Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(25)

That was a stupid train of thought. I should have been trying at least.

Still dressed in my pajamas, I wandered to the door, on the other side of which, to my great relief, I found Paisley waiting. “Ugh, I can’t tell if you’re either really sick or just plain sad,” she said, letting herself in.

Funny, neither could I. “Come right in, I guess.”

She turned and looked back at me from the foyer with a look like, please. She was right. Up until the last few months, Paisley and I had practically lived at each other’s houses. We’d traded clothes, slept over on school nights, and shared an unlimited supply of inside jokes. But ever since this fall, sometimes it’d seemed like someone had taken our photograph and torn it in half. Thinking about it, I felt a ballooning in my throat. Turned out, I actually missed Paisley.

I hovered close to the open front door, which I knew didn’t exactly say make-yourself-at-home, but whatever. I was already at a disadvantage seeing as how she’d found me in my ratty pj’s and would probably tell the whole squad how I was headed for breakdown city.

“I brought your assignments,” she said. “Mrs. Van Lullen didn’t want you falling any further behind this year after … well, you know. After everything.”

“Great.” I took the short stack of work sheets and folders from her and tucked them underneath my arm. “But don’t worry. I’ve got it completely under control. I’ll be back to school tomorrow.”

She raised her eyebrows. Paisley Wheelwright was the Zen master of saying every condescending thing she wanted to without actually ever saying a word. Sure, it was convenient when you were in on the joke. But now? It was just a pain in the ass.

“Well, friend to friend,” she said, “I’ll just say that the girls thought it was a little strange you missed practice the day after your big rally cry.”

“Really? Because Ava texted me to let me know she was worried about me and hoped I felt better,” I lied. “You know, friend to friend,” I added. I pulled back my shoulders and attempted to look as dignified as possible for someone wearing elastic-waisted pants with kittens on them.

A frown flitted across Paisley’s face and then disappeared. “That was nice of her.” Her voice rasped just a touch at the end.

I was Homecoming queen. I was a perfectionist. I was Cassidy Hyde. I smiled and it felt like I’d glued on somebody else’s. “Well, thanks for this. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

Paisley nodded and moved past me toward the door like a stranger. “Yeah, take care of yourself, Cass.”

“I always do.”

As soon as I shut the door behind her, I twisted the lock into place and pressed my back into the wood, breathing heavily. All around me it felt as if reality was crumbling and I was standing at the bottom of the rubble heap waiting to get buried.

My hands trembled. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to get the old Cassidy back, the way I had this weekend. I didn’t want to look at her through the wrong end of a telescope, barely recognizing the person I used to be or the person I’d become. I was too good for that.

But when I returned to my room and pulled the small plastic bag from the inside of my music box I felt a twinge of misgiving as I stared at the yellow pill balanced between my fingers. Something wasn’t right about these, or was it that something wasn’t right about me? I knew I needed to figure it out and I promised myself that I would start first thing tomorrow.

For now, exhaustion and depression picked apart my willpower until all that was left was crumbs. I spun the pill around and around in between those two fingers. Around and around. Until the crumbs were picked over, too.

Only half, I promised myself. That was all I needed. Just a half and then the calm would be there to carry me away.

Just a half and I’ll be okay.…





TEN

Marcy

Whoever said murder was an ugly business hadn’t tried it. The way the world bloomed red had been nothing short of poetic, but not even I had expected it to feel that good. With my fist closed around the knife as it sank through his skin, slipped between his ribs, and found his organs, I felt like a goddess. His blood had been warm—just how I’d imagined freshly churned cow’s milk—spilling over my fingers.

Blood everywhere. So much blood. I replayed the moments, a reel of the night’s greatest hits, and grinned like an idiot at the memory. Each recollection sat in my mind like a gift that could be unwrapped over and over. There was the second when he realized he’d made a mistake. The one when he knew with utter certainty that I wasn’t the quarry. The heartbeat when he saw the knife. The shriek when he felt the first stab of pain. The space in time when at last the light went out in his one remaining eye.

I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to raise my glass to justice. And revenge.

I twisted my hands around the steering wheel impatiently as I drove along the dead street of Grimwood. At stoplights I revved the engine, craving the roar of it in my chest. I wanted more. I reached over toward the passenger’s side and snapped open the glove compartment. Fishing around, I felt the phone and wallet I’d stripped from the body, the things that told me Mick Holcolm was dead. That was Short One’s name, it turned out. I bypassed both of these things—for now—and pulled out the two scraps of paper with jagged handwriting scrawled across it that I’d found last night discarded in the cup holder. When pieced together, I’d recognized the name.