Charisma (3 page)

“Of course.”

She picks up a pen and signs my form. “See you at the family event on Sunday?”

“Sure.” I have what I came for, plus a bit more. But I still can't stop my eyes from wandering once more to the tiny heap of brown feathers in the grass outside before I leave her office.

Feeling privy to a secret, I head past the giant helix and into a day that's become darkly overcast. Thankfully, the threat of rain has scared off the protestors.

As I drive back to Tacoma, my thoughts float into the misty air settling over the highway. Imagine what life would be like if Dr. Sternfield were allowed to develop her research. I picture myself with Jack, face to non-blushing face.

My phone buzzes. I stiffen. Even if driver's ed never forced us to watch texting-while-driving carnage films, I'd have avoided answering. I know who it is. I know what she wants. I'll tell her I have to stay home tomorrow night after all.

I wipe my forehead as the phone buzzes a few more times. Evie won't give up that easily. If only Dr. Sternfield's research were ready now. If I go to Drew's party, it'll be a repeat of the last one Evie dragged me to, everyone else knowing how to act and what to say, while I stand at the edge clutching a plastic cup of something that's supposed to put me at ease.

I drive, wishing I could deal with my own damn shyness. I should be able to stuff some nurture down nature's throat and get beyond my DNA. People change. And then they write books about it. Why can't I?

As I park in front of our hedged-in yard on a typically soggy street in Tacoma, I heave a sigh. The way I always do when reaching my hideaway from the big, bad world. My sanctuary.

Which will only provide a safe harbor until my new job tomorrow.

Nova Genetics Internal E-mail

From: Dr. Charlotte Sternfield, Principal Investigator

To: Cecily Frank, Chief Security Officer

Effective immediately, please change the security access roster for Lab 6 on B2 to myself only. This includes primate caretakers and janitorial staff. I'll schedule with their departments to escort them into the lab as necessary.

The next morning, I wish I could stay in bed, hiding away. But I need to earn money. Now more than ever. Bonus, according to Evie, is that lifeguarding is far from shy-girl cliché employment such as filing assistant or data entry clerk, and provides opportunities for exposure therapy. Many, many opportunities.

Which is why I want to puke.

Sammy hammers at my door. “Aislyn!”

I rush to get it, alarmed by the sharpness of his voice. “Are you okay?”

“Mom said to wake you up so you aren't late and get fired.”

Yeah, we all know how dismal my college fund is. With heavy movements, I dress. Outside, it's shaping up to be warm, which means opening day at the pool will be crowded. Great. On the drive over, my body trembles more and more violently the closer I get. Right about now, working in a stockroom or a cave sounds way more appealing.

Janie Simpson, the pool manager, meets me at the entrance and hands me my official whistle. “Remember your training. And don't be afraid to use this.”

Wait, no warm-up time? As if that would help anyway. I stuff my things into a locker and head with Janie to my assigned station. At least it'll be a short shift, since swim classes don't start until Monday.

I climb the chair, which seems higher than it does from the ground. Okay, I can do this, keep an eye on swimmers, and whistle if there's a problem. Way less complicated than sequencing DNA.

Within minutes, I spot Asher Johnson and his buddy Zeke goofing around as they climb the water slide. Both of these boys tease Sammy for being the smallest kid in his grade. I grit my teeth, keeping an eye on them. Asher bounces at the top of the slide, staring at me, the hint of a grin flickering.

I swallow. Asher's friends on the sidelines dart glances between him and me. Shakily, I raise the whistle to my lips, just in case. Asher rests all of his weight on the arm rails so his feet swing an inch above the bright yellow slide. Back and forth, while he stares at me. Not doing anything I can flag, but clearly with trouble on his mind.

Then, in a flash, he plops his belly on the slide and whooshes down facefirst. The kids around us spring wild with glee. I squeeze up courage to get air from my lungs through my lips.
Breeeeep.

Another whistle screeches and Janie Simpson yells, “Strike one.”

But it's me, not Asher, she glares at, drawing the attention of all pool-goers my way. Uh-oh. The blood rushes to my face. I blink, trying to look anywhere but at Janie as she marches toward me.

She halts beneath the lifeguard chair. “I know you saw him, Aislyn.”

I nod. “As soon as he went down, I whistled.”

“Barely. Look, I'm sure you'd swim faster than lightning if someone were struggling in the water, but you need to step up if you see a potential problem. You're the first defense.”

