Jekel Loves Hyde

Beth Fantaskey

• Publisher: HMH Books for Young Readers
• Year: 2019
• eBook ISBN: 9780547487915

"Updates Robert Louis Stevenson's classic story . . . Teens who enjoy brooding love stories will not be disappointed" ( School Library Journal).
 
Jill Jekel has always obeyed her parents' rules—especially the one about never opening the mysterious, old box in her father's office. But when her dad is murdered, and her college savings disappear, she's tempted to peek inside, as the contents might be the key to a lucrative chemistry scholarship.
To improve her odds, Jill enlists the help of gorgeous, brooding Tristen Hyde, who has his own dark secrets locked away. As a team, Jekel and Hyde recreate experiments based on the classic novel, hoping not only to win a prize, but to save Tristen's sanity—and maybe his life. But Jill's accidental taste of a formula unleashes her darkest nature and compels her to risk everything—even Tristen's love—just for the thrill of being bad.
 
"Fantaskey's latest novel deliberately evokes the doppelganger theme and questionable experiments of Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It also owes a great deal to Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series . . . Fans of the genre won't be able to resist this slick genre update." — Booklist

Chapter 1

Jill

THE FIRST PERIOD of the first day of my senior year kicked off with an academic ritual that I’d dreaded since my earliest days in school.

The choosing of partners.

“Come up and get your get new lab manuals, a copy of the text, and then pair up at the lab stations,” our advanced chemistry teacher, Mr. Messerschmidt, said, directing our attention to the front of the room, where his long desk held neat stacks of books and papers waiting for us. He did a quick head count, lips moving as he pointed at us, one by one. “We’re supposed to have an odd number,” he added, frowning, like the tally hadn’t turned out as planned. “So somebody’ll have to work alone this year, if everyone shows.”

No . . . not an odd number . . .

I felt my heart race, the way it always did when there was a chance that I might end up alone. One year in gym class, I’d been the odd girl out for square dancing two weeks in a row, standing in solitary shame against the wall until the teacher forced somebody else to switch out so I could have a turn. And even though chemistry was my best subject, that was no guarantee that Jill Jekel would find a partner here, either.

As I moved to get my manual and book, I tried not to look desperate, even as I made vague attempts at eye contact.

Becca was in the class, but she was so popular . . . I looked in her direction, but Seth Lanier was telling her some joke, making her laugh. She’d probably team with Seth . . .

Tucking my stick-straight, brown hair that was forever escaping from my ponytail behind my ear, I reached for the lab manual, trying to look relaxed and nonchalant. I could always act like I wanted to work alone, if worst came to worst.

“Hey, Jill.”

I glanced over to see Darcy Gray edging in next to me, snapping up a manual, and I felt a surge of hope, albeit one tempered with skepticism.

Darcy seemed to be winding up to tell me something. Or ask me something. Was there a chance that Darcy Gray was going to ask me to partner? Because we were the two best students in the room . . . It made sense . . .

“What’s up?” I greeted her, hoisting the heavy book Mr. Messerschmidt had picked for us. Sterne and Anwar’s Foundations of the Chemical World, 17th Edition. A classic, trustworthy text. My father had kept an earlier edition in his office at home. It was, of course, still there, if we ever unlocked the door to that sacred, forbidden space.

“I just wanted to tell you that station three sucks,” Darcy said, taking her own copy from the pile. She scowled at the cover, like she disapproved, not even looking at me as she spoke. “I had three last year, and the Bunsen burners don’t work right. It totally screwed me over, and Messerschmidt wouldn’t let me change.”

“Oh.” So that was it. Darcy was tipping me off about a faulty lab station. Which was nice, I guessed. But not what I’d hoped for. I felt my cheeks warming, wondering if Darcy had any clue that I’d sort of expected her to ask me to be her partner. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, still not looking at me as she headed for station one—and her boyfriend, Todd Flick. Gorgeous Todd, not a brain in his head, but he’d take Darcy’s directions without complaint or question. He was probably the perfect partner for somebody as domineering as Darcy.

But why had she bothered to warn me about the lab? We were competing for valedictorian, and she could have just let it go. Could have let fate take its course, maybe to my detriment. Was Darcy that confident that she’d take first place?

Probably.

Hugging my books, I took a deep breath and turned around to face the whole class. As I’d expected, most of my classmates already seemed to be pairing up as surely as the animals on Noah’s ark. It was like watching that square dance all over again as students moved around the room, coalescing into teams, gravitating toward desks. A few stragglers were still coming up for books, but in general, it appeared that the world was, as usual, operating two by two, with me as the odd girl out.

The odd, odd girl.

