Charisma (9 page)

I regain my balance. “I'm fine.”

Jack nudges me toward the sofa. “C'mon, let's sit down.”

Even though I feel okay, I let him lead me there. We nestle into the cushions, our bodies pressed into each other. He smells of cedar and spring rain. Maybe I should've gotten dizzy earlier.

He places the cup on an end table. “If you need to go home, let me know.”

I bite my lip. “I could stay here, in this spot, all night.”

He whispers in my ear, “I hear ya.”

“Okay, knock it off, you two,” booms Johnny Sonoma, who plays every varsity sport. He sinks next to us, and pulls Abby O'Keefe onto his lap.

Before we know it, a half-dozen kids join us, sitting on the floor around the sofa or hovering on the armrests. Jack and I soon meld into the laughter and slurred conversation of kids I barely know. How come I never noticed how friendly these guys are? It's invigorating, being the party's center of gravity. Other kids join us, watching from the sidelines and trying to get a word in. But we're at the heart of the frenzy. At one point, I catch Evie watching from across the room. She shakes her head in wonder.

She and I have a lot to discuss. I need my best friend to help me come to terms with all of this.

For now, I enjoy learning about my fellow classmates while I cuddle next to Jack. His skin is deliciously warm. At some point, the lights in the room dim and the music intensifies. Johnny and Abby get up to dance. A few others join them. Jack gives me a quizzical look.

“Sure,” I say, rising with him, my head as clear and stable as a diamond.

Soon, everyone's dancing. I get that feeling I had the other night, as if I'm connected to a mass of humanity that throbs and flows. Instead of breaking off from it, this time I let myself sink into the sensation. Mentally, I'm crowd-surfing, in perfect harmony with my body, which Jack holds so tightly I feel every button on his shirt.

Within a miasma of music and laughing, Jack and I lock gazes. We bring our faces closer, ever so slowly, until our lips touch. We pull back, smiling, and then lean in for real, meeting in a kiss that's warm and pulsating. Oh, man, if holding hands is like a flame, kissing is an inferno. My body seems to know what to do better than my brain for a change. So I let it. We shift into each other for long, perfect minutes.

Someone yells at us, “Take it outside!”

I look up from my daze to find that Jack and I aren't the only ones caught up in the moment. We throw our heads back, arms overhead, and dance, not caring about anything but the music. Many songs later I notice how my dress sticks to my back and how hard I'm breathing.

Jack catches me by the elbow and escorts me to the hallway. He checks his phone. “Damn, you were supposed to be home twenty-five minutes ago.”

I nuzzle into his chest. “Don't worry. My mom probably fell asleep.”

Zoe and another girl slink toward us pointing cameras. “Anything you want to say to the world? Maybe a PSA for plastic surgery?”

I clear my throat. What to say to “the world”? The first thing that comes out is: “Have a blast. But if you have too much of a blast, be sure you're an organ donor.”

Everyone laughs. I pretend to as well, even though I know the reason for my weird comment is the scary probability of Sammy needing a lung transplant someday.

A few minutes later, when I say good-bye to Evie, she nudges my arm. “Okay, I wanna sign up for the you-know-what too.”

I glance at Rafe, who hasn't strayed from her side all night. “You're doing fine.”

Jack speeds home, only to take our time parked in front of my house. Whenever his skin meets mine, I shiver. No way will I bring him to the porch, where Mom can interrupt us. At quarter after eleven, I kiss him one last time and run to my door with a smile that makes my cheeks hurt.

Opening the door quietly, I let out a huge sigh to find the living room empty. But as I tiptoe upstairs, Sammy's coughing seems to jangle the walls. I peek into his room to find Mom offering him tissues and a plastic pail.

They both turn to me with wounded eyes.

I say, “Sorry I'm late.”

Mom pats Sammy's back. “You couldn't call?”

Sammy hacks another chest-rattling cough and puts his face into the pail.

“I totally lost track of the time. Really, I'm so sorry.”

Sammy wipes his mouth. “Give her a break, Mom. She's never had a boyfriend before.”

