Charisma (14 page)

He swallows, glances away and then back at me. “I just want to be with you, Aislyn. We can wait for, uh, things until you're cured.”

I run a finger along the edge of the computer. “Dr. Gordon keeps warning us we're safer here than out there.” I sigh. “Got the contact info for that ACLU lawyer?”

He sends it after our chat and Shane and I call her immediately to present our situation. She accepts our case on the spot, pro bono.

Afterward, Shane and I plop side by side on the middle bed, our hangout, and he picks up the TV remote. We limit our news consumption so we can sleep at night, but it's impossible to avoid the CZ88 death tolls and coma counts that bombard us.

He clicks around the stations, unable to resist pausing when he runs across another story on Nova Genetics, this time featuring a middle-aged woman who looks a lot like Dr. Sternfield. It's her mother, Sheyla Sternfield.
Apparently Dr.
Sternfield was given, or chose to take, her mother's name.

Sheyla Sternfield addresses the camera with a hard, clear gaze. “My daughter never would have committed such a desperate act if she hadn't been hounded. I hope you'll at least leave her memory in peace.”

Something about her demeanor seems off, something I can't place. Maybe I expect more signs of grief. My eyes tear up at the prospect of my own mom having to mourn.

“Want me to switch the channel?” Shane asks.

“No. Something about her expression doesn't seem right.”

He nods. “Yeah, I see a certain something too. God, if we ever get out of here, think of the party tricks we could do.”

It's not like we can read minds; it's more a matter of being really, really perceptive to people's expressions, which is probably part of what being sociable entails. Thank you, dearly departed Dr. Sternfield.

I say, “Think her mom's coldness turned Dr. Sternfield into a mad scientist?”

He grunts. “It would take more than that. Besides, Dr. Gordon seems decent. Both parents make their dent on the kids.”

I chew my lip, not sure how to reply.

His eyes show sudden awareness. “Oh, sorry.” He lays his hands flat on his thighs. “Not trying to be nosy, but what happened to your dad, anyway?”

“Short story, a diving accident.” I glance at him.

Shane squeezes my fingers. “I'm sorry.”

I nod, taking deep breaths that don't get me as much air as I need.

The next morning, Dr. Culdicott tells us that in her conference calls with the powers that be, no doubt egged on by a certain ACLU lawyer, the consensus was to make a list of criteria to release us.

“Like what?” Shane asks.

She counts off on her fingers. “Of course, your vitals must remain stable. And no other symptoms, such as fainting or ears ringing. It would be helpful to have a reliable test for CZ88 that's more economical that what we've been doing. There'll also be a psych eval to assess whether you would behave responsibly once you got out.”

We nod. Shane better not mess things up for us.

“Then, maybe, just maybe we'll get the governor to lift the isolation order.” Before she leaves, Dr. Culdicott adds, “By the way, have you been in touch with other CZ88 patients? We're trying to locate a young lady named Sophia Washington who's gone missing from Seattle General.”

I say, “She didn't wait for the isolation restrictions to be lifted?” Maybe I should break out of here and holler at Mom until she changes her mind about Sammy's trial.

Dr. Culdicott's eyes wrinkle behind her ever-present plastic shield. “Either that, or someone might have forced her to leave. There have been questionable folks loitering at hospitals with CZ88 patients.”

An unsettling chill slides down my back. “Yeah, we read about those weirdoes who wanted to do an exorcism on the patients in LA. You think they went to Seattle?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out. But no cause for alarm; we run a tight ship. No one gets in or out without permission.”

So much for my escape plans.

The next morning, I hear Shane talking to himself in the bathroom, which I tease him about when he gets out.

“Just practicing for my interview. Gotta be believable.”

I drop my breakfast fork. “You don't have any symptoms, do you?”

“No. But they might think we're lying just to get out.”

“Hmm. If we can convince each other of our truthfulness, we can pass the test with anyone.”

We sit on my bed cross-legged, knee to knee, and stare into each other's faces.

Shane grins. “You first.”

“Fine.” I close my eyes for a moment to cleanse my facial expressions. When I'm ready, I say, “I'm feeling absolutely no symptoms of CZ88 today.”

He stares at me intently. “You're telling the truth. Now, tell me a lie so I can calibrate.”

“Wouldn't it be a better test if I didn't tell you up front whether I was lying?”

