I scanned the congregation for familiar faces. Even though I was sleepy, the effects of the Sunshine still hadn’t worn off. Either that or I was truly getting over the last few months of my life. I knew because it hadn’t annoyed me when Dad put his blinker on a hundred yards too early or when Mom sang the hymns too loud. And I was dying to discuss hair choices for Friday night’s basketball game with Paisley. Hair choices! I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cared about something as inconsequential as hair choices.
I caught sight of Paisley, her head dutifully bowed, which meant she must have been sneaking texts on her phone since no one else was praying. In the church’s right wing, Ava sat with her mom. Every so often, she’d trace the sign of the cross over her shoulders and breastbone. Her family was Catholic, but since there were no Catholic churches in Hollow Pines, the Presbyterian church had to do.
In unison, the congregation rose and began to sing a song about peace and forgiveness. Honor balanced her hymnal on the pew back in front of us. She slid it over so that I could read from it, too. A black stamp on my left hand caught my eye. Quietly, I lowered my hands off the rail and knitted my fingers together, hoping that Honor hadn’t already seen.
I’d seen, though.
My throat tied itself in knots. The stamp was a picture of two spurred boots and I recognized it instantly. A cold sweat cropped up among the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I’d had that stamp on my hand before—once—the night I went to Dearborn. When I went to Ten Gallon Cowboy.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The images flooded in, rushing through me like a tidal wave. The music. The sticky floors. The boys laughing. Without even trying I could feel again how the night had morphed into something ugly, first slowly and then all at once.
I forced my eyelids back open and pulled myself free from the memory. I would never go back. That was the promise I’d made to myself. Never, ever, ever and as far as I knew, I hadn’t. Or at least that was what I would have thought if I didn’t have the evidence stamped across my hand. My heart beat fast.
Pastor Long raised his hands and held his palms out to us. “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” he said. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
“Amen,” I chanted. Then the organ blared and everyone was reaching behind them to pick up their belongings. I grabbed my purse and tapped Honor on the shoulder. “I’m running to the restroom before the line gets too long, okay? Tell Mom and Dad that I’ll meet y’all in the atrium.”
I darted out of the pew and up the aisle toward the double doors, panic slimy in my mouth and throat. “Peace be with you,” an elderly usher in a khaki suit called to me as I hustled away.
“And peace be with you,” I responded breathlessly.
The women’s restroom was located at the end of the corridor. I hurried inside. Tiny green tiles covered the floor and walls. I squeezed out a dollop of pink soap, stuck my hand underneath the faucet, and began scrubbing it with my fingernails. I relaxed as the ink dissolved from my skin and I was left with reddening scratches instead. In a few short seconds, I would have never suspected it was there in the first place.
Ladies of the church began trickling in. Still shaken, I slipped into a stall at the end and closed the door. Breathe, I ordered my lungs. Calm down and breathe.
The stamp meant nothing. The night after Ten Gallon Cowboy, I’d woken to full body aches that stretched from the top notch of my spine down to the backs of my knees. Today, on the other hand, I felt fine. I had to keep reminding myself of that. I felt fine. For the first time in a long time.
I reached for my cell and texted Liam. I thought you said there were no side effects?
I waited as flashing dots appeared on-screen. Followed by his message. There aren’t.
I dug my teeth into my lip, unsure how much I wanted to tell him. Who else has tried it?
The answer was immediate. Confidentiality. Part of the job requirement.
I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t like Liam was a doctor or a lawyer. Still, it was nice to know my secret was safe. But there are others?
Of course :)
I tapped my foot on the ground anxiously. And no one has had … My thumbs hovered … memory loss?
Nada. U ok?
Fine. I typed a quick reply and switched my screen to dark. Without pulling up my dress, I sat down on the toilet. It was just me. Lots had happened to me in the last few weeks. And besides, nothing bad had happened. Maybe it was even a good thing. Maybe I’d confronted my fear and just, I didn’t know, blocked it out or something. Like with PTSD. Was that my issue? What sorts of trauma could lead to a brain switch like post-traumatic stress disorder? I’d heard stories of soldiers getting it from war, of children having cases of PTSD when parents were killed, but what about what happened to me?