Mom's stern expression is more about breaking bones than granting breaks, but all she says is, “You'd better get some sleep if you want to be alert at work tomorrow.”

I nod and shut the door.

But my insides tingle too much to go to bed. I savor the electric memory of my first real kiss, and my second, tenth, and twentieth. As if I could sleep after that.

I hop onto my computer, and, before I know it, post a few random thoughts about the party. A couple of other kids who were there answer with notes of their own. Soon there's a flurry of updates and connection requests. Someone posts videos of us dancing. In the midst of the activity, I notice Chloe returned my private message from earlier with:
HAPPY YOUR LIFE ROCKS. MAYBE ALL THAT THEORETICAL KNOWLEDGE ABOUT GUYS WILL BECOME ACTUAL. HAHA! HAVE YOU SEEN SHANE'S PAGE TODAY?

I groan, but check out his page anyway. Apparently, he's taken his girlfriend application process to the “next level.” Half expecting he means orgies, I find the next level involves a plan for local film students to follow him around and produce
The Shane Show
for the city cable channel.

Puh-leeeze. What girl would want to be part of that? I sigh. No amount of Charisma would persuade me to do that.

Unless . . .

Grinning, I get a wicked idea, and fill in the online application form. Without any bikini shots handy, I link to a dance video from the party. Someone needs to put this guy in his place.

I submit the application, and then a trickle of guilt persuades me to find ways to use my upgraded personality for something more than messing with Shane's ego. No ideas as to what this greater good might be occurs to me by the time I slip under the covers, yet I fall asleep hopeful I can make a difference in the world. My own world has already changed for the better. Miraculously. Of that, I have no doubt.

After only six hours of sleep, I awake the next morning raring to go. For sixteen point nine years, my mornings were always weighted by fears to face the day. Time to make up for that.

I grab my phone, only to feel the room sway as I find dozens of messages on Chloe's page about her passing out at a club last night. She insists it was only because things have been so crazy busy. But not too busy to invite everyone she knows to a huge solstice party on the beach tonight, which she promises will be epic.

I feel my own forehead. Normal. Still, I text Dr. Sternfield with news about Chloe, just in case.

My phone buzzes. I hope it's the doctor with some reassurances, but it's Evie.
YOUR VIDEO GOT PICKED UP ON THE TEENS TALK SITE.

What video? I check out Teens Talk. That silly recording from Erin's party has over two thousand hits already, and a bunch of comments from people who've also visited the organ donation site. Really? I spin around in my chair. So this is what it feels like to have something go viral. In a good way.

Back on my page, I scroll through dozens of congratulations and more connection requests. Most of the messages are positive, but scattered here and there I find anonymous stuff such as
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO GO FROM LOSER TO DIVA?
and
HOW LONG BEFORE YOU MAKE THE RETURN TRIP?

I pull up Evie's number on my phone. My vision blurs for a second, and the room starts a lazy spin. I close my eyes. God, I wish my synapses or whatever's crackling in my brain would behave already.

When Evie answers, I say, “I'm already getting hate mail.”

“Jerks.”

“But I still want to do more videos. A ton of people signed up to be organ donors. That's huge.”

She pauses. “It is. Maybe your next video could be planned a little better, though? I would've helped you pick out a more flattering outfit and fixed your hair.”

Is that hurt I detect in her voice? I say, “Of course you would've. But this is still great, right? And now you won't have to drag me to parties. I can be the friend you always wanted me to be.”

She sighs. “You already were the friend I wanted you to be.”

If I were, why did she set party quotas? But my instinct tells me to have this conversation in person. Funny, three days ago, I would've preferred difficult conversations via text. Now I want to connect, face-to-face, so there are no misunderstandings.

Evie breaks the silence. “So what's next on your plan for world domination?”

“Whatever it is, you'll be the first to know.”

“That's more like it.” Maybe things are fine between us after all.

I skip downstairs, confident the day will fall into place. Sammy shakes a box of Magic Munchos at me. Mom pours glasses of orange juice. I approach them with resolve in my step, wishing everyone could feel as optimistic as I do, despite the lightness in my head.

