Charisma (23 page)

I hold up my palms in surrender. “But I was right, Mom! And I found Dr. Sternfield. She's alive, and she's been doing research. I may have even found a cure she's been working on.”

Mom gulps a few breaths like she's about to hyperventilate and then rasps, “A cure?” She lowers her head and shakes like she can't believe it. Then she starts crying.

I grab her heaving shoulders. “It'll be okay, Mom. See, I wanted to fix things for everyone, to prove— I'm sorry for scaring you.”

She's still sobbing and I'm still holding her when a tall female officer with hair in tight cornrows comes into the office with Dr. Culdicott.

The officer introduces herself and opens a notebook. “The sheriff's team found the cabin and your vehicle, but there's no doctor and it appears her premises have been ransacked.”

My blood drains to my feet. “She can't be gone. I, uh, after she drugged me, I tied her up.”

The policewoman's eyebrows rise. “We need to hear both sides of this story.”

Dr. Culdicott, who's been watching with a frown, says, “We have reason to believe the doctor was withholding crucial evidence toward a cure that could save the lives of over two hundred people.”

The police officer speaks to me. “So you admit to breaking into the doctor's cabin after you incapacitated her?”

“No, the door was open and I—”

Mom inserts herself between the policewoman and me. “She's not saying anything until we've got a lawyer. You should know better than to interrogate a minor. Especially one who's just been through such a traumatic experience.”

Dr. Culdicott opens the door and uses her military commander's voice. “Ms. Hollings is correct. As her doctor, I insist Aislyn get some rest. I will be happy to testify, should it come to it, that there are dangerous sedatives in her system and injuries consistent with an attack.”

The policewoman realizes she's outgunned and leaves with a promise to be in touch. After the door closes, Mom and Dr. Culdicott actually high-five each other.

I'm not as jubilant. If there was a chance of curing the CZ88 in the way I wanted it cured, that chance fled with Dr. Sternfield. Unless there's treasure in those vials and computer notes.

It's before I'm allowed to leave. As eager as I am to escape this place, I insist we see Shane and the others after midnight; screw the official visiting hours. Stopping at each bedside I say, “Hold on, hold on.”

On the way home, between sighs and tears, Mom informs me that I'm grounded for the foreseeable future. All I can do is laugh. My room is the only place I want to be tonight. I think Mom would bolt my door and windows if she could. But she needn't worry. I'm done running away.

Five Countries Ban US Travelers

Jonah Walters, US Wire Service

Due to fears of the contagious gene therapy CZ88, the following countries have banned US tourists until further notice: Egypt, Iraq, Qatar, Singapore, and Turks/Caicos Islands. These are the same countries that deny visas to people living with HIV. To date, CZ88 has infected 273 people, resulting in 49 deaths and over 200 patients in comas.

It takes me a full day to sleep off the remaining sluggishness from the sedative. A low buzzing in my ears takes its place, like a determined mosquito, never letting me forget what's inside my body.

As soon as I'm conscious, Mom tells me Jack and Evie have called a dozen times, begging to come over. I decide to take that as a good sign.

Jack makes it to my house first. He hesitates in front of me for a moment, and then we dive into each other's arms. My body floods with warmth.

Eyes full of tears, I say, “I'm so sorry for making you worry and feel left out of my plans.”

He rests his forehead on mine. “I should've gone with you to Cle Elum, no matter how crazy it sounded. Shane did.”

“Anyway, you know I made my choice long ago.” I run a finger along his collarbone, noticing he smells a little of chlorine, the way I always did when I could still go to pools. Well, if the research notes I risked my life for pan out, maybe we'll enjoy some late-night swims together.

In the middle of that delicious thought, Evie barges in. “You're already on the news!”

“Oh crap,” I say. “It wasn't on purpose. And if they ask for an interview, I'll make sure you're there to prep me.”

She tugs at my hair. “What you need is weapons prep. I can't believe you hunted down the crazy doc. Thank God you're okay.”

I sniff. “Well, you don't have to worry about weapons and wild chases anymore. I'm not going anywhere.”

