“I know, sweets, I’m sure they do.” She joins Bailey, playing with her younger daughter’s braid. “One more card game before I take you home to bed?”
Bailey pouts. “No. I wanna talk to Chloe and Aislyn.”
We set chairs around Chloe to tell her what we’ve been up to, as if she’s part of the conversation. How could this crazy vibrant girl have been still for four long months? I clutch her hand, which has become so boney. Maybe the doctors will let me paint her nails a bright lime green. She’d like that.
Chloe squeezes back.
“Oh my God,” I say. “I think her hand moved.”
Bailey jumps. “Look at her eyes. I told you they were twitching!”
Sure enough, Chloe’s eyelids flicker and even blink open for a moment before quickly snapping shut as if the light hurts them.
Chloe’s mom hovers right above Chloe. “Honey, baby girl, are you awake?”
Chloe’s face spasms, and this time her eyes open and stay open. Her mouth does too. “Uh-huh,” she says.
Chloe’s mom calls out toward the hallway as she madly presses the button for the nurse. “Someone get over here! My daughter’s waking up! My daughter’s waking up!”
I stare at my friend, my heartbeat going crazy. Is this really happening?
Chloe manages to get a word out as her eyes dart around the room. “Jesse?”
We explode with hoots and shouts. Nurses and doctors and parents and camera-people flood inside. I back up to give them space.
The cure is actually working.
The boys’ parents must have the same thought, because we all run back to their room to see if any of them are waking up. No luck. But we hug each other with hope.
Scrambling to the room’s phone, I call Mom to share the news. She screams with delight and says she’ll head back this instant.
The rest of the evening is a swarm of laughter and giddiness. Chloe revels in the attention, asking when she can do a newscast for “her” TV station. We celebrate long past official visiting hours, until the nurses demand everyone leave so Chloe can get some sleep.
As much as she and I beg to be roomies once again, the docs insist Chloe stay in her room, which is more heavily monitored. I guess that makes sense. Still, my room feels terribly lonely that night.
The next morning, I wake up just before sunrise, excited to see what the day holds. It takes me several minutes to detect the startling noise in my head. Silence. The ringing in my ears is entirely gone. Oh my God. My breath hiccups and tears roll down my cheeks. For the first time since June, I have true, precious hope for a future.
I quickly shower, dress, and run upstairs toward rooms that burst with glee. Sebastian, Xavier, and Jesse regained consciousness overnight. I flit between their room and Chloe’s as the party from yesterday grows in size and volume. Our camera crew returns with a couple extra members, which seems to speed Chloe’s post-coma recovery. The only person missing is Shane, who still lies unresponsive. It has to be only a matter of time, yet every hour without him becomes more excruciating.
Dr. Cho and a team of researchers put all of us through a zillion tests, drawing blood and taking DNA swabs. By that evening, they say with assurance that the viral load in our bloodstream has decreased dramatically. There’s no way they can test whether the genes in our brains have changed without taking tissue from that region. But the best proof is that my friends are out of their comas. As far as personality changes, we’ll have to wait and see.
Am I acting differently? Hard to say. These people are so familiar to me, how could I be shy around them? Maybe the true test will be how I feel around strangers, or with Jack. For now, my chest bursts with happiness. Except when I catch a glimpse of Shane’s parents, who huddle by his bed, waiting so hopefully I have to look away.
Given the change in the others, as well as in the patients scattered in other hospitals, who were given the cure this afternoon, the researchers ask that I stay one more night to allow them to document our progress in detail. Not that I have as much progress as the others to report. But my body’s chemistry is of major interest to them since only five percent of us didn’t go into a coma.
So we chat and joke until ten p.m., when the staff asks anyone who isn’t a patient to please go home. The families finally agree an hour later. I know they’ll return long before visiting hours start up at eight.
When it’s just us “victims” left in the boys’ room, we take turns encouraging Shane to wake up and join us. But his body remains so still.
