Charisma (16 page)

Shane runs a hand through his curls. “Don't want stray reporters making us the poster kids for VidaLexor before they earn it.”

His new, sensible attitude wins me over. I follow him up a stairwell to a door marked
VL
,
INC
. With a chime announcing our arrival, we enter a small waiting room that smells of air freshener. A tall man with silvery black hair and a boater's tan hurries from the back.

He puts out his hand. “I'm Dr. Pete Dulcet. So glad you could both make it. Why don't we go to the meeting room, where it's more comfortable?”

I eye the dim hallway. “Out here is fine.” I sit in one of the pastel-upholstered chairs.

Shane's glare goes for a knockout punch, but he takes a seat.

Dr. Dulcet does too. “How are you kids feeling? Hell of a thing you've gone through.”

“We're not through it yet,” I say.

Dr. Dulcet rests his forearms on his thighs. “Yes, yes. Well, I should cut to the chase, shouldn't I?” He clasps his hands together. “VidaLexor is well equipped to help you. Please let us.”

I examine Dr. Dulcet's expression. So far, he comes across as genuine, but leery, guarded. “You guys aren't known as gene therapy supporters.”

His eyes widen and he sits upright. “On the contrary. We've been conducting studies for years and are on the cusp of a couple of breakthrough therapies. We only challenge Nova Genetics when we have safer, more effective options available. If you keep an open mind, I believe we could help you.” Nothing about him indicates dishonesty, more like determination.

Shane says, “Why don't you team up with the folks at Nova Genetics or the hospital?”

Dr. Dulcet exhales loudly. “We've tried. However, the hospital will not share patient data due to confidentiality requirements and Nova Genetics won't share data for proprietary reasons. In their case it's very much a business decision, assuming they can stay in business after this. The only thing keeping them open is the government's hope they'll find a cure for what Dr. Sternfield concocted.”

Shane asks, “So what would you need in order to work on your own cure?”

Eagerness bubbles from Dr. Dulcet. “Your consent and a blood draw, which we'd sequence. We have a number of ideas on where to look.”

I cross my legs. “Nova's been searching for weeks and hasn't turned up much.”

“Our researchers are quite extraordinary.”

I harrumph. “So are theirs. Or at least one of them. Was.”

“Yes. She was brilliant. Maybe too much for her own good. But now we need to focus on your own good. What do you have to lose, besides a little blood?”

Do I want to be a guinea pig again? With some guy in a sketchy office? No way am I going to be tricked into something.

I say, “I'm not quite seventeen, so my mom would have to sign off before I decide anything.” If only I'd worried about such legalities when the CZ88 was offered. “And that doesn't mean I'm saying yes. I need to think about this.”

Shane flexes his elbow opened and closed. “What's to think about? I'm eighteen and can give my own consent.”

I place my hand on his other arm. “Maybe we should run it by Dr. Culdicott first?”

“It's just a blood draw. And the sooner they have it, the sooner they get to work. You're not the only one who's tired of feeling hopeless.” He turns to Dr. Dulcet. “Ready when you are.”

Dr. Dulcet nods. “Follow me.”

Shane says over his shoulder, “You can thank me later.”

He and Dr. Dulcet glide down the hall. I slouch into the seat and take out my phone. No texts from Jack yet, so I call.

“Hey,” he answers. “Where are you?”

“Um, at that doctor's appointment. Well, actually the doctor works for VidaLexor. They think they can help.”

“Really? That's great.”

I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I don't know. Something seems shady. What if they just want to show the world how evil Nova Genetics is?”

He laughs. “Sounds like a BS theory Shane would dream up.”

“Actually, he's letting the doctor take his blood right now.”

Jack's breath comes out with a hiss. “You guys are there together?”

“Um, yeah, why wouldn't we be? But hopefully we'll get out of here soon.”

“Why don't you just leave now?”

“I have to give Shane a ride home.”

He pauses. “Was his place on the way?”

“Well, um, he helped me with another project beforehand, so it was just more convenient.”

“What project?”

Shane approaches from the hallway with a satisfied grin.

I speak quietly into the phone. “I'll tell you later. He and the doctor just finished.”

“Yeah, we should talk.”

We end the call on that awkward note.

Dr. Dulcet hands me a business card. “If you change your mind after clearing things with your parents and doctors, please give me a buzz.”

