Charisma Read online

  Joe calls the meeting to order. “Excellent work on the beach, you guys! What was your favorite part?”

  Hands go up to mention the water, the hunt, the sunshine, blah, blah, blah. Prerequisite icebreaker over, Joe dives into therapy territory. “Anyone have something they’d like to share since our last meeting?”

  We blink at each other in uncomfortable silence until a girl named Kiera speaks up. Since our last meeting, she’s dyed the bottom few inches of her red hair gold, making it look like her head’s on fire. She grumbles about how her parents devote most of their attention to her brother Jacob, who has the gene for Huntington’s.

  This prompts Joe to ask the rest of us if we’re jealous of the attention our parents shower on our siblings. I don’t care that Mom dotes on Sammy. So do I.

  A familiar sensation clenches my belly at the prospect of speaking in front of a group. Guess the Charisma hasn’t kicked in yet. Chloe better keep her word. One kid after the next rattles on about how awful it is to be ignored by the world whenever their brothers or sisters are around. What babies.

  When it’s Shane’s turn, he stretches his long legs out in front of him. “I don’t mind when my sister gets attention.”

  Joe raises his bushy eyebrows. “Really? Be honest. You’re among friends.”

  Shane smirks. “Yeah? Well, when people notice her, they also notice me helping her. You know how much action I get from girls who think I’m a saint?” The guy next to Shane gives him a high five.

  Joe frowns. “So you use your sister’s affliction to pick up girls?”

  “Why not? Win-win.” He glances my way without smiling. My eyes go to the ceiling.

  Joe rubs his chin. “Well, I guess there’s no reason not to find the silver lining in your situations. As long as you aren’t exploiting anyone.”

  Shane grins. “Works great for an exit strategy too. When I get bored, I can pretend to be so concerned about my sister that I can’t devote time to a relationship.”

  A couple of guys snicker along with him. The rest of us sit with our jaws hanging.

  Joe glances around the group. “What do the rest of you think about that?” His gaze stops on me. “Aislyn, tell us the first thing that comes to mind.”

  I blurt, “Douchebag.” Oh my God, did I just say that?

  The group laughs, except Shane. Joe claps until we quiet down.

  He says, “Well, thanks for your candor, Aislyn and Shane. Is there anyone else who’d like to share?”

  Chloe raises her hand. And, true to her word, she launches into a long-winded story about how much she loves Bailey but feels belittled when their parents devote so much energy to her. Even though I know it’s a bunch of BS, I find her tale drawing me in. Every eye on the room is glued to her. She babbles on until it’s time to meet in the ballroom for the next event.

  Chloe skips next to me as we herd out. “That worked pretty great, huh?”

  Yeah, great. But all I can think about is the treatment making its way through my system, attacking innocent cells and doing who knows what. Was my insult to Shane the first change in my personality? What if I’m unable to control future outbursts? Maybe that’s all being an extrovert is, the lack of impulse control. Never thought of it that way. But if the Charisma has already caused me to act this far out of character, what else am I in for?

  Back in the ballroom, Sammy’s eyelids droop, but he’s less flushed than earlier. “The doc put me on a nebulizer. No biggie.”

  Mom has an arm around his shoulder. “We should go.”

  Sammy doesn’t argue, which is all the evidence I need to know he’s feeling crummy.

  We wave our good-byes to the Nova Genetics staff and other families. I search the room for Dr. Sternfield. No sign of her. Probably recruiting others into her secret mini-study. I know enough about research trials, underground or not, to realize that a sample size of one won’t cut it.

  We amble into a sunshiny afternoon, and protesters. They wave their signs, chanting, “Don’t mess with nature!”

  The extra guards ensure we can get through to our car. But I’m annoyed Nova Genetics didn’t let us use the VIP parking inside the gate. It’s mostly empty, save for a dark sedan from which a man and woman in military uniforms emerge.

  The protestors erupt into a frenzy of “super soldier” accusations when they spot the military folks. Mom huddles an anxious-looking Sammy as we rush on. I stare at the picketers in disgust. With all the world’s desperate problems, they waste their energy working against medical advances that could help so many.

