Adaptation (14 page)

Reese had been keyed up before the phone call—all nerves, running through a hundred different options for tomorrow—but now sleep seemed like a brilliant idea. When she was asleep, she wouldn’t have to think about anything her father had said.

She woke up with the haze of the dream hanging over
her: red streaking down golden walls that were gently heaving like lungs. Her mouth was fuzzy and her head throbbed, making her feel clumsy and heavy as she got out of bed.

Her father. The memory of his phone call rose up unbidden, and she groaned. She didn’t want to think about him. One apology didn’t make up for the past. She threw off the sheets and headed downstairs, hoping coffee would clear her head.

Her mom had left a note on the coffeemaker:
I’ll be home at 11:30 to take you to Dr. Wong.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and saw her phone sitting on the counter nearby. She was going to call Amber today, but she still hadn’t figured out what to say. She felt as if she were taking a step down a new path, one she hadn’t planned on and
therefore had no map for. She normally didn’t make friends easily, but this was… different. She wanted to call Amber. Anticipation sparked in her. But she would wait until after the doctor’s appointment. She didn’t want to seem too eager, although she wasn’t entirely sure why.

Her stomach growled. She had been so hungry since she got back. She took out eggs and bread to make herself breakfast, and her mouth watered as she melted butter in the pan, dropping in the eggs with a sharp sizzle. When they were cooked over easy, she layered them on top of toast and sliced in, watching the yolk ooze out in an orange slide of viscous liquid.

Exactly like her dream.

Her head started to pound so hard, she dropped the fork onto the plate, splattering the yolk all over the table. She doubled over, her stomach threatening to flip inside out as sweat rose on her skin.
What is going on with me?
One minute she was fine, and the next she felt like she might vomit. She took several quick breaths, trying to calm herself down. When she felt stable enough to stand, she made her way to the first-floor bathroom and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, washing down three pills with water from the faucet that she cupped in her hand.

In the mirror she was wild-eyed, water dripping from her chin. She wiped her face off with the towel and ran a hand over her tangled hair. She was still hungry, but she didn’t think she could eat those eggs anymore.

“Overall, you seem very healthy to me,” Dr. Wong said.

Reese was sitting on the paper-covered exam table dressed in
a flimsy hospital gown that fastened with Velcro. As she shifted in place, the paper beneath her rustled. She stared at Dr. Wong. “I’m… fine?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a relief,” Reese’s mom said. She was seated in the chair by the door.

“What about my headaches?” Reese asked.

“You could have post-concussion syndrome. Have you been feeling irritable or emotional lately?”

Reese was startled. “Yes.”

Dr. Wong nodded. “Those are symptoms of PCS, which isn’t unexpected, since you’ve suffered a brain injury. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. I’m going to send you down to the lab to draw some blood, and I’ll run some tests.” She handed Reese a form. “Meanwhile, why don’t you start keeping track of your headaches, and I’ll check in with you again when we get the test results next week.”

After Dr. Wong left, Reese got dressed. “Well, I’m glad we did this,” her mom said. Reese didn’t answer; she’d have to look up that PCS thing later on. Could that really explain what she had been feeling? “Let’s go down to the lab,” her mom said. “I have to get back to work soon, but I’ll drop you off on the way.”

All the way home, Reese felt the press of her phone in her pocket, silent and still. She didn’t know what she would say to Amber, and the uncertainty was making her increasingly jittery. Upstairs in her room she turned on her computer instead, checking the Hub for messages from David, but there was nothing. Her stomach sank. She sat on the edge of her bed and swept her finger over the touch screen on her phone, pulling up Amber’s
number. She settled on something simple, and texted: Hi. What are you up to?

When she hit Send, the fact that she would have to wait for an answer from Amber too almost made her physically sick. Impatience gripped her like a fever, and she began to pace back and forth. But it was only a few minutes before her new phone rang, playing an extremely loud and obnoxious melody. She hadn’t yet set the ringtones. She silenced it and saw the message on the screen: Nothing much. Wanna come over and hang out? I’m at 659A Sanchez.

