He twists his face. “I’m not a star. Not that I haven’t been tempted to do something radical to become one.”
“Steroids?”
“That’s what the real stars on our team do. Everyone knows it. Sometimes, I’ve come so close to joining them, just to shine. But that wouldn’t really be me. It’s cheating.”
“You think the CZ88 was our way of cheating?”
He steadies his gaze. “Don’t you?”
The phone by my bed rings. We all glance at each other. It rings again. Shane seems glued to Sebastian, and Jesse won’t stop with the stupid cup. I snatch up the handset.
“Aislyn?”
My heart skips. “Jack? How did you find me?”
“Well, your mom acted weird when I called your house and Evie’s been texting me all kinds of bizarre health questions. So when I saw those news stories, it didn’t take honors math to make the connection.”
I clear my throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I’m so embarrassed.”
“This Charisma drug is why you stopped running away from me?”
I bite at my lip. “I never wanted to run, but it was so hard to talk to you.”
“Why? I was always into you. You’re the prettiest, smartest girl I’ve ever met.”
“I didn’t feel that way. Look how nervous I was at Drew’s party. And at the science contest, oh my God.”
“You would’ve warmed up to me eventually, on your own.”
“Well, now we’ll never know.”
There’s a long enough silence for trembling to take root in my legs. Finally, he says, “As long as you’re okay and can get out of there soon, it doesn’t matter.”
I turn my back to the guys and cup a hand near my mouth. “You might not think so after I tell you the rest. One of the girls here gave what we have to her boyfriend. They’ve been, um, very physical, I think, but the doctors moved all of us into a pressure-controlled room now that someone died.”
There’s a catch to his voice. “Someone died?”
I tell him about Rosa.
His breathing is audible and rapid. “Should I get tested too?”
“Call Dr. Culdicott here at the hospital. Have you been feeling different? Like more outgoing? Or getting headaches? Or light-headed?”
“Nothing like that.” Another pause. “I’ll call that doctor. Aislyn, this is crazy.”
“I’m so, so sorry. Tell me what happens with the doctor. Please.”
“Of course.”
And he will, unlike me, who couldn’t find the guts to call him first. When I hang up I have a headache. A sign of impending coma? I slip under my covers and pull them over my head. But squeezing my eyes shut against the world doesn’t help any. Even when I fall asleep. My dreams are dark and furious.
In the middle of the night, the door suctions open and two orderlies wheel an unconscious Sebastian to ICU. A moan erupts from my throat and I feel so, so heavy. In my half-asleep state, I promise myself that as soon as I’m able, I’ll post his dance video online. Let the world get to know him in a way we’ll never get to know Rosa.
The next morning, a new doctor delivers the news that all the other teens who accepted CZ88 are comatose. There are also a number of patients at Seattle General with similar symptoms.
My breathing becomes shallow. “So why haven’t we gotten sick yet?”
The doctor says, “Even when plagues killed off millions, there were plenty who survived. Maybe you’re the lucky ones.”
I fall backward on my bed.
Jesse grunts. “Great. We’ve got the plague. I feel so lucky.”
The doctor fidgets, his protective clothing making a chafing sound. “Every person is different, with different immunities.”
Jesse starts with the cup tossing again, missing the doctor’s mask by inches. “Or maybe the virus is taking its time, like AIDS.”
“You three are stable at this point.”
Jesse laughs. “At this point. Chloe seemed fine after she stopped fainting. And then, boom!” The cup lands on the floor with a large crack.
The doctor takes a long breath. “I know it must be frustrating.”
Jesse growls and claws at the bedcover. His eyes are wet and red. “It’s been over a day since I fainted. The calm before the storm, right? How long do you think I have?”
The doctor tries to reassure him. But what can he say? And I’ve been symptom-free longer than Jesse, so if there’s a storm coming, it’ll hit me first.
I get up to pull the curtain around my bed. “You can do my exam.”
