Teen Hyde (High School Horror Story #2)
Chandler Baker
For my mom, my role model
ONE
Cassidy
“Mix. Mingle. Try to look like you’re having fun,” Paisley had said before disappearing into the crowded kitchen.
She’d abandoned me in record time, even for her, and I was left standing in a sea of half-drunk people with the vague feeling that I had some totally off-putting and incurable disease, like smallpox. Honestly, people might have preferred that. At least with smallpox they could host a fund-raiser. As far as I knew, there were no bake sales for the chronically sad.
I stuffed my hands into the back pockets of the dark-wash skinny jeans Paisley had insisted I put on instead of the old faded pairs I’d grown accustomed to wearing. It was either concede to the jeans or let my best friend wrestle me into a miniskirt and I most definitely wasn’t ready for anything as flashy as a miniskirt. I scanned the room, trying to remember whose house this was anyway. Whoever it was, I didn’t envy them. There were too many nice things combined with too many people. It was a parental disaster waiting to happen.
I meandered farther inside, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone. These people sure did like plaid. I stepped over a set of tartan throw pillows that had been pitched to the ground to make room for a group of girls to smash in together, one girl’s legs thrown over those of her two friends, a casual message to the rest of the room: We are best friends. I knew because I used to speak that language fluently. But now I sought out somewhere to hide in plain sight. I found it in the living room, next to a piano, a furniture piece with enough heft to create a more comfortable, less populated perimeter. I picked up an unlit candle sitting on top, brought it to my nose, and sniffed in the scent of wild sea grass. Okay, so I had to turn it over and check the label. I had no idea how wild sea grass smelled. I had a theory about candles, actually. I was convinced that the world’s candlemakers only manufactured, like, three different fragrances—fruity, fresh, and baking ingredient—all the other supposed “perfumes” were just marketing disguises designed to make us feel like we were purchasing something worth fifteen bucks.
I glanced over my shoulder. Nearby there was another group of girls huddled together that looked vaguely familiar—maybe sophomores—but none of them looked as if they wanted to discuss my candle conspiracies. That was honestly too bad. I might have been into that conversation.
I gingerly set the jar down on the piano and picked up a gold frame. In the photograph a smiling man and woman wore fedoras and held frozen drinks with little umbrellas in front of a glimmering pool. They looked so happy it made my joints ache. Paisley would probably scold me for snooping around their belongings. Hell, I would probably scold me. The old me would anyway. I sighed and replaced the frame.
A couple of the younger girls that I’d noticed earlier were casting furtive glances in my direction and whispering to each other. They were pretty, with long hair that fell past their shoulder blades and necklaces that matched their shoes. I stood there in no-man’s-land, letting them whisper and stare. Even with my not-so-invisible cloak of doom and gloom, as captain of the cheerleading squad, I was still popular enough to be intimidating, although now with all the rumors about me—face it, many of them true—I was probably a little scary, too. Hence the whispering. I doubted any of them would have the guts to come right up and talk to me. Good, let them be scared, I figured.
I’d been at the party for twenty minutes and so far I’d managed not to talk to a single person since walking through the door. I felt weirdly proud of this. Like maybe I should keep it that way. An entire party without opening my mouth to speak. Or to make out with boys.
Getting drunk and kissing definitely fell within the realm of old me.
I squeezed past the group of girls and noticed as they fell silent the moment I came close. Subtle, ladies, I wanted to say. Only I didn’t because I was anti-conversation. Anti-party. Anti-everything.
Instead, I observed. I glided out of the living room, feeling like a ghost of my former self, and into the kitchen. The back doors opened onto a patio where my classmates were spilling out into the night. I spotted Paisley’s blond bob, bowed forward in concentration over a game of flip cup taking place on the breakfast table. Beside her, two girls from our cheerleading squad, the Oilerettes—Ashley and Erica—hailed her on with whoops and squeals.