Charisma Page 2

  Evie rolls her eyes slowly, letting the white-whites glimmer between the black of her irises and the kohl that lines her lower lashes. Seriously, if eye-rolling were competitive, she’d score straight tens.

  Fresh out of excuses, I head off to my abbreviated classes, between which I catch glimpses of Jack’s dark blond hair. But I hurry out of the way before he can offer condolences on last night’s showing. Five minutes after the bell rings at noon, I’m in my car heading out of the parking lot.

  From our school in north Tacoma to the Nova Genetics campus near Gig Harbor takes twenty minutes. But because the drive passes over the towering Tacoma Narrows Bridge, its taut cables resembling a giant harp suspended over churning waves below, the journey to the Olympic Peninsula always feels like traveling to a distant city.

  And today it’s under siege.

  My insides tighten as I pull up to the visitors’ parking lot just outside the gated grounds. Dozens of protestors march between the lot and the guarded entrance. Their bobbing signs demand: DESIGNER JEANS, NOT GENES and KEEP FRANKENSTEIN IN THE FICTION DEPARTMENT.

  My frustration with their ignorance sets off pressure in my skull. They should focus on the good news, like kids who don’t have to live in sterile bubbles anymore.

  A beady-eyed man scowls as I approach, backpack clutched tightly to my chest. He chants, “No justification for abominations! No justification for abominations!”

  He and the others shake fists and signs, glaring as if I’m an abomination in the flesh. They block my way to the gate, where a guard speaks into a phone.

  I try ducking between protesters. “Excuse me.”

  A middle-aged woman with Cleopatra hair snarls in my face, “There’s no excuse for anything that goes on in there.”

  No, there’s no excuse for not trying everything you can to save lives. I’ll bet this woman doesn’t have family members with anything more crippling than a closed mind.

  The guard holds up his hands and shouts, “If you continue to block the entryway, I will be forced to call the police.”

  The woman and the man part a couple of inches, nowhere near enough for me to get through.

  “Excuse me,” I squeak again, wishing I could tell these trespassers off, or, better yet, stick their signs where they belong.

  They shout, “No justification for abominations! No justification for abominations!”

  I scoot to their side, desperate to slip through a gap in the swarm, but they stomp in a circle, cutting me off. Blocking my way is illegal, right? My brain fumbles to form words that my mouth won’t say anyway. Maybe Dr. Sternfield will understand if I reschedule.

  The guard blows a whistle, which only fires up the protesters, now hollering at an Audi that pulls up. I see my opportunity to squeeze between the bodies as the gate rises to let the car inside.

  Someone yanks at my shirt. I yelp.

  The car screeches to a halt and the guard barges toward us. Finally, the pressing against me lessens enough to lurch forward, but there’s no way to avoid brushing against the protestors.

  “You’re siding with evil,” the Cleopatra-haired lady hisses into my ear with oniony breath.

  Shriveling, I gain another few inches. The door of the Audi opens and Dr. Sternfield jumps out, pointing her phone at the protestors. “I suggest you leave that girl alone before this video ends up with the police. You know what the penalty is for assaulting a minor?”

  The crowd shrinks back. Dr. Sternfield nods to the guard and smoothes a hand against her auburn hair, pinned in an elegant knot at her aristocratic neck.

  “Why don’t you get in the car, Aislyn?” she says.

  I hurry in and she drives to a reserved spot near the main entrance. My legs shake violently. It takes a moment to find my voice enough to thank her.

  She waves me off. “Paradigm shifts always cause angst. Look at how people protested against civil rights and knee-length hemlines. Did you know hand-washing was once considered taboo?”

  I want to wash my whole body after squishing between the protesters. Why couldn’t I have fended off those awful people? My phone has a perfectly good camera to threaten them with. If I had a spine.

  We step into a pavilion of massive wooden beams supporting walls of glass. The airy architecture is misleading, though. Belowground sprawl nests of laboratories that connect all the above-ground structures.