  Suddenly, a wild-eyed woman steps from their midst, and points at me. “I know that one. She was here Friday.”

  All eyes flash my way. My shoulders tighten with a jolt of revulsion. I recognize the woman with Cleopatra hair and oniony breath. She points a phone my way.

  I cringe. “What are you doing?”

  She cackles and keeps the phone camera aimed at me. “Giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

  I tuck my head, confused until I remember how Dr. Sternfield videoed the protesters. Who would the protesters show my image to? Me, who actually has been genetically enhanced. Well, hopefully.

  We hurry into the car and drive off. At the first light, Mom sticks one of her Pearl Jam CDs into the player and tries to lighten the mood by encouraging Sammy to sing with her about a kid who goes ballistic. And either I’m feeling a little ballistic myself or the gene therapy has already loosened a bolt in my brain, because without hesitating, I join in.

  Sammy’s eyes go wide and Mom shoots puzzled glances my way. She has to swerve to avoid hitting a deer.

  As I sing, I text Evie, pumping her for info on Jack. He really missed me at the party? What about him laughing with Alexandra? Evie writes: HE’S INTERESTED. GOT IT? SOME OF US FIND WACKY SHY GIRLS VERY AMUSING!

  Not that she, or anyone else, did last night. I ache to tell her about Dr. Sternfield’s experiment, but it would freak her out, even though it was way past time I took action. Besides, I’m sworn to secrecy. Still, the desire to confide in someone pounds inside my chest. Such an overwhelming urge to spill seems new. Even though I usually tell Evie everything, it’s because I want to, not because I have to.

  We get home, worn out but content. I tiptoe upstairs imagining the Charisma flowing through my body like the scent of gardenia wafting over a tropical island, caressing everything in its wake. All my little genes getting a much-needed overhaul. Ahhh. That night, for the first time I can remember, I go to sleep excited about what the next day will bring. Maybe the drug should be called “Optimism.”

  Once I’m on my feet the next morning, a stabbing pain shoots through my temple. I stumble to my desk, rubbing the side of my head. As quickly as it hit, the pain disappears, thank goodness. Dr. Sternfield didn’t mention side effects, so it might be from all the excitement yesterday.

  Online, I click a video Chloe posted of a rave last night, after she returned from Nova Genetics. I blink, and blink again, making sure I read correctly. Where had she found the energy? On a Sunday night?

  A shaky camera follows her onstage in front of a college-age crowd. The pounding techno music stops while she gives a short speech on how the people of the Puget Sound can’t survive without more bike lanes. Panned shots of the crowd capture rapt expressions and cheers. Huh? Chloe’s always been a drama queen, but I never realized she had such a flair for public speaking.

  Sammy barges into my room and hops to the desk. “Wow, Chloe’s gone all movie star.”

  “You got that right.” I add a “Yay!” to the sixty other comments under her video, even though I haven’t ridden my bike in a year.

  Humming, I eat oatmeal with Sammy, get ready for work, and drive to the pool. Will the Charisma make my day tolerable or even fun? I wade through my shift waiting for the urge to do something radical such as sing in public, but as the hours pass,
there are no random acts of exhibition. And the kids in swim class all want to be on the other teacher’s team for games. My workday is basically a neutralized version of my shift on Saturday. Oh well, if a lack of bad stuff happening is all the Charisma ends up giving me, I’ll call it a win. I leave for the day, more relieved than anything else.

  After work, I pick Flowers for Algernon from my school’s required summer reading list. Fifty pages in, I put it aside and go to the mirror to examine my face. A more extroverted me should look different, right? The same old wary gray eyes stare back. I try on a few smiles to see if they reveal anything more sociable, but I look more loony than magnetic.

  The doorbell jolts me from my inspection.

  Downstairs, Evie bounces inside. Her gaze darts meaningfully toward my room.

  We run upstairs, out of Mom’s earshot. Once on my bed, Evie examines me with a somber expression. “So, how are you doing?”

