Another Jekyll, Another Hyde

by Daniel Nayeri

  “Thanks, guys,” said Connor to the lawyers. “You can bill my parents.”

  “Hey, really sorry about the trouble,” said Thomas. He was about to say again that it wasn’t his weed, but figured, Why bother? He wondered if they would give him a lecture now, but they looked too young for that.

  “First offense,” said one of the men. “No big deal. You still have to show up to court, though. It’ll probably just be community service.”

  They shook hands, and the lawyers hailed a taxi. Thomas and Connor started to walk away from the station to where Connor’s driver had parked. Connor took some earbuds out of his pocket and popped one into his left ear, letting the other dangle at his side.

  “You know what’d be a cool job?” he said, bobbing a little too vigorously to the music. “Hype man.” He started beatboxing, but mostly it came out as spittle and machine-gun sounds. Was he on something? Nah, Connor was as straitlaced as they come. He’d never show up stoned to a police station — and he was just fine a minute ago while he was talking to the officer. Thomas glanced at his friend. His eyes weren’t cloudy or unfocused or bloodshot. He showed none of the signs of any herb Thomas had ever tried.

  “All right, here I go, here I go,” rapped Connor in his tough-guy voice. He waved his hands as if he was mixing on an invisible turntable.

  “With that ink on mah fingers

  I’m a dead ringer —

  Either votin’ in Baghdad

  Or got caught with a dime bag.

  Guess I’m just a sad lad

  Rebelling on my bad dad.”

  “Yeah, that’s real good,” said Thomas, trying not to look embarrassed for his friend. He wondered for the last time what had happened to his dad. As the cop pulled him out of the party, his dad had promised to come get him. Had he changed his mind? Was he teaching Thomas a lesson? At the wedding Thomas hadn’t had enough time to explain himself. Sure, ever since Belle left — and even before that — Thomas had felt like he’d gone off the rails. At first, he figured he was just depressed over losing the first girl he’d ever been serious about. He couldn’t focus on debate. His memories were clouded. Studying was impossible. Golf took too much attention. He’d even had a few minor blackouts. It was more than depression. He felt like someone had put a hand over a part of his mind — a black hole that ideas randomly fell into. People said things like, “You aren’t feeling yourself today, are you?” Thomas was feeling himself, but just half of it.

  Most people assumed he was taking drugs. At Marlowe, some kids had a dealer on retainer. Others flew to Amsterdam on the weekends.

  Even his dad had approached him about “experimenting with substances.” Sure, he had experimented, but he wasn’t hooked on anything. Nobody believed him. They actually thought he was high at the wedding. He could tell by the way they looked at him, the way they judged his red eyes as a sure sign, when really he was just sleep deprived. And so, like any innocent person wrongly accused . . . he gave up trying to prove himself.

  It was insulting, though. A pocket full of weed at his dad’s wedding? Thomas was out of sorts, but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, two hundred socialites in a penthouse is practically a coke den. How in the world had the officer homed in on Thomas? And how did the drugs get in his pocket? Did he misplace his jacket at some point? Thank God he had passed the urine test.

  His dad’s no-show shouldn’t have surprised Thomas. It was a new era, after all. The man had a wife now. Maybe Nicola Vileroy was so interesting that Mr. Goodman-Brown forgot that his son was sitting in jail for no reason.

  The two boys stood at the corner of two empty streets, scanning for the car — maybe the driver had pulled around for them. A few off-duty cabs passed by, heading home for the night. Connor flung an arm over Thomas’s shoulder and started to hum, while Thomas smiled weakly and thought about how much he wanted to go home.

  How had Connor become like this so quickly? His voice grew high-pitched, and he was talking really fast. Was he on speed? But how? He had been fine in the police station.

  Connor leaned over, his nose an inch from Thomas’s cheek, and tried to whisper (but really shouted), “Hey, Tommy, listen. I should probably tell you about my meds.”

  “No kidding,” said Thomas. All this time, the two friends had stayed away from each other, supposedly because of Thomas’s partying and Connor’s perfect jock lifestyle. But now what was this?

