The Monkeyface Chronicles (14 page)

“How do
you
know? It's a secret.”

“Well, Douchebag,” Dennis whispers, as he grabs a stethoscope from its mount on the wall beside Dad's honorary MD degree, “let's just say that if I wasn't going to be a rich businessman, I would make a pretty good spy.”

He sidles up to the metal laboratory door, then pushes the receiving end of the stethoscope against it.

“I've overheard many things about
Father's
work,” he whispers. “I know that he's working as a geneticist, but not for the government, or even for a regular drug company. He is doing genetic research for private clients, which is probably illegal.”

“Right. You overheard all this with a stethoscope through a metal door three inches thick?”

“Sometimes I just hide down here, and I hear what they talk about
before
they go into the lab.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like the fact that you and Dickhead were a genetic experiment.”

“What?”

“
Father
is a geneticist.
You
have a genetic defect. Do the math, Douchebag.
Father
the
geneticist
is responsible.”

“Nobody's
responsible
, Dennis
.
My Van der Woude Syndrome is caused by a mutation in my IRF6 gene, which is usually the dominant gene, so when one parent carries the gene, each child has a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it. You and Michael won the coin toss, and I lost. It's as simple as that.”

“If it's passed on from a parent, then why don't either of our parents have a face like yours?”

“In rare cases, a person can carry the defective gene without showing any outward physical signs.”

“
In rare cases
,” Dennis sneers. “A convenient explanation.”

“I read it in a book.”

“Yeah, yeah. The book was probably written by somebody
Father
knows personally.”

This, in fact, is fairly likely. The few scientists working at the same theoretical level as my father seem to be mostly on a first-name basis.“They're all in this together,” Dennis continues. “The guy who wrote your book is just covering for the fact that
Father
has been helping juggle and splice together the best genes from several babies to make one perfect one.”

“You can't just ‘juggle and splice' genes, Dennis! It's more complicated that that!”

“They can already do it! I've overheard them talking about it!
Father
does the theoretical work, and then they take his findings away to their labs and make it happen.”

“Look, there's no connection between . . . ”

“Rich people will pay big bucks to have genetically superior children, stronger and smarter kids than their neighbors have. You heard what father's buddy said — ‘Let's go talk about bigger and better things' — he was talking about
bigger and
better children
! And you and Dickhead were the first experiment to see if it would work. Dickhead was created from all the good genes, and they stuck the Van-der-whatever gene onto you, along with all the other crap. I'm only telling you what I overheard, buddy.”

“But Michael and I were conceived naturally! We were both delivered by Mom! There are pictures.”

“So they planted you both inside her. Big deal. I'm not sure she even knows.”

“
Planted
us?”

“Look, buddy, why do you think they treat
Dickhead
better than
you
?”

“They don't treat Michael any better than they treat me.”

“No? They didn't send Michael off to school to be a superstar while they kept you locked away at home for seven years?”

There are muffled voices coming from behind the metal door. They must be yelling pretty loudly at each other.

“What are they saying?”

Dennis presses the stethoscope against the door. “It's hard to make out . . . something about their next project . . . our father is yelling, ‘Look what happened to my son!' and the other guy is yelling ‘We have no choice!'”

“Let me listen!” I demand.

Dennis grabs me be the shoulders and stares at me, squint-eyed. “You know what the worst part is? Michael
knows
. I don't know if
Father
told him, or if he just figured it out for himself, but he
knows
. He
knows
the cards are stacked in his favour. He
knows
he's been given an unfair genetic advantage over you and me and everyone else. Why do you think he walks around being Mr. Happy-Ass, Mr. Let-Me-Help-You-With-That, Mr. Humble, Mr. Perfect? Because he
knows
. He
knows
he can't lose. He's built to win. While you and me will have to work our asses off for everything we get in life, everything will just fall into place for him. And he
knows
it.” Dennis lets go of me. “Shit!” he yelps. “I think they're coming out! Let's get our asses upstairs.”

Dennis and I have been in the living room for only a few minutes when Michael strides in from the kitchen, followed by his friends Toby, Jake and Brian.“Toby's TV is broken. We're gonna catch the end of the game here. Want to watch it with us?”

Dennis gives Michael the finger and retreats into the kitchen.

“What's his problem?” Toby wonders.

“He's just like that sometimes,” Michael says. “Hey, Philip, join us?”

“No, not yet.”

“Would you bring some snacks and drinks upstairs for us when you come?”

I go into the kitchen, where Dennis is pacing back and forth, fuming. “What? Are you Mr. Perfect's servant or something?”

