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.
Chapter 2
Jill
“I UNDERSTAND THAT this is the first time three students from a school as small as Supplee Mill have been invited to participate in the competition,” Mr. Messerschmidt noted as Darcy, Tristen, and I crowded around his desk, silently reading the information he’d handed to us. “The Foreman Foundation is very selective.”
I only half heard my teacher. I was trying to concentrate on the words on the green paper and not get distracted by the fact that Tristen was practically bumping against me as he looked over his own flyer. I was still so embarrassed to have been caught looking at him, and by Tristen’s obvious misinterpretation of my nonexistent interest, that I just wanted to get to my next class. Still, I pushed my slipping glasses up to the bridge of my nose and tried to focus, because Mr. Messerschmidt seemed so excited about this contest he’d apparently nominated us for.
And, at first glance, it did look like a pretty good opportunity.
The Foreman Foundation for the Promotion of Scientific Inquiry . . . national scholarship contest . . . original experiment in the categories of chemistry, physical sciences, biology . . . Presentation at the University of the Sciences . . .
College was looming next year, and I needed scholarships to supplement the money saved for my education. I wasn’t exactly sure how much Dad had earned as a senior chemist, but things definitely seemed tight without his salary. Lately Mom had even been trying to work extra shifts at the hospital when she could get up the energy.
“How much is this worth?” Tristen cut to the chase, flipping the paper over, looking for a sum. “It looks like a lot of work.”
“It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar scholarship,” Mr. Messerschmidt said just as I found the number myself.
Thirty. Thousand. Dollars. Once I saw it in print, the figure was pretty much all I noticed.
Darcy seemed kind of impressed, too. “That’s a decent chunk of change,” she admitted. “It won’t cover all my tuition at Harvard, but it’s nice money.”
“And a nice bit of work,” Tristen reminded us. “Hours in the lab conducting original research—and more time to develop a presentation. That’s a lot of effort.” He glanced at me. “Don’t you think, Jill?”
I was surprised to be singled out, and pushed my hair behind my ear, irrationally nervous as I met his brown eyes. “I—I don’t know . . . I mean—”
“It’s not just the money.” Mr. Messerschmidt cut me off before I could stammer out more nonsense.
I looked away from Tristen and trained my eyes on the paper, not wanting to see him laugh at me. Because I was pretty sure he’d been starting to smile at my failure to articulate a simple thought.
“Imagine how a win would look on college applications,” our teacher continued. “Universities would sit up and take notice.”
“Meaning more scholarship money,” Darcy said shrewdly.
I glanced at my rival, with her bobbed blond hair, her clear blue eyes, and her confident pose, manicured hand on hip, and thought with jealousy that Darcy probably really would get into Harvard, as she already seemed to assume.
Mr. Messerschmidt also smiled with approval at Darcy’s ability to connect the dots. “Precisely.” He plucked my flyer from my fingers, pointing to the copy. “And see—you can work alone or in pairs.”
Pairs again.
“And split the cash, then?” Tristen asked, squinting at the small print.
“Yes, half the money—but double the chance of winning,” Mr. Messerschmidt noted. “You guys are good, but a lot of talented students will compete for this. Two heads would definitely be better than one. And you’d still get all the prestige. That can’t be halved.”
Mr. Messerschmidt had a point. It was probably better to play it safe and have at least a decent shot at $15,000, which was nothing to sneeze at. It was like a year of education if I went to a nearby state university, like Kutztown or Millersville, and lived at home. And even at Smith, my dream school . . . my long shot . . . the money would go a long way.
But Darcy was already looking from me to Tristen and back again with an exaggerated frown. “Sorry, kids,” she said. “But
