Teen Hyde

by Chandler Baker

  THIRTEEN

  Cassidy

  I didn’t trust myself.

  Even when I woke up in sweatpants and a T-shirt and, as far as I could tell, nothing had changed, I didn’t trust myself.

  My limbs still felt pleasantly warm and lithe, the lingering effects of last night’s dose of Sunshine, but the moment my alarm went off, doubt began creeping in. I stared up at the ceiling for as long as I could, trying to convince myself that all was well. I was in my bed. I felt healthy. Reasonably happy.

  I once read an article in a teen magazine that said trust was the most important thing in any good relationship. I guessed they were right because I didn’t trust myself and my relationship with me was quickly deteriorating.

  I clambered out of bed and began dressing. Meanwhile, the feeling of unease grew. I washed and blow-dried my hair. I put on pink lipstick and mascara. I shimmied into jeans that fit and a cream top with ruffles on the sleeves. When I looked in the mirror I saw a very convincing version of myself. Pretty. Put together. In control.

  What was it, then, that gave me away?

  I stared harder at my reflection. It felt like a ghost of someone else lingered right there with me, just out of sight.

  I flicked off the light and called for Honor to hurry up or else we’d be late for first period. Then, I went downstairs and threw my bag in the backseat and climbed in to wait for her. When I twisted the key in the ignition the dashboard lit up.

  My heart sputtered with the engine. When I got home last night, I’d checked the mileage. I’d memorized it.

  Now staring at me from behind my steering wheel was a number that was fifty miles more. Nowhere in town would be that far. The closest city was about twenty-five miles away. And it was Dearborn.

  Honor appeared, hustling out the front door. A flannel shirt hung halfway off her shoulder and she was trying to tug it up while balancing a stack of books. I turned my face into a mask of calm. Underneath, though, my heartbeat skipped wildly out of control. And my knuckles turned white as they wrapped themselves into a death grip around the leather wheel. I felt like someone was haunting me. But I was pretty sure that someone was me.

  I repressed a shudder. Honor tumbled into the seat beside me with a huff.

  “Sorry,” she said, breathless.

  I smiled at her and helped her push her book bag into the backseat. “That’s okay.”

  I let her choose the radio station as we drove to school.

  “You’re an actress, Honor,” I said, keeping my tone casual.

  She sat up straighter and adjusted the chest strap on her seat belt. “I guess. I only have a really small speaking part in the play this semester.”

  I shrugged. “You’re only a freshman, silly. So, when you’re acting, you’re trying to convince the audience that you’re someone other than who you actually are, right?” She nodded. “How do you do that?” I asked, for once genuinely interested.

  She looked sidelong at me. “You never ask me about drama.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Indulge me.”

  “Well, there are different methods, I guess. The main ones we’ve learned about are Stanislavski’s system—that’s when an actor draws on his own emotional memory to portray a character’s emotions on stage. The actor focuses internally. Like, if you wanted to depict a happy character, you’d call upon memories in which you were really happy and try to channel that outward,” she explained. “And then there’s Method acting. The two are really closely related, I guess. Only with Method acting, you don’t just use your own memories. You kind of imagine memories, I think, using the circumstances of the scene. Mrs. White says that Method acting is more honest so it looks more believable on stage.”

  I jutted my lower lip out thoughtfully, only partially focusing on the road in front of me. “Interesting.”

  Honor perked up. “I’m a Method actor, you know,” she said, not bothering to conceal the pride behind that statement.

  My chest throbbed with love for my little sister. “I think I am, too,” I replied. We pulled into my parking space.

  She grinned back at me and unclicked her seat belt.

  With the road I was going down I was in danger of losing her. I was in danger of losing all of this. She started to open the door. I stopped her. I reached across the center console and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Have a good day, okay?”

  Honor was never skeptical of anything. In this moment, I loved that about her. She hugged me back, kissed me on the cheek, and then scrambled off to her first class.

