Charisma Page 19

  I crunch my empty cup. “Do not let this gene thing take away my best friend on top of everything else, okay?”

  “I’m so sorry. If anything else significant happens, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

  My eyes sting but I nod, wondering if I’ll be around when the next significant thing happens in her life. Clearing the roughness in my throat, I say, “Let’s get out of here.”

  We head back into the comics shop. The sudden shift from blaring sun to the darkness within is temporarily blinding. But when my vision settles, I don’t see Sammy.

  I hunt through the cramped aisles. “Sammy?”

  A couple of boys glower like I’ve violated some code of conduct. I pick up my pace, calling louder. Evie searches from the other side of the store until we meet up in the middle. No Sammy.

  I rush to the counter and ask the clerk, “Have you seen a skinny blond boy, about this high?”

  He talks around a lump of something nestled inside his cheek. “Yeah, he bought the latest issue of Alakazomb and showed me his portfolio. The kid’s frickin’ amazing.”

  “I know. But where did he go?”

  The guy shrugs. “Probably to read or draw.” His face lights up. “Hey, I recognize you. Have you seen the latest issue of Virality? It’s about a genetic love potion—”

  Evie and I frown at each other and jog outside. My heart skydives to my gut as I whip my head around. Sammy’s nowhere in sight.

  Evie says, “Stay calm. He probably went to look for us.”

  We head down the street in the opposite direction of where we stopped for lattes. I peek into a tattoo parlor, a book store, and a thrift shop, yelling, “Sammy!”

  When we reach a cross-street, I spot a blond kid down the road wearing the same bright yellow T-shirt Sammy had on. He’s laughing next to a woman with purple hair. I sprint their way, relieved to find that the kid is my brother.

  I grab his shoulders. “Sammy, what the hell?”

  He startles. “I thought you headed this direction. Sorry.”

  The woman leans toward me on six-inch stilettos. “Aislyn Hollings? I’ve been looking for you.”

  I step back. “Really? How did you know I was here?”

  She gives a cynical laugh. “Oh, honey, you’re easier to track than a GPS signal.”

  A guy with biceps as big as cantaloupes steps out from a shadowed doorway. He keeps a few feet away, but gives the woman a slow nod that makes my skin feel as if it’s covered in bugs.

  The woman bats her eyelashes. “I wanted to personally invite you to an exclusive party. Zeke Takahashi, who got the Charisma without the bad side effects, just like you, will be there, and it would be great if you hung out with us tomorrow night too.”

  I cross my arms. “I doubt there’s a version of CZ88 without bad effects. And why hasn’t this Zeke come out sooner?”

  She pulls a thick envelope from her purse and fans herself with it. “Maybe no one’s made him the right offer. Easy ten grand.”

  “Ten thousand? For a party?”

  “Lots of people want to meet you. Face-to-face.”

  My pulse picks up speed. “What’s the catch?” Deep down I already know. Only one group of weirdoes is that eager to see me without a gas mask.

  The big guy edges nearer, hands in pockets.

  Purple-haired woman says, “No catch at all.” She licks her lips. “You could have a lot of fun, maybe find ways to earn an even bigger paycheck. I know a few guys with deeper pockets than you could imagine.” She smiles, with a sharpness to her eyes that brings jackals to mind.

  I pull Sammy and Evie by the arms. “Home. Now.”

  Neither of them argues. As we hurry away, I peek backward to see the lady and her friend staring at us. Nothing in their expressions radiates empathy or kindness. The fact that they remain in place, satisfied I’m so trackable, sends a surge through my belly.

  The guy blows me a kiss.

  Did She or Didn’t She?

  by Lulu Lakes for In the Know

  The latest question that has celeb-watchers speculating madly doesn’t involve Botox or nip-tucks. Rather, we’re trying to determine who’s upped their Celebrity Index Rating via a top-shelf public relations rep and who’s done so via a trip to the geneticist. If this sounds like the stuff of science fiction, think again. After two hundred thirty-seven people were injected or infected with an unregulated gene therapy called Charisma, their personalities went from meh to magnetic. These cases came with potentially lethal consequences, and forty-one deaths so far; however, there are rumors of a new, improved version of Charisma being developed via underground channels. What price celebrity? Well, readers, it appears nothing is out of the question, even if it means swapping out our DNA.