In unison, she and Jack yell, “Promise?”

Hours later, Mom announces that Dr. Sternfield still hasn't been found, but Mrs. Sternfield and Dr. Dulcet have been brought in for questioning. The more useful news is that the researchers have found mounds of valuable information from the computer and vials, stuff Dr. Sternfield had been testing before she went missing.

The next day, Dr. Culdicott puts Mom and me on s
peaker-phone
and has a geneticist explain how CZ88 includes two viral vectors, the second of which was found in the vials I grabbed. Dr. Sternfield needed two vectors to pack all of the gene modifications she wanted to make, and used a combination of techniques, such as sending snippets of RNA to modify genes rather than introducing whole genes every time. Even the material used to fill out the viruses, the “stuffing,” which most researchers would consider “junk,” had genetic instructions embedded within it.

Most of what he explains after that goes way over my head, but his excitement is obvious.

“So, bottom line?” Mom asks when the guy takes a breath.

He clears his throat. “No promises. But Dr. Sternfield mapped out several possible means of reversing the process, and even launched the development work, with a plan to sell it to the highest bidder, from what I can gather.”

Mom leans toward the phone. “How long to finish and test it?”

“Months, most likely. We'll keep you informed every step of the way.”

Mom and I stare bleakly at each other. Do I have that long? Do Shane, Chloe, and the others? But I force myself into a smile for Mom's sake and say, “The good guys know what they're doing. And there are more of them than there are Dr. Sternfields. Sometimes taking a risk is less risky than not taking one.”

Mom's jaw tightens. We both know I've shifted the conversation to Sammy. But she doesn't dismiss what I say out of hand. We both have to believe that I've given the scientists enough to work with. Because there isn't any more.

• • •

During July and August, the buzzing in my head remains an incessant irritant. On the darkest of nights, a tiny part of me insanely wishes I'd just go into a coma already so I could escape the never-ending what-ifs. But come morning I shake off my despair and am thankful for another day.

While I try to ignore my symptoms, the researchers keep in touch via e-mails and conference calls. Even Dr. Dulcet offers to help, insisting he'd only urged Dr. Sternfield to turn herself in and work on a cure. Since there isn't enough evidence to prove he did anything illegal, the government task force accepts his scientific input under the strictest controls. Mrs. Sternfield, on the other hand, has been charged with aiding and abetting, since the police have evidence she sent the fake suicide video to the news stations and rented the cabin where her daughter hid out.

Meanwhile, I live a life where I'm afraid to get my hopes up. And afraid not to.

But I know how I want to spend whatever time I have—with my family, Jack, and Evie. Now that I'm done chasing down fugitives, the people I love aren't in a state of constant annoyance with me. Still, “normal life” isn't easy. Often I find myself biting the insides of my cheeks in frustration. The worst is when Evie and Rafe insist upon double dates with me and Jack. It's not that they're constantly on top of each other, but I can't help noticing the stolen kisses, even when they think they're being secretive. Yet there's no way I'll ask her to stifle her joy on my behalf. If Shane were conscious, I'm sure he'd offer some choice and salacious advice. Seeing his pale face get thinner every time I visit him and the others in the hospital gets harder to bear. But I still go there weekly, and will not let myself, or anyone else, forget about them.

Despite the challenge of facing impending doom, my own life thrives in odd ways. News programs fly me and the handful of others who've been infected by CZ88 but remain conscious to New York and LA for whirlwind interviews. They call us “miracle” cases. I use my miracle status to speak up for gene therapy, especially in treating cystic fibrosis.

My existence, such as it is, can make a difference.

At the end of August, Chloe's dad sends me a message.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?
He includes a link to a story about a gene therapy trial that uses a modified form of the HIV virus to attack cancer.

I text him:
AMAZING! THERE'S HOPE FOR EVERYTHING.

He replies:
DAMN RIGHT THERE IS.

Yes, he and I have become pals.

He follows up with:
HEARD THAT ONE OF THE CREEPS WHO KIDNAPPED YOU DIED.