But when I open my mouth to speak, my world suddenly goes black.

Unexplained Outbreak Among Heroin Addicts

by Stephan Mott,
Portland Planet

Portland health care workers report a bizarre and alarming trend among the city's heroin users. In the past three weeks, more than a dozen have gone into comas after bouts of manic behavior, which is in direct contrast with the typically sedative effects of opiate use. Law enforcement representatives believe a new drug may be on the street and have been questioning injection drug users in an attempt to identify its source. Anyone who believes they may have been exposed to this drug is urged to contact their physician or the Hazelwood Free Clinic immediately.

When my eyes open, I'm on the kitchen floor. “What happened?”

Mom's on her knees next to me, the phone at her ear. “She just came to.”

I try to rise. The room spins.

Mom says, “Relax. Keep your head down.”

An excellent idea, given the flashing spots in my vision. “How long was I out?”

“Just a minute.” She feels my forehead and speaks into the phone. “Maybe a slight fever.” She turns to me. “When's the last time you ate?”

“Dinner.”

As she listens to the phone, her features pull tight. She clamps her hand over the mouthpiece. “Aislyn, did you ingest or inhale anything unusual at the party?”

Ingest? Inhale? Oh. “If you mean heroin or crack, no.” Should I mention the gene therapy? Not yet, not yet. I
needed to
speak with Dr. Sternfield first.

After a few more questions, Mom hangs up. “I'm taking you to the emergency room.”

I stand on my own. “But I'm okay.”

Steering my elbow like a rudder, she forces me toward a chair. “Fainting is not okay. Even for only a few seconds. Let's get you some food and then we're out of here.”

While Mom foists an egg and toast on me, I ask Sammy to go upstairs and grab my phone. He seems happy to be the one assisting the patient for a change.

He bows as he hands me the phone. “Anything else I can do?”

“Um, wash my car?” I gobble my breakfast, aware of Mom staring at my back, no doubt speculating upon which gateway drug I tried. “I'm feeling a lot better. Besides, neither of us can afford to miss work.”

“I'll reschedule my client. You can call the pool on the way. Now, c'mon,” she says in her this-isn't-a-negotiation voice.

I drag my feet to the car. The weather's shifted to gray skies and a slight chill. Typical June. On the way to Florence Bishop Children's Hospital, I call in sick to the pool and text Dr. Sternfield with the latest.

Mom scrutinizes me at every stoplight. “Your eyes are glassy.”

I fake a smile. “I'm fine, probably just too much activity this week.” I itch to tell her about the gene therapy. Given that Chloe's passed out too, I doubt it's a coincidence. But she insisted she was overtaxing herself, just like me. That's all it might be. Too much of a good thing. And the downside of telling is Mom might demand that Dr. Sternfield give me something to reverse this good thing. I shudder at the thought of going back to being the girl who could barely get a sentence out around Jack; the girl who was invisible to all but a few friends, except when she humiliated herself at science fairs and parties. Charisma is a miracle. My brain simply needs to get used to it.

Mom clears her throat. “Sure there isn't anything you want to tell me?” When did she get so suspicious?

“Um, like what?” And when did I get so evasive?

She frowns at the windshield, which frames a world of drizzle. “You're awfully mercurial lately, glum on Sunday morning, and then exuberant about Jack a day later.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I'm a teenager. We're supposed to be unpredictable.”

She sighs. “But never you.”

That was the problem.

We ride the rest of the way in silence, except for my phone, which buzzes. I check for a reply from Dr. Sternfield, but it's Jack asking to hang out tonight. My head goes light again. Whatever's going on had better not interfere with Jack-time.

Under Mom's suspicious glances, I text Jack a yes. I also text Chloe to tell her I fainted too. Maybe that'll prompt her to trade notes. After a final text to Dr. Sternfield in case my first one didn't go through, I put my phone down.

At the emergency department, the nurse purses her lips. “Since there aren't acute symptoms, the wait may be a while.” See, even she isn't worried.

