Seeders: A Novel (3 page)

Cat Woman,
he thought.
She’s Cat Woman.

To Luke, the only thing more beguiling than her beauty was her attitude.

“What the fuck are you doing, anyway?” she said and flipped off the radio.

“Rebuilding a computer.” He pretended to unscrew something behind the monitor.

Monica took a long drag from her cigarette and blew smoke through the window screen. She flicked the ashes onto the ledge, since the ashtray was a couple inches out of reach, and took a swig from a bottle of brandy she had stolen from a cabinet in the living room. She chased it down with a Starburst Fruit Chew.

Luke could hardly believe she was in
his
bedroom, just inches from
his
bed. He wanted to grab his iPhone and snap a picture for the Robotics Club, but it was buried inside a knapsack. Instead, he strained for something witty to say.

“So, uh … how was your last day of school?” It sounded so lame, his eyes shut tight.

Monica blew out a sarcastic breath. “Your school sucks. The girls are phony twats and the guys are pretentious dicks.”

Luke was surprised she knew the word
pretentious,
but Monica was a walking bundle of contradictions. She was feminine, in a butch kind of way. She could speak fluent French, yet she didn’t know Brooklyn was part of New York City. Her dyed black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which revealed platinum-blond roots that matched her nearly invisible eyebrows. She had a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle and a severed hand giving the finger on her right.

She pulled up the window screen and flicked the burning cigarette into the street.

Luke cleared his throat. “So … how’s your mom?”

“Don’t talk about my mom.”

“Sorry.”

“She’s such a bitch.”

“Really?”

“You wouldn’t get it.” She heaved a long sigh. “Damn, I miss my friends.”

Luke wondered if Monica had any friends. There were no calls in or out of the apartment since she arrived. She didn’t even
own
a cell phone, which was astounding since every girl Luke knew spent most of the day texting each other. At school, Monica walked around staring at the floor and never sat with anyone at lunch. Trinity was filled with mostly bright, wealthy students who regarded her as street trash. Even Luke never acknowledged her in the hallways when they passed. Not that he was wildly popular either. Sure, he’d made a couple of friends in the Robotics Club, but they never did anything outside of school.

He looked sideways at Monica, cleaning dirt from her fingernails, and wondered if she was a prostitute like her mother. The thought made him feel sad and excited at the same time. Maybe he should have offered to pay for sex weeks ago, instead of trying to win her over with charm. The proposition seemed dangerous. Someone with her kind of experience might laugh at his shortcomings. On the other hand, a knowledgeable partner could give him some pointers. Sort of like a sex tutor.

“Do tutors make good money?” she said.

Luke froze.

“You tutor math and science, right?” She was standing by the dresser, holding his Tutor of the Year award.

He recovered with a sigh. “Yeah. I guess. Like twenty an hour.”

She choked down a laugh. “That sucks.”

“How much do you make?”

Her lips clamped tight and she set the trophy down hard. “I’m not presently employed, but if I was, it would be more than twenty an hour.” She turned the trophy so it faced the wall. “My mom’s taking me to Paris when she gets out. I’m gonna be a famous artist.”

Luke had seen several of her childlike drawings of fruit bowls and couldn’t imagine the French art world welcoming her talent.

She spun all his other trophies around so they faced the wall, then turned all the knobs on his stereo and leafed through his CD collection. “Beatles … Rolling Stones …
Elvis
?” She rolled her eyes, and pulled out a CD. “Who the hell is Beth Oven?”

“It’s Beethoven.”

“I knew that,
Einstein
.”

There wasn’t much left on the dresser to mishandle so she stopped in front of a model skyscraper, an intricate, near-perfect replica of the Freedom Tower. Luke had made it in school and entered in a contest for a chance to win a $25,000 scholarship. She flipped a switch that turned the lights in the windows on and off.

“Hey, don’t touch that!”

“
Okay
. Jeez.” She backed away, arms raised like a criminal. “
Ne te mets pas en rogne.
”

He watched her flop onto the cot that was Sean’s bed, bouncing on the squeaky springs.

