Charisma Page 18

  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.”

  The wind is knocked out of me. “That’s how you’ve thought of me all these years, as Mom’s backup kid?”

  “No, her guarantee. And now she doesn’t have one.”

  I have to make this right. Mom needs us. Both of us. And Sammy shouldn’t have to wait one day longer than necessary to breathe, to have hope for a disease-free future.

  He twists out of my grasp and escapes to his room. I stomp around my own, pounding the bed and the walls. I will not be the one responsible for destroying my brother’s life, or anyone else’s. Sammy and Mom need to understand that gene therapy is still a promise worth keeping. The world needs to give them that message, loud and clear. What can I do? What can I do?

  I get an idea.

  Throwing on clothes and brushing out my hair, I prepare to face the public. Downstairs, I step into the Tacoma morning, overcast but warm. A female reporter with pixie-cut black hair and a thousand-dollar suit runs in high heels up the front path with the others following in her wake. I shuffle in place on the porch as they gather around below me, but no one gets closer than five feet. Contagion has its uses, after all.

  Shivering, I say, “I’ll give a statement when you’re ready.” Glancing behind myself, I see Sammy poke his head out of the door, his eyes wary.

  Once the cameras are in place, I clear my throat. “I want to make it absolutely clear that Dr. Sternfield acted alone. Alone. I’m confident that Nova Genetics’ other researchers are qualified to develop a cure for what she did.” I pause for a breath. “But they aren’t the only ones who can. I hope that many geneticists tackle this problem and save a whole lot of lives. For that reason, I’m allowing any research organization that my doctors at Florence Bishop Children’s deem worthy to obtain a copy of my genome sequence.”

  There’s a gasp among the reporters, even the scruffiest guys. But the most important part of my statement is still to come.

  I motion toward Sammy and continue. “My brother has cystic fibrosis, which could someday be cured by gene therapy. I’m thrilled there are clinical trials moving forward and I have faith they’ll do so in a safe, responsible manner. It would be a tragedy to prevent kids from promising therapies because of one bad researcher.”

  There, that should put some pressure on Mom to do the right thing with AV719 and maybe get the researchers to let Sammy start the trial late. I open my arms, palms up. “If you have questions, I’ll try to answer them. Just keep in mind I’m a high-schooler, not a scientist.”

  They fake-laugh at that, and then hurl their questions.

  The pixie-haired woman thrusts a microphone my way. “Are you aware that by publicizing your genomic sequence, you’ll be losing a great degree of privacy. Not only will researchers be able to search for the genes manipulated by the Charisma, but they’ll be able to see whether you’re susceptible to a host of other conditions.”

  “That’s why the hospital will help identify trustworthy researchers. As for other conditions, if no one figures out how to counteract the CZ88, I may not be around long enough for those to be an issue.”

  A red-haired man holding a handkerchief to his mouth calls out, “Are you sure you aren’t contagious? There have been cases reported thousands of miles away.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Have any of those cases been spread by casual contact?”

  Sammy steps forward and takes my hand. “The docs tested my mom and me multiple times. Nothing.”

  The man narrows his eyes. “What about dating, Aislyn? We’ve seen you out and about with your boyfriend.”

  I say, “For now, no serious relationships.”

  The pixie-haired woman purses her lips. “Define serious.”

  I give her a pointed look. “I think you can fil
l in the blanks.”

  She blinks rapidly. “That must be devastating for a teen girl. What does the other victim, Shane, think about that?”

  I stifle a groan. “Ask him. As for devastating, I’d save that word for those who’re in a coma or have died.”

  “So far,” mutters the whiskeriest guy in the bunch.

  I swallow.

  I bat questions until the whiskered guy asks Sammy about his own prognosis. Sammy’s breathing is rough. Time to end this.

  I pull Sammy toward the door. “Sorry, he’s only eleven.”

  When we get inside, I ride my momentum and call Dr. Gordon from my room. If Shane’s right, what I’ve done should force Nova Genetics to work harder. After I tell Dr. Gordon I’ve drummed up the competition, he says, “I suppose I can’t blame you.”