  For a moment I think she’s onto the Charisma, until I realize the last time she saw me I was soaked through after fleeing Drew’s house like a madwoman. I wave off her scrutiny. “I’m over that. Blame it on the beer. Now tell me about Rafe.”

  She considers me for a moment longer, and, apparently satisfied I’m beyond any lingering hysteria, she breathlessly describes how she and Rafe got together after the party, again last night, and they’ll hang out tomorrow.

  My applause is sincere. “Fantastic!”

  She throws herself backward, arms overhead and dangling over the side of the bed. “Feels like it’s taken forever, and now boom, boom, boom, it’ll be three times in five days. What if he gets tired of me?”

  I kick her foot. “Oh no you don’t. The more he gets to know you, the more he’ll want to be with you.”

  She pulls her arms down to hug herself, shivering. “Senior year could be so amazing.” She halts. “If only you and Jack . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “There’s still a chance, Aiz. He really, really likes you. I can tell. But you’ve got to let him know you feel the same. No more running. I know it isn’t easy.” She balls her fists and pounds the quilt at her sides. “Both of us could have the senior years we’ve dreamed of.” As she says the words, her eyes become sad, as if she envisions a less-than-amazing senior year for me. One where she moves into more and more experiences and I’m left behind. But that might not come to pass after the huge chance I took yesterday. How can I not share news this gigantic? It’s not like Evie would report me to the FDA.

  But I can’t.

  Her sigh is long and loud. “I was so sure exposure therapy was the answer. In some patients it actually alters their brain scans.”

  “Hey, have you given up on me? Because I haven’t.”

  She turns to her side and leans on her forearm. “I’d never give up on you. I just don’t know what else to try.” Her voice breaks.

  I sit on the bed next to her. “You’re creative. I’m sure you’ll come up with some exposure that doesn’t involve another party. Not until I’m ready, anyway. But maybe I could try something small. Teeny-tiny.”

  “You sure? There are lots of things lower on the inhibition hierarchy than parties, you know.”

  “Such as?”

  She glances around my room, her gaze resting on my phone. “How about you text Jack? You guys have chatted online before.”

  “About stuff for The Drizzle. And he always initiates it.”

  “Exactly.” She gets up to grab my phone. “Just this once, you should start things off. Get back on the horse before you feel too comfortable on the ground.” She dangles the phone.

  Little does she know I’ve saddled up a new animal altogether, even if I’m not sure how to ride it yet. “I don’t know. What would I say?”

  “How about ‘hi’?”

  My pulse quickens. “That’s it? Hi? Like ‘Hey, Jack, this is Aislyn stalking you’?”

  She plops back onto my bed and tsks. “Don’t be so negative. He’ll be psyched to get your message.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  She sighs dramatically. “He ran straight to you at the party, and then he left when he found out you had.”

  “So?”

  “This doesn’t take honors program smarts. Get a clue.” She yanks my hand and slaps the phone into it.

  She has a point, but it still doesn’t make the thought of reaching out to him easier. Yet, it also doesn’t seem utterly impossible. Just a text, right? One tiny text.

  I gulp and type HEY. My finger hovers over the SEND button.

  Evie leans in closer. “Ready, set, go!”

  I take a huge breath and hit the button. Evie’s eyes bug in shock. A wave of anxiety immediately rises in my chest. Oh crap, what have I just done? Jack will think I’m desperate. He’ll think I’m weird. He’ll think I—

  HEY BACK!

  I almost drop the phone. “Oh my God, he answered in ten seconds.”

  She bounces on the bed. “More like five. So what are you going to text back?”

  “Text back?”

  She speaks very slowly and clearly. “Yes, now is when you ask him something complicated, like what he’s up to. C’mon, you’re doing great.”

  Okay, this is officially pitiful, having to get small-talk texting advice. Before I can think things through long enough to change my mind, I text him.

  Seconds later: WAITING FOR ZEKE TO GO TO SKATEBOARD PARK. WHAT DID YOU DO OVER THE WEEKEND?

  DUG FOR GEODUCKS YESTERDAY. Hmm, there’s not sounding come-on-y and there’s actively sabotaging any chance of a love life. Geoducks? Seriously?