“Fine.”

I take another face-neutralizing breath and say, “When I first met you, I thought you were the biggest jackass.”

He nods. “Easy. Truth.”

“Now you seem halfway decent.”

He squints. “I detect teeny-tiny twitching. You don't think I'm halfway decent?”

I glance downward, away from his hurt. “Okay, full disclosure. I think you're more than halfway decent.”

His smile brings out dimples. “Ah, there we go. Very truthful.”

“Your turn.”

He wipes his face. “When I first met you, I thought you had issues.”

“I could've told you that without our face-reading abilities. Both that I had issues and that you thought so.”

“Now I know you're full of yourself.”

I slap his arm. “Hah! Lie, lie, lie.”

“Okay, how about this? I think you're hot and sweet and I wish Jack loverboy were out of the picture so I could take his place.”

I catch my breath. Everything on his face says he's telling the truth, but I say, “Mostly lies.”

Now his face reads embarrassment as he looks away. “Busted.”

After an uncomfortable silence, we rehearse until we're ready for the toughest cross-examination.

That takes place the next day, with physicians, researchers, and psychologists. Afterward, Shane grumbles. “We should sue. They don't make AIDS patients go through this crap before leaving a hospital.”

“They understand exactly how AIDS is transmitted. For us, there's still not enough data.”

He raises his eyebrows. “We could provide them with some.”

“Uh, not with each other, since we both already have it.”

He runs a hand through his curls. “It sucks. This gene transfer has done the exact opposite of what Dr. Charlotte promised.”

“Well, you're nicer at least.”

“Some good that'll do me.” He slaps his bed. “Look, I know you're all about loverboy. But there's going to come a time when you both get frustrated by not being able to do anything about it.” He smiles. “So, you know what they say about being the last guy on earth?”

I rest my hands on my lap and sigh. “Usually, it's a hypothetical, as in, ‘I wouldn't hook up with you
even
if you were the last guy on earth.'”

“Yeah, well, reality might be different, just keep that in mind. I'm not half as bad as you thought. You said so.”

I shrug. “Maybe impending death has a way of making us overlook obnoxious behavior.”

He leans closer and lowers his voice. “What if this is our last chance?”

I stare at his chiseled jaw, his glinting eyes, those white-white teeth. Everything about his demeanor reads as sincerity, not mocking. If I didn't like Jack, would I go for Shane, now that I've seen his sweet side?

I exhale. “Let's hope for a cure soon, okay? After twelve full days of living with each other, hooking up with me would be like hooking up with your sister.”

He whips a pillow at me. “Did you have to say that?”

That launches us into pillow fight number two hundred and three.

Dr. Culdicott arrives in her usual drill-sergeant fashion, shoulders back, chin up. However, for the first time since Rosa's death, she isn't wearing the gas mask and spacesuit. It's weird to see another human face uncovered besides Shane's. She isn't smiling exactly, but she doesn't have the lined forehead I've become used to.

She clears her throat. “We're letting you go.”

Oh my God, if I race, I could take Sammy to wherever the AV719 trial's taking place. It starts today.

She continues, “Tomorrow.”

All my jubilation explodes. “Oh, please make it today. My brother has to get into a clinical trial and I'm the only one willing to fight for it. Please, Dr. Culdicott.”

“I'm sorry, Aislyn. Multiple state health departments are coordinating on a press release to deal with the hysteria that's bound to arise from some factions. This is as fast as it goes.”

“Can't you make an exception?”

“None of us can. Tomorrow it is. Besides, if your mother wanted your brother in a research trial, he'd be there.” Her gaze is stony.

After she leaves, I'm as downtrodden as if she'd told us we couldn't leave. My mood only darkens when Mom calls that evening and tries to make nice. “Even if you hadn't accepted the CZ88, others would've and my decision would be the same. I'm not signing up my kid for something with so many unknowns.”

“But the prelim study had amazing results. You'd have to be crazy not to jump on this.”

“No. Crazy would be taking . . . Look, we should be celebrating your release, not fighting.”

“I just don't understand why you're giving up on Sammy.”

She shrieks, “Giving up? How can you say that? How?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. I don't have any idea what's going through your mind, if I ever did.”

I sigh. “I'll see you tomorrow, Mom.” I hang up, exhausted.

Shane plops next to me. “She's been through a lot.”

