Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)(35)

*

“HER.” FROM A distance, the shot zoomed in on a girl who looked like me. Who I knew, deep down, was me. Except this me was red-cheeked and glowing. This me was happy.

“Small boobs,” came one of the voices offscreen. On-screen, I laughed like something was really funny. Like things could still be really funny.

“Shut up, they’re fine,” said another voice.

“She’s totally hot,” replied the first.

I kept stealing glances in the direction of the camera. It was clear that I could see them watching me and that I was performing.

“Scale from one to ten?” said a third voice.

“Nine-point-five,” responded the first, and there was the clink of a glass being slammed down on a table for punctuation.

“Well, what the hell are you waiting on then?” asked a fourth. “Christ, Brody, get her over here, buddy.”

“Why does it always have to be me?” said the voice that was presumably Brody’s.

The lens zoomed out. There I was with three other girls, but I still took up the center of the shot. Jock Strap came into view. It was clear why it always had to be him.

He turned his baseball cap backward and shoved his hands into his pockets. He had a handsome, square jaw. The face of an underwear model. The pleasure that came with his attention danced in my eyes. Eyes that said, he noticed me? His devastating good looks translated onto film. Honestly, it should be criminal for anyone to be that naturally attractive.

He put his hat on my head and I giggled. Then, he hiked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the camera. Offscreen, the boys whooped, a big welcoming whoop, a come-with-us whoop, a we-are-great-guys whoop. I squeezed the arm of the blond girl next to me as if to say, Can you believe this?

I glanced back at the girls as I followed Jock Strap over to the other table. Right away, Jock Strap excused himself to go to the restroom. My disappointment was immediately replaced when a tall boy with an expensive-looking shirt and crocodile-skin boots put his arm around me and hugged me to his side like we were long-lost pals, like I was the most special girl in the room. “Let us buy you a drink,” the one I knew now as Circus Master said.

And buy they did. We all took a shot. My nose scrunched as the clear liquid went down. There were five of them total. I grew bolder. I told a joke. They all laughed.

The thinnest boy, the one with a cigarette tucked behind his ear—I couldn’t help noticing he was the only boy who wasn’t conventionally attractive, with acne scars in the hollows of his cheek; Lucky Strike—leaned toward me. “You’re the hottest girl in the entire bar, you know that?” I blushed, but didn’t look surprised. “That’s why we chose you.”

“Prettiest girl we’ve seen in real life,” said the voice behind the camera. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

“I wouldn’t not say it,” replied the long-haired boy, tucking a strand behind his ear and slowly taking a sip off the top of his beer. California. Jessup.

“Don’t tell your friends.” Circus Master slapped me good-naturedly on the back. “I’m sorry, did we offend you? We didn’t mean to offend you. We know they’re your friends, don’t we, guys?” He surveyed the group.

“No, no,” I rushed in to say. “You didn’t offend me.” There was a smile behind my glass as I raised it to my lips. “At all.”

Circus Master flattened his palm to his chest. “That’s a relief. Hey.” He scratched his temple. “I just had a thought. Why don’t we get out of here?”

I lowered my glass. The flash of disappointment that played across my face would have been obvious to an astronaut orbiting the moon. “Oh. Okay.”

California Jessup fished for his wallet in the back of his slouchy jeans and laid down a couple dollars on the table. “Chill. They’re talking about all of us. You think we’d leave our best girl?” He raised an eyebrow to me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck back to see him.

“Let’s blow this place.” Circus Master gave a whistle and twirled his finger in the air as if to round us all up.

“Um, hold on,” I practically squeaked. “Let me just tell my friends.”

I hustled offscreen while the camera panned the group of faces. Smug. Eyes twinkling with laughter. Mean. Predatory.

When I reappeared, Circus Master welcomed me back in, reworking his face into that of a gracious host.

“I told them I’d call them tomorrow,” I said with a hint of pride.

Circus Master grinned down at me. I looked around at the other boys. As we moved together through the crowd, there was a shot of Jock Strap’s—Brody’s—devastatingly handsome face, still gorgeous as ever, but wearing a look that was unmistakably distant, as though he were bored. Or indifferent.

Outside, Circus Master released his genial hold on me. The camera kept zooming in on me, sliding the focus down my body.

“God, it’s so goddamn refreshing to meet a girl that gets it, that can hang with the guys. Isn’t it?” Circus Master said in a loud voice.

“Hell, yeah.” California Jessup high-fived me.

The camera caught only slivers of the background, but gradually as we walked, it shifted from rows of well-lit restaurants and bars to dark storefronts. Then parking lots.

“What did I tell you? Hottest girl in the bar,” said the voice behind the camera. There was shuffling. The lens tipped and then righted itself, then resumed bouncing with the steps of its operator.