  In the main lobby, a two-story ceramic sculpture in the shape of a double helix tempts the earthquake gods. Around it, clusters of people make their way to hallways that spoke outward. A pair of tall, muscular men stride into the north corridor. Behind them rolls a woman in a wheelchair, oxygen tubes in her nose. Nova Genetics will study her genes as intently as the “model” genes of the athletes in front of her.

  Dr. Sternfield pauses to say hi to Xavier Dionisio, one of her college interns. He’s Asian with a banker’s haircut and the chest and shoulders of a weight lifter.

  Dr. Sternfield asks, “How’s the sequence for the dancer coming?”

  Xavier’s voice is soft, but clearer than I’ve heard it before. “I’ve identified a few interesting alleles.” His thick eyebrows rise on the word interesting. Maybe he’s discovered a mutation that explains the difference between a ballerina who’s destined for stardom and one who’ll never be promoted from the corps.

  “Great. I’ll check it out as soon as Aislyn and I are through.”

  I follow her past a door that requires a thumbprint scan. We end up in a corner office, where I take my usual seat across her desk and pull out a binder. After being one of her mentees the past school year, and seeing her at events for years before that, I’m more comfortable with her than with most adults, a hundred times more at ease than I was with Dr. Lin on stage, anyway.

  She folds her hands on the desktop. “Your project should’ve been a shoo-in at the science competition.”

  I rub a callus on my finger. “Yeah, well, I’m not the best public presenter.” Understatement so major that it borders on irony.

  She nods. “Sometimes it’s not enough to have the best research or work the hardest, is it?”

  I slide a form across the desk. “At least I’ll get some college credit.”

  She glances at the paper. “So many forms to consider for your family today. The group running the AV719 trial wants my recommendation on whether Sammy would be a viable candidate.”

  My pulse spikes. AV719 is an experimental treatment targeted to Sammy’s particular CF mutation. Preliminary results have some folks already using the M-word, and a miracle is what my brother needs before his lung capacity gets much lower.

  Hands clasped, I say, “You couldn’t find a kid who deserves it more. And we’d make sure he followed every protocol to the letter.”

  “Of course you would. It’s just a matter of far fewer slots than applicants. And he participated in the NSB-12 trial. But you know how highly I think of your whole family.”

  Does she still, after last night? “You would not be sorry if you backed him.”

  “Well, I’m only evaluating suitability. The final selection would still be random.”

  I’ve never cheated at school, but I can’t help wondering how a person might rig the randomness of a drug trial. Theoretically.

  Dr. Sternfield scans my form, but doesn’t pick up a pen to sign it. She can’t deny me credit because I bombed at the science finals. Can she?

  Still not signing anything, she pulls her computer over so it sits between us. With languid movements, she opens a few files that I recognize as screenshots of DNA samples I worked on. Chromosomes she taught me to identify under a microscope. Chromosomes that happen to come from a blood sample she drew from me my first day on the project.

  She pulls up image after image and uses the cursor to mark off specific sequences. “Remember that gene? It’s partly responsible for that stunning blond hair
of yours. And this one contributes to your silver-gray eyes.”

  I nod. Maybe this review is necessary for the college credit. A waste of time, but, if that’s what it takes. She continues, pointing out this feature and that while I dig my toes into the Oriental carpet. And then she brings up a dozen images all at once. A few are genes I recognize, many more are not. She highlights a bit from each slide and turns to me with eyebrows raised.

  “This is a combination of alleles that add up to a phenotype. Can you guess what it is?”

  A test? Seriously? I rack my brain, but can’t recall anything about this combination or even what all the components are. Hell, I’d fail this too. I stammer, “I d-d-don’t know.”

  She leans toward me. “Sociability.”

  I squint. “But wouldn’t that be affected by thousands of genes? And our environment?”

  “Yes, but I believe this combination is key. Alter them appropriately and a person’s Q factor would explode. You know what that is?”