Chloe has me roll her to his bedside, and places a hand on his forehead. “His temperature feels good. And his coloring looks normal.”
I clear my throat. “All of your coloring looked pretty normal the whole time, just faded tans.”
The others stare at me. Chloe shakes her head. “How come you never went into a coma?”
I bite my lip, feeling guilty for something that isn’t my fault. “I’ve thought a lot about it, and all I can say is that it’s luck, maybe due to weird antibodies. But I did have symptoms, and without the cure, I probably would’ve gotten sick eventually, just like Shane.”
We all gaze his way. If only his lip would twitch or his eyelids flicker. But what happens instead is the monitor next to him begins to beep, first lightly and then louder and louder. A nurse rushes into the room and checks it. Her mouth presses into a tight line and she runs from the room, ignoring our shouts of “What’s wrong?” in her wake.
In moments, she returns with a doctor I don’t recognize, who begins an exam as the beeping on the machine grows to a wail. Another doctor joins the first and then one of the researchers we’d been partying with earlier hovers with crossed arms.
The nurse shoos us away from the bed. “You kids need to make room.”
Our bodies quiver and our eyes dart to each other. After frantic minutes of instructions shouted by the first doctor, a gurney steals Shane away. How could this be happening? The festive mood dives into a belly-churning fear. Chloe and I refuse to leave the boys’ room despite the nurses’ demands.
Chloe grasps Jesse so hard he winces. “He has to get better, he has to.”
I sit next to Sebastian, holding one of his hands while Xavier clutches the other. We wait numbly as whatever courses through our bodies also courses through Shane’s.
Finally, hours later, Dr. Culdicott returns. On that battle-weary face flows something that sends my senses into a vortex of hurt. Tears.
My spirits plummet. This couldn’t be. It. Could. Not. Be. “No!” I yell.
Dr. Culdicott wipes her cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Everything in my world goes darker and heavier in the hours that follow Shane’s death. By the next morning, the sky has lowered and the rain clouds burst forth. Whenever I think I can’t cry any more, I do. Shane, oh, Shane.
I’m released from the hospital the following day, and the others are released shortly thereafter. On the morning of Shane’s funeral, the sky shines the same deep blue as his eyes. It’s the kind of cobalt-skied October day that begs you to run through cornfield mazes and drink freshly pressed cider.
Shane’s parents asked me to prepare a eulogy. For the first time in months, the thought of public speaking has my stomach twisting. But I remind myself that I’ve spoken in front of groups and to thousands online without fainting. There’s no reason to return to my former panic-stricken days of never letting myself be heard. And I want to be heard when it comes to my sweet friend.
That doesn’t mean I don’t feel a twinge as I walk to the podium at the front of the church. But I don’t run away.
With my fists clenched, I take a deep breath and speak to the large crowd in front of me. “I met Shane almost five months ago, and it was clear we would never become friends. Except we did.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. I continue, “I got a chance to know the guy S
hane was at heart. The one who could turn every little fear into a laugh, and help you figure out what to do with the biggest terrors of all. When we were in the hospital together, it was his idea to make videos to send to all of the people we loved, so that we could say good-bye on our own terms. The way Shane did everything.” I take a breath. “You get to know someone really well, really fast when you hear them delivering what they believe are their final messages.”
Images of Shane holding my hand in a hospital bed, joking with Sammy online, and wading in the waters off the peninsula flash through my brain. It takes all I have to go on. “I wish now I’d made a video for him, to say how much I came to love The Shane Show. The real one beneath the hype. It was funny and sweet and loyal and never, ever predictable. There’ll never be another one like it.”
Fearing my grief will flood out at any moment, I finish with, “Shane accepted the Charisma to become irresistible, and, you know what? He was.”
I gaze out to the crowd with blurry eyes. Teenage girls are well represented among funeral-goers. I imagine Shane’s spirit hovering above and mumbling, “What a waste.” With an inward smile at that thought, I make my way back to my seat, where “loverboy” waits with a hug.