Just try to have some dignity, I told myself, squaring my shoulders and starting my solitary march toward the back of the room, eyes fixed on the farthest station, in the corner. I figured I might as well take the last table if I was going to work alone. At least I wouldn’t have people staring at the back of my head, thinking about the empty chair at my side.

But just as I was about to put my books down, Becca grabbed my arm, laughing her easy laugh. “Jill, where are you going? Get over here!”

I blinked at her with surprise. “What?”

“Our station,” Becca said, pointing to lab three. “I grabbed one for us.”

“Us?”

Becca looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Duh, Jill. We’re partnering, right? I mean, you have to save my butt! You’re the one who understands this stuff!”

“I . . . I . . .” I stammered for a second, still uncertain. Becca Wright had picked me not necessarily because we were friends—she had too many friends to count—but because I was serviceable for her. Which, I supposed, in her eyes was a pretty darn good reason for us to link up. Not insulting at all to a person who would never imagine worrying about having a partner.

So why was I little hurt to be seen mainly as a human study aid?

And Becca had set us up at station three, which Darcy claimed didn’t work right. “We should switch to lab ten,” I suggested, pointing to the back of the room. “I heard lab three . . .”

“No way,” Becca interrupted, still smiling. “I want to be near Seth, and he’s on five, right behind us.”

I hesitated for one more second, knowing that if Becca had her heart set on being near Seth, she wouldn’t budge, even if the malfunctioning burner threatened to set us both on fire.

I gave one last glance to the empty table at the far end of the class.

Then I went with Becca to lab three, awkwardly climbing on to the high stool. Hearing somebody behind her, Darcy turned around to see who was getting stuck with the misfiring burners and gave me a surprised, incredulous look like, “Didn’t I just warn you about that lab?”

I smiled weakly and shrugged, and Darcy rolled her blue eyes before twisting back around to face front.

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Messerschmidt announced, clapping his hands to summon our attention. “Are we all set? All partnered?” He counted heads a second time, then consulted a sheet of paper in his hand, frowning again. “We still seem to be missing someone . . .”

Just then the door opened and in walked Tristen Hyde. Late. And not seeming to care that the whole class was already assembled. He strolled right in front of Mr. Messerschmidt and picked up the textbook, checking the cover and nodding like I’d done. Like he recognized the book as a good one, too.

Mr. Messerschmidt watched this performance in silence, mouth set in a firm line. “You’re late, Mr. Hyde,” he finally said when Tristen took his sweet time collecting the lab manual.

“Sorry,” Tristen said absently, more focused on trying to jam the manual into his battered messenger bag, like he had no intention of looking at the rules and regulations.

I noticed that he’d gotten a light tan over the summer, and the sun had highlighted his thick, dirty-blond hair, and I wondered for a second where he’d been, what he’d done over the last few months. Tristen was a cross-country runner, a track star. Maybe he’d just been . . . running? Or had he traveled back to England? I’d heard that his dad was a psychiatrist, here for some kind of visiting professorship. Maybe they’d gone home for the summer break?

I definitely couldn’t recall seeing Tristen around town. Then again, I hadn’t really seen anybody around town. I’d worked in the basement of Carson Pharmaceuticals cleaning equipment and inventorying stock. A pity job that my dad’s old boss had wrangled for me. Although I’d hated the work, it had been really nice of Mr. Layne to look out for me, given what my dad had been accused of doing at Carson in the months before his murder on their property.

We were fortunate, too, that Mercy Hospital was desperate for nurses, so Mom hadn’t lost her job when she’d had her breakdown right after Dad’s funeral.

Yes, things could have been worse. So why didn’t I feel luckier?

Still standing at the front of the room, Tristen took some time to survey the lab stations, looking for a spot. He didn’t seem panicked or desperate, even though it must have been obvious that everybody was already paired up.

“Do you have a pass or an excuse?” Mr. Messerschmidt asked, holding out his hand.

“No,” Tristen said, still coolly appraising the class.

“Oh.” Mr. Messerschmidt didn’t seem to know what to make of Tristen’s total lack of justification or concern. My teacher’s hand flopped to his side. “Well . . . take a seat, please.”

“Sure,” Tristen agreed, starting to make his way down the center aisle.

“We have an odd number this year,” Mr. Messerschmidt began to point out.

“That’s fine,” Tristen said, heading toward the empty table at the back of the room. Lab station ten, where I’d nearly ended up.

“I suppose we could have one team of three,” Mr. Messerschmidt suggested as we all followed Tristen’s solitary progress. “You could join—”

“No, I’m good,” Tristen interrupted, thudding his messenger bag on the table, claiming the space. He slid onto the stool and began to leaf through the textbook, sort of shutting Mr. Messerschmidt—and all of us—out.

