Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of 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
Copyright © 2010 by Beth Fantaskey
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Fantaskey, Beth.
Jekel loves Hyde / Beth Fantaskey.
p. cm.
Summary: As seventeen-year-old Jill Jekel and classmate Tristen Hyde work together on a chemistry project, hoping to win a scholarship for her and a cure for his curse, they also uncover family secrets and a chemistry of their own.
[1. Experiments—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850–1894. Strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Murder—Fiction. 7. Pennsylvania—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F222285Jek 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009019390
ISBN 978-0-15-206390-0 hc
ISBN 978-0-547-55027-5 pb
eISBN 978-0-547-48791-5
v2.0314
For my husband, David,
and Paige and Julia
“I had long since prepared my tincture . . . and, late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of courage, drank off the potion.
The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit . . . I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked . . . and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Prologue
Jill
I BURIED MY FATHER the day after my seventeenth birthday.
Even the sun was cruel that morning, an obscenely bright but cold January day. The snow that smothered the cemetery glared harshly white, blinding those mourners who couldn’t squeeze under the tent that covered Dad’s open grave. And the tent itself gleamed crisply, relentlessly white, so it hurt a little to look at that, too.
Hurt a lot, actually.
Against this inappropriately immaculate backdrop, splashes of black stood in stark relief, like spatters of ink on fresh paper: the polished hearse that glittered at the head of the procession, the minister’s perfectly ironed shirt, and the sober coats worn by my father’s many friends and colleagues, who came up one by one after the service to offer Mom and me their condolences.
Maybe I saw it all in terms of color because I’m an artist. Or maybe I was just too overwhelmed to deal with anything but extremes. Maybe my grief was so raw that the whole world seemed severe and discordant and clashing.
I don’t remember a word the minister said, but he seemed to talk forever. And as the gathering began to break up, I, yesterday’s birthday girl, stood there under that tent fidgeting in my own uncomfortable, new black dress and heavy wool coat, on stage like some perverse debutante at the world’s worst coming-out party.
I looked to my mother for support, for help, but her eyes seemed to yawn as vacant as Dad’s waiting grave. I swear, meeting Mom’s gaze was almost as painful as looking at the snow, or the casket, or watching the endless news reports about my father’s murder. Mom was disappearing, too . . .
Feeling something close to panic, I searched the crowd.
Who would help me now?
I wasn’t ready to be an adult . . .
Was I really . . . alone?
Even my only friend, Becca Wright, had begged off from the funeral, protesting that she had a big civics test, which she’d already rescheduled twice because of travel for cheerleading. And, more to the point, she just “couldn’t handle” seeing my poor, murdered father actually shoved in the ground.
I looked around for my chemistry teacher, Mr. Messerschmidt, whom I’d seen earlier lingering on the fringes of the mourners, looking nervous and out of place, but I couldn’t find him, and I assumed that he’d returned to school, without a word to me.
Alone.
I was alone.
Or maybe I was worse than alone, because just when I thought things couldn’t get more awful, my classmate Darcy Gray emerged from the crowd, strode up, and thrust her chilly hand into mine, air-kissing my cheek. And even this gesture, which I knew Darcy offered more out of obligation than compassion, came across like the victor’s condescending acknowledgment of the vanquished. When Darcy said, “So sorry for your loss, Jill,” I swore it was almost like she was congratulating herself for still having parents. Like she’d bested me once more, as she had time and again since kindergarten.
“Thanks,” I said stupidly, like I genuinely appreciated being worthy of pity.
“Call me if you need anything,” Darcy offered. Yet I noticed that she didn’t jot down her cell number. Didn’t even reach into her purse and feign looking for a pen.
“Thanks,” I said again.
Why was I always acting grateful for nothing?
“Sure,” Darcy said, already looking around for an escape route.
As she walked away, I watched her blond hair gleaming like a golden trophy in that too-brilliant sun, and the loneliness and despair that had been building in me rose to a crescendo that was so powerful I wasn’t quite sure how I managed to keep my knees from buckling. Not one real friend there for me . . .
That’s when I noticed Tristen Hyde standing at the edge of the tent. He wore a
