Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

WELCOME TO HYDEVILLE

or

ONE DIFFERENCE:
HYDE DOESN'T TOSS JACKIE'S BAG

Part II

Houses grew smaller and more dilapidated the farther one got from The Hub. Hyde and Jackie were almost two miles away now. Lampposts flickered, and some didn't light at all. But taxpayers' money went only so far. It hadn't reached this part of Point Place yet. Another ten years, and maybe someone would change the light bulbs.

"Would you just tell me where we're going already?" Jackie said. That had been her litany, her mantra during the last forty minutes, but she never left his side. "And if you say, 'Reality Town' one more time..." Her threat fizzled out. "Your old neighborhood."

"Gold star for you."

He'd been irritable the whole walk, but her determination was admirable, if not insane. They were falling farther from her world. All she had to tell him was, "Get me out of here," and he'd pull the ripcord.

She grasped the sleeve of his denim jacket. "Why? Of all the places you could've brought me, why did take me to this one?"

"You 'just wanna be with me'? Well, this is me."

Her fingers closed around his hand. When he didn't take hold of hers, she released him. No one had held his hand through his experiences here. She'd get the same treatment.

Their ultimate destination was a few blocks down: the house where he'd grown up. By the looks of it—boarded-up front windows, no potted plants on the porch—it still hadn't been rented out. Maybe some of his crap remained inside, furniture or whatever else Edna had left behind.

He glanced up at the night sky, a cloudy violet, and reordered his thoughts. He'd spent too much time living with Forman. His delusional optimism was rubbing off. The neighborhood vultures must've picked the house clean by now. The boarded-up windows were a big hint.

"So," he said and opened his arms wide to his neighborhood, "what do ya think?"

Jackie had put the bag of pot into her purse, and she was buttoning up her denim jacket. The jacket, unlike his, had fancy gold accents and must've cost at least two-hundred bucks. "Well, it's—"

She screamed, loud enough to puncture eardrums and the night. Hyde winced, but her hands flew from her buttons and clutched his arm, shaking.

The familiar scrabbling of a rat scratched the pavement. He caught sight of its tail before it disappeared beneath his old porch.

"A—a—a—my boot!" she said, which was Jackie-speak for a rat ran over her foot.

"Welcome to Hydeville, baby." He patted her hands on his arm. "That's just for starters what you'd get with me."

"N—no. That's what you were forced to live with." She let him go, but her empathy held on tight, squeezing his throat. "It's not your fault you were born poor."

A burn tiptoed on his tongue, blaming her for being snobby and bossy and a square. But he planned to get rid of her through exposure, not insults. His burns weren't effective on her anyway. She either ignored them or took them as a rallying cry to Be aggressive! B-E aggressive!

He hopped onto the first step of his porch and waited for her to follow. If she didn't, he'd make her follow. Leaving space between them wasn't an option. This neighborhood was better than the trailer park on the outskirts of town ... but not by much.

He climbed another step and laughed silently, incredulously, when she joined him. She wasn't flinching, but she'd been here twice before. She hadn't flinched then, either.

The imaginary pressure on his throat increased. Maybe his judgment of her wasn't completely fair. Mostly fair, was a damn nuisance, whether dating Kelso or not. But she also had guts and enough respect to meet his mom on prom night, which, of course, he hadn't let her do.

At the top of the porch, Jackie stared at the house's peeling paint. He did more than stare. He pulled a piece off the siding and said, "Jackie, you wanna hang around a nice guy. A Forman-like guy—"

She cast him a dirty look. "I do not. Eric's sweet and all. Well, sort of—sometimes. But he's not my type."

"Maybe not Forman himself, but he is your type, man. Someone who'll devote himself to you like Fez without all the handsy stuff. Someone who'll back down when he pisses you off. That's not me."

"Hy-duh," his name was a groan on her lips, "for someone who's really smart, you can be as dumb as Michael."

