OK, maybe real life wouldn’t be so much like a made-for-TV crime flick. He slung his backpack over his shoulder.
That’s a cute imagination you have, Tommy.
Thomas fell back onto the bench and grabbed his temples. Edward’s voice came with a titanic migraine. In addition to the pain, he felt the embarrassment of someone catching him in a private moment. The second bell rang ten times as loud as the first, but Thomas couldn’t get up. Edward was pushing his way in again, trying to take over.
I know what you’re thinking. Why, oh, why didn’t I just inject some paint thinner instead of taking that W?
So it really is the W that makes me like this. Was Edward confirming it, or was that just his own suspicion sneaking in through Edward’s thoughts?
Annie would be coming into the atrium soon. She had second lunch. A few of Thomas’s other friends were around, but they were too busy with the demonstration some celeb chef was putting on in the open kitchen. He struggled to stay in control. The truth was that he didn’t have any. He was completely at Edward’s mercy.
That’s right, Tommy. Positive thing number five.
He had to keep fighting, because Edward had no mercy. When the late bell rang, Thomas looked up and saw Annie entering the atrium, holding a salad. Before he could duck out of sight, she noticed him and waved. Thomas nodded, then turned his head so she wouldn’t see him cringe. Annie weaved through the demonstration crowd.
“Hey.” She hugged him. He managed a friendly grunt. “Don’t you have debate?”
“I do,” said Thomas. He tried to leave before Edward could do anything, but his legs wouldn’t obey. Instead, he found himself saying, “Unless you want to go premarital in the bathroom stall.”
“What?” said Annie, blinking a few times too many.
“You know what I mean.”
Stop! shouted Thomas in his mind.
Annie chuckled nervously. “Is everything OK?”
Thomas shouted as loud as he could, but the only sound in his head was Edward laughing.
“Yeah,” said Thomas. “Bad joke.”
He was surprised to gain a sliver of control over his body. He had to get away from Annie before Edward took over again just to toy with him.
“Sorry,” said Thomas. “I really should get to debate. I was just being stupid.”
“OK,” said Annie. “See you later?”
“Absolutely,” said Thomas. He grabbed his bag and rushed through the crowd. As he passed, the chef said, “And now, let’s check on that roasting squash! Do you smell that sage? Ah, I just love that.”
The crowd clapped at the squash. Thomas stumbled into the main building.
The halls were nearly empty. Everyone was either at lunch or in class. A maintenance guy was on a ladder, installing more security cameras. Thomas sidestepped the ladder and tried to avoid looking right into the camera. In the next hall, a janitor was taping a flyer to the door of the teachers’ lounge. Thomas did a double take. It was an artist’s rendering of a face he knew. The narrow eyes, the long black hair, even the semblance of a wicked grin — the sketch was Edward. The text on the flyer said: IF SEEN, REPORT IMMEDIATELY.
The janitor must have sensed Thomas’s glare or heard him stop. He turned and said, “Anyone you know?”
Thomas snapped out of it. The janitor was looking at him expectantly.
Jesus Christ, thought Thomas.
Edward Hyde, actually. But I get that all the time.
“Hey, kid,” said the janitor.
“What?” said Thomas, swallowing.
“You hear my question?”
“No,” said Thomas. He turned and walked toward the debate class. Ever since the crimes, Marlowe had its private security on overtime. Of course, the parent pressure had gotten the police commissioner of New York personally involved in the cases. But with each day that passed, the school board was becoming antsy. Emergency PTA meetings had double their usual attendance. The school message boards were vibrating with alarmist frenzy.
And now they were placing cameras in every nook, and cops were pulling kids out of class for interviews.
It’s becoming a witch hunt, thought Thomas.
Trust me. This is nothing like a witch hunt.
Thomas would have skipped debate, like every other extracurricular activity he’d bailed on recently, but he just couldn’t let Jenko Kolnikoff take over as captain for the tournament that weekend. For now he had the top spot on the team, and for Thomas, that was the only thing that gave him hope for the future. Everything else was fear of getting arrested, of losing himself to W, of being a prisoner to Edward.