Without commenting much, the doctor lumbers to each bed and performs our examinations. Except for some ringing in Jesse’s ears, we’re all stable. For. Now.
The doctor waddles out.
Shane grabs the phone next to his bed and dials. “Hello, Dr. Gordon. This is Shane again. We need something better than these ancient phones to communicate with our family and friends while it’s still possible. Otherwise, I’ll see if a news station can provide us with something in exchange for an interview about your daughter.” He slams the receiver.
Jesse perks up enough to give him an air high five. “Serves the bastard right.”
My phone rings. I jump to get it.
Mom says, “Oh, sweetie! How are you?”
“Okay. Just sad about Rosa, and worried about the others.” As well as myself.
“Honey—” A small sob comes through, which sends ice to my core. Mom never cries. She’s always so, so busy on our behalf.
Somehow she regains her composure enough to say, “Dr. Gordon is confident they’ll figure something out. They’re digging into the DNA component of the virus they found in you kids. You just have to hang tough, the way I know you can, okay?”
I swallow. “I’ll try.”
Sammy’s raspy voice joins her on the other extension. “Get home soon, Aislyn.” He coughs.
My voice breaks. “I’m so sorry about all this, you guys.”
When we finally hang up, I can hardly breathe. Shane, who’s also just finished a call, looks as green as I feel. He pounds a fist on his bed. “Have the docs interrogated you about, uh, contacts?”
“I guess.” Suddenly, understanding dawns. “Is one of your girlfriends sick?”
He rubs his eyes. “The two girls I hung out with on my show are saying stuff. I mean, there was a little kissy-face for the camera, but we were saving something for the next episodes, you know? Anyway, one of their families is threatening a bogus lawsuit.”
I cross my arms. “You mean to tell me that the great player Shane hasn’t had any hookups since he got the Charisma?”
He squirms. “I just met them. I’m not that much of a dog.”
Jesse harrumphs from his bed on the other side of Shane’s.
I rub my lips, remembering Jack’s warm touch. Oh, God, I hope I haven’t given him whatever I’ve got. If only Mom had interrupted all of our dates.
A bubble of despair rises in my throat. Not wanting to break down in front of these guys, I hustle into the room’s adjoining bathroom. Under a hot shower, I let myself cry and pound the tile. When my hands are bruised and my skin pruned, I shuffle back to the room.
A masked person in a biohazard suit works on an outlet. He rears back from me and says, “You need to put on a mask right now.”
I quickly grab one. There’s a laptop at the foot of my bed. Shane clicks away at another one on his tray table. Twenty minutes later, the technician rises and gathers his things. “I don’t know who you guys bribed, but you’ve now got your own Internet connection.” He bolts toward the door.
I log on. My page explodes with posts, many congratulating me for changing myself for the better, many more hoping I don’t drop dead in the process. Kiera must’ve outed the rest of us. Surprisingly, a handful of people ask how they can
score some Charisma too. And a message from a woman in Los Angeles asks how to deal with the “slutty” side effects. Okay, that has to be a joke.
I thrash through Nova Genetics’ site in search of a picture of Dr. Sternfield we can use for an online search party. Camping trip, my ass. Squinting, I examine the staff page once, then again.
“It’s like she never existed,” I say, a chill slithering through my body.
“Huh?” Shane asks.
“Dr. Sternfield isn’t mentioned at all on the Nova Genetics website. I want to broadcast her picture. Hunt her down.”
He types. “She can’t hide from all the search engines.” He clicks a bit. “Hmmm, nothing since med school. It’s like she knew she’d have to go into hiding one day.”
And she recruited us anyway. The iciness in my veins turns to heat.
Seething, I broadcast the med school photo along with a plea for anyone with info to contact the hospital. My legs bounce relentlessly. Actively hunting the doctor gives me unexpected energy.
But throughout the day I only get a bunch of messages from people who sound more and more unhinged. I go to sleep that night without any progress.
• • •
In the morning, I awake to Shane saying loudly, “Jesse, you okay?”
