She turned and walked down the hall. A part of Thomas felt like it was dragging behind her. He had already promised himself that after this was over, he would find a way to make it up to Annie. For now, it was probably the safest thing for her to be as far from him as possible.
Unless she knows it was us. She’s probably running off right now to tell the cops.
Thomas couldn’t deny the voice inside his head. The voice of Edward. Annie was the only person who could put all the pieces together.
Then the answer is simple. Annie’s gotta go.
“Have you ever seen an addict try to quit cold turkey, Thomas?”
“Look, Dr. Alma, I’m not addicted to W. I know addicted people say they’re not addicted, but not-addicted people say it, too, sooo . . . You’re looking at me like you don’t believe me. I’ve only taken it for a couple weeks. I’m not some junkie.”
“Do you have feelings toward junkies?”
“What, like romantic feelings?”
“Feelings in general.”
“I don’t know what we’re talking about. I neither love nor hate nor anything junkies.”
“So the answer is that you don’t have feelings for them.”
“Are you implying that W has made me callous? Like I’m some disaffected American youth murder machine? I’ve lost touch with humanity?”
“Is that your impression of the situation?”
“I just asked you if that was your impression. I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but this feels more like a cross-examination than a counseling session.”
“What makes you feel that way?”
“That! The interrogation thing. I asked if you knew how I could quit W, and you’re dodging me.”
“What did I say?”
“You said, have I ever seen a junkie quit cold turkey.”
“Well?”
“I saw some movie where the guy gets lockjaw and spasms, then breaks an arm falling out a window. . . . Huh. I guess that answers my question.”
“Mmm-hmm. I suggest you be discreet, of course. Just finish the bottle gradually, and after that, no more.”
“Excuse me. Everyone? Is this thing on? Excuse me! Hi. As you all know, my name is Lucy Spencer and I’m the student council president. . . . What? Fine, I’m the interim outgoing incumbent student council president. Thank you, Charlotte. Anyway, welcome, everyone, to the annual Marlowe Academy Fund-Raiser and Pancake Social for Eliminating the Homeless!”
As Thomas entered the circus tent in Central Park’s great lawn, he marveled at the idea of calling this function a pancake social, as though they were sitting on folding chairs in a school gym, with a science teacher flinging all-you-can-eat flapjacks onto paper plates for five bucks a head. Roughly a hundred families were gathered in the banquet area, enjoying a catered meal of blinis and caviar. Industrial heaters shaped like umbrella stands fought off the November chill but didn’t sit so close as to melt the crème fraîche. A legion of waiters carried mimosas to parents with the same urgency as medics in battlefield trenches. This was the Marlowe PTA.
A few parents had already adjourned to a corner of the space that functioned as the smoking room, with high-back leather chairs and a selection of Cuban cigars and Kentucky bourbon.
Lucy outdid herself, thought Thomas as he passed several carnival games decorated with autumnal harvest themes. Of course, the police commissioner had also outdone himself, sending a cop to attend the breakfast. For all Thomas knew, there could have been half a dozen nonuniformed detectives inside the tents as well. If Thomas caused a scene, he knew the police would be all over him with questions.
Connor stood at a shooting gallery with a group of sophomore girls, firing a BB gun at iron cutouts of birds painted like the catalog of the Audubon Society. Black-billed gulls, mallards of the American Northwest, even a puffin — each worth five tickets. Every time he won, Connor handed a stuffed animal to one of the squealing entourage and got a peck on the cheek in return. Several parents were standing nearby, telling the event coordinator that a “murder simulator” was not appropriate at a Marlowe function. “Are there any games here that help with SAT prep?” said one concerned mother.
“What if there was a carnival game that rewarded empathy?” said another. “Wouldn’t that be delightful?”
Thomas gave Connor a nod as he passed, heading straight toward the tables. His dad was actually attending something for the first time this semester. Thomas had gotten the e-mail late last night: Hey, bud. N & I want to attend the pancake thing w/ you. Dress nice. We’re meeting her son.