Well, at least he's acting on the up-and-up. I take his card and say I'll let him know.

On the way to Shane's house, he rocks along to a heavy metal radio station. “Just watch. Throwing a little competition at Nova Genetics will fire up their asses. It's game on.”

“It's not a game. And if you piss off Dr. Gordon, what if he gives up? Then we're all dead. Literally.”

He stops drumming on my dashboard. “Do not go there.”

I grip the steering wheel. “You're right. Positive thinking. So, when should we try breaking into Mrs. Sternfield's house?”

He laughs. “Ah, my hot partner in crime isn't giving up, huh?”

“Just say you'll think about it.”

“Just say you'll think about working with VidaLexor.”

I park in front of his house and put out my hand. “Deal.”

We shake. He leaves the car, his body still swaying to some imaginary beat. I smile to myself, thankful the Charisma has at least given me this new friend, whose obnoxiousness has morphed into something endearing. Not that Jack has anything to worry about.

As I drive away, I switch off Shane's hard-core music. For a moment, I think I hear the echo of the last song reverberating through the car. But the echo doesn't stop. Then I realize with a ripping sensation through my chest that the noise isn't an echo at all.

My ears are ringing.

CZ88 Virus Keeps Spreading

by Josephine Bailey for
USA Now

Despite assurances from the medical community that CZ88, nicknamed Charisma, is only spread via sexual contact and needles, the number of victims continues to rise. Many have gone into comas before they were diagnosed, making it difficult to determine exactly how they were infected. Citizen groups are demanding that the patients who remain conscious and were recently released from hospitals be returned to isolation immediately.

I pull to the side of the road and clamp my hands to my head in horror, which only makes the high-pitched whistle more noticeable. My mouth goes dry. Ringing in the ears was what Chloe and Jesse complained of before they went into comas, palms against their heads the way mine are now. Wasn't my last vision of Rosa clutching her ears? I can't be succumbing to this, I can't. Not when I've finally gotten out of the hospital. Not when I have Jack back in my life. No.

I open the mirror on the visor to hunt for signs of an oncoming coma, as if it'll arrive with an announcement stamped on my forehead. My face looks normal, if you ignore the panic. Deep breaths. I feel fine. Fine. And, really, the sound seems less intense than a minute ago. Maybe just a false alarm brought on by Shane's music.

It takes another ten minutes to stop shaking enough to drive. Part of me wants to race home and hide in my room. But as long as I'm conscious, I am not going to miss out on my life. Whatever time I have left is time I'm living to the fullest.

On autopilot, I park, greet Mom and Sammy in a shaky voice, and head upstairs. I try jumping jacks and a headstand against the wall to see if I'll jiggle whatever's broken in my head. Nothing works and I have to take long breaths to keep from sobbing. The whistling continues to rise and fall as I get ready. At the sound of the doorbell, I somehow paste on a smile and make my way down holding tightly to the banister.

I expect Jack to still be upset about my day with Shane, but his face is like sunshine when he comes in. “So what are you in the mood for?”

I swallow. There are too many ways to answer that. I'm in the mood to enjoy a night where I'm not freaking out from noises in my head. I want to kiss my boyfriend. I want my friends to wake from their comas. I want a cure for Sammy, and for my mom to let him accept that cure.

All I say is, “Um.”

He flashes his phone display, filled with a movie list. I scan, dismissing the one about a virus that kills half the planet, and any flick with the hint of romance. “Space alien invasion?”

Jack grins. “Perfect.”

I avoid Mom's and Sammy's eyes as we leave. They hoped I'd stay home tonight, but I need to keep moving. And I don't want to fight with Mom. Outside, a couple of paparazzi pop to attention. They point their cameras and yell questions about our relationship status. To Jack, I whisper, “Sure you want to go through with this?”

He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Treat these guys like bees. If you don't bother them, they shouldn't bother you.”

I don't remind him that some people die from bee stings.

We drive off into what could be a perfect summer night if it weren't for the whistling in my ears. I welcome the cranked-up car music that masks the noise.

Jack grabs my hand and plays with my fingers, as if everything were normal, which makes me want to cry. “So tell me what you and Shane were up to.” Nervousness and a touch of anger creep into his face.

