Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula (5 page)

He glanced down at a notepad in his hands, without first suggesting where I should take this seat. Obviously, he had some idea, or he wouldn’t have suggested it. Scanning, the only likely candidate I could see was a wooden stool next to the coffeemaker.

It was silly, but as I crossed the room to the stool, I felt like I was walking to the electric chair. Feeling panicky, I told myself,
This weird room and the weird professor has weirded you out. So just chill, and don’t make something out of nothing.
Taking my sound advice, my heart slowed to a reasonable pace.

The stool tottered as I climbed up on it. Carefully, I centered my backside over it. The rickety thing felt like it would topple with the slightest move.
How can Professor Phillips work from this without nose-diving into a microscope?
I wondered.

As I held still, my eyes moved to the steam rising from the beakers. The boiling liquids were a tawny, burnished color and smelled like chicken broth.
Is this her way of heating up soup?
I asked myself.

Shifting my gaze from the cooking project to the interview scene, I met Professor Phillips’s anxious eyes. Her expression was conflicted.

“Are you ready, Professor Phillips?” Dad asked.

“Yes, we shouldn’t delay this any further.”

I thought the comment rude, but Dad took no notice of it as he presented her with his first question.

One thing I had predicted about the interview proved to be spot-on. Listening to the professor explain her gene therapy was like watching grass grow. Bored by her lengthy responses and foreign words, my mind picked up where it had left off in the daydream Miriam had interrupted.

Jared and I are walking along a sandy beach, cool waves lapping at our feet. Suddenly, the sand trembles beneath them. Earthquake?

Snapping out of the daydream, I realized the stool was giving way beneath me. Before any reflex could kick in, I fell towards the coffeemaker and dirty mugs. Before I could smash into them face-first, my hands came to life. Frantically waving while I plunged, I knocked the beakers off the burners. Catching the edge of the counter, I had a close-up view of the strange occurrence on top.

It’s difficult to describe what happened in that fraction of a second as the hot liquids ran together. The best description I can come up with is “Poof!” The liquids instantaneously vaporized, forming a white cloud. At the same instance, I took a fateful breath, sucking in the cloud puff. In the cloud, my eyes felt like acid had been thrown into them, and my lungs seemed to collapse.

As I gasped for air, my heart burned as if on fire, pumping the inferno into my body. The blood flowing through my veins became flaming rivers, carrying the fire throughout. When the fire circulated through every part of me, a jolt shook my brain like I’d been struck by lightning. The inferno turned cold, and blackness engulfed me.

Impenetrable black surrounded me. My ears detected no sound. Because I felt nothing beneath me, I thought I could be floating, though I didn’t seem to be in motion. Cognitively, I was aware of my limbs, though they were unresponsive when instructed to move. My skin felt thick and numb.

Assuming my nerve endings had been fried in the blaze, I thought perhaps I was dead. But I could breathe. Besides my mind, my lungs were functioning. Inhaling, I detected no odor or fragrances in this dark place. Never had I been aware before of how many subtle scents I would take in with each breath, until they were gone—completely gone.

The senses I had lost were threads that attached me to the world. With those threads clipped, I drifted into nothingness.

I felt a soft thud against my eardrum. The thud grew stronger, becoming a vibration. The vibration turned into distinguishable sound. Voices. I could hear the murmur of voices. The voices were far away, but with each elapsing second, they moved closer. They were familiar, especially one. I recognized it as Dad’s. For a moment, I listened to the tone of his voice. He sounded urgent, upset. My mind pushed further to decipher the utterances that flowed together, until those sounds came together into words.

“Cassy, come on, open your eyes. Talk to me.”

Something thumped against my cheek. It was persistent and annoying. Something else warm trickled over my temples. The source of the warmth welled up in the center of my forehead.

“Drake, here. This is clean,” a woman said, her voice full of concern.

Something soft pressed against the oozing well. The trickling stopped, but pain sharply ripped through the well. A scream thundered in my ears.

“Cassy, it’s okay. I know it hurts, but please, don’t struggle. You have a gash in your forehead. Please, calm down.”

Aware now of my flailing limbs, I stilled them.

“Good, Cassidy, just rest. I’m taking care of you.”

Comforted, I sighed, slowly opening my eyes. The brightness was shocking. Through the glare, I made out subtle outlines. The outlines came into focus.

“Dad,” I forced through my parched throat.

Dad smiled down at me in relief. “Hello, sweetheart. That was quite a fall.”

My gaze drifted beyond him to Ben. His lips turned up into a worried smile. “Cassy Girl, you scared me there for a minute, but you’re going to be okay,” he assured in a soothing voice.

Only a minute?
I thought.

