Jekel Loves Hyde

  “We should get back to work,” I said, surprised by the irritation I heard in my voice. “I mean, time’s running out,” I added in a more normal tone.

  “Of course,” Tristen agreed. He looked to me. “See you tonight, Jill.”

  I sort of avoided his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

  But before Tristen could walk away, Mr. Messerschmidt called to us. “Hyde—stay there.” As we watched, he lumbered toward us, threading his wide body through the narrow rows of lab tables. “I want to talk to you all.”

  “What’s up?” Tristen inquired in a way that suggested our teacher was overstepping his bounds by asking for a moment of time. “What do you need?”

  “Darcy, this involves you, too,” Mr. Messerschmidt said.

  “Todd, finish up,” Darcy directed her partner. Then she turned to smile at our teacher. “Yes?”

  “I just wondered if you’re all entering the Foreman Foundation contest,” Mr. Messerschmidt said, looking from face to face.

  “No,” Tristen said, shooting me a warning look. “I’m not.”

  “Me neither,” I said, following his lead. But I looked to the floor, afraid that everyone would see the lie in my eyes. We were in that very room almost every night, transcribing notes, mixing chemicals, working on our contest entry—and Tristen’s personal project. Most nights he would leave with a bottle filled with solution, in preparation for the time we’d meet and he would begin drinking the variations. We were stealing chemicals like my dad had done.

  “Well, I’m in,” Darcy announced. “I’m doing my initial research now.”

  “Good girl, Darcy.” Mr. Messerschmidt smiled at his star pupil. Then he frowned at me. “Jill, why not?”

  I tucked my hair behind my ear, still averting my eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just really busy now.”

  Very smooth, as usual, Jill.

  “And you, Hyde,” Mr. Messerschmidt added. “I suppose you’re busy, too?”

  “No, just lazy,” Tristen said. “I told you. I completely lack ambition.” Then Tristen walked away, not waiting for Mr. Messerschmidt’s dismissal.

  “I hope you’ll reconsider,” our teacher addressed me again. “And if you could convince Hyde to team up like I suggested, I really think you’d have a good shot at winning the money. Especially if you could somehow focus on the intersection of chemistry and brain function. Actually play off the old Jekyll-Hyde story!”

  “Oh, I don’t think Tristen’s interested,” I said, getting a little sweaty. I wasn’t a good liar, and Mr. Messerschmidt was hitting too close to the actual deception. “I’ll talk to him, though,” I promised, just wanting my teacher to drop the subject.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Messerschmidt beamed, seeming really pleased. “I could help you define your research agenda, bounce around ideas—anything you needed.”

  “Don’t bother.” Darcy laughed, interrupting us. I hadn’t realized she was still listening, and I looked over to see her watching us while Todd struggled with decantation, one arm hampered by his cast and his big fingers, so adept with footballs, fumbling with the delicate equipment. “I’ve got a lock on this thing,” Darcy boasted.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’ll do well,” Mr. Messerschmidt agreed, like he always did with Darcy. “I just want to inspire some healthy competition. Maybe Supplee Mill could take first and second place.”

  “I guess they could shoot for second,” Darcy said with a shrug. Then she turned back to her lab station and resumed directing Todd.

  I stared at Darcy’s straight spine, frustrated and powerless to fight back even if for once I had real ammunition. Tristen and I could beat her. Darcy Gray couldn’t just assume I was a loser. But of course I just stood there, unable to defend myself.

  “Talk to Tristen,” Mr. Messerschmidt urged. “And remember, I’m here to offer guidance and support.”

  I met my teacher’s eyes, thinking his enthusiasm was starting to border on pushiness. “Um, sure. Thanks,” I finally said.

  There was an awkward silence, then Mr. Messerschmidt wandered off, leaving me and Becca together again. I continued our experiment, lighting the faulty burner, which sputtered, just like Darcy had warned.

  “Are you and Tristen really just studying?” Becca broke into my thoughts.

  “Yes,” I said. “Why?”

  Becca shrugged. “No reason.”

