Jek/Hyde. Amy Ross

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       CHAPTER 3

      I send a quick text to Jek on my way back to the lab bench, telling him I need to talk soon.

      I’m not exactly surprised when the school day draws to a close with no reply.

      Even at the best of times, Jek’s never been great about responding to texts, calls or any other method of communication. It’s frustrating, but it’s just part of his character. Even as I remind myself of this, I can’t help thinking back to what I told Maia in the supply room: We’re not exactly close these days. I surprised myself a little when I said it—I’ve never expressed that thought out loud before, though I have to admit that it’s not the first time I’ve thought it. Is it true? Or am I reading into things?

      Like any well-trained scientist, I force myself to consider the evidence objectively. I don’t see Jek as much as I used to, but we’re both pretty busy with school and everything. Even though we’re both in the science track, our schedules are totally different because he does mostly chemistry, and my focus is on computing. He hardly responds to my texts and messages, but that’s not outside the realm of normal for him. I can’t remember us having any big fight recently. I worry all the time that my crush on him has made him uncomfortable, but I do try to be discreet, and if he’s put off by it, he’s never let on.

      Results: inconclusive. Researcher is too close to the subject to remain objective in her analysis. As usual.

      Maia’s story about Hyde has at least given me a good excuse to talk with Jek. If he’s not going to answer my urgent texts, I really have no choice but to go to his house and make him listen to me, face-to-face. If it’s true that Jek’s name was on that receipt, then this guy Hyde could be running some kind of scam: hacking, identity theft or maybe something even worse. Jek’s not great with that kind of computer stuff—if it wasn’t for me, he’d leave all his databases unprotected and vulnerable to attacks.

      * * *

      I pull up outside Jek’s house and notice that shadows are gathering on the columns and gables of the sprawling houses on this side of town. It’s around 5:00 p.m. and sunset is almost an hour off, but the sky is already low and threatening, and lights are coming on across the neighborhood to ward off the darkness of an encroaching storm—a reminder that London’s sunny, warm season has truly ended and we’ll be in the thick of winter soon.

      When I was a kid, the winters in London were snowy and bright. I’d wake up to the whole countryside under a smooth white blanket, and Jek and I would go out and pelt each other with snowballs as the sun sparkled against the landscape. We haven’t had a winter like that in years, though. Instead, November to March brings nothing but a dark, gritty rain and heavy pea soup fogs that have an almost brownish cast to them. Some people say this is all part of some top secret London Chem experiment gone wrong, but others say it’s just a normal part of the same global warming that’s affecting everyone. Either way, it will be months before we see real sunshine again.

      Up on the hill above Jek’s house, the curving structures of Donnelly and Lonsanto are barely visible, their reflective surfaces blending in with the roiling clouds. I step out of the car and pull my jacket tight against a sharp wind that rattles dead leaves still clinging to the once-lush trees. I’m still not entirely used to visiting Jek here. Up until last year, he lived with his mom, Puloma, off Main Street in a smallish condo cozily decorated in a hodgepodge of styles: posters for old rock shows mixed with tin-and-brass trinkets, colorful silk cushions tossed over rickety chairs and benches. Puloma hired my mom as her cleaning lady back when they first moved to town, and I used to play with Jek while our moms worked—that’s how we became friends. I still remember waking up there after sleepovers, his mom making us breakfast of masala dosa while we watched cartoons.

      Then last year Puloma married Tom Barrow, one of the other London Chem scientists, after a whirlwind romance, and she and Jek moved to this house where Tom lives with his three interchangeable blond sons, all somewhere between seven and eleven years old. Their house is much bigger than the old condo, and looks about as bland as all the other houses on the cul-de-sac. The only difference between this house and its neighbors is the addition that extends out from the back and down the hill a bit—originally built for Tom’s former mother-in-law and where Jek lives now. This space, connected to the rest of the house by a short flight of stairs, was Puloma’s main bargaining chip in getting Jek to go along with her new marriage—she promised him that he could turn the apartment’s kitchen into his own personal laboratory. Tom doesn’t exactly approve of him having so much freedom and autonomy, but Puloma has always had a soft spot when it comes to Jek, and she doesn’t let Tom interfere.

      I cross the lawn to the side door that opens directly into Jek’s apartment. The addition isn’t really visible from the street, so Tom and Puloma have let the upkeep slide a little: the paint is peeling, and you can see broken blinds through the windows, whereas the rest of the house has pretty lace curtains. The porch light was knocked out a few months ago by a stray baseball from the kids’ afternoon game of catch and no one has bothered to fix it, so the side door remains in heavy gloom even when the rest of the house is cheerfully lit.

      I’m almost to the door when it opens and a figure steps out into the thickening darkness. I start to call out a greeting, but my voice dies in my throat when I realize it’s not Jek. The figure startles a little at my cutoff cry.

      “Sorry,” I say, stepping into the light cast by the doorway. “I thought you were... I’m looking for Jek.”

      The silhouetted figure regards me a long moment, a curious tilt to his head. “You’ve just missed him,” he says lightly. СКАЧАТЬ