We take our plastic seats, designed more for wiping off vomit than for comfort. We're regulars here, thanks to
Sammy. Whic
h is how I know my phone's useless in most of the building. I try to ignore the infomercial for liposuction blaring overhead while Sammy sits on a stadium cushion he brought along and pulls out his sketchpad. Why didn't I think to pack the basics, the way I've done on so many visits here?

One infomercial and two cartoons later, a medical assistant, whose piercings droop as much as his shoulders, asks me to follow him. Mom'll stay in the waiting room
with Sammy
unless she's needed.

We thread our way past carts of equipment to where the assistant weighs and measures me before taking my temperature and blood pressure. He types into his pad. “Well, you seem stable now. But we don't mess around with fainting.”

“Yeah, my mom either.”

He shrugs. “Parents do that. Enjoy it while you can.” He leaves me in a room.

I change into the flimsy gown and perch on the exam table. The walls are covered in paintings of vines and monkeys to make kids forget they're stuck in a hospital. Not working. They should hire Sammy to do a mural.

A lanky woman with short grayish hair and arresting blue eyes marches in a few minutes later. “Hi Aislyn, I'm Dr. Sandra Culdicott.” Her lined face looks as if it hasn't cracked a smile in a long time. Not the typical perky doctor they employ here.

She gives me a quick exam while she rattles off a long list of questions. The only thing I omit from my answers is the Charisma. Which of course is the only thing that would explain the fainting.

She pecks at her tablet. “Since you don't seem
dehydrated, I
won't give you a saline bolus. But I'm going to order a basic metabolic panel that you'll do at the lab. We'll also do a urinalysis and an EKG. If everything looks normal, we'll send you home and then you should see your primary care doctor in a few days to follow up. But if you faint again, come in right away.”

How much would all this cost Mom? A wave of guilt sweeps over me. But if I reveal the gene therapy, who knows how many additional tests the doctor will order up? Mom'll be billed out the kazoo and I'd be kept here all day, maybe even longer.

A half hour later, after the EKG machine spits out a ribbon of results and a lab assistant collects the necessary bodily fluids to prove I'm not dying, I'm dismissed. We head back out into the drizzly day.

I check my phone. “If we hurry, I can pick up the last two hours of my shift.”

Mom stops as if someone's yanked her with a lasso. “What if you faint while you're in the water? No, you're staying home. To rest.”

Sammy gives me a knowing look and apologetic shrug.

At home, after Mom uselessly takes my temperature again, she leaves to drop off Sammy at a neighbor's so I'll have no excuse not to nap while she's at work. Of course, now the sun shines bright and hot, promising a spectacular late afternoon.

Not feeling a bit tired, I check my phone. Chloe hasn't responded to my message. Well, she has, but only to invite me again to her bonfire-potluck-party-you-don't-wanna-miss tonight. Sounds like something fun to do with Jack, plus a chance to see Chloe up close and figure out if she also got Charisma.

Jack's game when I text him the details. That gives me time for a quick nap to fulfill my daughterly obligation. After all, Mom's orders were to take a nap today. She said nothing about tonight.

When Jack arrives a couple of hours later, we meet with a kiss that feels shy for only a moment before a longer one takes its place.

“Ready?” he asks.

“For anything.”

His eyes widen in a most satisfying way.

We drive toward Ballard, about thirty miles northwest, through downtown Seattle, which always strikes me as the “big city,” even though Tacoma's no slouch. Along the way, we pick up ears of corn for the cookout, and, with a wink, Jack buys a jar of passion fruit juice to add to our offerings. Our last purchase is a large taro bubble shake, a milky, lavender concoction of sweetness that's laced with chewy balls of tapioca, the “bubbles.”

With the warm wind blowing through the car and Mumford and Sons pounding through the speakers, we ride in a delicious state of anticipation, passing the bubble shake back and forth. We have to shout over the breeze and the engine, but mostly we're laughing, until I almost choke on a tapioca bubble.

Jack slows the car. “Careful, you don't want to end up in the hospital.”

“Ugh. I've been there enough for one day.”

“What? Are you okay?” His shoulders turn as if he's ready to steer the car back home.

