration built up inside me.

I disappeared into the throng of people who were all oblivious to my hunt. Faces appeared and disappeared in stop-motion. Disorienting. A nightmarish haze. I was tracing the entire perimeter of the downstairs floor when my heart fell out of rhythm with the music. There he was. Short One. The one who’d watched from behind his video camera.

It was my turn to watch him now. He stood smiling over a red cup, talking with two boys that I didn’t recognize. Their faces blurred into the background. Neither of them were part of my evening. They were collateral.

Short One wore a bright yellow T-shirt and white shorts that glowed underneath the black light. Target practice. Hatred bubbled up from my gut like a pot of water reaching its boiling point.

I found you.

I removed the knife from the pocket of my black hoodie and stashed it in the side of my boot. I then unzipped the hoodie and draped it over my arm. Underneath, I was wearing a skintight black tank top. I cupped my breasts and pushed them higher up in my bra. Better.

It took me ten steps to cut the distance between us. I counted them. I also made them count. I walked with a swing in my hips that begged to be lingered over. He did.

“May I?” I asked, cocking my head and holding my hand out for his cup.

His brows pulled together, but he offered me his plastic cup. I brought it to my lips and took a swig. The sickly sweet scent of beer poured over my taste buds.

“Do I know you?” he asked in my ear.

“I don’t know. Do you?” I said coquettishly, and took another sip.

“You look familiar.” He squinted his eyes, trying to place me between the flashes of strobe light.