Pathetic. They used to do everything together. Thomas even had a cubicle at the bank for when he joined his dad on Saturdays at the office. Now their conversations had become hastily written one-liners on their phones. Thomas had written back with something even more brief: Fine.
But even so, Thomas couldn’t deny that he was excited to see his dad outside the house, where maybe they could have a second of privacy. It had been only a short time since she had moved in, but already their home felt like Vileroy’s personal lair. She seemed to know everything that happened there.
And now the existence of a stepbrother had Thomas obsessed with investigating the rest of Vileroy’s past — whether she was some kind of magic ghoulish cougar or a con artist gold digger. If he could prove either one, he’d have his life back. He could go back to worrying about debate, and SATs, and scoring an internship at a law firm. All the stuff that used to feel like work. He missed the golf games and pep rallies, and being the best at something. He even missed problem sets in AP physics.
On the promise of that alone, Thomas hadn’t taken a single W pill for two days.
Besides, ever since he’d spoken to John, Thomas had finally started to piece together some more of the puzzle. Something had caused his ex-girlfriend Belle’s face to change. Thomas’s face had also changed. John had claimed that the W contained bonedust . . . a fountain of youth. Last year, he had met somebody who seemed a lot older than her face: Bicé Faust. Belle’s twin sister. Another kid raised by his new stepmother.
All roads seemed to lead back to Madame Vileroy, the creepy woman who now lived in his own house and slept just a few doors from his room.
If only he had managed to get into Vileroy’s old apartment that day or even gathered some clues in the lobby. He remembered a shadow in the window, dark corridors leading up into the apartment, a childish voice, a familiar face, and then a blow to the head. Who was living there? The lost Faust kids? Someone else? Only people who had once lived with Vileroy could give him the information he needed, so Thomas had spent most of his time trying to figure out where they were. So far, nothing. He called their school in Geneva, but it had no record of five new students from New York.
Thomas spotted his dad — or rather, he spotted the usual crowd of parents orbiting his table — near the multiethnic ice sculptures of Native Americans enjoying an embarrasingly modern Thanksgiving meal. Thomas passed by several parents lecturing the hired sculptor on the similarities of using colored ice to using blackface. “I just don’t understand what it’s supposed to mean,” said one concerned father. “Are you saying that the natural state of ice is whiteness?”
“I think it’s saying that Natives are cold-blooded.”
“Don’t call them ‘Natives,’ dear.”
“Really? I thought they preferred to be called that.”
“Don’t call them ‘they,’ dear.”
“I hope I haven’t offended anyone. I really do think everyone is equal.”
Thomas approached his dad’s table. As the people surrounding it jostled for position, a sliver of space opened up, and Thomas glimpsed Madame Vileroy sitting beside his dad. Oddly, she was staring right back at him, as though she were anticipating the split second that a few stray elbows would clear their line of sight. Her jackal smile was waiting for him. Her branded eye seemed to see everything — to know everything.
At that moment, Thomas felt a presence fighting for
grip on his mind, like a claw scraping across his brain. The pain almost knocked him over. Thomas grabbed his head. His knees almost buckled. He could hear something happening inside — as though he were being pushed out of his own mind — or at least pushed to the back. Thomas could feel his eyes roll back. He was vaguely aware of the cop patrolling around, but his thought was interrupted by a grating voice:
One frigging cop? If he touches us, we put a salad fork in his ear.
Thomas didn’t bother looking around for the owner of the voice. He knew it was inside him. It was almost as familiar as his own. And as Thomas weaved through the crowd to his dad’s table, the voice was fighting for control.
“Thomas!” said Mr. Goodman-Brown, ignoring everyone but his son. “Thomas, I saved you a seat.” His dad got up to hug him, but Thomas sank right through the man’s arms into the chair. Mr. Goodman-Brown ended up awkwardly hugging Thomas’s shoulders. “You all right?” said his father.
“Yeah,” said Thomas, “I just have a headache.”
A waiter placed a champagne flute full of orange juice in front of Thomas. His dad said to the waiter, “Do you have any aspirin in the back?”