  YUM. JEALOUS. WHAT ABOUT NOW?

  HANGING WITH EVIE. WISHING I HAD A BOWL OF ICE CREAM. Okay, weak, and random, but better than my last text.

  HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?

  Ack. My chest tightens and my brain screams, “Run!” But what I type is: I COULD EAT ICE CREAM ANY DAY.

  WITH ME?

  With him, on him, whatever he wants. OKAY.

  GREAT!

  I can’t believe it. We’re actually going to hang out. Evie cannot keep the smugness off her face, not that she even tries. But I forgive her. Just like I’m sure she’ll forgive me for accepting the Charisma. When I tell her. Someday.

  After arranging to meet Jack after work, I put down my phone and squeal.

  Evie jumps from the bed. “How incredible is this?” She rubs her palms together. “Okay, time to choose the perfect outfit.” She opens my closet.

  I sit on the bed, stunned by what’s happened. By what might occur tomorrow evening. But what if whatever made me brave enough to text him isn’t powerful enough for a face-to-face encounter?

  Evie holds up a pair of black cropped pants. “Purge time. Can I put these in the ‘donate’ pile?”

  “Sure.” Okay, breathe. Figure out what a normal girl would obsess on for a date. Makeup, yeah, that’s it. I tiptoe over to the mirror to play around with some rarely used eye shadow while Evie hacks through my closet.

  When she has a few outfit options stacked on my bed, and a larger pile of things to donate, she slides next to me so we both face our reflections. “There’s something kind of different about you.”

  “Must be the glow of lust. Or this smoky blue shadow?”

  She squints. “It’s bigger than that. You seem, um, sparklier somehow. Even your voice sounds different, huskier.”

  I rumble two octaves below normal, “You’re making me self-conscious.”

  She scoops up a fingertip of eye shadow and rubs some on each lid. “Maybe the confidence you’re getting from exposure therapy shows up in your looks.”

  Or maybe gene therapy does. I take a deep breath to stop the quivering in my belly.

  We go back to sorting clothes while I think about texting Jack. Maybe it had nothing to do with Charisma. It could be explained
by the fact that I’m really into him. Just like how Chloe glowed over her new boyfriend yesterday. Crushing on someone can change a person drastically. It’s what all the songs are about.

  By bedtime, Evie and I agree on every acceptable clothing ensemble for the “new me.” We’re debating nail polish when my phone buzzes with a broadcast text from Chloe: WATCH THE KBLB NEWS STREAM! EVEN BETTER THAN THE RAVE!

  I show Evie the message. She frowns. “That’s it? No clue as to what?”

  I roll my eyes. “She assumes if she tells folks to watch, they will.”

  Evie opens a bottle of Scarlett Secrets nail polish, which she begins applying to her pinkie. “You going to check it out?”

  “Nah.” I point to the polish. “Um, even I know that that shade of red is only for toenails, unless you live in Jersey.”

  Before she can argue, my phone buzzes again. It’s Chloe. YOU WON’T BE SORRY!

  I laugh and turn on my computer. “Okay, now I’m curious.”

  Evie paints her nails while I find the site. Front and center beams a video of Chloe. I take the laptop to my bed so Evie can watch too. Chloe is the person-on-the-street interviewee for a local music festival. She delivers a breathless rundown. Afterward, the reporter asks her to come back tomorrow.

  Evie blows on her nails. “How come you never told me Chloe was so photogenic?”

  I examine the still-shot. “I never thought about it before.”

  But now I do. If I’m more sparkly, Chloe’s downright blinding. And she bloomed with something extra yesterday. It could be that things with her halfback have exploded into something bigger than she let on. Well, whatever it is, it’s working for her. And things are working for me too. I have plans with Jack. Plans!

  So let Chloe take on the planet with her new video fame. It’s all good. In fact, there isn’t a thing for me to complain about, except maybe that half of my wardrobe now lies in the donate pile. And I have to wait until tomorrow to see Jack. But a little anticipation isn’t the end of the world. Not by a long shot.