  The entire drive home has me checking the mirrors. When I tell Sammy we’re skipping the rest of the shops on his list, he shrugs as if he’s used to me letting him down.

  I take a circuitous route to ensure we aren’t followed, and pull in front of my house forty minutes later. We study our surroundings closely before getting out and wading through a pack of reporters. Even though I should be used to them by now, their barked-out questions strike me like gunfire. “No comment,” I say, urging Sammy forward.

  Evie gives me an extra-tight hug at the door. “Don’t let the crazies or haters get you down. They’re way outnumbered. Starting with me.”

  “I’m sorry for before. You’re the best, Evie.”

  “That I am. Just keep your head down, okay?” She prances away, but her positive attitude comes off forced.

  Inside, Mom sits alone at the dining room table. “We were supposed to have lunch together, weren’t we?”

  I slap my forehead. “Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry. We got a late start.” She’ll find out I’ve offered my genome sequence up for grabs soon enough.

  She’s brought home chicken coconut curry soup, infused with a tangy lemon-grass that makes my mouth pucker. Sammy and I join her at the table.

  I examine her for signs of volatility and figure she’s as calm as I’ve seen her since I’ve been home. “Um, Mom, could we please talk about letting Sammy into the AV719 trial?”

  She clanks the ladle against the edge of the pot. Her face swims with a mixture of fear, guilt, and anger. “No one’s giving my kids anything else that could hurt them. End of discussion.”

  “But the preliminary—”

  “Aislyn, stop it. You may be able to use your new persuasion skills against the rest of the world, but I’m not gambling with my kids’ lives.”

  “Everything in life is about taking chances, playing the odds.”

  “No, it’s not. I thought you’d learned that the hard way.” Now her expression radiates full-on terror and rage. I swear she has more gray hair now than she did a month ago.

  Okay, time for another approach. I casually mention the Nova Genetics event. Maybe if I shine extra bright tonight, I’ll prove that a lot of people still have faith in gene therapy.

  Her eyes are wary but relieved I’ve changed the subject. “Sure you’re up for that?”

  “I have to be. Besides, these folks could invest in research that will not only cure CZ88 but other genetic problems, like CF. One way or another, I want my life to mean more than a bogus experiment.”

  A few drops of soup splash from her spoon to the table. She grabs a napkin to wipe them. “Your life means a great deal, especially to those of us who love you. We’ll get through this.”

  That’s more like the positive mom I’m used to. I try to remind her of the responsible daughter she was used to by washing the dishes after lunch so she can rush off to meet the client she rescheduled.

  Maybe I can do another good turn and take Sammy to a few more stores. But a quick peek out the window at the huge crowd of reporters changes my mind. Besides, Sammy coughed through most of lunch.


  My phone buzzes. A text from Jack. I FEEL BAD ABOUT YESTERDAY.

  I type: ME TOO.

  CAN WE MAKE IT UP TONIGHT?

  My mood brightens for a fraction of a moment, until I realize I can’t see him. I HAVE TO GO TO AN EVENT AT NOVA GENETICS. TOMORROW?

  SURE. WHAT’S THE EVENT?

  THEY’RE TRYING TO GET INVESTORS TO FUND RESEARCH TOWARD A CURE. I’M EXHIBIT A.

  WILL SHANE BE THERE?

  Aw, man, just when I think things might be okay again. YEAH. THE MORE EXHIBITS, THE BETTER.

  I SEE.

  I type as fast as I can. IT’S NOT MY CHOICE.

  OKAY. WELL, HAVE FUN. GOTTA GET BACK TO WORK.

  YOU UNDERSTAND, RIGHT? THIS IS ABOUT RAISING MONEY. THAT’S IT.

  OF COURSE. WE’LL TALK TOMORROW.

  Oh, hell. He can’t believe there’s anything going on with Shane. We spent twelve days in the hospital together and nothing happened. Why would it now?