I still couldn’t say the word. I couldn’t even think it.
Was I … traumatized?
I turned the word over in my mind and thought of the near-catatonic shell of myself that I’d peered at in the mirror, the one who’d been ready to shave off an entire head of perfectly luscious hair. Then I paired that version against who I was before Dearborn: popular, in control, straight As, flirtatious, professional-level best friend. When I put it like that then, yeah, I supposed the word traumatized did seem to fit. Was I stressed, too?
Well, it certainly wasn’t like me to forget to set an alarm. If I had the trauma and the stress and it was post the “Incident,” was it possible that I’d been full-on disordered without even realizing it?
I wiped my hands down my shins. This felt like a positive step. A sign that the old me was just around the corner. Identify a problem. Solve it. That was what the old Cassidy would do and medical problems required medicine. At least until I recovered. And, since my problem wasn’t exactly one I could talk to a doctor about without a dozen questions and a call to my parents—I could already hear Paisley’s singsong voice chiding me about my strolls down easy street—then I would have to self-treat. My breath was coming more steadily now.
Just as much as I felt the old, better version of myself hovering tantalizingly close, I also felt the sad, nasty version haunting me like a ghost. If I wasn’t careful, it would suck me under. I needed to preserve cheerleader, straight A Cassidy stat.
There was one thing that had made me feel the best I’d felt in weeks. If I was the problem, then perhaps it could be the solution. I opened my purse and fished for the small clear bag that contained another couple drops of Sunshine. Maybe if I took a half now and saved half for later that would get me back to the feeling I had the night of the party. And yesterday and—
I pinched a tablet between two fingers, positioned it between my two front teeth, and bit the pill in half. A chalky texture coated my tongue. I quickly swallowed the half-portion down, wishing I could get to a water fountain to wash the taste away.
Sealing the bag, I returned it to my purse. The reaction was slower this time. At first nothing happened. I listened to the flush of toilets and waited. Then, gradually, a warmth built underneath the beds of my fingernails. It spread to my knuckles and up to my elbows until, at last, the glow seeped into my chest and filled the cavity there with a pleasant heat, soft and wonderful, like a mug of hot cocoa on the coldest day of the year.
I slid open the lock and stepped out of the stall. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I noticed that my skin had an attractive rosy tint to it. A faint smile pulled at the corners of my lips. No one would know that I’d thrown my hair up and my outfit together in five minutes flat. No way. I looked fantastic.
A silver-haired woman trundled past me in her floppy Sunday hat and scooted her way into the stall I’d occupied. I waved as she passed.
That was it. I’d been overreacting. About all of it. It was so like me. Type A. Closet perfectionist. Every ounce of worry, which had felt so pressing only moments before, floated off to an unreachable distance.
“There you are.” Paisley strode over to the sink and washed her hands. “I thought we were going to go see a movie last night. Do you not return texts anymore?”
She wore a floral dress with a Peter Pan collar, perfectly tailored to fit her minute stature.
Movie … movie … It sounded vaguely familiar. Paisley fussed with a few stray blond strands, flattening them into her sleek shoulder-length bob.
I couldn’t recall what movie we’d wanted to see or receiving any texts from Paisley, but this time, when confronted with the gap in my memory, the panic wasn’t there. It felt almost funny, as though Paisley and I were in on a joke. “Sorry,” I said cheerily. “Must have given my secretary the night off.”
Paisley huffed as we wandered together back into the atrium. Organ music still trickled in from the sanctuary. Pastor Long stood at the main doors, shaking hands with families as they hurried out to catch their eleven o’clock brunch reservations.
I could tell Paisley wasn’t actually mad. That was the thing about the two of us—we could never stay mad at each other. Especially because our popularity multiplied when we came in a pair. We both knew it. Blond and brunette. Pick your flavor. Or your poison.