“Just keep an open mind, okay?” Blinking away the dampness in my eyes, I give him the short version of driving out to Mrs. Sternfield's house. As I do, his grip on my fingers loosens.

He shakes his head and exhales loudly. “Can't believe I'm going to agree with Shane on something, but your plan to break and enter is completely insane.”

I cringe at the edge to his voice. He's supposed to be on my side. “It might be the only chance I have for learning what Dr. Sternfield knew before her death.”

The car picks up speed. “What do you think you're going to find? The doctor was seriously messed up. Even if she left any info behind, it's probably messed up too.”

My seat belt presses tight against my chest. “I've got to try something. Not just wait for whatever.”

His tone softens. “Could you intern or something at Nova Genetics? It might inspire the researchers.”

“If they're not inspired after twenty-nine deaths, I don't know what I could do. I really wish I could convince Dr. Gordon to work with VidaLexor.”

“I think you could convince anyone to do anything these days.” His nostrils flare.

I heave a breath. “Anyone except Mrs. Sternfield.”

Jack's mouth strains for a moment with annoyance. He parks, and we stroll through the parking lot. Without the music to mask it, the faint humming in my head makes itself known again. My gut twists. Jack eyes me with concern, until I give him a bright smile. Thank goodness he can't read faces like I can.

I keep my head down and don't make eye contact with those we pass, even if a part of me yearns to
connect with
them. Despite my attempt to remain incognito, a handful of people tentatively approach to ask about my “condition.” Jack nods indulgently, at first. But his jaw tightens every time someone pushes him to the side to get to me. I try to be polite as I say my hellos and inch back toward Jack, who always seems just out of reach. We make it into the theater after the previews start.

He leans into me. “That must drive you crazy.”

“Most of them mean well. Better than them running in fear of me.”

He pulls back to stare at my face, his features flickering dark and light in the reflection of the screen. “Wow, you really
have
changed.”

For some reason, his words rankle. “Only my behaviors, not what I'm really about,” I say.

He bites his lip. “What exactly is the difference?”

A woman in the row behind shushes us.

I turn around. “Sorry.”

She startles. “Oh, you're
that girl
.”

Jack throws me a knowing a look but doesn't add anything then or when the woman and her friend move a couple of rows back. At first I'm grateful they've given us space, and then I realize they're probably afraid of breathing the same air as me.

One screaming preview after the next assaults us before the movie finally begins. I try to lose myself in spaceships and heroic countermeasures, but it's impossible. All I can think of is that I'm “that girl,” whoever she is. And plenty of people are afraid of her.

After the film, we stop for ice cream, but it feels as if we're following a script. With minimal dialog. This has the
added effect
of increasing the noticeability of the ringing in my
ears, causing
my heart to race and my focus to turn inward. Jack isn't helping any, examining me with a slight tilt to his head as if he's solving a complex equation. My own brain is a jumble. Every time I open my mouth, I can't help but wonder if the words that come out are from the “real” me or the “fake” me. And if that me, real or fake, will plunge into unconsciousness at any moment.

As much as I ache to confide in Jack, and bring back that closeness I've come to adore, I know it would only upset him to hear I'm having symptoms. Really, the best thing is to call it a night, especially when folks at the next table start to whisper and point. Jack doesn't argue when I suggest going home.

On my porch, we say good-bye with a quick hug. His gaze is more quizzical than lingering, as if he's trying to assess who I really am. Here I thought he knew.

As I unlock my door, his phone buzzes. When he glances at it, I see the texter is Alexandra. My instinct is to confront him, but the night already feels awful enough. Besides, given the way things are, I can't exactly blame him for considering a Plan B.

I hurry inside, my shoulders folded inward, my heart heavy. Mom glances up from her computer with raised eyebrows.

I say, “He needs to get up extra early for work tomorrow.” There I go, back to lying.

“Probably wouldn't hurt for you to get some rest too. You've been out all day.”

“Tomorrow I'll be here for Sammy. Promise. I've already told him I'll chauffeur him anywhere he wants.” I roll back and forth on the balls of my feet. “Hey, if you aren't busy, how about we all have lunch together?”

The gratitude pouring from her almost knocks me over. “I'll make that happen.”

Buoyed, I say, “A Dr. Dulcet from VidaLexor contacted Shane and me today. He wants to help find a cure.”