  Sammy’s slung on the couch in front of the TV watching a shoot-’em-up Western and hacking into a tissue. I sink next to him. “Somehow, someway, I’m going to get you the AV719.”

  He keeps his eyes on the screen. “What makes you so sure I want it? That last drug made me barf all the time.”

  “I know, bud, but we’ve gotta keep trying, right?”

  He gives me a long, somber gaze and then turns back to the TV.

  My brain races with how I might get the truth out of Mrs. Sternfield, and whether anyone can encourage more researchers into combating the CZ88. If I’m cured, Mom’ll open up to Sammy being helped.

  I get sucked into Sammy’s movie and completely lose track of time, which forces me to rush upstairs for a quick shower and makeup. My knee-length dress doesn’t “pop” the way it would’ve if Evie had chosen my accessories, but it’ll have to do. Besides, it’s my personality I’m counting on. I wear my hair down and hook a pair of simple silver hoops through my ears.

  I sashay downstairs twenty-nine minutes later.

  Mom’s jaw goes slack. “Oh sweetie, you look lovely, and so, so . . . ”

  “Understated?” I ask.

  “I was going to say ‘mature.’”

  I have to admit I enjoy the admiration in hers and Sammy’s eyes. If only I could go out with Jack tonight and get him to look at me in that way he does. Did.

  But the next gawker is Shane. When he arrives, I think he’s swallowed his tongue. All he can say is “Wow.”

  Only a few days out of the hospital, his summer tan glows against the pale blue collar of his shirt. His black curls have been trimmed to chin length and he’s shaved his crisp jawline. This is the reason all those girls still apply for The Shane Show. The guy they want, here, in the flesh.

  He tugs at his collar and wipes his glistening brow. “This suit is killing me.”

  Thankfully, Mom doesn’t insist on taking pseudo-prom photos in front of the rhododendrons. Funny how before I never expected to go to prom because I was too shy. Now I might never go because, well, because. The periodic headaches and now the low but constant ear-ringing won’t let me forget what’s probably in store.

  But for now I’m alive. Outside, the night is clear and warm. As Shane escorts me to the sleek town car Nova Genetics sent for us, the reporters shove the snouts of their cameras into our path.

  The pixie-haired woman from a couple of days ago fluffs her bangs. “You make a cute couple. What happened to Jack?”

  I pull my arm from Shane’s. “Nothing. Shane and I are going to a business event together because it’s convenient. Now, if you’ll please let us through.”

  Ignoring the flashes, a blond driver with green aviator glasses introduces himself as Baxter as he opens the car door for us. Fresh from the purple-haired lady incident, I won’t get in until he shows me ID, which he does with a grin.

  Shane whispers, “Paranoid.” He takes off his suit jacket before sliding next to me. As soon as the driver pulls forward, air-conditioning from the rear vents blasts us.

  Shane leans into the chill. “So, I’m convenient?”

  I smooth my dress along my thighs so it won’t wrinkle. “Things are challenging enough without fake relationship rumors.”

  He eyes the closed partition between the rear and front seats. “So how’s life in the celibate lane going? Ready to use me yet?”

  “Dream on, Mr. Last Guy on Earth.” Evie’s silly comment about not letting him, or myself, go to waste pops through my head.

  He says, “Someday soon, you’re not going to be able to resist these dimples.” He’s joking, of course, but there’s honest-to-goodness hope in his eyes.

  I shiver, and reach for the AC control. “Mind if I turn this down a bit?”

  He tugs at his shirt, flapping it against his chest. “Not too much, okay? It’s so sticky out.”

  I take in the sheen of sweat on his temple. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Just a little headache, and the heat.”

  My throat tightens. “Headache? Do you have a fever? Dizziness?”

  “Whoa, Blondie. Just been pushing this rock star thing too hard and feel totally wiped. Lame, huh?”

  Despite his nonchalance, a chill runs up my back. “Have you fainted? Is there ringing in your ears?”

  “Do you think I’d be going to Dr. Gordon’s fundraiser if I were about to drop? It’s just too many all-nighters. Maybe beer and Charisma don’t mix so well.” His voice fades.