Thomas stepped into the room in time to hear his newest rival, Jenko, an upstart freshman, say, “— not here, then I motion that he loses by forfeit.”
“I’m here,” said Thomas.
Jenko visibly deflated at his podium.
“Glad you made it, Thomas,” said Mr. Finch.
The rest of the debate team sat at the desks facing the two podiums in the front of the room. Everyone had an accordion file full of briefs and a note-card holder with their arguments — both pro and con — for half a dozen issues facing America and the world. Thomas apologized to everyone and set his bag on the desk in front of his podium. He reached for the notes he’d prepared when Mr. Finch said, “You won’t be needing those, Thomas. We’re going to try a round on a subject none of you has prepared for — get some practice in case the judges throw in a wild card at the tournament.”
“Oh,” said Thomas, zipping the bag back up. “OK.”
Thomas stepped behind his podium and tried to calm his breathing.
Nervous, sweet pea?
Shut up, Edward. Just shut up for twenty minutes.
Jenko was looking smug, nodding to the judges. The freshman had achieved plenty just making the team, but he was one of those kids that was already thinking of public office at fifteen. No point trying to teach him that it’s rude to cut in line.
Jenko, with his bleached-white hair, nonprescription glasses, and junior politico self-righteousness, was always turning reasoned debate rounds into demagogue training camp. Mr. Finch cleared his throat. The room fell silent. Mr. Finch loved the pregnant pause. He stretched the silence as far as it would go, then said, “Gentlemen, your prompt . . .” He took a moment to have a drink from his 5K Fun Run water bottle. Jenko twirled his pen over his thumb with angry little swipes. Thomas closed his eyes and hoped nothing bad would happen till he got home. Mr. Finch swallowed with a loud exhale and said, “Your prompt, gentlemen, is this: In light of recent events at Marlowe, administrators and parents have called in the NYPD to patrol our school, install surveillance equipment, and accost our students during the school day. This is above and beyond the private security team already in place.”
Another pause. Thomas glanced over at his opponent. Jenko was furiously taking notes, as though this were new information. When he saw Thomas watching him, Jenko performed a double reverse spin of his pen, like a gunslinger twirling a pistol. Thomas rolled his eyes.
How about we rough him up just a little? Look at those beady little eyes.
Mr. Finch moved on. “The point we are arguing is this: Though some claim that escalation in security is doing more harm than good, the measures taken are necessary. Now, Mr. Jenko Kolnikoff, you will debate for this argument, while, Mr. Goodman-Brown, you will take the counter position. Pro goes first.”
The stopwatch barely clicked before Jenko started at top speed. “The fact at hand is that we have a monster on the loose here in Marlowe, ladies and gentlemen. It followed Roger to a club, which implies stalking, then it brutally attacked. Now it’s kidnapped a girl, who could have been any of you — and who knows what it’s doing to her. . . .”
I know . . . I know exactly . . .
Something jumped in Thomas’s chest. “Th — that’s conjecture,” he muttered.
“Now, now, Thomas,” said Finch. “No interruptions.”
Jenko went on: “I submit
that the safety of the school is much more important than temporary freedoms or privacy.”
Tell ’em it won’t help. I like the attention. I like the pansy cops.
Thomas took a deep breath, then another. Mr. Finch eyed him and stopped the clock. “Mr. Goodman-Brown, are you all right?”
“Yes,” whispered Thomas, then he cleared his throat and added, “a school has no right to suspend the personal freedoms of its students . . . to dig around in their lockers or read their journals, which is a violation of their private thoughts.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Goodman-Brown,” said Mr. Finch, looking perplexed. “But it isn’t your turn.”
“Sorry,” said Thomas, feeling the beads of sweat dripping down onto his podium.
Are you feeling violated, Tommy? Do you need more privacy? Are you trapped, like a sad little housewife?