Her eyes narrow. “He contacted you, a minor, directly instead of going through the hospital or me?”

“Well, he contacted Shane. I told him I'd check with you and Dr. Culdicott before jumping into his research. I'll give you his business card.”

Another burst of gratitude. “I'm so glad you didn't rush into anything.”

Her appreciativeness almost convinces me to admit I approached Mrs. Sternfield, but I know she wouldn't understand, and worse, try to prevent me from driving back out to Cle Elum. No, there's being forthcoming and there's being stupid.

I hoof upstairs and log online.

Big mistake.

All I see are haters, who claim I did everything necessary to get my hands on a “designer” drug. What happened as a result was my fault, so no one should waste an ounce of sympathy. Someone's even posted a death toll on my page with a message reading: “Who will you infect next?”

I bite my knuckle, tears welling in my eyes. Shane and I fought awfully hard to be released into a world that despises us. The only ones who seem to want me around are a group whose messages repel me even more than the haters. A private note from “StarBound” reads:
You know what it's like to be so scared that you practically pee your pants whenever you have to meet a new person? Put me out of my misery. I'll meet you anytime, anywhere for what you've got.

Holy crap. A wave of revulsion reverberates through my body. I slam the computer closed, panting.

Fighting the urge to sob, I throw myself onto my bed. First, this buzzing in my head, then Jack giving me the stink eye, possibly even cheating with Alexandra, and now more haters and weirdoes. I pull a pillow over my head and moan into it. Damn, damn, damn. But covering my head only increases the screech in my ears.

I whip off the pillow and pace around my room, pulling at my lobes. Dr. Culdicott said to return to the hospital at the first sign of symptoms. But why? They'll lock me up in isolation and wait for the worst. If I have hours left, I don't want to spend them alone.

I tiptoe downstairs, only to find Mom dozed off on the sofa with her laptop. No way will I wake her. The silence of the house turns the buzzing in my ears into a roar. As desperately as I yearn to fly out the door and run down the street wailing, I trudge back to my bedroom instead.

I pace again, letting the sobs flow freely. What a crappy way to spend my final hours of consciousness. If only it were possible to achieve one more thing, one astounding, beautiful accomplishment. “Make some memories,” as Evie would say. But I've got nothing. Just like the old Aislyn.

I put on my pajamas, grab a pillow, and creep over to Sammy's room. He sleeps restlessly but with a tiny smile on his lips. For a change, he isn't coughing. Thank you, God. Grabbing the extra blanket folded on his rocking chair, I spread it on the floor next to his bed and curl up there, comforted by the sound of his breathing and the familiar paintings on his walls. As if sensing me, Sammy's arm drops to the side. I reach up and hold his hand, anchoring our forearms on the ridge where box spring meets mattress, the way I do when he has a tough night. How many hours have I spent on this floor?

Clasping my brother's hand for comfort, the way he's always hung on to me, I tremble as the night settles in around us. I stare at the ceiling for long minutes, maybe hours, sometimes losing track of the ear-ringing, only to hear it again the moment I think about it. The notion of ever experiencing silence and true peace again seems far out of reach.

Yet somehow I sleep.

When I awake in the morning, my head's groggy. But I'm conscious. Amazing. Within the fuzziness of my brain, the ringing doesn't seem as loud. I stick my fingers into my ears just to be sure. It really seems lighter. Maybe I have another day to live. Another day to fight back.

Sammy's left his bed, probably wondering what brought me to his floor. Clutching my aching back, I shuffle to my room and sink onto my own bed.

Only to be roused a minute later by a knocking at my door. When I answer, Sammy peeks in. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just had a scary night, you know?”

He nods, and starts coughing. Of course he knows.

I sit up. “So, where shall we go first?” As I say the words, I once again feel a profound gratitude we have a day to plan for. It bursts through my chest with warmth and energy, and, for a moment, happiness so sharp it prickles my eyes.

“The Comix Dungeon.” His coughing turns into hacking.

I rush over with tissues as he clears his lungs. “Oh,
Sammy, we
have to get you into the AV719 trial. If you beg Mom, she can't refuse.”

He glowers and when he finally catches his breath, he says, “No way. Mom went nuts while you were in the hospital. I'm not getting into an experiment she's totally against. It's not like she's got any more backup kids.”