“Totally fine. It was just, uh, for my brother. He has to go a lot for his CF. But he's okay.” I feel like I've poured a cup of acid into this pool of bliss. No more lies, I vow to myself.

Soon enough, Jack spurs me into laughter again, all the way to Golden Gardens Park. The rains from this morning have washed the skies clean across the water all the way to the jagged Olympic Mountains in the distance.

We stroll toward the rocky beach, where a cluster of drums beat next to the crashing surf. A few brightly dressed women sit cross-legged behind blankets loaded with crystal jewelry and large hula hoops decorated in rainbows of gaffer tape.

“Happy solstice!” a woman with long braids and a flowy dress calls to us. “Would you like your fortune read?”

Jack seems willing, but I turn her down. I don't need a fake psychic to tell me that my future has changed for the better.

Chloe swirls through dozens of folks in their teens and twenties. I recognize an African American guy with huge shoulders and dimples from Chloe's online page—her boyfriend, Jesse. If the Charisma doesn't explain her recent glow, it's clearly this hot guy sliding an arm around her waist.

Jack and I add our offerings to the food tables and grab cups of passion fruit juice for ourselves. A grill sizzles with skewers of chicken and pineapple that lace the air with a sweet smoke. I inhale the evening, confident that the strangers happily chatting around us are opportunities to be explored rather than threats to avoid.

Before Jack and I can slide into a friendly cluster, someone grabs me from behind with a squeal. “Aislyn!”

It takes me a moment to recognize Rosa from the Nova Genetics siblings group. Her heart-shaped face is flushed and her large brown eyes are overly bright.

She meets me with open arms. Literally. Is this really Rosa? Since when does she hug? Since when do I hug back? A tiny knot twists in my stomach at the not-so-intangible changes in her personality.

Her laugh tinkles like wind chimes. “So Chloe convinced you to come too. Excellent. Such a night for it. I feel so energetic, so alive. I just tried out for next year's cheerleading squad at my school. Isn't that amazing?”

I take a step back. I'd been totally wrong about Rosa being shy speaking English.

A boy with short dark hair and intense eyebrows sidles up to her. She takes his arm and introduces him as Jonathan. The pride in her voice indicates whatever she has going with him is new. No doubt my voice sounds the same when I introduce Jack.

I try not to stare too intensely at Rosa. “It's weird seeing you outside of Nova Genetics. You seem different.” It has to be Charisma, but will she admit it?

She waves off my words. “The place where I'm different is at those lame meetings. Aren't they awful?”

How to ask what I want without the boys catching on? I say, “The day wasn't a total waste, was it? Did Dr. Sternfield take you to see the chimps?”

She blinks at me for a moment and then a grin flickers. “Just Ruby. She was super-friendly.”

That's an admission if I ever heard one. “Bursting with charisma?”

Rosa glances at Jonathan and says nervously, “I guess.” She points to a guy playing guitar. “He's excellent, no?”

So, the vow of secrecy is still in effect.

I give up trying to get info out of Rosa for now and let myself drift into the music, the crowd, the perfect evening. The guitar player actually
is
excellent. Maybe he's been medically enhanced too. Hah.

Jack and I, always connected at some part of our bodies, meet Chloe's friends and followers: students, musicians, artists, and folks whose life mission seems to be finding the best parties. I hold my arm out to a girl who paints it with an intricate design of swirls and flourishes that remind me of the ocean. Nearby, the real ocean splashes against the rough beach. Chloe prances just outside the dark border on the sand marking where the surf reaches. I pull Jack toward her.

She holds up a cup of something in greeting. “Glad you came, Aislyn.” She eyes Jack. “Bet I know who you are.”

Blushing, I confirm her guess.

She makes a theatrical pout. “Shane'll be disappointed.”

Jack's expression is puzzled, but he keeps smiling. “Shane?”

I groan. “A ridiculous guy who came to our family event.”

Chloe grins and points. “Who also brought his own camera crew tonight.”

Twenty yards away, Shane laughs with two girls wearing halter tops to show off some serious ink on their backs. A guy with a camera on his shoulder and a girl holding a boom microphone follow their every move.