“No!” said Thomas. “No pills.” But the waiter had scuttled off already. “I’m fine,” added Thomas. He wasn’t fine. He was losing grip on his own mind. He could feel his vision separating from his eyes — as though someone were pulling him away from binoculars. “I think I got food poisoning.”
“From Orin’s food?” said his dad. “He’s usually so careful.”
“No. Uh. It wasn’t Orin,” said Thomas. He was having trouble just sitting upright. Now he had to defend their personal chef. “Orin’s great. I got some late-night sashimi.”
“Oh, Thomas,” said Mr. Goodman-Brown. “You could have just woken Orin —”
Thomas clanked his champagne flute down on the table hard enough to spill some juice. “Geez, Dad, can I just have some diarrhea without you crawling up there to investigate? Let’s move along.”
The crowd of nearby adults acted as if a waiter had dropped an entire tray. The only sounds were the distant hum of the generators from the kitchen tent and the buzz of the industrial heaters.
Mr. Goodman-Brown calmly dabbed his napkin on his lips and set it back on his lap. Might have gone too far, thought Thomas. His dad didn’t seem intimidated by the silence. He waited till the crowd slowly resumed conversation. Thomas glanced at Nicola. As always, she looked right through him.
“Thomas,” said Mr. Goodman-Brown in a slow, deliberate voice, “if you need to take a minute to calm down, then feel free. But today is a big day for our family, and I’d appreciate it if you’d drop the attitude by the time Eddie — Edward — your stepbrother arrives.”
Edward. Thomas felt a wave of nausea. He slouched in his seat. He didn’t have the energy to try to figure out the connection. And was his dad always this patient and understanding? Thomas had expected the man to snap off the stem of a champagne flute and lunge at him. Instead, his dad stayed as monotone and nonconfrontational as Dr. Alma. And somehow that made Thomas furious. Ever since he’d married Vileroy, Mr. Goodman-Brown had changed into some kind of Stepford Dude.
So condescending, he thought as a slow rage began to creep from his chest all the way to his hands and feet. His fingers curled around the edge of the table to flip the entire thing over in an explosive clatter.
The voice in his head grew louder. Old-money, horny, sad mortal prick thinks he can treat me like a kid? I’ll eat his eyeballs like they were Jell-O shots.
Thomas was losing control. He had the fuzzy sensation that his muscles were tense and ready to pounce. What scared him wasn’t that he was about to attack his dad but that he could barely feel his own muscles. Thomas turned his focus toward his fingers, gripping the edge of the table. Let go, he thought.
He heard a whisper in his own mind. No.
His dad kept talking, but Thomas could hear him only from a distance. “I don’t expect you to like him, Thomas, but Nicola and I are hoping you can at least be civil.”
Civil? mused the voice in Thomas’s mind. I’m gonna cut that skin between your fingers with a bread knife.
“I have to get out of here,” said Thomas. He focused all his energy once again on peeling each finger away from the table.
“Thomas —” said Mr. Goodman-Brown, but Vileroy put a hand on his elbow.
“Let him go, dear. He needs some time to sort himself before Edward arrives.”
Edward, Edward, Edward. The name made his head hurt.
Mr. Goodman-Brown reached over to hold her hand while Thomas stumbled away from the table. As he grasped for purchase on his own mind, Thomas weaved through the crowd. He thought he heard Connor shout, “Hey, T. Get over here,” but Thomas’s vision was too blurry to see where his friend was. He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he took a hit of W — but the symptoms were the same. Except this time they were lasting a lot longer. His hand moved involuntarily to his pocket, to make sure the bottle was secure.
Over the loudspeaker, Lucy Spencer said, “Everyone? Everyone. We’ll be starting the games soon. So please finish that last blini and clear the tables for the first round of the team sudoku challenge!”
Thomas leaned on a bar table, waiting for a dizzy spell to pass. The cop had noticed him acting strange, and he was staring. The voice in Thomas’s mind said, You know, you’re pretty strong, Tommy. I like that.
“Leave me alone,” said Thomas.