• • •
For the next few weeks, I spend a lot of time in my room either keeping up with homework or chatting with Jack and Evie. It isn’t that I’m resorting to my old wallflower ways, more that I need to grieve alone. Evie doesn’t bug me about the parties I’m missing. Jack doesn’t insist on alone-alone time.
On a positive note, the blood tests show that both of the viruses in the CZ88 have been eradicated in all of the patients. So we’re no longer contagious. Presumably, our altered DNA has been repaired in our cell tissue as well, which is supported by our improved physical health and debatable personality changes.
While seeking a cure, the task force shared my own genomic sequence with seven reputable research organizations, all of which have offered me in-depth reports of how I can expect my body to function as I age. Part of me is tempted to learn whether I’ll go gray early or be at risk for various diseases. But the wiser part of me puts the reports aside. It’s way more important to relish being seventeen.
Not that I’ve done much relishing lately. Sure, Jack and Evie come over with more and more frequency, but mostly it turns into failed attempts to cheer me up.
On Jack’s visits at least, I find he was right about how my “knowing him” wouldn’t change with the cure. Our friendship has worn away enough grooves in my psyche for me to feel comfortable around him forever. This supports what the hospital counselor insists upon, that I don’t need to return to ground zero as far as inhibitions go. My behavior these past months was amped up by the altered DNA, but by performing the behaviors, they in turn rewired my brain, the way exposure therapy can make changes that are proven via brain scans. The trick is to keep practicing.
On a bone-chilling night before Thanksgiving, Jack invites me to go with him to a party at Drew Collier’s house. Evie will be there too and even though she doesn’t dangle quotas over my head anymore, she urges me to give it a go. Practice, practice, practice.
So I do.
Jack takes my hand as we stroll up the walkway. “It’ll be okay, and if it’s not, I understand you like certain breakfast cereals.”
I smile. “Just don’t flirt with Alexandra.”
His eyebrows rise. “I never—”
I play-punch him. “I know.”
When we enter, a light snaps on and dozens of kids yell, “Surprise!”
Jack nudges me forward. “We never properly celebrated your seventeenth.”
Everyone launches into a rowdy chorus of “Happy Birthday.” I choke back tears as I remember Shane’s rendition of “Happy Birthday, Dear Badass.”
But I need to focus on the here and now. And the fact that I’m badass enough not to run from the attention. Because I always had the strength not to run. Well, almost always, but I’ve forgiven myself for the one time I did.
I wipe away a tear that I hope everyone interprets as happiness, and, truthfully, a good part of it is. “Thanks, you guys. Seventeen’s been interesting so far. But I hear the real excitement starts at eighteen.” Now, there’s a scary thought.
Jack and I nestle in next to a couple of kids who visited my house when we pulled out the waterslide. They seemed to have genuinely had fun that day. But there’s no way to know for sure. Since I got the cure, I still get a feel for the social vibes people give off, but it’s more like something I’ve learned rather than intuitive. And now my shyness is a whisper in the background that makes it nice to be alone, yet doesn’t suffocate me.
The new Aislyn is someone I can live with.
I turn away from the others and focus on Jack. He wraps his arms around me. Not caring who watches, I draw his face closer and kiss him hard on the lips. And then harder. He’s warm and delicious and mine. Worth every second of the wait. My heart races, my body goes weak, and my skin tingles.
When we pull away, panting, one of the kids nearby yells, “Get a room.”
Evie, pulling Rafe behind her, rushes over to us. “Don’t you guys look cuddly.”
I place my cheek against Jack’s. “And I didn’t even have to drink three beers for courage.”
Evie rolls her eyes. “What kind of refreshments do they have, anyway?”
We get up to scope out the kitchen. Besides a huge birthday cake, there are the usual suspects—a keg and a stack of red cups. A bunch of kids hover near the door to the backyard, laughing and passing around little packets of something.