“So have we.” I lean my head on his shoulder for a long time.

Then I get up to call Dr. Gordon and try to convince him to let me know where exactly the trial is taking place. But he's as stubborn as Mom.

The next day, Dr. Culdicott's parting words to Shane and me are: “Should you feel light-headed or feverish, experience ringing in the ears, or any other CZ88 symptoms, you'll need to come back immediately.”

Shane and I blink at each other. It's really happening. A day late, but happening. And maybe when I'm home and Mom sees how good I feel, she'll change her mind about Sammy. Then we can convince the researchers to let Sammy join the trial late. Getting out of here means getting back into the world, fighting for what I want.

Dr. Culdicott shakes our hands. “Your families will be here soon. Then it's time to get back to normal.”

Normal. I sigh. Nothing ever sounded so extraordinary.

And They're Out!

by Lulu Lakes for
In the Know

Despite the outcry from panicked citizens, six hospitals in Washington State and California released eleven patients who contracted the CZ88 virus, either directly as part of an illegal gene treatment or by being infected by someone who was. This release occurs despite the seventeen patients who've died and 112 who remain in comas. State health departments in the three other states with CZ88 patients have refused to lift their isolation orders as yet.

Dr. Dean Presley of California Medical Center states, “In those cases where we've been able to identify person-to-person transmission, it was caused by either shared needles or unprotected sexual contact. There is no reason for alarm if risky behavior is avoided.”

The
In the Know
website (
www.NowYouKnow Too.com
) will be continuously updated with health alerts and pinpoint maps of the areas affected by CZ88.

Of course, normal is relative. How could my life be routine when Rosa and sixteen others are gone forever, and my own health could go down the sewer at any moment, thanks to an evil doctor I hope is writhing in the afterlife?

So, normal is in the realm of a fantasy.

Mom and Sammy race in to hug me tightly. We stay that way for a long time.

Finally, when we break away, Mom says in my ear, “We will not discuss the AV719 trial. Period.” Sammy
bounces and
chatters with such glee that I go along with Mom's terms. For now.

We sneak past reams of reporters as we drive away from the hospital. At home, where the reporters haven't converged yet, Mom claws toward the fantasy of normal with freshly baked cookies and a cookout planned for tonight. Outside, the weather is as perfectly summery as Tacoma gets, as if Mom special-ordered that as well.

I park myself next to an open window in the living room, unwilling to be by myself yet, and lean into sofa cushions that smell faintly of Mom's Moroccan oil. Every piece of furniture, every knickknack, every aroma I haven't noticed for years now strikes me as reassuring, embracing me back into a reality I thought I'd lost. A reality I still could lose.

As much as I hate to sour the moment, I say, “Mom, we have to talk about the AV719 trial before it's too late.”

Her eyes glint and she takes a stance between me and Sammy. “You will not convince me to submit my son to a drug that hasn't been thoroughly vetted. So stop it, Aislyn. Stop it.” Her whole body trembles and her eyes are red.

Sammy hugs her from behind. “It's okay, Mom. I'm not doing it.”

I feel like an intruder. Even though I know I'm right, it's obvious Mom's hanging on by threads. But I can't look at her without wanting to scream about AV719.

I say, “Think I'll go for a swim before the cookout.”

Mom sighs. “Aislyn, slow down. Take some time to reacclimate.”

Doesn't she realize that waiting is a luxury for people with time? Trying to swallow my frustration, I say, “I need to talk to Janie about getting back to work. I want to be able to help out around here.” Before anyone can argue me out of it, I run upstairs for my swimsuit and convince Sammy to do the same.

Minutes later, we're back downstairs. Mom stands there, bewildered and a touch angry. Boy, this face-reading ability is even more effective in person. I say, “You want to come with us?”

That softens her some. “No, thanks. Just don't be gone too long.”

“Just a quick dip and then we'll help you prep for the cookout. See you in an hour.” When I start bringing home a paycheck, I'm sure her mood will brighten. With my improved people skills, maybe Janie'll give me extra shifts.

The wind whips through Sammy's and my hair as I drive. Sammy warns me to slow down.

“I'm not even five miles over the limit, buddy.”

“Not all of us are risk takers, I guess.” There's an edge to his voice.