  “Also, there’s something I need to know about your ex-wife.”

  “Sheyla? What on earth do you want to know about her?”

  “Okay, this will sound crazy, but ever since I got the CZ88, I’ve been able to read social cues and expressions much more clearly.”

  “That stands to reason.”

  So I’m not delusional. “It’s obvious to me your ex is lying about something regarding your daughter. I’m really sorry if this is painful, but I wonder if it’s possible Dr. Sternfield told her anything about what she’d done or why she was going to, um, do what she did on that bridge.”

  There’s a long moment of silence, finally interrupted by throat clearing. “Ah, Aislyn, I know how desperate you are to find answers, but there isn’t anything useful Sheyla will be able to convey. She and Charlie were close, but I highly doubt they discussed technical issues.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His voice is that of a much older man as he says, “Sometimes there’s no answer for why someone chooses to do what they do. I have to take some of the blame for always encouraging Charlie to push the bounds of knowledge.” He takes a loud breath that might be mixed with a sob.

  “There’s got to be something we’re overlooking, something I can do.”

  He says, “You’re frustrated, of course. So am I. But maybe there is a way you could help. We’re hosting a gathering this evening for potential investors to fund our efforts to find a cure for CZ88. Perhaps you could attend, and inspire supporters for the fight ahead.”

  “So you aren’t being closed down?”

  “Only because we offer the best possibility for curing you and the others, but the government has us on a short leash.”

  So Dr. Dulcet told the truth about that. I clutch the phone with a white-knuckled grip. “Okay, I’ll try to ‘inspire’ your investors, but you need to talk with Dr. Dulcet at VidaLexor about working together.”

  “Those kinds of partnerships often cause more delay than efficiency.”

  “Those kinds of partnerships could save my life.”

  “I’ll consider it, Aislyn. We’re all in this together.”

  I hope he means that.

  “A car will pick you up at seven p.m. Be prepared to deliver a few remarks to the group.” He hangs up.

  I stare at my phone. What have I agreed to? A speech? In front of a large crowd of strangers? Somehow that seems scarier than batting questions with a handful of reporters on my front porch. Maybe it would be better to focus upon the logistical details such as what to wear. I laugh at myself. Hard to believe a time existed when the decision of what to wear was actually important.

  What does matter is keeping my promises to Sammy. Every one of them. I find him down in the kitchen, his face red from his latest coughing fit. “Okay, bro, ready for a trip to the Comix Dungeon?”

  A thunk from the front entryway startles us. Oh, man, is one of the reporters trying to break in? I sprint to the door.

  But it’s only today’s mail, which lies scattered on the floor beneath the mail slot. I scoop it up and place it on the entry table. One letter is addressed “To the parents of Aislyn Hollings” with the school district’s return address. I rip it open.

  As I read, a hard knot forms in my stomach. I kidded myself about thinking that life outside the hospital would be so great. The real world could be a bitch and a half.

  Tacoma Teen Finds Time to Frolic Despite Lethal Condition

  by Serena Wagner, Tacoma Times

  Aislyn Hollings, 16, who participated in the illegal trial of a gene therapy and is one of only a handful of such patients across the US to have avoided dire consequences, returned home this week to great fanfare. Living up to the gene treatment’s promise of increased sociability, the first item of business for Miss Hollings was to throw a party. This, despite evidence that the treatment she received is contagious, usually leading to coma and possibly death. One source who attended Miss Hollings’s party claimed, “Aislyn acted like she was in a bikini video. And she and her boyfriend, Jack, were all over each other.”

  Residents of North Tacoma have lodged a number of complaints with the police and the mayor’s department, demanding that an isolation order be restored. However, Liam Guthrie, a spokesperson from the Washington State Department of Health, stated, “Unless Miss Hollings or Mr. Elliott displays intent to infect others through a known transmission mechanism, we’re prevented from enforcing any further restrictive measures on their behavior.”

  The school district’s letter reads: After extensive discussions with health officials, we’ve decided it’s in the best interest of our school population for Aislyn not to attend classes this fall.