  Meanwhile, I prepared to spend the next seven hours Method acting.

  Like when Ava and Erica sat down at our lunch table to talk about whether we should have matching hairstyles for tomorrow’s game, I thought about what the character Cassidy Hyde would do, channeled it, and flipped through a dozen pictures on celebrity tabloid websites until we settled on a half-up, half-down look, light curls, lots of hair spray.

  Or when the class president asked if I’d volunteer for prom committee, I pretended to be super flattered. In fact, I pretended so well, I nearly convinced myself. I even affected a slight strut in my step as my wedges clacked down the hall. Prom committee, here I come.

  When I had the opportunity in class to drop the act, I got busy devising a concrete plan. I figured, at the end of the day, it was a bit like an exorcism. I needed to follow the steps to banish whoever I was at night. I had to stop myself.

  This past week it was like a light switch had flipped on. What had I been doing the past few months? It was as though I hadn’t realized how fragile the balance of everything was and how much I really had to lose.

  So what if those boys had taken something from me? Was I prepared to throw my whole life down the drain after it? I had best friends, an enviable position as the head of the most popular group in school, good grades, and a sister that looked up to me. That was worth something.

  I should have been smarter than this. There was a mathematical theory in economics that said you shouldn’t consider sunk costs when making future decisions. Well, wasn’t that exactly what I’d been doing? That terrible night in Dearborn was my sunk cost, but I would be an idiot to let it dictate my entire future.

  I sucked on the end of my pen, once again zoning out in Mr. Yotsuda’s class. I’d haphazardly taken down the notes on the board, not bothering to solve any of the equations this time. Below, in my notebook, I’d written a numbered list, penned neatly on the bottom half of the page.

  1. Act normal, be normal

  2. Stop all nighttime activity

  3. Sunshine (?)

  I studied the question mark. I didn’t want to believe that the drug could have anything to do with the gaps in my memory. After all, it had yanked me from the fog I’d been stumbling around inside for months. But, if I was thinking rationally—and I was determined to think rationally now—I couldn’t take the risk. Sunshine would have to go.

  I took my pen and drew a hard line through the third item on my list. No more Sunshine. I felt tendrils of trepidation curling around me.

  But by the end of the school day, I was still acting my way into feeling strong and capable. In fact, I was ready to nominate myself for a Golden Globe. Even Oilerettes’ practice went off without a hitch.

  “So are you coming tonight?” Paisley asked as the team trickled out of the locker room and into the open evening air. “You have to.”

  “Coming where?” I asked.

  “To my house,” Paisley scoffed.

  I felt two inches shorter and bone tired from a day spent trying to play a convincing Cassidy Hyde. I eyed the distance between me and my car longingly. “Why would I do that?” I asked, trying not to sound as exhausted as I felt.

  “Hello, we talked about this last week. I sent out an e-mail. Having people over. Night before. Pregame before the big game? Any bell up in that head tower of yours to ring?”

  “Oh. Um…” I shifted my weight on my feet. “I don’t know. I kind of have a lot of homework.
”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold all your AP classes over my head. Those are your problem.”

  I felt the weight of my muscles dragging me down. Besides, nighttimes were tricky for me. I had to remember item number two on my list and, above all else, I absolutely could not trust myself, especially at night.

  “Cass, it’s really important.” Paisley stamped her foot. “People will expect you to be there. We’re a duo, remember?” She pouted. I couldn’t help but be a bit touched. And if I knew my best friend, she wasn’t going to let up.

  “Okay,” I said, cutting her off before she could freak out. “I’ll think about it. Think is the operative word.”

  Her heart-shaped lips curled to the side in a triumphant smirk. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I shook my head, but didn’t protest any further. I could deal with her later.

  The drive home was short. I listened to commercials telling me how to get liposuction without any surgery. I ate dinner with my family. Mom asked me if we were prepared for tomorrow’s game and if she needed to get me anything for it. Dad asked if I’d signed up for the SAT yet and even though he’d been asking me the same thing for a few weeks straight, this time I actually made a mental note to do it.