I tap the brake. “Sorry.” I try to read him further, but he turns toward the window. “You know I argued with Mom on the phone about letting you into the AV719 trial. And I'm not going to give up. We should coordinate our attack.”

“It's too late. They've already started. Anyway, Mom said no, remember?”

“But—”

“Shut it, Aislyn. Seriously.”

I freeze. He's never spoken to me that way before. “If that's what you want.” It can't be, really. Mom must've scared him good.

After a silent ride to the pool, my legs itch to run to the gate, but within a minute Sammy's huffing. I slow down and say, “You know, we can go right back home after I talk to Janie, if you want.”

His shoulders straighten. “Are you kidding? I haven't been to the pool all summer.”

Poor kid's been cooped up as much as I have. We'll have to fix that.

I wave to Heath, who's on gate duty. His eyes widen. In what, shock or fear?

“Is Janie around?” I ask.

He backs away. “Uh, yeah. Over there.” His voice is funny, as if he's holding his breath. He must be reading too many of those trash blogs that paint CZ88 victims as something between zombies and vampires.

I spot Janie at the picnic tables chewing out a kid for feeding crows. When she sees me, she startles. Her too? I think I preferred being invisible to scaring folks.

She leads me to an empty patch of grass. “I'm glad to see you up and about.”

“I'm feeling great. As soon as you put me on the schedule, I'll come back to work.”

She appears unsure of what to say, totally unlike her. “Uh, Aislyn, we hired someone else.”

Of course, life moved on without me. “Well, I can fill in when anyone's sick, just like they filled in for me.”

She shakes her head. “Do you know how many parents called, in tears because you worked here before you went to the hospital? No, we just can't risk it.”

“Are you serious? If what I have were transmitted that easily, someone else would've gotten sick already.” No need to tell her I kissed Jack and he's fine.

Her neck tightens. “People are cautious, especially when it comes to their kids. So, until further notice, you and your family can't come to the pool.”

“Wait, my whole family's banned?”

She glances Sammy's way as she crosses her leathery arms. “I'm sorry, but unless a doctor can assure us it's one hundred percent safe and sign a liability waiver, that's how it has to be.”

Fat chance any doctor is going to do that. I remember little Molly, so scared of the water. And now, even more scared of me, the pariah. I grab Sammy's elbow. “Sorry, buddy. You heard her.”

We march out. Sammy tries to play it down on the way home, but there's resentment again in his face.

When we explain the situation to Mom, she sighs. “Just give them a chance to get used to things.” She abruptly hugs me, doing a noble job of pretending not to be afraid of my germs.

I swallow. “But there has to be a way I can help out. You know, before I went to the hospital, a few advertisers offered to pay me for promos on my web page. I'm not sure they'd still want me and it doesn't seem right to profit from CZ88, but . . .”

She shakes her head sharply despite the desperation steaming off her skin. My coming home shouldn't strain her so much. I stifle a frustrated scream.

The house phone rings. Sammy grabs it. “She's not talking to reporters.” He hangs up and disconnects the phone from the outlet. “Time to change the number again.”

Great, more hassle for my family. For the thousandth time, I say, “Sorry, guys.”

“Don't be. That reminds me.” Mom strolls toward the kitchen and returns, holding out my phone. “Freshly charged.”

I text Jack and Evie, reminding them I'm home, even while part of me fears what I'll see on their faces, assuming they come here.

Jack responds,
HEADING OVER.

My breath catches. He still wants to be with me, in person. Yes, yes, yes. I should've counted on him being too smart to listen to all the fear-mongers.

My skin tingles with the thought of being with him so soon. I run upstairs to freshen up. After almost two weeks in sweats, I dig through my dresser for a fitted shirt and shorts.

When the bell rings, I hurry down and call out, “I'll get it.” I take a deep breath and whip open the door.

And there's Jack, my delicious golden guy.

My body feels floaty. “Hey.”

Yet there's a hesitation before we hug. I try to assure myself it's to be expected. My eyes prickling, I inhale his scent—beach and sunshine. Oh man, he feels so warm and alive. I could stay like this until my insides melt.

And then I hear clicking.

Peering over Jack's shoulder, I spot two guys
with cameras
. I pull Jack inside and slam the door.

Mom frowns as I turn the dead bolt and hiss, “Reporters.”

She rushes to the window and peers through the blinds. “They're not on our property, so there's not much we can do.” She strides from window to window shutting the blinds. Jack and I help her.