  “Want some?” said Connor. He laughed and put his finger up to his lips. “But, bro, you really can’t tell anybody, OK? I got attention problems . . . I got swim meets . . . I got troubles, my friend, and this stuff’s the happy trucker’s choice!”

  “Right,” said Thomas. “So you took the meds . . . when, exactly?”

  “I think Wendy broke my heart,” said Connor. He pawed at his heart, as if he could grab a few pieces to show Thomas.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Thomas, patting Connor on the back. He felt bad now, but what could he do? “We should find the car.”

  Connor reached into his pocket and pulled out the tin of Altoids. “Here.”

  “The Altoids box?” said Thomas. “Nice. Way to almost get us locked up.”

  “Dude, you . . . were . . . locked up!” said Connor, practically screeching with glee. “Besides, this is totally legal. I got a prescription for my ADHD.”

  Thomas shook his head. He felt sorry for his friend. Where was the car? Connor started texting someone on his phone. Thomas glanced at the harmless-looking box of mints in Connor’s other hand, but before he could consider the idea of trying one, he heard a honk. A black car pulled up in front of them. “I had him park around the block,” said Connor. “I didn’t want cops to think we were rich kids. They might be prejudiced.”

  “So you swaggered in, wearing Paul Stuart, with two of your dad’s law-school goons? Good thinking . . . throw ’em off the scent.”

  Connor fist-bumped the driver through the window. “You wanted me to wear a tracksuit to your dad’s nuptials? That’s uncouth.” He jumped into the back of the car.

  “Hey, Carlos,” said Thomas. He sank into the leather seat, exhausted. If he could just get to his bed, he would sleep for the entire weekend. Maybe by the time he woke up, his dad would be divorced, Belle would be back from Geneva, and Connor — who was cycling between hyperdrive and a crash landing — would be clean and sane.

  “Where to?” said Carlos.

  Thomas said, “Home,” just as Connor said, “Club Elixir.”

  As the car pulled around the corner, the two boys bickering in the back, neither of them noticed an SUV speeding toward the police station from the other side of the block. It came to a screeching halt. Mr. Goodman-Brown, still wearing his wedding clothes, jumped out and ran into the precinct to bail out his son.

  “Tell me about your mother, Thomas.”

  “No. Why don’t you tell me about your mother?”

  “My mother was a Swedish nurse practitioner who died of breast cancer at the age of sixty-six. She left two children and a loving husband.”

  “You get asked that a lot, don’t you?”

  “You’re not my first angry young man.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “OK. What would you like to talk about instead? Your nightmares about Belle, perhaps?”

  “I’m not angry. Not wanting my dad to marry some gold-digging fake French chick doesn’t make me angry. Also, weren’t governesses prostitutes at some point?”

  “No. And it’s quite a lot more than that, wouldn’t you say? You’ve begun skipping school. Your golf coach says you’ve quit the team. And if I’m not mistaken, I smell alcohol on your breath. Did something happen with Belle?”

  “You know, you talk just like her.”

  “Like whom?”

  “Like my mom.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Wait. What is that?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That bracelet. You just put your arm up, and that bracelet — under your sleev
e.”

  “It’s just a ruby bracelet, Thomas. Can we get back to the subject?”

  Connor grabbed two Red Bulls from the minibar. “You want something?”

  “No, I want to go home. Carlos, could you please drop me off?”

  “No, trust me,” said Connor. “To the club, Carlos.” Then he turned to Thomas. “You owe me. You’ve been MIA for months, hanging out with Annie and that Roger kid, not giving a damn about what’s going on with your old friends. And now I bailed you out . . . Gimme my mints back.”

  Connor grabbed the “Altoids”— Adderall, Thomas guessed — and popped another one. He guzzled one of the Red Bulls to wash it down. Oddly, the Red Bull was what made Thomas start to worry for his friend. Connor was a star athlete . . . and not just for private school. He was actually Division I material in swimming and basketball. He hadn’t had so much as a Pepsi in ten years. His body was like the engine of a Ferrari. And tonight, Connor seemed determined to cram nacho cheese into the gas tank.

  “What are you doing?” Thomas said, bewildered.