  I turned around and saw that Tristen had finished his experiment and was leaning back on his seat staring out the window, safety glasses shoved up into his thick hair. Completely oblivious to me.

  “Well, we are just studying,” I repeated, still watching him.

  “Good,” Becca said.

  It was a weird response, maybe as strange as Mr. Messerschmidt’s eagerness to see me take part in a contest that wouldn’t win him any money, but for some reason, I didn’t want to think about why Becca might be glad that Tristen and I were nothing more than study partners, so I didn’t ask her what she’d meant.

  Chapter 27

  Jill

  “ARE YOU COMFORTABLE, MOM?” I asked, handing her a small amber bottle and a glass of water. “I could turn the heat up.”

  “No, Jill.” She shook her head, dumping pills into her palm. “I’m warm under the covers.”

  “Okay.” Although the night was cold, I didn’t press the issue. Our electric bill, which I’d paid that morning from our shrinking checking account, was high enough without cranking the heat. I watched as Mom swallowed her medication, eyes closed, like she was already falling under its spell.

  “Dr. Hyde,” I ventured, accepting the glass, “does he really seem to be helping?”

  Mom nodded, eyes still closed. “Yes, Jill. The medication seems to help. And Dr. Hyde seems to understand me when we talk.”

  “Oh, good.”

  I was glad that Mom found Dr. Hyde comforting, because he’d seemed imposing to me the times I’d dropped Mom off at his office. He was tall like Tristen. And his voice was an older, even deeper version of his son’s. They shared the same angular cheekbones and full lower lip. But Dr. Hyde was dark while Tristen was fair. Like his mother?

  And what else did Dr. Hyde and Tristen share? That corrupted gene, or broken synapse, or whatever it was that Tristen was afraid lurked inside himself?

  “You’re sure he’s helping?” I asked again.

  “Yes.” Mom crawled deeper under the covers. “Enough that I’m going to the hospital this week. I called and asked to work a day shift.”

  “Mom, don’t rush it,” I urged, although I wanted to jump with relief. Thank you, Dr. Hyde. “Just take your time and get well, okay? You’ve only been in treatment a few weeks.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mom promised with a yawn. “Dr. Hyde thinks I should start getting out of the house. He’s reduced my dosage during the day so I can be more alert.”

  The glass slipped in my hand. “Oh? Just during the day?”

  Even as I was blurting out the question, I realized how awful it was, because I wasn’t asking out of concern for her. I was worried about how I would sneak out to meet Tristen if Dr. Hyde decided Mom could go without sedation at night, too.

  But she was so sleepy that my question didn’t even seem to register. She was already breathing in a fairly steady rhythm, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open.

  Dr. Hyde’s medicine had done its work.

  As I tiptoed out of the room, I reminded myself that it was okay to hope Mom would stay safely sedated at night for a little while longer. The scholarship was worth thirty thousand dollars. Surely that much money, the way it would ease our family’s financial burdens, made everything I was doing right.

  Right?

  Chapter 28

  Jill

  “POTASSIUM,” TRISTEN MUTTERED, head resting in his left hand as his right scrawled notes in his bold, heavy script. “Potassium.”

  “What?” I asked, glancing up from my own tedious transcription of Dr. Jekyll’s notes. Tristen and I worked side by side by the light of a si
ngle flashlight that we kept propped on a pile of books. “What did you say?”

  “Potassium,” Tristen grumbled, head still in his hand. Dropping his pen, he shoved the paper clip that he used to pick locks across the table in my direction. “Do me a favor. See if there’s any in the cabinet? I seem to recall that it was running low, and this formulation requires a significant amount if I’m reading it correctly.”

  “But I don’t know how to pick the lock,” I said, not reaching for the paper clip. Tristen—he was our official trespasser. Not me.

  “It’s simple.” Tristen started writing again. He seemed irritated as he directed, “Just jam the clip in the lock and probe around until it gives. It’s not rocket science.”