  Thanks to Evie, I have a clue. “A score they use to measure a celebrity’s likeability and fame, right?”

  “Good girl.”

  The impact of what she’s saying hits me. “Wow. If you developed a therapy to boost that, people would line up for it.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Oh, yes they would.”

  I motion my head in the direction of the front gate. “You’d also piss off those people outside even more.”

  She grimaces. “Yes again.”

  I bite my lip. “The stuff I’ve read says tying genes to personality traits is too complex. They can only explain a tiny bit of how we act.”

  She stares at the images and gently traces a slender finger along a stretch of genetic code that happens to spell C-A-T. “Most people haven’t been looking in the right places. I’ve done preliminary work that suggests it’s very possible.”

  “Really? You never mentioned it.”

  She steeples her hands. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  It only takes a nanosecond to answer, “Because it’s ridiculously controversial. And you wouldn’t be allowed to take it past animal trials anyway.”

  Her finger stabs an imaginary button in the air. “Bingo.”

  I gaze out of her window, onto the overcast June afternoon. On the lush lawn, I spot something brown and crumpled—a bird that’s crashed against the pristine glass panes. Too bad gene therapy can’t raise the dead.

  I quickly look away. “Um, no offense, but if you’re working on stuff this advanced, why not focus on diseases?”

  “Who says I’m not? But so are a thousand other researchers.” Dr. Sternfield’s eyes burn despite the rest of her cool demeanor. “However, I know firsthand how crippling a social disorder can be. And you do too.”

  I swallow. “Is that why you’re sharing this with me?”

  She rests her arms on the desk and takes a long breath. “I want you to know there’s hope, Aislyn.”

  Hope. I eye the computer again. “You think you’ll really be able to do something about shyness someday? By altering genes?”

  Her smile is conspiratorial. “Really. But for now, let’s keep this between us, okay? The party line around here is disease only, especially with my father.” Her dad, Dr. Gordon, is the president of Nova Genetics.

  “Of course.”

  She picks up a pen and signs my form. “See you at the family event on Sunday?”

  “Sure.” I have what I came for, plus a bit more. But I still can’t stop my eyes from wandering once more to the tiny heap of brown feathers in the grass outside before I leave her office.

  Feeling privy to a secret, I head past the giant helix and into a day that’s become darkly overcast. Thankfully, the threat of rain has scared off the protestors.

  As I drive back to Tacoma, my thoughts float into the misty air settling over the highway. Imagine what life would be like if Dr. Sternfield were allowed to develop her research. I picture myself with Jack, face to non-blushing face.

  My phone buzzes. I stiffen. Even if driver’s ed never forced us to watch texting-while-driving carnage films, I’d have avoided answering. I know who it is. I know what she wants. I’ll tell her I have to stay home tomorrow night after all.

  I wipe my forehead as the phone buzzes a few more times. Evie won’t give up that easily. If only Dr. Sternfield’s research were ready now. If I go to Drew’s party, it’ll be a repeat of the last one Evie dragged me to, everyone else knowing how to act and what to say, while I stand at the edge clutching a plastic cup of something that’s supposed to put me at ease.

  I drive, wishing I could deal with my own damn shyness. I should be able to stuff some nurture down nature’s throat and get beyond my DNA. People change. And then they write books about it. Why can’t I?

  As I park in front of our hedged-in yard on a typically soggy street in Tacoma, I heave a sigh. The way I always do when reaching my hideaway from the big, bad world. My sanctuary.

  Which will only provide a safe harbor until my new job tomorrow.

  Nova Genetics Internal E-mail

  From: Dr. Charlotte Sternfield, Principal Investigator

  To: Cecily Frank, Chief Security Officer

  Effective immediately, please change the security access roster for Lab 6 on B2 to myself only. This includes primate caretakers and janitorial staff. I’ll schedule with their departments to escort them into the lab as necessary.