Jesse lies on his bed with a dazed expression and his hands to his ears. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, looking anything but.
“You better tell us if you’re not, dude.” Shane grabs the remote.
On TV, a flurry of experts speculate upon the extent of the outbreak and whether this is the result of terrorism or a mad scientist. I ask Shane to turn it off, but an anchorwoman’s porcelain features come to life with the announcement of “news just in.”
Despite the terror in my gut that we’ll learn of more victims, more deaths, I lean toward the TV. A picture of Dr. Sternfield snaps up. Somewhat blurry, but more recent than the one I posted. The anchorwoman says, “In a bizarre twist, the Nova Genetics researcher who allegedly provided an unsanctioned, lethal gene treatment to at least two dozen people across the Northwest, has been discovered in a disturbing video sent to our station. We warn you that the following images may not be suitable for young viewers.”
What on earth? Has someone tracked down the doctor?
A solemn-faced Dr. Sternfield stares into the camera, her eyes and lips set in hard lines. Wind whips her auburn hair against a grainy, gray sky.
She says in a shaky voice, “I’m sorry. For everything.” The camera shot pulls back a few feet to reveal her hovering atop the side rail of a bridge.
My blood, or what’s left of it, drains to my feet. I will her to get down from the rail, to come back from wherever she is and develop a cure for us.
One bed over, Shane growls. “Do not do this. Do not do this.”
Time seems to stop as the camera wavers. Dr. Sternfield looks to the sky as if seeking an answer. The she squares her shoulders and nods.
I pull the quilt to my chin, praying she’ll come to her senses.
Dr. Sternfield takes a deep breath. Then, with a kiss on her fingers and a wave, she turns away and jumps.
No.
No.
No.
I lurch forward as if to dive into the TV after her. The camera follows the doctor’s descent to the water far below, which she hits with a soundless splash that swallows her whole. For a long moment, the water remains unchanged, and then the video cuts out.
Shane and I turn toward each other. His features are rigid with shock.
The newscaster returns. “Our sources are trying to identify where this bridge is, but the video appears genuine. We’re working to uncover whoever sent it.”
Shane explodes. “That’s bullshit!”
I can’t stop holding my stomach. “Why would she do this? It doesn’t make sense.”
Shane aims the remote, firing up one station after the next. He throws the remote onto his bed. “If she isn’t dead, I’ll kill the bitch.”
I stare numbly at the TV. Rosa’s death killed my joy. Dr. Sternfield’s death has killed my hope.
I scan the room. Jesse’s awfully still. I stumble over to nudge his shoulder. His breathing is so shallow, and he won’t respond when I tug at his arm. “Wake up!”
Shane buzzes a nurse and puts on a mask. Within minutes a medical team arrives in a flurry of activity along with another gurney. Two large women load Jesse on and roll him out. Just like that.
And now there are two of us left. With no researcher who’ll swoop in and announce she’s developed a cure.
Shane’s face is pale. “Damn. This is scary.”
I clamp my eyes shut, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. I’m not even seventeen. This can’t be it. I should be home, with Mom and Sammy, doing normal stuff, working at the pool, hanging out with Evie, telling my family how much I love them. I can’t let them not know that.
I wipe my cheeks. “Maybe we should do those good-bye videos you talked about.”
Shane breathes deeply. “You want me to go into the bathroom so you can have some privacy?” Oh, God, if Shane’s respecting boundaries, our hours are truly numbered.
I take deep breaths to fight off the panic. “I don’t know what to say.”
He sits next to me on my bed. To think that at home, no guy my age has ever been inside my room. When Shane takes my hand, it’s comforting, not like he’s hitting on me. “You tell each person how much they mean to you. Maybe talk about your best times together. And what you wish for them in the future.”
His suggestions sound so final. Yet that’s what these videos might be, dammit.
My words come out in hiccups. “I don’t want Mom and Sammy to see me crying.”
