Jekel Loves Hyde

by Beth Fantaskey

  “Hey, Jill.” Becca tapped my shoulder. “This experiment is graded, remember?”

  For once I didn’t care. Not about my grade or Becca’s. I kept watching the conference at the back of the room.

  Watching and wondering . . . why wouldn’t Tristen look at me?

  Chapter 52

  Tristen

  THE LAST THING I wanted to endure, beyond the stares of my classmates, was a lecture from my chemistry instructor. Wasn’t I in pain enough?

  Yet there he was waddling toward me, a concerned look on his fleshy face. “Tristen,” he said, surprising me by using my first name. Since I’d met Messerschmidt the previous year, I’d always been “Mr. Hyde,” which he seemed to intend to wield with sarcasm but which always came out gratifyingly deferential. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you fight again?”

  “No.”

  My teacher shook his head. “Tristen . . .”

  I struggled to unzip my bag and retrieve my textbook, using only my left hand, but the process was awkward. “It’s nothing,” I snapped, irritated by Messerschmidt’s nosiness and my own clumsy movements. “Nothing.”

  He wasn’t buying it, and leaned closer to me, lowering his voice. “Tristen, I’ve been teaching for nearly twenty years, and I’ve seen lots of cases like yours.”

  In spite of my pain and frustration I nearly smiled. He had? He knew of other chemically-induced half-monsters whose lives were chronicled in classic fiction?

  Messerschmidt wasn’t talking about my particular predicament, though. He was talking about something more common—and he was almost presciently on target. “I’ve seen domestic violence,” he said very quietly. “Sometimes fathers and sons fight, especially if there’s no mother to intervene.”

  I dropped the textbook to the table with a thud and wheeled on Messerschmidt. “Don’t bring up my mother,” I warned in a whisper, suddenly defensive. My mother was a victim, and certainly not to blame for the male Hydes’ struggles. I turned away and began slapping at the pages, looking for the day’s experiment, ignoring my teacher. Then I shot him a sharp, accusing—and suspicious—look. “And what do you know about my mother? My home life?”

  Messerschmidt fumbled with his tie and cleared his throat. “Um . . . I just . . . I’ve just heard that you and your father live alone.”

  “That’s not your business,” I advised him, staring hard into his dull eyes until he looked away.

  I resumed turning pages, not even sure at that point what I was looking for, and Messerschmidt stayed by my side, watching me struggle with the book.

  Eventually, exasperated, I looked to him again. “Is there something more? Because I’m falling behind with the day’s work.”

  Mr. Messerschmidt didn’t seem insulted by my tone or angry. He didn’t make one of his weak attempts at disciplining me. Instead he leaned closer again and said, “I just want you to know, Tristen, that if there is a problem, I could help you. I have room in my house, even, if you need a safe place to stay for a while.”

  I stared at him, shocked by the suggestion. I couldn’t imagine living with Mr. Messerschmidt even for one night, but the offer made me feel a bit guilty for venting my anger on him. “Thanks,” I said with grudging gratitude, “but everything is fine at home.”

  Messerschmidt pulled a pen and small pad from his breast pocket and scrawled a note. “Here’s my number and address,” he said, holding it out.

  I didn’t extend my hand. I honestly didn’t think I needed a place to stay. I’d awakened to find the beast gone—along with most of my father’s clothes, and I took that to mean I was living alone until he decided to confront me again. “No thanks,” I declined.

  “Take it.” Messerschmidt shook the paper at me. “You might need it.”

  “Fine.” I accepted the information, jamming it into my pocket. Then I shoved my book back into my bag and slung that over my shoulder, because I was obviously getting nowhere with my experiment, and—truth be told—I was having a difficult time dealing with Jill’s presence in the room. Even more than I’d expected.

  I wanted to look to her, but what if I saw pity in her eyes, too? Pity or, worse yet, love?

  Wouldn’t it be cruel to become more deeply involved with a girl who’d just suffered one loss to violence when I knew the odds against my own survival were even at best? I tried to move my wrist and flinched. Perhaps far less than even.