I actually feel sorry for the woman, who drove the getaway van. Jail would have been enough of a punishment. Turns out one of my blood-jackers was the scary guy from the fundraiser, and their leader, with the smooth voice, was the guy who'd tried to bust into my homecoming party with a six-pack of beer. After injecting the tainted blood, their whole gang ended up in comas. Given how contagious the blood-borne path is, I wonder if Dr. Sternfield was infected after I stuck her with the syringe she'd used on me. Even if the police never catch her, the CZ88 might.

And maybe the CZ88 would catch up with me too. I've been through countless exams to figure out whether I have some crazy immunity or if those odds that were stacked against me and made me so shy are also the cause of my good fortune now. It could be I started from such a different baseline that the changes in my biochemistry have further to go before reaching the threshold that'll send me into a coma, which only begs the question, “How long do I have?”

In September, after intense online petitioning leads to real-life protests, and a number of speeches by the ACLU, my school decides I can attend my senior year, as much of it as I'm conscious for, anyway. That ruling revs up the hate mail and protests at Nova Genetics. However, gene therapy is here to stay.

A week before Halloween, when I plan to dress up as Madame Curie, the morning crackles with crisp air. Jack holds my hand as we drive to school.

Sammy yells from the backseat, “How many gene therapists does it take to change a lightbulb?”

I say, “No idea.”

“None. They send viruses to do their work.”

Jack and I groan. But those viruses are doing a good job on Sammy. There are days when he goes the whole ride without coughing. And his lung capacity has gone up twenty percent since Mom allowed him into the expanded AV719 trial, which she only did after patients in the previous trial showed rapid improvement. With no side effects.

Jack's hair blows from the wide-open windows. Autumn's here, but I crave fresh air more than ever these days. Still, being outside comes with its own price. Even though the blood-jackers have been incapacitated, and Homeland Security ruled out bio-terrorist threats, I keep a constant
vigil in
the rearview mirror, and check out everyone around me, especially strangers who get too close.

Jack taps on the steering wheel. “So, you up for
apple-picking
next weekend?”

My cheeks are getting numb from the cold air, but I don't turn my face from the window. “Evie and Rafe want to go too.”

Jack gives a tiny grunt. “I'm guessing there's a hayloft?”

I shrug.

We stop in front of Sammy's school and say good-bye to him before continuing on. Five blocks from the high school, my phone buzzes. Probably Evie wanting last-minute help with calculus. I'm happy some things have remained a constant in my life. We even drew our customary school map to calculate the maximum contact opportunities between ourselves, this year adding boyfriends to the equation.

But the text on my phone is from Mom. A message I've prayed for even if I've been afraid to let myself really expect it.

My face must betray my shock.

Jack pulls over. “What?”

I stare out the windshield, not seeing anything. “The cure is ready.”

He grabs me into a hug, his breath making my neck tingle. “That's fantastic.”

My body feels numb within his arms. “Yeah. It would be great not to worry about going into a coma or passing on what I have, but—”

“But what?”

I clamp my eyes shut, burying my face into his chest. “I don't want to go back to being shy again. Of not knowing how to feel around you. Of not being able to speak up for kids like Sammy.” Of course, I tried to persuade the researchers to figure out a win-win cure where I'd get to keep the C
harisma part
of CZ88, but even my glowing personality couldn't make a strong enough case for them to take that chance.

Jack holds me tightly. “If the cure takes back the social stuff, you still know me and I know you. It can't undo that. You were never shy around Evie and your other close friends, right? And the real you managed to make itself known to those of us who paid attention. Believe me, I always did.”

I pull up my head and nod, wondering for the millionth time how much of our personality resides in our DNA and how much is learned behavior. For the past months, my brain has used synapses that ride the paths of confidence. Maybe that'll be mine to keep if I'm cured. Maybe it won't.

He squeezes my hands. “Hey, if things get tough, you can always go back to texting me until you see things haven't changed, okay?” He kisses my cheek. “Besides, you're forgetting the upside of getting cured, I think.” His eyebrows rise along with the corners of those luscious lips I've been aching to kiss.