His voice is gentle. “Then you stop the video, wash your face, and try again.”
I nod.
“I’ll leave now, but if you want me to come back, just holler.” He takes his laptop into the bathroom and I stare at mine, planning to do the video for Mom first. I inhale deeply. And then again.
Sniffling, I press RECORD. Then I tell Mom how sorry I am, and that she’s the best parent anyone could hope for. I love how special she makes Sammy and me feel. The video takes several do-overs, but finally I get it all out in one take.
Then I do one for Evie. What do you say to your best friend in the universe? I try my hardest, which just starts me crying again, but I don’t stop the video. I recount how at the beginning of every school year, we’d draw a map to maximize the number of times we’d run into each other between classes. Each time we did, I’d experience a moment of calm amid the chaos of the school day. She’s always been my touchstone. I end her video with, “Cap’n Crunch, Cap’n Crunch, Cap’n Crunch.”
If only escape were that easy.
I blow my nose and take a few more breaths before I do Jack’s. It’s mostly about would’ves and should’ves. I finish his video overwhelmed by the feeling of being cheated out of something that hadn’t truly been mine yet.
That leaves the most difficult video. But what to tell Sammy?
I click the RECORD button and clear my throat. “Hey buddy. Here I am in the boring hospital. Thought I’d send you a little video in case . . .” In case of what? No, I couldn’t say that.
I erase the clip and start again.
And again.
Hell is trying to tell your little brother that things will be okay, when you know he’ll be devastated. No way do I want Sammy’s last impression of me to be as a liar.
Finally, I go with my heart. “Hey, Sammy. If you’re seeing this, it means things didn’t go so well. I know you’re sad. I want you to know I love being your sister. You’re the strongest person I know. And even if they didn’t find a cure for me in time, I know they’ll find one for you. They have to.”
I stop the video to wipe my eyes, then continue. “Anyway
, now it’s your job to keep Mom out of trouble. Don’t let her play grunge songs too loud. And when she comes home really tired from work, let her take a nap. You can create a whole new cast of manga characters or a mural while you wait. I love you, Sammy.”
Click.
It’s only then that I realize something about my brother. All these years, I’ve assumed his passion for art was a fun way to pass the time, maybe even an escape from his daily hassles. But now I understand that isn’t the full story. Sammy wants to make a mark, to create something lasting during whatever lifespan he’s been given. How could I not have seen that sooner?
Blinking rapidly, I save the videos in a folder named IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.
I hunker into my blanket and watch a show about global warming until Shane returns from the bathroom, his eyes puffy. Without asking, he tosses his laptop onto his bed and plops next to me so we sit shoulder to shoulder facing the TV. That’s how we remain until Dr. Culdicott comes in, her own eyes full of confusion.
Shane grasps my hand tightly. “Tell us.”
She folds her arms and draws a long breath into her space suit. “There may be over a hundred victims across the West Coast. Apparently, Dr. Sternfield tapped into a network of people who make a living volunteering for clinical trials. Furthermore, Xavier’s situation has become very tenuous. He had to be resuscitated twice in the past few hours.”
A sob flares up from my chest. That sweet guy, who deserves so much more time. With Sebastian.
Shane says, “Our odds pretty much suck, don’t they?”
Dr. Culdicott shakes her head. “As soon as we figure anything out, we’ll tell you. In the meantime . . .”
Shane’s pulse is fast. “We’ve already made our good-bye videos.”
Dr. Culdicott’s head jerks. But instead of scolding us for giving up, she nods. “The boys serving in Afghanistan would do that too.”
• • •
The next days are a fuzzy, frantic haze. I spend as much time as possible video-chatting, saying what needs to be said, even if it comes through tears. The doctors inject us with interferon, but our viral load doesn’t budge.
A week into our stay, on the Fourth of July, Sammy waves a flag during our morning video chat. “Mom’s taking me to see the fireworks and—” His plans are interrupted by fierce hacking from his chest.