  When I dragged my feet up the stairs carting a pile of textbooks and making a plan to finish a set of math problems in bed, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my pajamas and fall fast asleep. But as I crawled onto my mattress, I remembered my promise to Paisley to think about coming tonight.

  The whole team would be together. The old me would have gone in a heartbeat. My parents would have encouraged it, even on a school night.

  It was then that I felt the pull of the Sunshine stashed in the music box on my nightstand. One teeny tiny pill and I could go and be the life of the party. I could be fun, beautiful, all the things that I wanted to be.

  I took a deep breath and opened the lid. The yellow pills looked like candy drops, ready for the taking. I swallowed. My fingers pinched the plastic bag and retrieved it from the box. I unzipped the top, shook the remaining pills into my hand. So tempting. I stared at them, my mouth watering.

  Then, I went to the bathroom, dropped them in the toilet, and flushed. There. I dusted my palms off.

  I tried to ignore the deep groan of my psyche. I had to stay on track. No slipups. I needed something else to keep me grounded. So I scoured the medicine cabinet until I found a half-full bottle of nighttime cough syrup. I brought it to my nightstand. I dug my keys out of my gym bag, looked around for a place to hide them, and wound up throwing them under the bed. Finally, I took duct tape that I had left over from sticking up Homecoming posters and taped three long strips along the crack of my door from as high as I could reach all the way to the floor.

  I tucked myself under the sheets and pulled my computer into my lap. I clicked through my e-mail until I found Paisley’s message.

  Put on your rally caps and get ready to rumble. Gathering at my house Thursday to pregame before the Big Game. 1130 San Alamo Way. Be there, bitches.

  I smiled. Even though she drove me crazy, I still missed Paisley. I felt bad that I was skipping out, but someday maybe she’d understand it was for the best. Someday maybe I’d even tell her about Dearborn.

  But for tonight, I typed out a quick message apologizing for not being able to make it, citing a history test that I forgot about as the reason. I pushed the laptop to the side, opened the cap on the cough syrup.

  I sniffed the contents—grape—swirled the liquid around, held it up to my lips. Try getting up after this. “Bottoms up,” I said, and took a long, hard swig.

  FOURTEEN

  Marcy

  Every night I woke up in a room filled with things I’d never choose. Girly, frilly things that made me recoil like a vampire in sunlight.

  I’d become aware of her right away. I saw her—my—face planted on the dresser in picture frames, cheeks squeezed against those of friends I’d never have. Would never want to have.

  We seemed to move in parallel, her and I. I could never quite reach out and wrap my fingers around that life. Then again, I’d never really tried.

  Tonight was different, though.

  I woke up with a dull headache thudding at the base of my skull. My arms felt heavy and when I looked to my right, I noticed a half-empty bottle of cough syrup PM open on the nightstand. I didn’t feel sick. I felt groggy. I resisted the urge to lie back and fade into unconsciousness and instead lowered my feet to the floor and cracked my neck.

  That was when I saw the door. Three strips of silver duct tape covered the seam, sealing me inside.

  The possibility that the cough syrup had been a coincidence—an attempt at curing an illness—now felt slimmer. I narrowed my eyes. Who—or what—did she think she was dealing with? A child?

  I crossed the room to study her handiwork. I tested the edges with my fingernails. The tape was stuck tight. No matter. I went to the dresser to retrieve the keys to the car.

  Only they weren’t there.

  I searched the nightstand, a gym bag nearby, blankets bunched on top of the mattress. Nowhere in sight.

  I was beginning to get anxious. I felt cooped up. Trapped. I always got out of this place, her place, as soon as possible. Where were they?

  I began to seethe. I went into the closet and began tearing clothes off the hangers, rummaging through the pockets. All of them were empty. In a fit, I emptied the contents of all the bedroom drawers. I didn’t find the keys. I tore through every purse she owned without hearing the jangle of metal.