“How do you like sharing a room with your weird brother?”

“He’s not weird.”

“Bet you’d love it if I left. You can’t wait, huh?”

He shrugged. “It’s kind of nice having a girl around.”

Monica studied his expression. “You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“You hate that I’m here.”

“I think you’re nice.” He took a breath and went for it. “You’re pretty too. You don’t need all that makeup.”

She squinted through thick black lashes, trying to decide if that was a compliment or an insult. Then she stood up with a grin and strolled back to the Freedom Tower, turning on the colored spotlights that spun on the ceiling. She pinched the pointed needle.

“Come on, really. It’s a group project.”

“Right. The geek squad.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know I’m a geek. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

They were both silent for a moment, then her face softened and she looked at him with an appraising nod. She sauntered to his chair, sliding onto the desk with her tight rump covering his mouse pad. She leaned in close, smelling like cherry Starburst. They were close enough to kiss, and she flicked a stray lock of black hair from his brow, staring into his slightly freckled face that was still boyish but with a strong jawline of approaching manhood.

His heart was pounding so loud he worried she might hear it.

“You’re not so bad.” She nodded. “You’re actually kind of cute. I’ve seen you in your gym clothes and you have pretty good muscles in those shoulders … and those thighs,” she said, glancing down for an instant. “Yeah, I could make out with someone like you.”

Luke’s heart clutched and his cheeks streaked red. After two months of insults Monica was talking about making out. She even mentioned his thighs, which he knew were in fact getting muscular. His palms were beginning to sweat and he felt himself moving closer to the fantasies that kept him awake at night. He imagined the amazed faces of the Robotics Club.

She’s your girlfriend?

There would be a long, steady dating period, and then—

Yeah, we finally did it. She couldn’t stand it anymore. Making out all the time, but not going all the way. It was too stressful for both of us, really
.

“Of course it’s your personality that’s the problem. Zero confidence.” She slid off the desk, fell onto the bed, and watched him deflate. “Oh, it’s not your fault. That kind of thing is genetic. Although, I can’t even believe Colin is your dad, he’s like your opposite.”

Luke suddenly wanted her out of the room. He started taking apart the computer with the screwdriver, banging the plastic and making a lot of noise, hoping she’d leave.

Monica stretched on the bed like a cat. “Colin’s a good guy.”

“Not always.” He snuck a glance in her direction. She was doing it again, stroking her flat stomach and gazing at the ceiling. Why did he keep trying? She was obviously a tease and there was no hope of winning her over. He had been trying every day and now he was angry. He threw the screwdriver on the desk and stared at the wall. “Don’t you think it’s weird that my dad invited you to stay with us? Just asked some stranger off the street to live with him?”

“Colin isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him for years. When my mom got busted he didn’t dump me on CPS. He’s like a father figure.”

Luke’s face burned hot, and he muttered, “What, are you screwing him or something?”

There was a flutter of movement, and then a slap hit his face like a wet towel.

“
Oww,
” he said and held his cheek.

Monica stood over him. Her eyes were moist, but there was only rage in her expression. “I told you, he’s like my
dad,
you idiot! I don’t screw anyone, you piece of shit. I have a
boyfriend
for your information.”

She fell back on the bed, turning to the wall and wiping her eyes.

“Sorry.” Luke tossed a box of tissues.

“Forget it.” She kicked the box with her foot.

They didn’t speak for a long moment, and then calmness came over her body. She sniffed. “You really think I’m pretty?”

Muffled shouts of anger came from the living room and Luke bolted for the door.

*   *   *

Colin stood over Isabelle with a dark expression and threw out his arms. “Sure, look at you! Can’t walk a few blocks for cigars, but you want to fly off to some island for a month.”

“Two weeks,” she shouted back.

Luke stepped between his parents, with Monica several paces behind. “What’s going on?”

Isabelle wiped her eyes and Colin backed off. The sight of Luke had a neutralizing effect on both of them.

Isabelle sniffed. “My father passed away.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“He lived on an island, remember?”

“No.”

“Well, he left it to me in his will. And I’ve decided we’re going there for a vacation.”