My eyes drifted left, where I found Professor Phillips. Her face looked distressed as she examined the countertop. She ran her fingers along it. Flipping her palm over, she rubbed her thumb along her fingertips. Bringing her hand to her nose, she sniffed her fingers, tasting them with the tip of her tongue.

I watched her lips form a word that she spoke to herself in a whisper: “Evaporated.”

Her eyes sharpened, darting down to me and searching my face briefly. Turning abruptly back to the counter, she examined something on top.
What is she looking at?
I wondered. Wanting to see, I lifted my head and shoulders off the floor.

“Whoa, where do you think you’re going?” Gently, Dad pushed my shoulders back down to the floor with one hand, while the other pressed the soft thing against my forehead. “Take it easy until the bleeding slows down.”

As he said this, Professor Phillips stared down at me. Her face lit, like an idea had dawned on her. Suddenly, she moved from the counter, stepping toward me. Two steps later, she walked out of my line of sight.

As I twisted my neck to follow her, Dad pressed his hand more firmly to my forehead.

“That’s too hard,” I protested, pushing his hand.

Grabbing my hand with his free one, Dad explained, patiently, “Cass, the pressure slows the bleeding. Once it slows, we can get you up and to the hospital. You’ll need a few stitches.”

“And to get checked for a concussion,” Ben added. “Drake, I’m going downstairs to make sure the cart’s there.” With that, he briskly walked away.

The door closed.

“Where’s Ben going?” I asked.

“Security is sending over an electric cart to take us to the car,” Dad answered, smiling warmly. “Ben is verifying the cart is there before we get you up.”

Professor Phillips returned, bending down next to me. Her expression had changed again. Something looked different about her eyes. They appeared detached or focused elsewhere, though she looked directly at me. They also had a strange glow about them, like she was excited or intrigued.

“Cassidy, how are you feeling?” she asked in a clinical tone.

“My head hurts.”

“Anything else besides pain? Do you remember anything that happened before you hit your head?”

“No,” I lied, looking away from her.

Silently, she examined me. I could feel her eyes on my face.

“Here, Drake, a fresh towel. Give me the other one.”

Towel?
I turned back to her.

Taking the white hand towel she held to him, Dad carefully lifted the cushion on my forehead. The cushion was a white hand towel, saturated with my blood. Briefly inspecting my exposed forehead, Dad frowned. Quickly, he pressed the new towel against the wound.

“Thank you.” Dad gratefully smiled at Professor Phillips, handing her the bloodied towel.

While Dad tended to me, she moved to the countertop. I watched her put the bloodied towel in a large Ziploc bag. Opening the cabinet door below, she put the bag inside.

“The cart’s ready,” Ben announced, walking back into the room.

“Let’s get you up, sweetheart.” Dad smiled, wrapping one arm below my lower back and cradling the back of my head with the other. “Here, Cass, hold the towel to your forehead while I pull you up… Good… Move slow. You’re going to be lightheaded. ”

While Dad pulled me up toward him, Ben bent behind me, lifting me under my arms. As I rose to my feet, I had a brief feeling of vertigo. Once it cleared, I felt stable.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go.” I stepped forward.

My sudden move alarmed them.

“Careful, Cassy,” Dad warned, tightening his hold.

“You’ll drop fast if you’ve got a concussion,” Ben added.

“I don’t feel dizzy,” I insisted. “In fact, I think the bleeding stopped.”

As I moved the towel from my forehead, Ben quickly pushed it back, holding his hand over mine. “
Keep that there.
”

“Okay,” I snapped, frowning profusely.

Removing his hand from mine, Ben’s serious face softened into a grin. “Irritability. Definitely a concussion. Let’s get your girl going, Drake.”

Though I insisted all the way to the door I could walk on my own, Dad and Ben ignored me, each keeping a good grip.

Professor Phillips quietly stood at the door watching our ridiculously slow progression. I felt her ogling my face.

When we finally reached the door, she said to me, “My dear, it appears you’re recovering beautifully. Perhaps the injury isn’t as bad as we thought.”

I dared to look at her, regretting it. The warm tone in her voice contradicted her clinical expression.

To Dad, she added, “I have your cell phone number, Drake. Would you mind if I checked up on Cassidy tomorrow?”

A pit formed in my stomach. I wanted to say,
Yes, Cassidy would mind very much, Dr. Jekyll and creepy Mr. Hyde.

“Of course, Professor Phillips,” said Dad. “Thank you.”

The pit in my stomach miraculously closed up when the door with the frosted glass closed behind us.

The deadbolt turned.

Four

Mmm
…
Someone is making pancakes
…

The delicious aroma of pancakes coaxed me out of sleep. Coming to, I groaned. I had never been a morning person, but my head didn’t usually feel like a bowling ball. Since dropping off to sleep the night before, I felt like I’d been trapped in a loud, fast-moving, brightly colored anime cartoon. My dreams had been insane, to say the least.