I crave privacy, but I'm not letting those jerks trap me inside. “We're going out back.”

Mom's face gets pinched. “They'll come around and spot you over the hedges.”

I move toward the kitchen to pour a couple glasses of grape juice. “Hopefully not right away.”

Jack and I head out back, craning our necks to make sure no cameras lurk beyond the shrubbery. Satisfied the coast is clear, we settle onto the swing.

He sets his glass on the ground. “Try not to spill anything on me, okay?” Was it only three weeks since we sat
on another pati
o at that disastrous end-of-school-year party?

I laugh. “I'm not the same Aislyn who did that.”

We both stop short. It's true in a way. I can't be the same. Not with all this weird DNA in my system.

He grabs my hand. “You're the same in ways it counts.”

I'd love to know which ways those are, exactly. But I simply thank him and push my foot against the ground to start up the swing.

We sit turned in toward each other. Even though it feels a bit like cheating, I try to read his expressions with my new extra-observant abilities. At the same time, I appreciate his strong cheekbones and jaw, and how his skin's tanned
golden brown
. Only then do I notice the anxiety and concern in those endlessly blue eyes.

He lays his arm along the seat's back. Taking a chance, I lay mine along his, warm skin against warm skin. His flinch is almost imperceptible. Almost. But he keeps his arm next to mine.

“Still no leads on a cure?” he asks.

“They're pretty sure about the virus, the same one they tested you for. And the altered genes the virus carried. Now they've got to figure out how to halt the virus and reverse the gene modifications.”

His voice is soft. “You sure you're still contagious?”

“I promised a lot of people I wouldn't take chances.”

He grabs my hand and leans so close I can feel the heat coming off of him, then he pulls me forward so my face rests on his chest. I could cry at how right it feels to let myself nestle against this welcoming body, molded perfectly against mine. He kisses my hair, which sends tingles from my scalp on downward. My insides can't decide between melting and combusting when he rests a hand on my bare thigh. Oh, if the CZ88 doesn't kill me, this “only friends” stuff will.

But the thought of the danger I could put him into if we go any further causes me to pull back with a start. “We shouldn't even tempt ourselves.”

His eyes are glazed. “You want me to leave?”

I play with the neckline of my shirt. “Of course not. Just try not to be so, um, irresistible.”

He laughs. “Then stop tugging at your shirt.”

I do, and halt the swing with a heel to the ground. “This whole thing is so crazy.”

He only bites his lip in response. Too sweet to state the obvious. Of course it's crazy, and it's all my fault.

Clicking sounds come from over the hedge. Hell. The reporters have found us.

One yells, “Aislyn, does your boyfriend have it too? Did you give it to him?”

Jack and I rush inside, leaving behind our juice glasses.

Mom's in the kitchen washing vegetables. In the background, she has the TV tuned to a program about a good scientist gone bad: Dr. Charlotte Sternfield.

Mom grabs a towel. “Sorry. I'll change it.”

I hold her arm. “No, I want to see this.”

The footage pans across photos of a little girl with a shy smile. Her gap-toothed school pictures juxtapose with statements from teachers and professors who'd been awed by this science prodigy. The video clips of praise are replaced with condemnation by protesters who accuse her of playing God, or worse, Satan. Are these the so-called persecutors who pressured her into doing the unthinkable?

The show moves to an interview with Dr. Sternfield's mother. What is this, posthumous spin control? I stare into the cold, flat eyes of Sheyla Sternfield, trying to figure out whether they scarred her daughter enough to pursue her ambitions at all costs.

Mrs. Sternfield berates the media once again, claiming her Charlotte had been a “good girl.” I study the woman's facial expressions, once again struck by how odd they are. It's then I realize the head-shaking and fidgeting aren't because she's distracted or doesn't care. That isn't it at all. Rather, she speaks well-rehearsed lines that ring completely false.

I step forward, mesmerized. Oh my God. The floor seems to buckle at my feet.

My pulse hammers. “She's lying.”

Jack squints. “Lying? About what?”

An excellent question. “I don't know. But it's something important.” Something I need to know. I feel it to my marrow.

I say, “See how she keeps touching her nose and mouth? She's not telling the truth, and I'll bet anything it has to do with the reason for Dr. Sternfield's death.”