  As a last resort I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed. There, I found the clump of keys hidden farther under the four-poster frame than I could reach. It was a spot they couldn’t have fallen accidentally.

  She had placed them there.

  I shimmied on my stomach until my fist clenched around them. My hollow insides were transforming into a bubbling pit of anger. How dare she? My teeth ground like a mortar and pestle. She’d tried to stop me. She’d attempted to affect what was mine. Stupid, stupid girl.

  A computer sat dark-screened and opened, still warm. I swished my fingers over the mousepad. It came to life. In a window onscreen was an invitation to an e-mail address for Cassidy Hyde.

  Hello, Cassidy.

  A party. Now that could be interesting. I liked having a good time. I liked parties. And it was clear that Cassidy needed to lose her privileges. This is why we can’t have nice things, Cassidy.

  Swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I stripped off the flannel pajamas she’d put on in favor of black jeans and a tank top. I shoved my feet into a pair of boots and laced them up to my ankles.

  By the time that I’d stretched and shaken out the tension in my wrists, the spiderweb threads of Cassidy had been shed and it was go time.

  The drive to Paisley’s house was short. Nearly walkable. I pulled up to a three-story pink house with white shutters. I’d never seen something so large and pink before and the sight of it made me want to tear off the siding and burn it in a fire.

  Instead, I parked. My boots made scraping noises against the brick walkway that led up to the house where I rang the bell glowing softly beside the little blue door. Several seconds passed. Commotion behind the door. Then a girl with short blond hair appeared. This girl’s face appeared more than any other in the photographs on Cassidy’s dresser. She was sharper and a bit meaner looking in person and I hated her instantly. A laugh died on her face the second she saw me.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. She was even more petite than she seemed in pictures.

  I walked straight past her into the foyer, where I stopped and stared at her home. Porcelain plates were affixed to the wall as decoration. I ran my fingers around a few of the smooth edges. “You seem surprised to see me.”

  She still hadn’t closed the door. “I—we—you said you weren’t coming.”

  My boots looked too thick and military against the clean marble. “Why?�
� I turned my attention from the china plates and waited expectantly while she seemed to decide what to do about that door.

  At last she made a choice. The door clicked into place and she slid the lock. “Are you okay?” When she frowned she looked like a pouting doll. “You seem … off.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Good. This was a start. Time to teach Cassidy and her band of playthings a lesson once and for all. “Never felt so alive,” I said.

  “All righty then. Well, we’re all in the upstairs game room.” I decided the conversation wasn’t worth it as I followed her through a kitchen large enough to feed a full restaurant’s clientele and up two flights of steps. My boots pounded the stairs too loudly.

  The game room was outfitted with two thick-cushioned leather sofas, a real live pinball machine, and Skee-Ball. How spoiled did a kid have to be to need their own pinball machine? French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking a shimmering blue-green pool underneath.

  I noticed that my boots were tracking light footprints of dirt into the carpet. And just because I had the urge, I ground them in a bit deeper until I was sure to leave heftier smudges.

  In the room, I found ten kids my age playing video games and nursing beers. The conversation fell to a hush when I entered and I had the not-so-sneaking suspicion that the room’s occupants had been talking about Cassidy before I’d come in.

  “Look who’s here,” the blond hostess said, by way of introduction. I stared at everyone. They all stared back at me like a bunch of lazy dairy cows in a field. Too stupid to keep from being tipped over.

  “Hey, Cassidy,” one boy piped up. He was attractive in a very obvious sort of way. Slender, slouched shoulders, an easy, imperfect grin.

  “Well.” I scanned the room, ignoring him. “This sucks. I thought this was supposed to be a party, but you’re just sitting here playing, like, Mario Brothers or something.”

  I walked deeper into the room and punched some buttons on the pinball machine. Nothing happened.