Intelligence, I was certain of that. And pain—I was sure of that, too.
Suddenly I found myself saying, “Sure, Jill. Let’s talk.”
We both sat down—me keeping a distance, given how the sweat was still pouring down my chest and back.
“Are you sure you’re not interested in competing?” Jill began. “Because I have an idea . . . for both of us.”
“I honestly hadn’t planned to take part,” I said.“Chemistry is easy for me, but it’s not a real interest.”
“Oh.”
Jill sounded so disappointed, so defeated already, that I couldn’t help but add, “Still, I’d be willing to listen. After all, it is a fair amount of cash.”
“Yes,” Jill agreed, nodding. “And I think we’d have a good chance of winning. You wouldn’t have to work that hard, either, Tristen.”
“I do like the sound of that,” I admitted. Both the possibility of reward with little effort and perhaps the chance for a partnership with the quiet girl who squirmed on the metal seat. Honestly, what was behind those glasses? So few students at Supplee Mill held any interest for me. They seemed mono-dimensional, disinterested in anything beyond the fight for the pointless goal of popularity.
But Jill—she didn’t seem to strive for that at all. On the contrary, she seemed shut off, inaccessible—and that intrigued me. “So, what’s the plan?” I asked.
Jill pressed her palms against her knees, taking a deep breath. “Well, you know how people used to tease us about being ‘Jekyll and Hyde’?”
“Oh yes, I remember,” I said. The jokes—most of which had been completely uninformed by the novel—had nevertheless been an unwelcome reminder of a legend I was trying to forget. For a time, until the topic had grown stale, I’d rather resented Jill just for existing. For having that name.
“Well, I was thinking we could capitalize on our names,” Jill said. “Work as a team of chemists . . . Jekel and Hyde . . . on an experiment actually based on the book, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
I sat up straighter, on guard. “But, Jill, that work is fiction.” To everyone but myself and my grandfather . . .
“Not according to my dad,” Jill said. “I mean, he believed the book is fiction but that it was based on a true story.”
I stared at her for a long moment, not believing what I’d just heard. “Really?” I finally asked with deliberate calm. “He did?”
“Yes.” Jill nodded. “In fact, Dad said we Jekels are distantly related to the Henry Jekyll, the doctor whose true story inspired the novel. My grandfather changed the spelling of our name when he came to the United States. You know, to distance us from the bad stuff that happened in England.”
I knew too well the “bad stuff” to which she referred: brutal acts committed by Dr. Jekyll’s creation . . . Hyde.
“Go on,” I said, hoping she couldn’t discern the increasing tension in my muscles, my voice. What she was saying—it was almost too strange to grasp, if only because it was so very, very familiar. “How does this lead to chemistry?” I asked. “To research?”
“Well . . . this will sound weird, but my dad kept this old box in his office. And he swore that it holds the original documents detailing the actual experiments that inspired the novel.”
Something like an electric shock tore through me, and I did nearly lose my composure. “Jill,” I asked, forcing myself to meet her eyes, expression neutral. “Have you ever actually looked inside this box?”
Jill shook her head. “Oh no! Both my parents agreed that the experiments are too dangerous. I’ve never been allowed to touch the box.” She flushed again. “I know it sounds crazy, but Dad especially, honestly believed the Jekyll and Hyde story.”
I looked out over the football field, crowded with players who probably wished to kill me in retribution for an act I couldn’t even recall. Then I turned back to Jill, still trying to seem almost disinterested, although the wheels in my brain were spinning wildly. “And what exactly do you want us to do, Jill? For the scholarship?”
“I thought we could open the box and recreate the experiments,” she said. “Then, using current knowledge about chemical interactions and brain function, determine whether there really was a chance that one of my ancestors created an evil Mr. Hyde.”
I didn’t say anything right away, and Jill added nervously, “I mean, don’t you think it’s a great coincidence: Jekel and Hyde? Our names alone would generate interest.”
“But, Jill,” I noted, “if your parents expressly forbid you from ever touching the box, why do it now?” If the papers were, against all odds, real, Jill couldn’t imagine how dangerous they might be. I swiped my palm against my shorts, trying to wipe away the sweat, the slickness that made the knife in my dream so slippery. “If this is just about besting Darcy—”
I knew there was rivalry there, but Jill jerked upright defensively. “No! It’s not that. I mean, not really.”
The caveat was very telling. “If not just Darcy, then why, Jill?”
I was the one on the verge of losing complete control—my grandfather’s stories, confirmed?—but it was Jill who crumpled right before my eyes.
“My dad,” she said, bending and wrapping her thin arms around her knees. “He sort of . . . spent my college savings before he died. I don’t have anything left for school.”
It was obvious that “spent” was a euphemism for “stole,” and if I’d been closer, I might have reached out to give her arm a sympathetic squeeze, not just because I was shocked that her father would do something so cruel, but because it so obviously pained her to share such a private, embarrassing tragedy with me. “I’m really sorry, Jill.”
“I need this scholarship,” she added.