Ah, yes. A flutter whisks through my chest and down to my belly. All I can do is smile, no doubt blushing as badly as I used to.

He says, “Something to think about while you're in the hospital all alone tonight.”

I suddenly find it difficult to speak. “Ooh, boy.” My voice squeaks in a way it hasn't since before the CZ88. Who needs a cure? Just thinking about being with Jack has me changing already.

“So, should I take you straight there?” he asks.

“Let me call my mom.”

They plan to administer the drug this afternoon, so Mom will take me at lunchtime. Until then, I plow through the motions of a school day, needing constant nudging from Evie to remind me where to go.

She puts a finger to her lips. “Maybe you should do one last diva-y thing before the cure.”

“C'mon, I've never been a diva.”

She gives a ten-point eye-roll. “If the TV news coverage fits . . .”

I'm not going to argue. Not today. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm.”

“Never mind. I know what I'm going to do.” I march into Dr. Lin's science room, where most of the class shuffles around their lab tables.

“Dr. Lin,” I say, projecting my voice to the back of the room.

The class pauses their chattering.

Dr. Lin looks up with his eyes but keeps his face pointed down toward a set of magnets he's sorting. “Good morning, Aislyn.”

“At the science fair, you asked about my project's relevance and where I'd draw the line.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I did.”

“Well, I couldn't answer then, and I might not be able to tomorrow, but I'd like to try now.”

He narrows his eyes in a way that makes it seem like he's tempted to hit the panic button under his desktop. “Class begins in two minutes.”

“I'll risk the tardy. So, here goes.” I face the classroom. “My project's relevance was to shine a light on the incredible possibilities of gene therapy. Once we truly understand how to manipulate our DNA, we can change the whole game in terms of quality and quantity of life. What could be more relevant than that?”

A girl in the back of the room yells, “My boyfriend's abs.”

Dr. Lin starts to add something, but I cut him off. “As for where I'd draw the line of which enhancements to make and which to ban, I don't know. We shouldn't allow extreme experiments like the one I got involved in, but as to how much we allow humans to change themselves, it's a moving target. It's okay to admit we don't have the answers yet. But once the future's been seen, it can't be unseen.”

Dr. Lin says, “Since you feel so strongly about this, you can lead a discussion this afternoon when you get to class.”

“Actually, I'll be out after lunch, at the hospital.”

He stares for a few seconds before blinking, as if he's going to record his impressions of me in a lab book. “If it makes any difference to you, I voted for your project at the state competition.”

“Really? Well, thanks. Um, I'd better get to class.”

“Good luck, Aislyn.”

The rest of the morning I chat with as many friends as possible, raise my hand at every opportunity, and hug Jack after each class. If school can be half this good when I get back, I'll be happy. A crowd sees me off when Mom picks me up.

On the way to the hospital, my legs can't stop trembling. I remind myself there's no guarantee any of this'll work. In fact, the “cure” could have unexpected side effects, or end up worse than the treatment. Not for the first time, I speculate that the “Valley of Death” between animal and clinical trials isn't just littered with unfunded projects, but with the people who've undergone experimental cures that failed drastically. No, that kind of thinking only leads to a racing pulse and nothing good.

I check my phone one last time in the parking lot. Jack's sent ten texts, all of which say:
FOR ME, YOU'LL ALWAYS BE “THAT GIRL.”

Oh, how I hope he's right.

Mom sticks with me through the check-in process. Once I'm installed in a tiny room, Dr. Culdicott and a gene therapy specialist named Dr. Cho show up. By mutual agreement, a small camera crew discreetly captures the moment. I smile their way. If these are my last moments of being brave, I want them to inspire folks.

Goose bumps rise on my arms. “Have the others gotten the cure already?”

Dr. Cho smiles tightly. “What we
hope
is a cure, Aislyn. You're the last one to receive it at this hospital.”

“Can I see them?” I've visited these guys regularly, mostly to sit and hold Shane's hand, while I tell him about all the people he can harass when he gets better. I plan to be there when he does.

Dr. Culdicott says, “Of course.”