There was a weird moment of silence, during which we all stayed swiveled toward the back of the class, looking in Tristen’s direction. He continued reading.

“Well, then,” Mr. Messerschmidt finally said, clapping his hands again, ending the interruption and regaining control of the situation, which Tristen had somehow hijacked with nothing more than a casual disregard for . . . everything.

Over the course of the next half hour, our teacher proceeded to guide us, page by laborious page, through the contents of the lab manual, advising us of all the ways we could inconvenience the local emergency crews, the school district, and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania by variously scalding, searing, asphyxiating, and blowing each other up if things were mishandled.

I’d had Mr. Messerschmidt for basic chem the year before, and I knew all the proper procedures, but I turned the pages anyway, as directed.

But now and then, for some reason, my mind would wander back to the far end of the classroom. To Tristen.

Did he even remember that day in the graveyard? Should I tell him, someday, that he’d been right—and wrong—back then? That some things had gotten better . . . but some had gotten much, much worse as the police had delved into my dad’s activities, exposing a double life? Late nights at Carson labs. Murky images on security cameras. Unexplained thefts of chemicals that seemed innocuous enough, but which Dad had stolen, nonetheless.

And then there was Mom, who still seemed to be hanging on by her fingernails.

My grief had softened a little as Tristen had promised on that day he’d held me. But I wouldn’t say life was “better.”

Would I tell Tristen all that someday?

Of course, I knew I wouldn’t. We hadn’t even talked again, except to say hi in the halls now and then. I wouldn’t go bare my soul to him just because we’d shared one close moment in a cemetery.

Yet I found myself glancing over my shoulder at him. And when I did, I saw that Tristen wasn’t following along with his lab manual. It wasn’t even on his desk. He was still reading the textbook, which was spread open before him, and his mouth was drawn down in concentration, like he was engrossed in some concept or theory that challenged him.

I watched his face, his mouth, thinking, Those lips have brushed against mine.

How weird that touch seemed in retrospect. Tristen was like a million miles away from me although we were in the same room. How was it that he’d ever held me, stroked my hair?

Like the rest of that whole period of my life, it all seemed part of some crazy dream. A crazy nightmare.

I must have stared at Tristen so long that he sensed me watching, because he glanced up from his book, caught me observing him, arched his eyebrows . . . and smiled. A smile that was at once surprised, questioning, and maybe a little teasing. A grin that managed to say, “Me? Really? I’m flattered, I guess!”

NO!

I whipped back around, face flaming. Why had I been studying him?

Becca had noticed the whole thing, too. She elbowed me and whispered, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” I told her, meaning it. “Nothing!”

Then the bell rang, rescuing me, and I gathered up my books, refusing to look in Tristen’s direction again. Fortunately Becca was immediately shanghaied by Seth—or maybe it was vice versa—so I was spared more questions.

But I wasn’t quite in the clear. As I made my way toward the door, Mr. Messerschmidt called out above the din of chattering students. “Jill! Darcy! Hyde! Come here! I have something for you three.”

Turning to see what our teacher wanted, I noticed that he held a few folded sheets of lime green paper. “I’m coming,” I said as Mr. Messerschmidt began waving the papers, using them to summon us.

Under the room’s fluorescent lights those colorful flyers looked like a cheerful enough invitation. But in truth, the bright leaflet with my name on it would turn out to be the ticket to a lot of dark places.

Dark places in my school.

Dark places in my home.

Dark places in myself.

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Tristen and Darcy, who would take the wild ride with me, I opened the flyer and read.

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Contents
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 37
• Chapter 38
• Chapter 39
• Chapter 40
• Chapter 41
• Chapter 42
• Chapter 43
• Chapter 44
• Chapter 45
• Chapter 46
• Chapter 47
• Chapter 48
• Chapter 49
• Chapter 50
• Chapter 51
• Chapter 52
• Chapter 53
• Chapter 54
• Chapter 55
• Chapter 56
• Chapter 57
• Chapter 58
• Chapter 59
• Chapter 60
• Chapter 61
• Chapter 62
• Chapter 63
• Chapter 64
• Chapter 65
• Chapter 66
• Chapter 67
• Chapter 68
• Chapter 69
• Chapter 70
• Chapter 71
• Chapter 72
• Chapter 73
• Chapter 74
• Chapter 75
• Chapter 76
• Chapter 77
• Chapter 78
• Chapter 79
• Chapter 80
• Chapter 81
• Chapter 82
• Chapter 83
• Chapter 84
• Chapter 85
• Chapter 86
• Chapter 87
• Chapter 88
• Chapter 89
• Chapter 90
• Chapter 91
• Chapter 92
• Chapter 93
• Chapter 94
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Connect with HMH on Social Media