  The next morning, I wish I could stay in bed, hiding away. But I need to earn money. Now more than ever. Bonus, according to Evie, is that lifeguarding is far from shy-girl cliché employment such as filing assistant or data entry clerk, and provides opportunities for exposure therapy. Many, many opportunities.

  Which is why I want to puke.

  Sammy hammers at my door. “Aislyn!”

  I rush to get it, alarmed by the sharpness of his voice. “Are you okay?”

  “Mom said to wake you up so you aren’t late and get fired.”

  Yeah, we all know how dismal my college fund is. With heavy movements, I dress. Outside, it’s shaping up to be warm, which means opening day at the pool will be crowded. Great. On the drive over, my body trembles more and more violently the closer I get. Right about now, working in a stockroom or a cave sounds way more appealing.

  Janie Simpson, the pool manager, meets me at the entrance and hands me my official whistle. “Remember your training. And don’t be afraid to use this.”

  Wait, no warm-up time? As if that would help anyway. I stuff my things into a locker and head with Janie to my assigned station. At least it’ll be a short shift, since swim classes don’t start until Monday.

  I climb the chair, which seems higher than it does from the ground. Okay, I can do this, keep an eye on swimmers, and whistle if there’s a problem. Way less complicated than sequencing DNA.

  Within minutes, I spot Asher Johnson and his buddy Zeke goofing around as they climb the water slide. Both of these boys tease Sammy for being the smallest kid in his grade. I grit my teeth, keeping an eye on them. Asher bounces at the top of the slide, staring at me, the hint of a grin flickering.

  I swallow. Asher’s friends on the sidelines dart glances between him and me. Shakily, I raise the whistle to my lips, just in case. Asher rests all of his weight on the arm rails so his feet swing an inch above the bright yellow slide. Back and forth, while he stares at me. Not doing anything I can flag, but clearly with trouble on his mind.

  Then, in a flash, he plops his belly on the slide and whooshes down facefirst. The kids around us spring wild with glee. I squeeze up courage to get air from my lungs through my lips. Breeeeep.

  Another whistle screeches and Janie Simpson yells, “Strike one.”

  But it’s me, not Asher, she glares at, drawing the attention of all pool-goers my way. Uh-oh. The blood rushes to my face. I blink, trying to look anywhere but at Jan
ie as she marches toward me.

  She halts beneath the lifeguard chair. “I know you saw him, Aislyn.”

  I nod. “As soon as he went down, I whistled.”

  “Barely. Look, I’m sure you’d swim faster than lightning if someone were struggling in the water, but you need to step up if you see a potential problem. You’re the first defense.”

  “I know. Sorry.” There should be a tattoo on my forehead that says sorry.

  She heaves a big breath and looks to heaven. “As much as your swim coach raved about you, I won’t be able to let you work here if I can’t rely upon you totally.”

  “I’ll whistle louder next time.”

  With a theatrical sigh, she strides back to the club house. Damn. My pulse races. I scan the pool, biting my lip. Everyone still stares.

  The chair beneath me groans as I suffer through the rest of my watch, the knot in my stomach growing with the fear someone will slip on deck and crack a bone. Somehow the clock ticks forward to noon and I get a five-minute break before I have to start maintenance duty, a euphemism for collecting trash.

  Instead of grabbing a soda with the other staff, I plunge into the emptiest corner of the deep end. A bolt of cool water rushes over my body, freezing my scalp in a way that makes me feel instantly clean. For the minute I’m submerged, my world is replaced with something bordering on calm, a break from the frequent sensation of drowning I feel on land. White noise fills my ears as I release gentle bubbles around my face. Everything within sight takes on a blunted, gentle edge no more threatening than cotton. I understand what drew my dad to water, even if his passion for it went too far.

  I come up for air only as often as necessary and immediately return to my cocoon below. All too soon my five minutes are up and I climb back into the clanging world.

  Weirdly, it turns out that stabbing at litter and stuffing it into bags is a relief after my time on the chair. Kind of Zen. I get into a garbage-picking rhythm.