Dr. Cho washes up and gloves his hands. “Ready?”

Ready? God, it's hard to imagine how eager I was to receive the CZ88 back in June. Now it seems a whole lifetime has passed. A lump plays in my throat and my body slumps. For too many others, a lifetime
has
passed.

I clench the blanket I sit on and force myself to sit upright. “Ready.”

He wipes my arm. Unlike what Dr. Sternfield gave us, the cure requires two injections today and there might be
a follow-up
. I flinch with each needle jab. Probably will for the rest of my life. When the doctor is done, he advises me to relax. Yeah, right.

He and Dr. Culdicott promise to check in later. That leaves the camera crew time for interviews with Mom and me. They've paid us top dollar to capture my possible metamorphosis back into shy-girl. Oh well, better this than Mom working extra hours to raise college money. Fortunately, the families of the other teens have signed on for the documentary too, so the crew leaves to film them.

My room suddenly seems too quiet. There isn't much in the way of entertainment. Not that Dr. Gordon had time to think of that between working with the task force to find a cure and pushing the police to find his daughter. I have a difficult time looking him in the eye these days anyway. On the one hand, he seems genuinely concerned about making things right; on the other, whatever gene therapy he forced upon Dr. Sternfield helped make her what she is.

Mom pulls up a chair. Her expression is overly bright, trying unsuccessfully to mask her worry. Will I still be able to read her this well if the cure takes hold? I hope not. Witnessing everyone's emotions is exhausting.

I place my hands on her trembling ones and give my best version of a perky-daughter face. “I feel fine. In fact, I have a great book, so you don't have to wait around here.”

She brushes a piece of lint from the bed. “How about I stay for a bit? We could go to the cafeteria for a feast.”

I smile. “Fine, if that's how you want to spend Friday night.”

We nibble on overcooked pasta, salad that's been refrigerated too long, and bowls of lime Jell-O that are just right. I lean back and consider my next words. “You know, whatever happens with this cure, you need to get a life, Mom.”

She coughs. “What do you mean? I have everything I want with you and Sammy.”

“You deserve more. Dad's been gone a long, long while. It's time you considered dating.”

Her coughing turns to choking. “Uh, honey, let's take things one step at a time.”

I hand her my napkin. “I just wanted to get that idea out there while I still have this not exactly inhibited personality.”

Nodding, she wipes her lips. “I'll take it into consideration.”

I plan to start drafting an online ad ASAP. It'll be fun to channel my inner Evie to give Mom's wardrobe a makeover.

Back in the room, the doctors pop in to look me over. No changes yet. But then, it might take days or weeks to detect a difference. When the doctors leave, Mom says she'll head out to check on Sammy, as long as I'm okay. I assure her I am.

As soon as she's gone, I shuffle to the elevator in slippers made of the same stuff they use to make disposable diapers, and visit the ward with Sebastian, Xavier, Jesse, and Shane. In their comatose state, they've been relegated once again to a boys-only room.

I clap my hands. “You guys call this a party?”

They lie on their backs, the way they always do. Their family members have set up chairs on the other side of the room for the documentary interviews. Shane's mom waves to me and puts her fingers to her lips since the camera's rolling.

I start at Sebastian's bed, running my fingers along his blanket. When I remember his body in fluid motion, creating something beautiful even in a drab hospital room, my throat catches. Oh, to see him perform a pirouette on stage. Just once. Moving from his bed to Jesse's, I whisper to each of them, “Wake up.”

At Shane's bed, I take a seat and grab his hand. “When you get out of here, you'd better keep the nice-guy part of your DNA. Or I'll beat you silly.” I tap his knee. “And don't expect me to fix you up with any of my friends, even if you're virus-free.” I rise and kiss his cheek.

With the camera still running, the family members ask how I'm feeling so far. I haven't noticed any specific changes, physically or personality-wise. Not yet, anyway. They nod somberly and I make my way next door to Chloe's room. Her mom and little sister sit at a table playing Go Fish. Fortunately, the documentary crew is done with them for now, so we have a little peace.