“Okay,” she continued. “So then what had you so occupied that you needed to subject me to another night of watching the Billys play Xbox in William’s basement?” She idly strolled over to a nearby snack table and took a store-packaged cherry Danish from the tray.
“Liam,” I replied without thinking. It was the first thing that popped into my head. That was what I remembered from last night. Liam. I was certain of it.
Paisley stopped before she could take a bite. “Liam?” She lowered the pastry. “So much for that long-winded speech you gave about swearing off boys. How long did that last? One month? Two, tops. That has to be some kind of record for you, Cass.”
I remembered the speech in question. It was only days after Paisley, Ava, Ashley, Erica, and I had visited Dearborn for our big girls’ night out. We were at our usual table in the cafeteria and Ava had asked who I thought would invite me to prom this year. When I’d insisted I wasn’t going and that, even more shockingly, I was giving up boys altogether—like they were carbs or something—my friends had been ready to declare my depression clinical.
Maybe they’d been right.
“It’s not like that,” I said, trying not to stare at the jam-filled Danish.
When Paisley took a bite, some of the frosting flaked off and I fought the urge to lunge after it. I’d already gorged myself on pancakes this weekend, so church pastries weren’t on the agenda. Not when I’d decided that I wasn’t ready to return to chubby mathlete obscurity quite yet after all. Not when I’d just reminded myself of all I had to lose. Not when Sunshine had reminded me, that was. Girls did not claw their way to the top for nothing. That was important for me to remember.
Paisley followed my eyes, smirked, and took another monster bite. “It’s Liam Buckley,” she mumbled, mouth full. “If it’s not like that, you’re doing it wrong. Trust me.”
I chewed on my lip, debating how much to tell her. Would Liam let anyone in on our little secret? Were other people using Sunshine, too, and I never knew? Part of me wanted to tell her. For better or worse—let’s face it, many times it was for worse—Paisley was my best friend. But did that mean she had to know every little thing about me?
She didn’t know about Dearborn or the boys or the aches that followed in my body and in my heart.
Paisley had been my best friend for years, but when I thought about the barbs in her tongue, the ones that could poke me and call me a slut with a laugh and an oh you know it’s true smile, I wanted to recoil as though from a hot stove.
The more I thought about it, the more I saw that Sunshine worked like a really great tube of concealer. It matched my skin tone perfectly and nobody, not even Paisley, needed to know that I had a pimple.
“We just met up at the park and played a little basketball.” I shrugged. “No biggie.”
Paisley polished off the rest of the Danish and licked her fingers. She’d never had the same tendency toward chubby stomach rolls that I had. “Okay, so you’re taking it slow. That’s good, I guess. Different for you, though.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not taking it anywhere.”
Her eyes widened. “Is he gay?”
“I don’t know, Paize, and I didn’t ask because I don’t care.” By now the Sunshine was flowing through my veins like liquid gold. I gave an easy smile. One that had the old Cassidy written all over it. “Stop being so uptight.” I pinched her cheek like an overzealous great-aunt. Then, in my altered state, a thought seized me. “Hey, do you want to go for a run this afternoon? It’s really beautiful out.” Sun poured through the glass doors. Outside, churchgoers were shucking off their cardigans and enjoying the weather.
“Did an alien abduct you? Or … oh, I know, are you doing one of those Gwyneth Paltrow juice fasts because I’ve been debating trying the master cleanse, but wasn’t sure…”
I kept my gaze trained outside, staring at the fresh air and the rustling leaves and the flowers, all brushed with a spring glow. “Truth?” I cut her off.
Paisley gave a light, frustrated stomp of her foot. “Truth. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“It was, just, I don’t know, getting kind of exhausting being sad all the time.”