“No, I just . . . ”

I reach into the cupboard for a bag of chips, then into the fridge for some cold sodas.

“Go be his
bitch
, then,” Dennis says. “Go serve the
chosen
one
.”

“Dennis?”

“What?”

“Can I have my jackknife back?”

Dennis rams his hand into the front pocket, unfolds the blade and stabs it into wood of the kitchen table. He slams the door as he stomps out of the house.

As I walk into the bedroom, Brian yelps, “Four-four tie! We're going into overtime, baby!”

He and Toby are sitting cross-legged on my bed. Michael sits on his own bed with Jake. All four stare at the small TV set atop the dresser. I toss each of them a can of pop.

“Thanks, Philip,” Michael says. “Hey boys, slide over and make room for my brother.”

None of his friends make any great haste in moving.

“That's okay, Michael. I've got something I need to do downstairs.”

Michael shrugs as if
I'm
the one who is letting
him
down. “Okay,” he says, “Suit yourself. You're gonna miss a great finale.”

“Overtime!” says Toby, from on top of my bed.

“Overtime!” Michael echoes.

Dad is alone in the living room when I reach the bottom of the stairs. His hair is messed up, and his brow is sweaty. “Where's Dennis?” he says, not making eye contact with me. “Was he in the basement? It smelled like . . . never mind. Listen, I'm going out for a ride.”

He walks out through the kitchen, and then I hear the engine of the motorcycle fire up outside, and he too is gone.

I descend into the cool darkness of the basement, and I close the door behind me. I leave the lights off, and let the blackness enclose me.
The total absence of visible radiation
; no wavelength, no colour, nothing.

You ever wonder why your twin brother got everything — the
looks, the body, the talent, the brains — while you got shafted?

I feel my way through the darkness to the edge of the cistern.

Why do you think he walks around being Mr. Happy-Ass, Mr.
Let-Me-Help-You-With-That, Mr. Humble, Mr. Perfect? Because
he knows. He knows he can't lose. He's built to win.

Shut up, Dennis. My hands sliding along the edges of the tables full of my father's trophies and toys.

You and me will have to work our asses off for everything we
get in life, everything will just fall into place for him. And he
knows it.

With my left hand, I find the plug for the power cord that connects to the series of high-voltage transformers.

You're not gonna give a shit about Michael any more.

Please, Dennis. Shut up. My right hand traces the edge of the plate around the electrical outlet, and I slide the plug in. The Jacob's Ladder comes alive, illuminating the room with flashes of blue-white electricity, scorching the air, buzzing and hissing and snapping angrily, so loud that it almost drowns out the sound of Michael and his friends screaming in frustration because their hockey game has been interrupted again. During overtime. How awful for them.

As I watch each single electric arc rise upward, I remember what Adeline told me:
In the Book of Genesis, Jacob had a dream
about a ladder extending toward heaven.

I will have to get there on my own. God helps those who help themselves.

Part Two

If dreams were lightning, and thunder was desire,
This old house would have burned down a long time ago.
— John Prine

Spring, 2006

Metamorphosis

I
n elementary school, one was either
In
or
Out,
but in high school there are dozens of overlapping subcultures.

At the top of the social pyramid are the Jocks, who play on multiple varsity sports teams, and the Socialites, who date only Jocks and other Socialites, and who invariably have wealthy parents and compete with each other to be elected President of the Student Council.

The middle and largest segment of Plympwright District High School student society includes the Keeners, who congregate in the library and belong to the Yearbook and School Spirit clubs, the Music Geeks, who play in the jazz band or sing in the school choir, and the Computer Dorks, who build and program computers, or obsessively play violent video games on them.

At the base of the PDHS Social Pyramid, closest to the ground, are the Goths, the Rockers, the Speds, and the Druggies.

There are, of course, those few kids who exist outside the pyramid, the random loners who disappear as soon as the bell rings at half-past three, the ones in the PDHS yearbook with
No Photo Available
printed above their names, and the kids from the Tabernacle of God's Will, who cower together in their pioneer outfits and try their best to avoid contact with the rest of the Hell-bound student population.

And then there is my own motley band of friends, brought together not by any common bonds or shared interests, but because you've got to eat lunch at
somebody's
table in the cafeteria. In grade nine, some of the other kids called us The Scaries, right to our faces. Probably the main reason was my deformity, but I'm sure Caleb Carter's Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder didn't help, either. It only worsened as he twitched and jerked and babbled through puberty, inadvertently annoying and offending almost everyone.