“Stop it!” Thomas said out loud. The room went silent. He could feel his body heating up. He took another deep breath to calm down. He knew Edward was waiting for him to lose control. Even worse. Thomas knew Edward didn’t need to wait.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said again. “Let’s go on. Really, I’m good.”
Mr. Finch nodded and clicked the stopwatch.
Jenko continued. “If we don’t increase security, search every locker, heighten our awareness of suspicious activity, how many others will be assaulted by this criminal?”
I like the way the kid thinks.
“That’s not how the law works.” A sweaty, red-faced Thomas jumped in, no longer caring about the stopwatch. “Those officers are part of a system. You can’t just impose martial law in a school, doofus. And who’re you to say that it’s worse to be assaulted than to have zero freedom? This isn’t the motherland, Comrade.”
Oh, God, did Edward just speak?
Someone in the back coughed the words “KGB fail.”
“That wasn’t my point at all!” said Jenko.
Thomas would have enjoyed watching Jenko squirm if he weren’t struggling with every fiber of his being to hold Edward back. He gripped the sides of the podium so tightly that the particleboard began to squeak. Before Jenko could explain, he was interrupted by a voice much huskier than Thomas’s. “We know what your point was.”
Everyone looked at Thomas, or rather, at a version of him they hadn’t ever seen before. Thankfully, the majority of the physical transformation hadn’t happened yet. But the nice guy they all knew had a vicious grin as he said, “Your point was that if we don’t start burning suspects as witches, the world’s gonna end.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Jenko.
Thomas slammed his palm on the podium, “Buzz, your turn’s over, sweetheart. Let me tell you what they used to do in witch hunts. They’d strip you naked, and it didn’t matter that you full well admitted to killing that whole village — they’d still interrogate you. And when the fat inquisitor leaned in too far — snap!”
Edward chomped his teeth. A girl in the front row flinched. Thomas was helpless, watching the situation without any control over his actions.
“How do you like that for fearmongering, Jenko? We can all sit around telling torture stories from the old days, wear bow ties to a high-school debate class, and put on smug airs without offering a shred of evidence aside from the airtight proof that you’re a wannabe political dickhea —”
“Mr. Goodman-Brown!” said Mr. Finch.
“I’m not Goodman-Brown!” shouted Edward, knocking over the podium. The clatter made the girl in the front yelp. Jenko was red in the face. His eyes betrayed his mix of anger, embarrassment, and the attempt to find a spin on the situation that meant victory. The rest of the class watched as the captain of their team, Thomas Goodman-Brown, grabbed his head and swayed back and forth. His legs looked like they would buckle any second. Was he coming down with something? Was he coming down off of something? He took a stumbling step toward Mr. Finch’s desk and put a hand down to steady himself. His chest heaved as if he’d just run five miles.
“Thomas? Are you all right?” said Mr. Finch.
The room waited in silence. No answer.
“I vote we call the officer in the hall,” said Jenko. “He’s acting suspicious.”
“Be quiet, Jenko,” said Mr. Finch.
The first thing Thomas gained control over was his eyes. He started to blink, then focused on the calendar on Mr. Finch’s desk to get his bearings. It was as if all his limbs had fallen asleep and now they were tingling all at once. Thomas groaned through the painful sensation. When he looked up, the whole class was staring at him.
“Uh. Sorry, everyone. I’m not feeling well.”
He had to get home as fast as possible. He had just wanted this one thing to go well. But he should have known better.
“It’s OK, Thomas. Why don’t we pick this up later,” said Mr. Finch.
Thomas reached for his bag. He leaned over to the girl in the front row and said, “Sorry for scaring you like that, Margie.”
Thomas exhaled. No chance of going to the tournament now. Mr. Finch said, “You boys could use some research time. I’m sure Margaret can handle the tournament.”
Thomas cringed as he slung his backpack on and walked to the door.
“Get well soon, Mr. Goodman-Brown,” said Mr. Finch. Thomas nodded and trudged out into the hall. He glanced back over his shoulder as he left and saw Margaret gathering up her papers. Her hands were visibly shaking.