  “I’m going to take off,” I told Messerschmidt.

  He didn’t remind me that the bell wasn’t close to ringing. “Take care, Tristen,” he said. “And use that number if you want. Any time, day or night.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “And Tristen,” Messerschmidt added with a hand on my good arm.

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to get revenge,” he cautioned. “Adding violence to violence . . . it’s never a good idea.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that. Violence to violence to violence, down through the generations. That was the Hyde way. Even finding the cure to the madness couldn’t seem to stop the cycle entirely.

  “See you around,” I told him, walking toward the door.

  Some of my classmates actually edged aside as I passed, as if I might beat the hell out of them if they got too close. I didn’t check the expression on Jill’s face.

  Stepping out of the room, I closed the door behind me, shutting them all out, and pulled Messerschmidt’s contact information from my pocket, opening it and reading. It had been nice of him to want to help. For just a moment it had felt kind of good, too, to think that I had an ally. Even a weak one.

  Then I crumpled the paper, before I could memorize the information, and tossed it to the floor.

  What I needed to do, I had to do alone.

  Chapter 53

  Jill

  TRISTEN LEFT CLASS without ever even looking at me, and I somehow managed to help Becca finish our experiment, and eventually the bell rang, ending the longest, most miserable class I could ever remember living through.

  “Jill.” Becca stopped me as we headed out the door. “Can we talk?”

  My eyes darted, checking up and down the corridor, like Tristen might miraculously appear. “I can’t right now, Becca.”

  “It’s important,” she said, snagging my arm. “It’s about you and me and—”

  I pulled away, already knowing what she was about to say. She was going to ask about cheating again. Our first big exam was looming fast, and I’d been waiting for her to bring up the subject again. But how could she even think about the test? Hadn’t she seen Tristen? Didn’t she know somebody had to help him?

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, walking away from her. “We’ll talk later, maybe.”

  I left her standing in the hall, and without even really thinking about what I was doing, I headed for the main door at the front of the building—and I walked right out, in the middle of the day, without a pass.

  Running home, I dug in the junk drawer in the kitchen until I found an old set of keys. Then I ran out to the garage and yanked the dirty tarp off Dad’s Volvo and hopped in and turned over the engine, which took about three tries. The tires, which were low on air, seemed to stick to the garage floor when I first hit what was left of the gas. I pressed harder, they pulled loose, and I backed out into the sunlight.

  Tristen had been right. Driving the car . . . it was okay. I hardly thought about what had happened maybe on the very seat where I sat. As much as the crime still haunted me, and would always define my life to some degree, I guess I was too busy worrying about the bloodshed that might be ahead to agonize over blood shed in the past.

  Chapter 54

  Tristen

  I STRETCHED OUT on my bed, eyes closed, trying to concentrate. Was there anything that I could do to prepare? To better my odds when the inevitable showdown occurred?

  I could think of nothing, so I lay there, resting and aching—and waiting.

  I finally managed to sleep, only to be awakened by a ligh
t touch on my shoulder. “What?” I started, rolling to my side and pushing myself upright, forgetting my broken bones—until a sharp pain tore through my body.

  “Oh, hell,” I groaned, resting back, hurt but relieved. And yet dismayed, too, for my visitor wasn’t a beast intent on claiming my soul. It was Jill Jekel, the other person I’d wanted to avoid, even though I’d known that meeting was inevitable, too.

  In fact, a part of me was almost more scared to face Jill than to grapple with the monster, because the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that Jill and I shouldn’t become more deeply involved. It would be wrong, selfish, to draw Jill closer, only to get myself killed, and I knew that I should fight my desire to be with her, lean on her. Yet looking into Jill’s worried, warm hazel eyes, I knew the odds of me winning that battle were even worse than my odds of winning against the beast.

  Chapter 55

  Tristen

  “JILL, YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE,” I said, sitting up again, more carefully, and holding my throbbing wrist. “My father might come here, and I’m not sure I can protect you.”