Over his shoulder, Thomas heard a slight gasp. He turned. It was Annie.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you could see me.”
“I couldn’t,” said Thomas. “Or, I mean, I wasn’t talking to you.”
Annie seemed equally hurt by Thomas’s explanation. “I mean, I was just rehearsing something I wanna tell somebody . . . not you.”
“I do that sometimes,” said Annie.
She rocked back and forth on her heels. Thomas tried to think of another subject to talk about — something other than Roger’s assault, Marla’s disappearance, or the police investigation. The truth was that they didn’t have very much to talk about. In fact, if he wanted to spare her more pain, he knew he would have to keep her at arm’s length.
You’re such a Debbie Downer. I’ll take great care of her.
Thomas’s muscles tensed. Edward was quickly taking control. Thomas sighed. “Listen, Annie. I don’t want to be weird about this.”
Annie had been looking in every direction but Thomas’s. Now she looked him in the eye. With everything going on, Thomas couldn’t tell if he had any feelings for her, but he knew he didn’t want to be alone. You mean, you don’t want to be alone with me.
Maybe it was selfish. He said, “We’ve both had a lot going on. I hope we’re still . . .”
As boring as a nun’s panty drawer? Yes, you are.
Thomas stammered to finish his thought with Edward interrupting constantly. Thankfully, Annie stepped in. “Are you asking if we can still be friends?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” said Annie.
“Good,” said Thomas.
When are you gonna wise up and dump this thing?
“I should go,” blurted Thomas. He felt Edward’s thoughts forming in his mouth. Annie looked surprised. But it was better to seem crazy than to let Edward talk to her.
“Really?” said Annie. “I thought we could sit together.”
Yeah, let’s play sudoku, you sad waste of young skin.
“Maybe a rain check?” said Thomas. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
The transformation had already begun. Thomas caught his reflection in the espresso machine in the corner of the bar. His hair was growing longer, darker, his eyes becoming almost almond shaped. Annie would notice any second.
“I’m having dinner with my family,” she said. “Maybe —”
“Could I join you?” interrupted Thomas. “I’ll bring some wine from my dad’s cellar.”
Th
omas had to look away. His skin was becoming pale. The muscles in his shoulders were growing to double their size.
“I can ask if it’d be OK,” said Annie. “But yeah, definitely.”
“Great,” said Thomas. He kissed her on the cheek and shouldered past her before Annie could turn around. Thomas ran to the entrance of the tent. As he ducked out, he looked over his shoulder and saw Detective Mancuso staring right at him, speaking into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder harness. Thomas scrambled toward the food tent.
The makeshift kitchen was in full-scale production, with an army of line cooks calling instructions to one another. No one noticed Thomas huddled in the corner by an industrial fridge. Thomas unbuttoned his shirt and took it off just in time, before his growing frame tore the fabric. He had an undershirt on underneath that stretched with his upper body. His new frame was hulking, but Edward’s body was definitely more muscular. Thomas was a natural swimmer. Edward seemed like an unnatural baseball player — juiced up to have the perfect torso.
Thomas crouched beside the fridge, grinding his teeth from the pain, watching the last of his features changing in the hazy reflection on the stainless-steel panel of the fridge. He had no idea how this was happening without having taken any W.
I’m just tired of letting you drive.
“No,” groaned Thomas. Every nerve in his brain was snapping like a rubber band.
Suck it, Toy Scout.
Edward crumpled up the shirt and stuffed it behind the fridge. He waited for a cook to pass by before standing up and leaving the tent. As he walked back into the main tent, two police officers hustled past him. “I’ve lost visual,” said one officer.
“Probably throwing up in the bushes somewhere. I’m telling you, Mancuso, the kid looked hungover.”
“Everyone, put your pens down. I see you, Mr. Wirth. Pens down. I mean it. OK, did any team finish the entire puzzle?”
Annie was still standing by the banquet tables, glancing occasionally at the entrance, probably waiting for Thomas to return. She looked self-conscious, hanging out all alone. She had her phone in her hand, checking it a bit too frequently.
Another Jekyll, Another Hyde Page 10