Evie raises her eyebrows and struts over to them. “What’s going on?”
A girl who usually sits in the back row of World History turns around with a shiny expression and a giggle. I’ve never seen her so bubbly. Probably had a beer too many.
She rubs the spot between her nose and mouth as if she has the sniffles. “Drew picked up a few party favors from a rave downtown.”
To emphasize her point, Drew comes in grinning broadly. “Wanna try a little C?” he asks. “Free samples. Makes you feel oh-so-friendly.”
Jack waves him off. “Uh, no thanks.”
We start back to the living room. I’ve never been to a rave, but I’ve heard about snorting drugs with “friend-making” abilities. Still, something tugs at my curiosity.
I turn back. “Um, could I see what C looks like?”
He gives me a wink. “Sure, you can ‘see what it looks like.’ But go to the bathroom if you want to do some, okay?”
I hold out my hand and he places a dose of C into it. Trembling, I open a yellow paper packet holding white powder. My heart pounds as I fold it up and examine the back side, knowing before I do what I’ll find: a tiny pink heart stamped onto its center.
My knees tremble as I contemplate the odds that anyone but Dr. Sternfield is behind this new drug. Despite all that’s happened, what disturbs me more is that I have an insane urge to take it, to experience the rush of being more than myself for just a night. This isn’t full-blown gene therapy, after all; I could bloom without going into a coma.
I stare at the packet for a long moment, considering, my pulse racing faster and faster. But no. I hand it back.
With my head raised and eyes closed, I breathe. And breathe. On my own.
Author’s Note
Gene Therapy and Viruses
Although Charisma is the story of one rogue scientist who takes many misguided shortcuts, the promise of gene therapy in real life is breath-taking. Ever since scientists began to understand which gene mutations were correlated with certain diseases, they’ve been on a quest to fix those genetic faults. That quest is finally bearing fruit.
A huge challenge in this regard is getting the “fixed” version of a gene to the right cells. Several delivery vehicles have been tried, but for me the most fascinating, and
at the time of this writing the most common, way is to use viruses. We all know how well they spread when we don’t want them to, so why not take advantage of their power and use it to spread some good?
To make this happen, scientists keep the infectious aspects of the virus but replace the disease-making DNA within it with good DNA designed to fix genetic problems (e.g., by either replacing or deactivating mutated genes, or by introducing a new gene that will help combat a disease). The “viral vectors” packed with good stuff can be introduced to a body in several ways: via an injection, intravenously directly to the tissues with defective cells, or by removing cells from the body and introducing the virus to them in a lab before returning them to the body.
One of the most fascinating facts I came across while researching this book was that a modified form of the HIV virus was being used to deliver treatment against certain types of cancer as well as HIV itself. There’s a certain poetic justice in the idea that one of humankind’s greatest scourges could be used to combat itself and another deadly disease.
Like many other promising treatments, gene therapy still faces many hurdles. Among them, the issue of viruses inadvertently triggering the body’s immune system, its high cost in comparison to the number of patients who can be treated at this time, and the complexity in getting the right genes to the right place in sufficient quantities, and then activating them without disrupting good genes.
Nonetheless, I believe gene therapy holds great promise. If you’d like to learn more, there are many wonderful online resources (some interactive) and books. Spending hours and hours with this material has made me wish more than once that I’d taken biochemistry in college.
Acknowledgments
This book took much longer to complete than I expected. But supporting me all the way was my tireless editor, Heather Alexander. The final product would not be what it is without her.
As always, thanks to Ammi-Joan Paquette for her stellar representation. Thanks to Danielle Calotta for her captivating cover design, to Maya Tatsukawa for designing the book’s interior, and Regina Castillo for saving me from grammatical and other errors. A rip-roaring thanks to Draga Malesevic, Kim Ryan, and Donne Forrest from Penguin’s subrights department, who’ve brought my books to readers around the world.