Reese couldn’t breathe for a moment. She tapped back: OK. And then she stood there in the center of her room and realized she had now committed herself to going over to Amber’s house. Heat flushed her skin. She had to change; she couldn’t wear the ratty old T-shirt she had worn to Dr. Wong’s office. She went to her closet, flipping through shirts and skirts and pants. She put on a new pair of jeans, then decided they looked too new. She pulled on a pair with a hole in the knee. She laced on her blue Converse sneakers and then stood in front of her closet to assess her sorely inadequate collection of tops. Why did she only seem to have worn-out Cal shirts, or tees screen-printed with the names of obscure bands that made her look like a pretentious idiot? She finally settled on a plain blue ringer tee and a hoodie for when the fog rolled in. She stopped in the bathroom and examined her reflection.

She needed to brush her hair. When she finished, her hair looked smoother, but it was too long. Irritated, she pulled it into a ponytail. That was better. Her eyes had dark smudges beneath them—she hadn’t been sleeping well recently—but there was
nothing she could do about that. She thought it would look ridiculous if she put on makeup. But she did put some lip balm on. She shoved her phone and her wallet into her pockets and ran downstairs, grabbing her keys from the hall tree as she left.

Amber was staying in her uncle’s top-floor flat on the crest of Sanchez Street west of Dolores Park. She answered the door in a white tank top with a towel around her neck, her hair damp with some kind of pale blue cream. “Hi!” she said brightly, giving Reese a stiff-armed hug. “I don’t want to get this stuff on you. I’m bleaching my hair. Come on in.”

She headed upstairs, and Reese followed, shutting the front door behind them. Amber was barefoot, and her jeans hung low on her hips. Reese saw the tops of Amber’s blue polka-dotted underwear peeking out. She caught herself wondering if Amber’s bra matched and then blushed furiously. She tried to focus on climbing the stairs without tripping on her suddenly shaky legs.

The flat was furnished in the kind of pristine minimalism that reminded Reese of photographs in decorating magazines. The stairs led into a wide front living room with windows overlooking the street. The floor was made of some kind of expensive-looking dark wood, and there were only a few items of furniture. A modern, rectangular sofa in a nut-brown suede; a glass-and-steel coffee table; a white shag rug beneath. The back of the living room opened into a kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and slate-gray countertops.

“I’m in the bathroom!” Amber called.

Reese followed her voice down the long hallway that stretched from the living room to the back of the flat. The first door was half open and seemed to lead to Amber’s bedroom; Reese caught
a glimpse of an unmade bed and blue curtains before she moved on. The second door opened into the bathroom, where Amber was bending her head over the tub with a detachable showerhead in her hand.

“Sorry,” Amber said. “This took longer than expected. I was trying to finish up before you got here.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll be done in a sec. What’d you do this morning?”

“Um, not much.” Reese watched Amber rinse off her hair, mesmerized by the sight of the blue coloring coming off in the stream of water. The droplets slid down Amber’s neck and dripped onto her tank top. Her bra did match.

When Amber finished, she toweled off her head and straightened up. “What do you think?” Her hair was no longer bright pink. It was now white-blond and sticking up all over the place.

“It’s… different,” Reese said.

Amber frowned. “Do you like it?”

“I—yeah. I like it.” It made Amber look older, more sophisticated. Then again, it was hard to look sophisticated with pink hair.

Amber turned to the mirror, examining her reflection soberly. She ran a hand through her hair, tousling some of it, smoothing down other bits. “It’ll do.” Then she looked down at her wet shirt and laughed. “I made a mess, though.” She lifted the bottom of her tank top and pulled it off, brushing past Reese as she exited the bathroom.