  “I’m not scared,” Jill said softly, kneeling beside me, studying my face, “just worried about you.”

  Once again I was struck by how brave she was when it really counted. Just a few weeks before she’d been nervous about being alone with me in her own house, almost refused to allow me inside. But now, when I was in trouble and the stakes were truly high—when we might be interrupted by a monster bent on killing at least one of us—Jill had her back to the door, not concerned for her own safety. Worried only about my welfare.

  “Let me see your wrist, Tristen,” she said, gently taking my wrecked arm in her hands. “It doesn’t look like it’s set right.”

  I let her cradle and turn the shattered bones. “It was tricky to do on my own with one hand.”

  She began to unwind my makeshift bandage, working carefully, her touch feather light. “You should have called me or gone to a hospital. Or both.”

  “I couldn’t do either of those things,” I said. “I don’t want you to be involved. And I don’t want any authorities involved, either.” My voice grew thick with emotions I’d suppressed. Feelings that I hadn’t even known I harbored. “He’s my father, Jill.”

  She turned her face up to mine, and I knew that she was thinking about her own dad, who’d betrayed her, leading a double life and stealing her college savings. Yet Jill wouldn’t have turned in her father, either. Not until there was literally no other way—if then, even. What a strange but powerful bond of misery and betrayal and loyalty we shared.

  After a moment of silent understanding Jill resumed unwinding my bandage, and although I knew that I should order her to leave, I let her stay. I didn’t think the Jill Jekel who went wordlessly to the cabinet in my bathroom—returning with alcohol, a washcloth, and a pair of scissors—that girl wouldn’t have listened to me, anyway.

  Somewhere along the way, as she dabbed the damp cloth against the gash on my cheek, shushing me softly when I muttered a curse but holding my chin firmly in place, I ceded my dominant role in our relationship, and Jill assumed her proper place as full partner. Never again would I call all the shots—and that was all right by me. I had grown tired of self-sufficiency, anyway.

  “That looks better,” she said, stepping back and observing her work. She glanced around the room. “Do you have something I could cut up to make a new bandage?”

  I nodded toward a pile of clothes, heaped in a plastic basket. “Those are clean.”

  “Okay.” She dug in the laundry and chose a white T-shirt. Sitting down next to me, she took the scissors and bent her head, cutting a neat, long strip of fabric. “Give me your arm again,” she said, moving my hand to her lap.

  “Oh, shit,” I complained through gritted teeth as she wound the new bandage around my broken bone.

  “Tristen!” she chided me, but softly. And when she turned her face to mine, I saw a trace of amusement in her eyes, in spite of the awful circumstances. “That’s enough.”

  “I’ll try harder,” I promised, digging the fingers of my good hand into the mattress as Jill returned to caring for me, tenderly but firmly moving my hand until it aligned better with my arm. The pain was almost unbearable, and to keep myself from passing out, I tried to focus on her profile. The faint flush of nervous exertion on her cheek, the way she bit her pale, pink lower lip as she concentrated, the serious furrow of her brow as if she suffered, too, to cause me pain: I focused on all those things, reminding myself that I needed to be alert to protect her if the beast returned and found us there.

  “I think we’re done, Tristen,” Jill finally said, tying off the bandage and standing. “You should rest now.”

  I didn’t argue and lay back on the bed, closing my eyes, thinking that in a few minutes I would feel stronger, and then I really would send Jill on her way.

  I listened as she cleaned up the bloody cloth and the unused fabric. Then, while my eyes were still closed—before I could tell her to go—the mattress creaked and sagged next to me, and I felt a small warm, strong body lie down next to mine, and a tentative arm drape across my chest so lightly that I barely felt the pressure.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but I soon found myself drifting toward sleep again, dozing lightly, awakening now and then to feel Jill’s arm still resting on me. At least, I thought I merely dozed, and that only minutes passed. Yet when I awoke fully, feeling more rested than I had in a long time, I realized that the room had started to grow dim—and Jill’s arm was tighter around me, her body pressed even closer to mine.