  They are “certain” my mother will understand.

  Here I’ve already completed the required reading list for incoming seniors, including that stupid novel Flowers for Algernon, which had me sobbing. Throwing the letter on the end table, I grab my phone to call Shane.

  “You too, huh?” is his response.

  I pace back and forth through the living room. “It’s crazy.”

  “No crazier than you wanting to break into someone’s home.”

  “About that, I have Sammy today, how about tomorrow?”

  “Not gonna help you get arrested, but I’ll see you at the big-wig party tonight. Sally Sims just called to say you’ll be my date.”

  “Really? She must’ve meant that you’ll be my escort.”

  “Whatever you wanna call it, Blondie. See you then.”

  I launch my computer to find some talking points for tonight. First thing I see is a message from a girl named Mercedes, whose avatar is all pink cheeks and lip gloss, but whose words are razor blades. You’d better watch your back! Freaks like you are an abomination of nature and should be treated like vermin.

  My heart thrashes. Treated like vermin? As in, avoided or exterminated?

  Better to focus on my speech. I find reams of articles on civil liberty, and moving accounts of a boy named Ryan White, who’d been a teenager with AIDS before I was born. The stories of how he was forced to use a separate restroom and disposable utensils at school, and even how his grave was vandalized after his death, have me grinding my teeth. But he endured the harassment with dignity and an inspiring personality that hadn’t come from any drug.

  I’ve typed a page of notes when Evie texts about hanging out today. Oh yeah, I was supposed to drive Sammy around. What a crappy sister I am.

  Evie and I make hurried plans, and a half hour later, we scurry with Sammy past reporters. Fortunately, no one follows us when we drive off, or if they do, they’re sneaky about it.

  We head to the outskirts of downtown Tacoma, and park in a shabby neighborhood that hasn’t been overhauled with condos and overpriced bakeries. Most of the shops have faded awnings and are staffed by folks with lots of piercings.

  Even though I’m wearing sunglasses and a Mariners cap, several people stop me between the car and the Comix Dungeon. For some reason, I feel obligated to answer as many of their questions as I can, probably to p
rove I’m not a contagious monster. It takes fifteen minutes to get inside a dimly lit store that smells of dust and old paper.

  Sammy, hauling his ever-present backpack, rushes to the clerk to ask about latest issues. Evie suggests we head to the nearby coffee shop while Sammy discusses the nuances of visual story telling. We stroll off to buy iced lattes and grab a crumb-flecked table in the corner of the café.

  She brushes a lock of shiny black hair out of her face. “There’s a boatload of pix online of you and Shane. Anything you wanna tell me?”

  Some of my drink goes down the wrong way and I cough. “Nothing.” Taking deep breaths, I tell her about the crime-free mission with Shane and the bodily-fluid-free date with Jack, including the text from Alexandra.

  Her straw takes on a berry-colored lipstick kiss as she slurps at her iced latte. “I’m sure Jack’s not doing anything with Alexandra, yet. But it’s time for you to get practical. If you can’t get together with Jack, why let someone as totally hot as Shane go to waste? Or yourself?”

  “Um, because I’ve crushed on Jack forever? And, if he’s willing to wait, assuming he is, so am I.”

  She sighs long and loud. No need to hunt for micro facial cues. “But you’re missing out on so much, Aiz.”

  It’s then I realize she’s been uncommonly stingy with the details of her own love life lately. And her averted eyes tell me she’s hiding something.

  I run a finger up and down my plastic cup, streaking the condensation. “Has anything, um, significant happened between you and Rafe? You’d tell me, right? Don’t hide stuff because you think I’ll feel bad about what Jack and I can’t have.”

  Her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink.

  My breathing stops. “Oh my God. When? How could you not have told me?”

  Her face crumples. “Two days ago. It’s just that with your situation, it seemed totally hurtful to talk about—”

  “Evie!” I lower my voice when a couple of people turn toward us. “You’re supposed to tell me the important things. No matter what.”

  “I—oh, it’s been driving me crazy not sharing this with you.”