“I know. Sorry.” There should be a tattoo on my forehead that says sorry.

She heaves a big breath and looks to heaven. “As much as your swim coach raved about you, I won't be able to let you work here if I can't rely upon you totally.”

“I'll whistle louder next time.”

With a theatrical sigh, she strides back to the club house. Damn. My pulse races. I scan the pool, biting my lip. Everyone still stares.

The chair beneath me groans as I suffer through the rest of my watch, the knot in my stomach growing with the fear someone will slip on deck and crack a bone. Somehow the clock ticks forward to noon and I get a five-minute break before I have to start maintenance duty, a euphemism for collecting trash.

Instead of grabbing a soda with the other staff, I plunge into the emptiest corner of the deep end. A bolt of cool water rushes over my body, freezing my scalp in a way that makes me feel instantly clean. For the minute I'm submerged, my world is replaced with something bordering on calm, a break from the frequent sensation of drowning I feel on land. White noise fills my ears as I release gentle bubbles around my face. Everything within sight takes on a blunted, gentle edge no more threatening than cotton. I understand what drew my dad to water, even if his passion for it went too far.

I come up for air only as often as necessary and immediately return to my cocoon below. All too soon my five minutes are up and I climb back into the clanging world.

Weirdly, it turns out that stabbing at litter and stuffing it into bags is a relief after my time on the chair. Kind of Zen. I get into a garbage-picking rhythm.

Near the edge of the deck, Heath, who posted that awful picture of me at the science tournament, struts by with another lifeguard. They give me a slow once-over that has me blushing and gluing my eyes to the trash bag. Somehow I resist the powerful urge to drop everything and dive back into the pool.

As they head off, Heath says, “Yeah, she looks like all that, but she's a mute or something.”

The other guy groans. “What a waste.”

They laugh as I try to shrink my five-nine frame a foot or two. There must be a clever comeback, but even if I came up with one, it would just be filed away along with the thousands of other comebacks I've never used.

I finish my trash picking, wash up, and get trained on the snack-bar cash register. Fortunately, I'm paired with a chatty girl named Alicia who interacts with the customers as I fetch ice-cream cones and French fries.

At two o'clock, my work day's over. Even though it's been shorter than the shifts scheduled for next week, being around so many people has drained me of every last bit of energy. No time to recover, though. As I trudge to the parking lot, my phone buzzes with another text from Evie.

YOU WILL NOT USE SAMMY AS AN EXCUSE. SEE YOU AT 8.

Crap. She won't let up until I accept my fate. I drive off, defeated. Maybe there'll be someplace to hide at Drew's house. If only he had a pool.

At home, Sammy's cough is a bit rattly as he gives me the once-over with those wise-beyond-his-years eyes. “Sucky day?”

I remind myself that sucky is taking twelve CF meds a day and probably needing a lung transplant before graduating high school. I say, “Just getting used to the new job.”

If only I could tell him about the chance he'll be admitted into the pool of AV719 candidates. But I don't want to get his hopes up yet. When hope's your most precious commodity, you learn to treat it with care.

And fear.

• • •

Evie, fresh in a neon-green dress and matching headband, picks me up at eight p.m. As we get into her car, she says, “If you just relax, the party could be super-fun. And it's not like you have to worry about driving.”

“Maybe I
should
drive. If we take separate cars, then—”

She revs the engine. “That's not environmental. If you need to leave early, use the code.”

At the other two parties she forced me into this year, which earned major exposure therapy points, I hadn't resorted to the code, since I saw that as running away, and Evie knew it.

She tugs at her necklaces. “I should actually make you go more often. For the therapy to work.”

“What if all you're exposing me to is an ulcer?” I pull an elastic band from my wrist.

She shoots out an arm to snatch the band from me. “How many times do I have to tell you? Girls with Rapunzel hair should flaunt it. Just like their impossibly toned bodies. That shirt bags on you.”

I cross my arms. “It's comforting. Give me one small exception, okay?”

She sighs. “Aiz, if you really, really don't think you're up for it, I'll turn around and drop you off. But I really, really hope you'll get beyond this fear-of-the-world thing.”

“
Thing?
It's not like I don't try. You of all people should—”

“I just don't want you to give up. Ever.”

She's right. How will I be a successful advocate for kids like Sammy someday if I can't deal with talking to people? I need to suck it up.

If only my resolve could stop my bones from rattling. “Let's not stay long, okay?”

“Fair enough.”