  I clutch at my seat buckle. “You can go back to all-nighters after they cure us, okay?”

  “You sound like you really care. I’m touched.”

  I hit his arm.

  But I do care. Enough to pretend to watch the scenery out my side so he can’t read my face. Baxter smoothly takes the road’s curves, making the trip feel like riding in a sleek living room.

  Shane rustles. “Got some cool footage for the new Shane Show today. Crazy-ass chick offered me five thousand to attend a party this weekend.”

  “Purple hair? Creepy guy as her wingman? She offered me double that.”

  The car swerves slightly. Maybe the partition between us and the front seat isn’t soundproof after all.

  Shane frowns. “Hell. I’ve been robbed.”

  “You agreed to go?”

  He startles. “You turned her down?”

  “I don’t believe it,” we say in unison.

  We argue for the rest of the ride over the pros and cons of attending parties with insane people, not reaching any agreement by the time we reach the Nova Genetics campus. But our disagreement pales against the hordes of protesters stomping next to the gate. Most wear surgical masks.

  Baxter slides down the partition. “Don’t worry. I’m taking you guys inside to the VIP lot tonight.”

  That’s more like it. We roll up behind a Mercedes and BMW. The protestors swarm alongside, shrieking their slogans of hate. A wiry guy with pale eyes catches sight of Shane and me. His gaze widens and he points us out to his friends. They mash their bodies toward the car, faces filling our windows as they yell, “Freaks! Freaks!”

  I double-check that my door’s locked. Shane waves and says, “Boy, I wish my camera guy were here.” He points his phone at the crowd, which only amplifies their shouting.

  The guards shoo the protesters with bullhorns and threats while Baxter gives our names to a woman wearing a holster. She waves us through.

  We park in the oasis of the VIP parking lot. Two brawny guys in dark suits usher us toward the main door, where Sally Sims holds court wearing a shimmering black cocktail dress.

  She gives us stiff hugs that are captured by an event photographer. “I’m relieved you’re both doing so well, dealing with such a challenge. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

  I wait for Shane to ask for a doctor, but he just
wants to know where the beverages are. Sally leads us to the main dining room, decorated in draped gauze and huge vases of peonies that send out sweet aroma. We stroll through a crowd of silk suits and elegant dresses.

  I elbow Shane. “Why didn’t you tell Sally you were running a fever?” I don’t feel totally hypocritical asking, since the din of conversation covers my own ear-ringing for now.

  “What good would it do? Besides, I feel great.”

  “Maybe they’ve got something preliminary they can test out on us. We should ask Dr. Gordon.” As I say this, I try to detect any unwanted noises in my inner ear, but with all that surrounds us, I can’t tell.

  A team of waiters roam the room with trays of toast points loaded with caviar, chicken satays dipped in peanut sauce, and other delicacies. I’m tempted to grab a glass of champagne, but think better of it when I spot another photographer. Becoming the poster girl for underage drinking would not help our cause. Besides, I don’t need a crutch for courage. Not anymore.

  Dr. Gordon beckons us over and introduces Colonel Collins, a military researcher who doesn’t smile, and Mr. Chong, who owns a pharmaceutical company in South Korea. The men ask their fill of questions, mostly addressed to Shane.

  I turn to the colonel. “Why is the army interested in gene therapy?”

  His stony expression reflects a moment of annoyance. “For the sake of our vets, miss. If there’s some way to predict who’s genetically predisposed to PTSD, perhaps we can provide the right psychotropic drugs or training to prevent it.”

  His face seems like it believes what his mouth is saying. But I’ve read too many of Sammy’s comics not to know that almost every superhero has a basis in genetic enhancement or mutation. Before I can ask about super-soldiers, a Nova Genetics VP whisks him and Mr. Chong away to tour the labs.

  Dr. Gordon says to me, “You look lovely, dear.” There’s a melancholy tone to his words, as if he’s remembering a time his daughter dressed up for an event. Or maybe Shane’s and my presence reminds him of the damage she caused.

  Shane hands his jacket to a valet who seems to materialize out of nowhere. Then he undoes a button of his shirt.