* * *
SWEAT DRENCHED THE neckline of my T-shirt and turned my legs slimy. I kicked my tennis shoes off on the front porch and shoved them next to the family welcome mat. My muscles burned and my calves were already tight. I’d run the mile to Hollow Pines High to meet Paisley where we’d then done two full sets of stadium steps. Even though I knew I’d be sore in the morning, I relished the surge of endorphins, the feeling of fistfuls of blood pumping through my heart and the way my body felt totally awake after a good workout. An Eminem song blared through my headphones, reminding me of the times that Paisley and I used to ride around in her car, windows down with nowhere to go, blasting rap songs and nailing every line word for word at the top of our lungs. The memory made me smile. I tugged the buds from my ears and wrapped the wire around my phone as I pushed open the door to my house.
“Mom, I’m home!” I yelled. My socks left cloudy imprints on the hardwood floor as I pounded up the stairs to my room. The door to my bedroom was closed. When I opened it, I let out a soft shriek once I found that it was occupied.
“Honor? God, you scared me.” I blinked several times in quick succession, surprised to see her in my room when she wasn’t supposed to be and even more surprised when I took in what she was doing.
“Cassidy!” She whirled to turn her back away from the full-length mirror. She didn’t realize I could still see the phone clutched in her palm through the reflection.
My little sister was wearing a red thong and a black push-up bra. Both of them were mine. “What are you doing?” I lunged for her phone.
She jumped clear of me and held the phone out in her opposite hand to stay clear of my reach. “Nothing. God, don’t overreact. I’m going to wash them and put them right back where I found them, okay?”
Underneath her constellation of freckles, her face flushed pink.
“You think that’s what I’m worried about? Whether you return my … my underwear?” Her knobby knees bowed slightly inward as she tried to shift into a more modest position. I gawked at her pointy elbows and sharp collarbone, both of which would have made her appear more at home on a playground than posing in lingerie. “The question is what are you doing in them because I’ll tell you what it looks like you’re doing.”
She rolled her eyes and in that moment it looked to me like my little sister had morphed into some kind of otherworldly being. “Please, Cassidy. Like you aren’t going to parties and sneaking out with boys. I found you yesterday morning wearing your clothes from the night before. Remember?”
My mouth fell open. “I—I—what? That’s totally different.” And for a secon
d it was like I had double vision. I saw Honor sneaking out to Dearborn. Honor flirting with college boys. Honor ditching her friends for a cute smile and a free drink. Honor being passed around, sneered at, called horrible names, names so poisonous they would burn a hole through her chest. And Honor not getting to choose her first anything because it was taken from her in one stupid moment.
She stood there twirling a few strands of hair around her finger.
“Give me your phone,” I said slowly, stretching out my hand.
She lifted her chin defiantly just as she had when she was five years old and wanted to wear a tutu for a week straight. “No.”
“Give it to me.”
“No!”
“Honor Mary Hyde, give me that phone!” I charged and grabbed her behind the elbow. We tumbled onto my bed.
She flattened her face into the mattress. “Get off me,” she screamed. She tucked the phone underneath her stomach. I straddled her, one knee on either side of her little-girl hips.
“Who did you send them to, Honor? This isn’t funny.”
“No one! Gross, Cass, you’re all sweaty.”
I wedged my arm between her and the bed. Cheerleading and two extra years had made me twice as strong as her. I felt for her fingers and pried them off the pastel blue case one by one until she lost her grip on the phone.
“Got it!” I yelled triumphantly. I kept her pinned down while I scrolled through the contents of her phone and found the pictures. Three photographs were saved side by side. One with Honor turned to the side, her back arched, her hair cascading until it reached the small of her back. One straight on, but I could tell she was using the sides of her arms to create the small line of cleavage. And one shot over her shoulder to get a view of her butt. “Oh, disgusting, Honor.” My nose wrinkled and I hit “delete” on each of the photos. “Here’s your dumb phone back.” I tossed it on the mattress next to her head and crawled off of her. “Next time I catch you doing something like that I’m telling Mom.”
Teen Hyde Page 4