  “Look, Tommy,” said Connor. “All my life — no, all our lives, you and me, Tommy, we’ve been good. We drink our vegetable smoothies. We thank the maid. We do sports, get A’s, all of it. Geez, I knew how to use a friggin’ oyster fork when I was five. And you know who ends up with Wendy? A criminal, that’s who. A guy who calls her his ho. I should’ve kicked that guy’s ass before he got fired.”

  They pulled up to a nightclub called Elixir, with a line wrapped around the block full of Jersey queens, reality star wannabes, and blog photogs. The bridge ’n’ tunnel crowd. A no-neck bodyguard with a UFC haircut stood at the door. A few college girls laughed too loud and posed for the photographers.

  “Connor, you gotta get over this,” said Thomas. “I mean, I’m not really one to talk, but —”

  “I’m not done,” said Connor. The two got out of the car. The cameras flashed a thousand bulbs. “See this?” said Connor. “Time was, I wouldn’t come to a club like this because of all the annoying heiress types that make everybody hate us. But why? Why be a good guy? Huh? Why be nice?”

  Connor walked up to the bouncer. The crowd jeered. Connor and Thomas didn’t look famous. They didn’t even look twenty-one. The bouncer nodded and stood aside anyway, letting them cut the line.

  “See that?” said Connor. “Why fight it?” He flipped off the crowd and walked into the club. Thomas followed, and the crowd booed as the door shut behind him.

  The house music was a solid wall of sound. Connor walked straight to the VIP lounge in the back. As he passed the bartender, he pointed at the table and shouted, “Bottle of Jack.” Then he grinned over his shoulder at Thomas. “Lonely trucker’s choice.”

  He pushed past an out-of-place hipster couple. “I’m tired of losing, Tommy. She didn’t even break up with me.” The bartender said something to a nodding waitress. The club was packed with hip-hop stars, starlets, Russian mafia, and fashionistas. Thomas spotted three models waiting in the roped-off VIP section who looked vaguely familiar.

  Connor grabbed a shot sitting on the table and downed it. He coughed. “Listen, Tommy. Tonight’s on me, OK? I want you to forget everything about Wendy. . . . Just forget her and her thug boyfriend.” Thomas didn’t bother to correct him. Connor followed the three models to the dance floor. Thomas had no idea where Connor had met women like that. Were they escorts? Friends of his mother? It didn’t really matter. A waitress came by holding a massive tray of liquor. “Where do you want it?” she asked.

  Thomas shrugged. He wondered if he should dance. Is it lame to stand by yourself swaying to trance music? Do you just go up to these beautiful women and hope they don’t laugh? He rolled one of Connor’s mints between his fingers.

  “Do you have one of those for me?” a voice said.

  He turned to find a pouty-lipped girl around his age watching him expectantly. She was dressed in a black Lycra skirt so tight it could have been part of a catsuit and matching black platform boots that went all the way up to her midthigh. Her hair was as red as her lipstick. Her eyes were as blue as her eye shadow. And a sinful smile to match it all. She looked like a cartoon, as if she had tried too hard to fool the bouncers about her age.

  “Excuse me?” said Thomas.

  She leaned closer. “The Addy. Do you have one for me? I’m Nikki.”

  “Did Connor put you up to this?”

  “Who’s Connor?” said Nikki. The music was too loud for talking. Nikki eyed the dance floor, unable to keep her body from moving. Thomas looked at the Adderall pill, then at the girl. “You sure you want it?” He held out the pill in his palm.

  She stared at him with narrowed eyes, as if she thought he was playing a game. After a moment she seemed to think that he was safe and said, “Yeah, those hardly do anything. I have something better.” Thomas wasn’t sure exactly where in the catsuit (or maybe a purse) she had been hiding the tiny glass bottle she now held out toward him. It was full of bright-red pills, like M&M’s. They even had the white M stamped out on each one. She handed him the bottle.

  “Are you serious?” Thomas laughed and uncorked the bottle. He let one slide onto his palm. “M&M’s?”

  “No,” she said as she turned the pellet in his hand so that the M was upside down. “It’s called W.”

  Thomas examined the pill, then sniffed it. It smelled sweet. Was this a joke?