  I was hurt by his tone and didn’t like being ordered, but I reached for the clip, not wanting to worsen the bad mood he’d been in all evening. “Okay.”

  Heading to the storage cabinet, I stuck the paper clip in the lock and wriggled it like I’d seen Tristen do. A few seconds later I swung open the door. I turned, about to tell him that it really had been pretty easy, but something about the way he was hunched over his notebook made me think he wouldn’t really care. “There’s plenty of potassium,” I said, checking the container and closing the cabinet.

  Tristen didn’t respond, and I climbed back onto my stool, tapping him. “Tristen? There’s plenty.”

  He still didn’t answer. He just kept transcribing, his hand jerking rapidly across his notebook.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, not sure if I should be excited or alarmed. “Did you find something?”

  He shook his head, still writing. “No,” he grumbled. “Quite the opposite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t chemistry, Jill,” Tristen snapped, abruptly slapping down his pen. He sat upright, jamming his hand into his hair. “It’s a . . . a . . . cookbook. Your ancestor was a fucking Victorian Betty Crocker!”

  “Tristen!” I chided him. “Stop it!” The rebuke came out automatically, and I immediately cringed. Tristen wasn’t the type of person anyone would normally bark at, let alone me. “Sorry.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry.” Tristen sighed, seeming to have vented the worst of his frustration. He rubbed his hands across his face. “I just don’t understand, Jill. It seems as if Dr. Jekyll was primarily combining kitchen ingredients. The occasional dash of phosphorous or lithium aside, he’s mainly dabbling in vinegars and other weak acids and common bases. Not elements that would seem to hold promise for changing a soul, temporarily or permanently.”

  The more Tristen and I had worked together, the easier it had become to forget that our project wasn’t just about me. That night’s show of temper aside, the Tristen I was coming to know as a collaborator was kind and considerate of me, and when he smiled, it was impossible to believe that a monster—the thing he called a beast—lurked inside of him. But his exasperation was a sharp reminder of his stake in our project. Of what he had threatened to do if we didn’t succeed in creating a formula to “cure” him.

  “We haven’t reached the end of the papers,” I reminded him, suddenly worried on his behalf. “There are still a few pages left. We might still find something.”

  “No, Jill.” Tristen shook his head. Then he fell into a glum silence, staring into the distance and mumbling, “Something is missing. Something . . .”

  “Let’s keep working,” I suggested.

  “I suppose so,” he agreed, but he didn’t sound hopeful. Still, he tore a few pages from his notebook and handed me another stack of the old notes. “Here. Why don’t you check my latest transcription against the original? Perhaps you’ll find something I’ve missed or misread.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, bending to read by the dim light. Even squinting, it was hard to read Dr. Jekyll’s bad handwriting, made worse by the way the ink had faded over time.

  Seeing my difficulty, Tristen reached down and grabbed the edge of my stool, pulling me closer to the light and to himself, so we were practically shoulder-to-shoulder. As he bent over his notebook, I studied his profile. His straight nose, his full lower lip like his dad’s, his intelligent, troubled eyes . . .

  He looked sideways at me, mouth twitching with his first smile of the night. “What?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Are you preparing another scolding on outbursts, or the evils of profanity? Is that what’s stalling you?”

  No, not a scolding. What had stalled me was Tristen. I hadn’t even realized I’d been watching him for so long. “I—I was just . . .”

  “What, Jill?” he prompted, mischief in his eyes. “What are you thinking, in that formidable, lovely mind of yours?”

  “Um . . .” I noticed that Tristen’s smile was slowly vanishing. He was growing serious again. But a different kind of serious. His eyes still gleamed but with a gentle curiosity, a softer amusement.

  I flushed under his attention. Could a mind be “lovely”? Attractive? But, no, Tristen didn’t think of me that way.

  Yet the look in his eyes . . . I didn’t have any experience with boys, but I almost thought . . .

  “Tell me, Jill,” he urged, and we were so close—had he leaned closer?—that I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks. I inhaled the scent of him, which was slowly growing familiar as our lives became more entangled. Tristen always smelled like he’d just showered. Clean and masculine. And his eyes . . .