“
You
decided,” Colin said.

“It will do us all good. You can come too, Monica.”

“Whatever.”

“You coming, Dad?”

“No, I’m not. But, hey—go ahead, all of you. Take the kids, since I won’t be around. I’ll be doing my job, paying the bills. No need to include me in the discussion.”

“It’s only a couple of weeks.”

“That’s not the point! You didn’t ask me. You just told that lawyer what you want to do, without an ounce of respect to me. He thought I was some jerk.” He paced the floor and stopped in front of Isabelle. “Don’t ever talk to me like that!”

“I can think for myself.”

Colin grabbed her shoulders.

Sean had been silently watching from the couch, but now he sprang forward and ran headfirst into his father’s chest.

Colin stumbled over a potted fern. Anger seized him as he recovered his balance and grabbed the boy by a fistful of shirt. “Cut it out, you freak!”

Sean struggled to get loose.

His father backhanded him across the face.

“Stop it!” Isabelle shouted.

Colin looked shocked. He’d never hit any of his children before, never had to.

“Hey, leave him alone, Dad,” Luke said.

Colin let go and Sean fell to the floor. He crawled backward and scurried like a crab to a chair. He climbed up on the cushion.

“Yeah. Okay,” Colin said. His dazed expression vanished and he went tight-lipped to the dining room table. “Go ahead and take your vacation. All of you. I don’t care.” He slumped in a chair. “Stay as long as you want.”

There was a red welt across Sean’s face, but he seemed to be okay. He was reading the book again. Isabelle knew that any criticism now would only make things worse, so she joined Colin in the dining room.

“Let’s not make a fuss,” she said in a small voice, to no one in particular. “We’ll just enjoy our dinner.” She sat at the table and picked up the bowl of string beans.

Luke said, “I’m not really hungry.”

“Me neither,” Monica echoed.

“Great.” Colin stabbed his beans. “Well, I’m eating.”

The teens walked down the hall and parted at their bedrooms.

Isabelle held her breath and spoke softly without looking at her husband. “I was thinking, you could join us on the island for a couple days, maybe on the weekend before we leave.”

Colin didn’t answer, but took a bite of meat. He looked up from his dinner plate. “I’m sorry, Sean, okay? Come eat dinner.”

The boy kept reading.

“
Now,
Sean.”

Sean looked up from the book and Isabelle gave a small nod. He joined them at the table and they began the meal in silence.

Isabelle swept her foot over to Sean, tugged at his sock.

He smiled and toed her back.

CHAPTER 3

DR. JULES BEECHER GAZED AROUND
the Garden Terrace Room of the New York Botanical Garden, nervously drumming his fingers on the crisp white tablecloth. The Institute of Plant Neurobiology was counting on him to raise some serious money. They had arranged the dinner at an expensive venue, inviting two hundred reporters and prominent scientists in the hopes of elevating their status and generating more funds.

The principles of plant neurobiology had long been considered on the fringes of acceptable science and largely ignored by the press. However, the last ten years had revealed some astonishing facts about plant signaling abilities. Most recent was a groundbreaking experiment undertaken by Jules and his team that produced such remarkable data it caught the attention of the public, and therefore the media.

Quite simply, Jules had discovered that plants could—in their own way—
talk
.

Still, he felt ill at ease with the eleven men and women sitting around the spacious table eating salad from expensive china. They weren’t the usual crowd he knew from scientific journals. This was the mainstream press, reporters from
National Geographic, Smithsonian, Discover, Wired, Newsweek, The Washington Post, The New York Times Magazine
. Most were nicely dressed and courteous, except for the scruffy-looking man from
National Enquirer
sporting a Mets T-shirt, beard stubble, and a serious attitude. Already he’d complained about the air-conditioning, lighting, and music. Jules didn’t know how a gossip columnist had wormed his way into the mix, but he didn’t care. There was no doubt this group on the whole could garner the coverage needed by the institute. They had all come to see a forty-five-minute documentary that accompanied his paper titled “The Underground Communication System of Environmental Stress Cues in Plants.”