  How far Jill had come since that night at her house when I’d first tried to kiss her and felt her shyness, her inexperience. And then there had been that strange night in the lab . . .

  I shifted and turned to Jill, suddenly uneasy, as if I might find myself face-to-face on the pillow with that frantic creature, whom I nearly hadn’t recognized.

  But no, I saw nothing more than sweetness in her eyes, which blinked at me, inches away. Sweetness and tenderness and a hint of the uncertainty that I’d expected she would have when the time came for us to be together like this.

  Neither of us speaking—both understanding what was happening—I stroked her cheek with my bandaged hand, not really caring that it ached to touch her. At my very subtle pressure against her shoulder, Jill shifted more to her back, and I managed to rise up, relying on my good arm to brace myself but resting a little heavily on her as we began to kiss, lips barely brushing, not rushing, just savoring being together.

  This . . . this was how I wanted to be with her. Not the way she’d been on that first night in the lab, when we’d both gone a little insane.

  “Tristen,” she murmured as I settled more completely against her, sliding my hand under the hem of her blouse, caressing the soft skin just above her hip. “Oh, Tristen.” She rested her hand against my bicep, testing my muscle—and tensed beneath me.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered, reassuring her, wondering if she’d flashed back to the terrible, wonderful night when we’d first kissed. “It’s okay,” I promised again, and felt her relax, soften. She was so, so soft. Her breath against mine, the trace of skin above her hip, her own touch on my skin.

  We lay that way for a long time, kissing more deeply, more intensely, Jill slowly gaining confidence, moving her hand into my hair, stroking it as our tongues met again and again, but still I didn’t try to go further. Not yet. She would let me know when she was ready. She would give me some small sign, and until that time I would content myself with giving her what she wanted and nothing more. I would never be that monster again, would not even come close to pressuring her.

  “Tristen.” She murmured my name when our lips parted. “Tristen?”

  I drew back, moving my injured hand to stroke her cheek again, and she opened her eyes. “What, Jill?” I whispered, mesmerized by the changeable color of those remarkable eyes. “What is it?”

  I waited expectantly.<
br />
  I wanted to hear her say what I saw in those eyes. That she loved me.

  I’d thought of saying those words to Jill a dozen times as we’d kissed but ultimately held back. I could tell that Jill, too, was on the verge and—selfish me—I wanted to be told first, not hear my words echoed back to me.

  “Tristen,” she whispered, caressing my face, too, her eyes filling with tears. Good tears. The kind of tears that Jill Jekel deserved. Not a torrent of stinging salt water into an open grave but the slightest trickle onto my pillow. “I . . .”

  But before she could give me what I really wanted—as much, if not more, than kissing her, touching her—the telephone shrieked in the hallway, and we both froze, the moment shattered.

  Under any other circumstance I would have let that phone scream until dawn. But my father was a hostage, in a sense, and I was awaiting orders from his captor. “I’m sorry, Jill,” I whispered, meaning that more than I’d ever meant it in my entire life.

  “Get it, Tristen,” she urged, seeming to understand what was going on, although I’d never told her exactly what had happened between the beast and me. “Hurry.”

  I kissed her once more, quickly, not knowing at the time that I should have savored it more, and went to answer the phone, leaving Jill alone in my room.

  Chapter 56

  Jill

  I WAITED IN TRISTEN’S BED, listening to the sound of his voice as he answered the phone.

  Me . . . I was in Tristen’s bed.

  What would have happened if the phone hadn’t started ringing?

  I’d gotten caught up in the moment, so much that I’d almost admitted that I loved him. But what we were doing, it scared me as much as it excited me. I’d felt the muscle in Tristen’s arm, and when he’d rested more squarely on top of me, I’d felt . . . him. Every hard inch of his body pressing against me. The realization, the reality, had been wonderful and thrilling and completely terrifying.