Reese watched as Amber went into her room and emerged a moment later, tugging on a new, dry tank top. This one was blue, with spaghetti straps. Amber stopped in the hallway, hands on her hips. “What? Do I look weird or something?”

“No. Sorry. I’m—” She shook her head. “Never mind. You look fine.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Without waiting for an answer, Amber headed back to the front of the flat.

“Sure,” Reese said, following.

“Have a seat,” Amber said as she opened the fridge. “We have… let’s see. Diet Coke? Water? Beer?”

“Whatever you want.” Reese sat on the edge of the sofa. It faced the big picture window, and she had a million-dollar view of multicolored homes stacked on the hillside, all the way down to a glimpse of the downtown skyline.

Amber joined her with two Diet Cokes cradled in one arm and two glasses of ice. “Too early for beer?” she said with a grin, and sat down beside Reese, folding her legs up beneath her.

“Thanks.” Reese picked up one of the cans. The soda fizzed as she poured it over the ice, and when she took her first sip, the bubbles on her tongue felt like tiny little sparklers. Everything here—the couch, the view, Amber and her new blond hair—everything was so sharp, so crisp. She felt as though she suddenly had superpowered vision.

Amber was studying her with a little smile on her lips. She was wearing pink lip gloss; it shone in the light pouring through the windows. It would be tacky, slightly sweet, Reese thought. Like candy. The thought made her feel warm all over, and she took another sip of her Diet Coke.

“So,” Amber said conversationally, “what do you think of the view?”

“It’s—it’s great.”

“Yeah. I love it. I could just sit here staring out the window for hours.”

Silence descended on them, and Reese became aware of the sound of a clock ticking in the distance. She heard Amber’s breath beside her; the rustle as she shifted on the couch, leaning forward to pour her own soda; the ice rattling in the glass. She even heard the sound of Amber swallowing.

Amber said, “I’m glad you could come over.”

“Me too,” Reese said. Was this her cue to offer to play tour guide? The idea of taking Amber to Alcatraz or Fisherman’s Wharf now seemed completely ridiculous. She wouldn’t want to go there. She looked at Amber. She thought she could see the view reflected in her gray eyes.

Amber leaned forward. “I wasn’t sure if you were into girls.”

The words snapped back at Reese. “What?”

Amber smiled slightly. “Girls. I thought so, but maybe not.”

Reese felt as though her head were suddenly inhabited by a thousand buzzing bees; all she could hear was static in her ears, trying to drown out the emotions erupting within her. Confusion, denial, the delirious sensation of seeing Amber bend toward her with her mouth slightly open, her hand stretched out—and then Amber had simply placed her frosty glass on the coffee table, barely brushing her hand against Reese’s knee as she sat back again.

“I’m straight,” Reese managed to say, her heart pounding so loudly, she thought Amber surely must hear it.

Amber quirked one eyebrow up. She hadn’t bleached her brows; they were perfectly shaped dark brown arches. She leaned
forward again and Reese almost backed away, but Amber was only reaching for her soda. She took it out of Reese’s cold, damp fingers and put it on the table next to her own, the glass clinking gently.

“I don’t think you’re straight,” Amber said, and part of Reese was simply shocked by her directness. Who even said that?

“What?” Reese said again. She had to work on being more articulate.

Amber took her hand, and Reese let her lace her fingers with hers. “You heard what I said.” She pulled at her, like a girl tugging on the string of a balloon that has floated nearly all the way up to the sky, and just like that balloon, Reese felt herself drawn downward, half-floating, half-sinking, toward Amber.

The lip gloss did taste like candy. It was slick and hard at the same time, and as soon as their lips touched, Reese thought she was going to fall apart from shaking so much. Amber laughed a little, releasing Reese’s hand and cupping her face to keep her steady. Reese felt like an awkward schoolgirl; she didn’t know where her hands were supposed to go. Her body was bent at a strange angle, and she wanted to move it. She scrambled, not wanting to stop kissing Amber; she twisted around and her leg smashed against the coffee table.