"Hey, I got a B-average—

"I don't mean academically-smart." She began unbuttoning her denim jacket "Though I think if you applied yourself and actually paid attention in class, you'd have an A-average, like me."

Her jacket was open, and she swung her purse against her hip. She had to be feeling safer. Either that, or she didn't want to risk sweating. Even at night, the temperature would stay in the mid-sixties.

"Why don't you apply yourself?" she said. "You must have some ambition beyond working at the Fotohut."

"Whatever." His hand slid into his jeans pocket. His torsion wrench and lock pick mingled there. He spun them around each other, just as Jackie's GPA spun around her popularity. She did her homework on Saturday nights, got As on her papers. He should've realized she was a hidden brain. A square squared.

"Do you remem—oh, God." She inched closer to him. Squeaks were issuing from the porch. A new colony of rats had probably moved in, kicking out the old colony from when he was a kid. "Do you remember," she said again, "when Michael begged me to take him back?"

He grinned. "It was hilarious." Kelso had cheated on Jackie for months and finally got what he deserved: rejection. "Can't pay for that kinda entertainment."

"He tried to charm me for a week afterward, but then he gave up. Worse than gave up. He paraded his mistress in front of me—sicced her on me." Her fingers twisted in her purse strap, as if she were caught in the ghetto of her mind. "Michael's good at shouting, 'Burn!' at people but not good at actually coming up with burns."

"True enough."

"He let Laurie do it for him—" More squeaks rose from the porch, and she stomped her boot. "Shut up! I'm talking!"

"Careful. That might get 'em to scurry out and say, 'Hi,' up-close and personal."

"Ew!" She got onto her toes, did an anti-rat dance as she dived back into her rant. "So, someone who supposedly loves me cheats on me. Then he's remorseful for only a week. Unless..." She lowered back onto her heels. "Did he keep sleeping with Laurie? You know, when he tried to get me back?"

Hyde looked away, across the street at a thicket of bushes. "He cried a lot..."

"Hyde, please tell me."

"Yeah, he did."

Her voice tightened. "He didn't ever try to change, not even that week he wrote me a song?" She sighed, and her voice relaxed a bit. "So, someone who loves me treats me like dirt, and someone who supposedly hates me..."

She curled her fingers around his hand again, and he pulled free. His plan was backfiring, but he wouldn't allow it. His old house owed him, and he yanked on the screen door. It swung open without a fight. The lock had been broken off. Too bad the front door's were intact. They'd been changed.

Fortunately, he'd learned a valuable skill on that front door. Years ago, taught by his uncle Chet. Hyde carried it with him always, along with the tools his uncle had left him: his torsion wrench and lock pick.

He knelt by the doorknob and went to work. A few deep breaths brought the smell of rat urine and rot into his nose. A rat must've died beneath the porch, maybe gnawed on by its cousins.

"What are you doing?" Jackie said.

"Breakin' into my old place."

Inside, the house had to be a horror show. He was banking on it. Then Jackie would see she didn't belong with him. She'd run back to her cheer squad, kick back with the football team. Stay out of the basement.

She pointed at the doorknob. "What did you put in there?"

"Torsion wrench," he said. It was doing its job, keeping the keyhole in position. He slipped the lock pick in beside it. "This is its brother. They like to double-team." He pulled out the lock pick then put it back in, twice. "What's that, keyhole? You want it faster?"

"That's disgusting."

"So am I."

He considered pushing the analogy further, maybe adding in some feminine moans. But opening the lock would be dicey—raising the upper pins into their housings, having them land on a tiny precipice inside the keyhole. He listened for the first click, but the doorknob turned under its own power.

"Shit!" He yanked out the lock pick and scrambled to his feet, but the wrench was trapped in the keyhole. The door slammed open, and he blocked Jackie from whoever—whatever—was in the house.

"Hullo, Steven," said a voice he never expected to hear again. The greeting slithered through his ribs and sank poisonous fangs into his heart. "Remember me?"