  The look on Nikki’s face was excited, curious, like a kid being bad for the first time. She obviously wanted Thomas to be impressed by her bottle of stolen pills. Well, Thomas wasn’t afraid of any stupid candy drug she might have found in her mother’s medicine cabinet. Besides, this W couldn’t be all that dangerous if an overeager girl with a sweet face like Nikki’s was walking around with it.

  “What’s it do?” he asked nonchalantly as he swallowed one of the pills.

  Nikki shrugged and slipped the entire bottle into his jacket pocket. “It’s different for every person,” she said, suddenly sounding much more certain of herself, more informed about the whole thing, than she had a minute ago. “You keep it,” she shouted into his ear. Despite the pounding music and screaming clubbers, her voice sounded like a whisper. “And don’t share any of it, OK? Promise not to share with anyone.”

  Thomas nodded, thinking what a strange request it was.

  She repeated, “Not any of it.”

  “OK, OK,” he said, wondering why he was even accepting the whole bottle. He didn’t care. Already he was feeling like a rock star. The pill was sweet. Thomas could feel the room sway. He was dizzy. The noise started to feel like waves. His eyes began to blur. All he could see was this fantasy girl.

  She pulled him toward the dance floor. The DJ switched the track. It was almost all bass. A beat that went boom boom boom. It got in his chest. It got in his hips. The girl in black Lycra must have felt it, too. Nikki. Her name was Nikki. She moved to the pulsating rhythm. It slithered up her body. The lights were thrumming and all Thomas could think was boom boom boom. Her hair was on fire — yellow now, like Belle’s.

  The music became harsh, irritating. A low whine grew louder and louder to a piercing high note. The DJ scratched the disc. Nikki was smiling at him. Then her smile became a sneer. She was Victoria. Why was she Victoria?

  Thomas’s thoughts flashed back to the night at the Faust home. Belle had invited him. He was prostrate on the couch. Had he forgotten this part? He was prostrate on the couch, and Victoria was hovering over him. She was doing something to his brain. She was looking into him, into his mind, and it felt like she was chiseling deeper and deeper. She was boring like a drill into his brain. Thomas could hear Belle screaming, “No!” Madame Vileroy was there, too. She was enjoying it. All he could feel was the pain.

  In another flash, Thomas was back in the club. Nikki was gone. He spun around, but she wasn’t there. His legs began to wobble. His vision went black. He fell down. The music finally stopped.

  When Thomas woke up, he was back in Connor�
��s car. His clothes were damp with sweat. All he could muster was a low groan. Carlos looked at him through the rearview mirror. “It’s all right, T. I’m taking you home.” Thomas made a noise to say thanks. He was going in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t tell if it was all another hallucination. Soon they were back on the Upper East Side.

  Thomas rested his head on the window. When he opened his eyes the last time, he noticed that they were close to Belle’s old apartment. It had been sold a long time ago, and Madame Vileroy had moved in with the Goodman-Browns. But as they passed by, Thomas saw something that made him sit up. He turned to get a better look through the rear window. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn he had seen his new stepmother, looking a little shorter, a little worse for the wear, walking into her old apartment building, hurriedly, as if running from some unexpected embarrassment, with just a glance over her shoulder.

  That night, Thomas dreamed of Belle again. Usually he dreamed of their first date or this one random moment in the halls of Marlowe. It was passing period; everybody was rushing around. Thomas was walking to biology when he caught a glimpse of Belle, but he couldn’t push through the crowd to get to her. And right then, as if she’d sensed his presence, she turned and looked at him. Just before the mess of people crashed back into the scene, she smiled. He dreamed of that half second more than anything else.

  Sometimes he dreamed of the future, when he would see her again. But that night, Thomas saw the dinner at the Faust residence — the night that changed everything between him and Belle. All he remembered was a wonderful evening with the Faust family. They were all as generically charming as a sitcom. But after that night, Belle suddenly became cold. They still went out, but she was distant. She always seemed to be thinking of something else, something she wasn’t allowed to share. Thomas couldn’t deny that he had changed as well. He couldn’t put his finger on it. The night had become a traumatic memory that he had suppressed.