No, it isn't fair that a simple thing like going to a party makes my stomach so tight I skipped dinner, and still feel like throwing up.

The heavy bass of the song on the car radio pounds like a funeral march. I cross and re-cross my legs, hoping that'll ease my nerves in some acupressure-y way. It doesn't.

We park a block from Drew's house and run into kids laughing and shouting hundreds of feet before we reach the yard. Someone must've bribed the neighbors to sit through this. My insides drum, increasing in intensity the closer we get to ground zero.

Evie drags me by the arm through the front door, giving quick “heys” to the guys who swarm the entryway, rating all arrivals. She ignores their nods of approval and plows us through to the kitchen in less than a minute.

Before I can protest, she fills a red cup to the brim from a keg and hands it to me. “I know it's lame to rely on alcohol, but desperate times call for desperate measures. So drink up.”

This must be how people become alcoholics. Trying to escape their personalities.

I guzzle down half the cup. “Enabler.” That'll teach her to spew psychology crap on me all the time.

“Only enabling you to have a decent time.” She tops off my cup and grabs a soda for herself. “Now let's mingle.”

Does the English language have any two words more horrifying than
let's mingle
?

She pats my shoulder. “We'll start easy. There's Abby and the swim teammers.”

We make our way to the sliding glass doors where they huddle. I talk to these girls at every practice, so they should fall into my “safe” territory. In theory. But something about parties—or nearly any kind of social gathering, for that matter—fills my belly with barbed wire. I gulp at my beer, arrange my facial muscles into what I hope is a smile, and gulp some more. My cup empties too soon. Evie seizes it and runs off for a refill even though I tell her not to. While she's gone, I pretend to keep up with the stories, the jokes, and the flirting with the boys who've joined us. But it's overwhelming and I feel the way I always do around a crowd—as if it's a living creature with a thousand limbs that move in sync to a rhythm I can't hear.

What is wrong with me?

When Evie returns I take another sip, hating myself for needing a crutch. Especially a stupid one. Exposure, smexposure.

Evie's shoulders abruptly pull back and her body goes on full alert. I follow her gaze to the foyer, where Rafe Sellers, a tall guy with shoulder-length black hair and the promise of a UCLA soccer scholarship, has arrived.

I tug her sleeve. “It's okay if you go talk to him.” She's not the only one who can push a best friend toward progress.

She bites her lip, reminding me that much of her bravado is an act of willpower learned as a little girl, when our classmates would tease about her family eating chicken feet. Back then, she hid in corners too, but, over the years, she ventured out and has been dragging me along ever since.

She says, “Eventually, he might come over this way.”

He probably would. Evie and Rafe have been flirting for months, even though they haven't taken things further. Which makes him brain dead as far as I'm concerned. What guy wouldn't be crazy about my amazing, gorgeous friend?

I will not be the one to spoil her fun. “Go. I'll be fine here, really.” I take another swig of beer to prove it.

“You sure?”

I wipe the corner of my mouth. “If I change my mind, I've got the code, and I'm not afraid to use it.”

She nods to herself, still unsure, despite the invisible tether that pulls her toward the kitchen, where Rafe and his buddies disappear.

I push her gently. “Now who's chickening out?”

She takes a deep breath and flutters off. I turn to the folks around me and try to think of something to add to their conversation about naked bicycle riders at the solstice parade. But, really, what can I say, besides maybe suggesting strategically placed talcum powder?

I sip, nod, and check my phone. We've only been here for twenty-five minutes? I burp. Hmm, better slow down
on the
beer.

Abby O'Keefe, twirling a red curl around her finger, asks me about working at the pool. I open my mouth to respond, and that's when I catch sight of the latest party arrivals. My breath hiccups. Jack is here.

Abby laughs. “Wow, you've got it bad.”

I stand there, unable to form a rational response. Somehow, I blocked the possibility Jack would be here too. Which was stupid. Or denial. I'm a pro in that department. For years I held on to the pathetic belief that Dad didn't really die in a diving accident; it was all a massive mistake.

Abby's face gets serious. “I'm going to help you.” She waves toward Jack. What is it about me that launches my friends into pimp mode?

Finally, I get a word out. “No.” As much as I like Jack, when actually confronted with the real live version, all of my systems scream, “Hide!” But my protest is too late. He heads our way, his gaze locked on mine. All I can do is hope my eyes aren't too glassy and that I'm not blushing too hard. More denial.