  “What’s going on in that beautiful brain?” he asked again.

  Lovely. Beautiful. Not me but my mind.

  What would a truly beautiful girl, like Becca, think of such a strange compliment? Would she laugh at it?

  Probably.

  Suddenly it was like Becca was standing with us again, tossing her shiny, auburn hair. Becca, who definitely intrigued guys. Who probably intrigued Tristen . . .

  “Nothing,” I said, breaking our gaze and needlessly shuffling the papers piled in front of me. “I’m just thinking we should get to work. I shouldn’t stay out too late. My mom might wake up and wonder where I am.”

  “Yes,” Tristen agreed, clearing his throat and edging his stool away from mine, just an inch or so. And he sounded aloof, almost like we were business partners—which we sort of were—when he added, “And how is your mother?”

  “Pretty sedated most of the time,” I said, tapping the papers back into order. I dared to look at him. “Is that normal for most of your father’s patients?”

  “I don’t know too much about Dad’s methods,” he said. “But, yes, I understand that the initial phase—‘stabilization,’ as he calls it—involves heavy sedation. It’s meant to keep patients from doing themselves harm while the brilliant Dr. Hyde probes their psyches looking for more practical, lasting solutions.”

  I had planned to ask Tristen just how long “stabilization” lasted, but the sarcasm I heard when he assessed his father’s work surprised me. “Don’t you think he’s really brilliant? You said he’s the best.”

  Tristen smiled wryly, resuming writing. “Yes, Jill. I suppose he is brilliant. He certainly thinks so.”

  I decided to let the subject go, just happy for the reassurance that my mother was getting care from a top psychiatrist. One whose methods enabled me to come to the lab at night—and who didn’t seem in any hurry to add to the growing pile of bills that I kept arranged by order of urgency in a box in our kitchen.

  Tristen and I worked in silence for a while, the only sound in the room the scratch of his pen and the crackle of stiff paper when I turned the pages, checking his work.

  Addition 5 ml hydrochloric acid to . . .

  I swallowed hard, imagining how the acid would feel going down someone’s throat. Had one of my old relations actually drunk that? Would Tristen?

  I kept reading. Increased HCl to 10 ml . . .

  Yes, the first Dr. Jekyll had used a lot of common pantry ingredients. But there was dangerous stuff in there, too.

  “Does your mother ever say those things anymore?” Tristen eventually broke the silence, interruptin
g my worried thoughts: images of him drinking a deadly concoction, writhing in agony . . . I shook the pictures out of my head.

  “Things?” I asked. “What things?”

  “About the ‘bloody list.’ In the ‘compartment.’ The things she mumbled as I lifted her.”

  “No,” I said. “For a while it was like a mantra . . . the whole thing about the ‘altered salts.’ But I guess the medicine kicked in—”

  “Jill?”

  I looked up to see him staring at me, a strange look on his face like I’d startled him. “What?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “The medicine kicked in—”

  “Before that. About the salts.”

  “Mom kept mumbling about ‘altered salts.’ You remember.”

  “No.” Tristen shook his head. “I couldn’t hear everything she said.”

  “She kept talking about a list of altered salts in a compartment,” I said, not sure why he found Mom’s delusional ramblings so interesting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “The book, Jill. The book . . .”

  “What book?” He was losing me completely.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, rising from the stool and reaching for his messenger bag, rummaging deep inside. “Oh, hell.”

  “Tristen, what book?”

  “Jekyll and Hyde,” he said with impatience, pulling an object from his bag. I recognized the first edition novel that his grandfather had given him. Tristen sat on the stool again and grew distant, talking to himself, clearly agitated. His face was pale. “How could I have forgotten the ‘altered salt’? Grandfather told me—read the novel. ‘If there is a chance for salvation, the clues are in the novel.’”

  But Tristen didn’t open the book he’d retrieved. He slammed it onto the table like he was punishing it and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, hell. Bloody, fucking hell!”