Positive thing number six: I think Margie likes me.
That was bad. Bad. Thomas paced back and forth in his bedroom, trying to decide what kind of damage control he could possibly pull off now. Edward had put Thomas’s entire life at risk during that disastrous debate class. Never before had he been so out of control so publicly. It was obvious now that Edward wanted to get caught. He wanted Thomas to be at his mercy, probably in a jail cell or a juvenile facility somewhere. What was Thomas supposed to do? And with the police interviewing everyone for their witch hunt, it wouldn’t take long before they zeroed in on him — especially after they talked to Jenko. The commissioner already suspected him, and there was more than one career to be made on this investigation.
One thing that made Thomas feel better, though, was that for a second at the end of that debate class, he had gained control over Edward. He could feel it. He had breathed deep and focused his eyes on one object and had pulled himself out of the abyss. But somehow it didn’t feel like enough.
It’ll never be enough, Tommy.
That’s it. No more waiting. Edward was getting stronger, and the only lead he had was the Fausts’ old apartment. Thomas had to go back there and talk to whoever was living in that filthy ruin.
Back on the dark street below the apartment, he watched their window, rotten tattered curtains blowing despite a lack of breeze, and thought of that last night with Belle. He shuddered at the memory of her face appearing behind the glass for only a second before she disappeared and he never saw her again. For so many nights after that, he had nightmares. She had become a monster.
He noticed a stream of insects flying out of a crack in the window.
I should just do this fast. No more waiting.
He crept into the abandoned lobby, then up the creaking stairs. Strangely, Edward had been quiet during the entire ride to the apartment. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe this was his true home and he wanted to see it again.
When he arrived at the dilapidated wooden door, he knocked twice. “Hello?” he called, trying to sound brave. “It’s Thomas. Look, you can put down your weapons. I come in peace.”
There was a shuffling inside. A whisper. But no one came to the door.
He knocked again.
He thought he heard voices inside, half sentences, like when you’re trying to tune a radio and can catch only bits of words between static. “. . . can’t . . . no door . . .”
Finally, Thomas took a deep breath and went for the door. It opened easily, but he took his time, making sure to look around before stepping inside. �
��I’m coming in,” he shouted into the apartment.
When the door was ajar and he was inside, the first thing he noticed was the smell, the rancid odor of death. The floor was covered in dead bugs, old candle wax, balls of hair. “Oh, God,” he muttered.
Then he looked up and saw two figures huddled in a corner.
One of them got up, picked up a small lamp beside him, and began to approach. For most of the way, his face was in shadow.
“What are you doing here?” said Valentin when he had reached Thomas.
Thomas was too shocked to respond. The sarcastic, confident boy from last year, the kid who had swooped in and charmed everyone in school, was now an emaciated, sallow-cheeked creature with dirty hair and dead eyes.
Thomas looked away, pretending to survey his surroundings. It was a hellhole. Nothing like the pristine magazine-cover apartment he had visited last year. The floor plan didn’t even seem to fit. How could this be? The apartment was round, with hallways branching out from a central room like spider legs. In the middle of the room was a huge dining table, with two legs broken, so that it slumped on one leg, the surface of it angled toward the floor like a playground slide. Holes peppered the walls, and when he looked closely, Thomas could see grotesque mounds of burned candle wax stuck like giant wads of bubblegum to every surface.
“I . . .” He didn’t know how to answer Valentin. “Why aren’t you in Geneva?”
Valentin laughed. In the distance, so did the owner of the second voice. Victoria scuttled toward them. Her movements were quick and careful, like a rodent who had been caught in too many traps. When he saw her, Thomas gasped. She was wearing the tattered remains of the exact dress she had worn to the Wirth Christmas party — on the very first night the Fausts were introduced in New York City.
She was squinting at him, as if trying to read his mind. Instinctively he stepped back. She scoffed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I can’t cheat anymore.”
Another Jekyll, Another Hyde Page 13
