Death Spiral (24 page)

“We already understand it,” he counterattacks.

“Yeah, but we're kids. He's legit.”

“Legit's overrated.”

“I need you,” I say softly. “I can't do this alone.”

Jesse looks at me,
No Way
written on his face.

“Come on, Jesse. You told me before your dad knows everyone. He's the only one we know who might be able to get the data to a real journalist. Someone who will read it, and understand what it says, and might be willing to help us.” Still no response, and I'm starting to get desperate. I make my final pitch. “We need a journalist that knows what's going on in advance and can take the lead tomorrow. Doc's the only one who can find someone on such short notice, someone who can get the word out to the scientific community and the press. ”

Jesse's tired eyes search my face. “You have no idea what Doc's like. What am I going to tell him?”

“How about the truth?”

Jesse gives a weak smile, then goes quiet. I glare at the clock as the minutes tick away and Jesse circles the room in his socked feet, wrestling with the demons of his father.

“Screw it,” he finally says to nobody in particular. “What's the worst thing that can happen besides being disowned and maybe that wouldn't be so bad.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Hey Dad,” he says a few seconds later. “Yeah, I know what time it is…. No, I'm not in bed. I'm at my friend's house.”

I can't make out Doc's exact words, but what I can hear is a very loud voice on the other end. I look at Anj and raise my eyebrows.

“No, I'm not in jail.…I'm not drunk, Dad.” Jesse's voice rises, and for a second I think he's going to hang up, but he grips the phone harder and pushes on. “No, I haven't been partying…shit, why do you always assume I'm fucked up? I'm fine, okay?” He pinches his temples and drops his chin to his chest. “I need your help.”

Jesse takes the phone into Anj's bathroom and closes the door. I sit on the bed and fool with the lighter, but the quiet of the room just magnifies the loudness of my brain. As the stars twinkle and the Earth spins and the world goes about its merry way, my stomach twists into knots.

I creep to the bathroom and press my ear to the door, but the whir of forced-air heat interferes with my listening space, and I can't make out what he's saying. I lean harder, so hard that when Jesse opens the door, I lose my balance and stumble forward. Jesse ignores the fact of my eavesdropping and marches past me.

“Well?” I demand as he drops onto the bed.

“He's pissed off and thinks I'm on drugs.”

“Great.”

“But he'll consider it. Doc doesn't do anything without seeing the data first. He won't wipe his butt without reading a consumer's review report on the toilet paper. I need to make copies of everything we have and bring it to him, and then he'll decide what he'll do.”

It's not conclusive, but it's all we have. There's nothing else to do but get started and hope that Doc will help us and that my plan actually works.

Twenty-three

When Anj and I finally finish our PowerPoint and fall asleep, I dream of the white bird. It lands on a high branch of the oak outside my bedroom window. I climb the tree and reach out to touch the winged creature. Just as I'm close enough to stroke its silky body, the bird transforms into my mother. She's wearing her white bathrobe. Blood trickles from her mouth to her chin. I scream, and the bird vanishes into the moonless night.

I've hardly slept when the alarm goes off at five. Anj hits snooze and tries to go back to sleep, but I hit her with a pillow. “Come on sleepy,” I yawn. “We have work to do.”

Anj groans and drags herself out of bed. She stumbles to the closet with her puffy eyes and pillow-wrinkled skin and slides open the mirrored door to reveal a neat row of dresses, skirts, jeans, and blouses.

“Okay—you want to look like me, the first thing you need is an outfit. If I wanted to look younger, or maybe just stupid, I'd wear this.” She hands me a velvet, flower-print dress with a round collar and buttons up the front, then sticks her finger in her mouth and makes a gagging noise. “My Aunt Martha gave it to me for Christmas last year. She thinks I'm still ten.”

“Yeah, I see your point. It's um, not quite what I was looking for. I'm going for innocent, not dorky.”

Anj laughs and pulls out outfit after outfit, throwing each article of clothing we decide is too dorky, too hip, or too cutesy on her bed. I sit in the beanbag as she terrorizes her closet.

“I like that,” I say when Anj, having laid waste to her wardrobe, moves on to her dresser and pulls out a simple blue sweater with bright colored buttons sewn around the neck.

“Cashmere,” she says, tossing the sweater to me. “Try it on.”

I take off the sweatshirt I slept in and pull the sweater over my head. It's like slipping into a cloud. “Nice.”

“And this goes with it.” Anj hands me a silk scarf of muted blues and greens and ties it loosely around my neck. “And now, a skirt.” She pulls out a straight knee-length black skirt with two big pockets in front, hands me a pair of black tights, and asks what size my feet are.

“Eight,” I tell her, a bit defensively.

“Sorry, but if you're going for innocent, the whole combat boot look has to go. I'm seven and a half, but here, these are big.” She hands me a pair of black clogs and waits for me to get dressed.

I pull on each layer of Anj's clothes, feeling less and less like myself with every new piece of clothing. When I'm dressed, Anj stands back and says, “You look like a dork.”

“Gee, thanks.” I instantly start to undress.

“No, I didn't mean it like that. I mean in a good way. It's just so not you. Check it out.”

She slides the closet door shut. The second I see myself, I gasp. I mean, yes, it's me, but at the same time, not. My combat boots and thrift store dresses are my identity. Stripped of that and I'm someone else completely, which I guess right now is the point, so I should be happy.

“Now for the hair,” Anj says, coming up behind me with a brush and guiding me to a chair. “Check you out girlfriend,” she says a few minutes later.

For the second time I look in the mirror, and for the second time I hardly recognize myself. My tangles have been groomed to sleek perfection and tied into a graceful bun at the base of my neck.

“You really are beautiful, Faith,” she tells me, “but the piercings have to go.”

I take out all five of my earrings and Anj dabs me with lipstick and eye shadow. “We should start a TV reality show,” she says when she's done. “We could call it American home makeover. We'll round up all the mall chicks with bad hair and bad outfits and turn them glam.”

I'm too nervous to comment or even to smile. While Anj hunts down her own outfit, I stay glued to my makeover chair, mulling over what we're about to do and trying not to dwell on everything that could go wrong, the mile long list of
what if's
. I've come too far to turn back.

Once dressed, we go to the kitchen and Anj writes a note for her parents, explaining that we left early for school to put the finishing touches onto our biology project. “They won't be up for at least half an hour,” she informs me as she places the note on the table. “They'll never know how early we left.”

We're ready to go, but I linger and stare at the note, at the little heart Anj drew above the j of her name in place of a dot. The note says nothing except that we left early, but somehow every word is infused with love.

“What it is?” Anj says, jiggling her keys and heading toward the front door. “I thought we were in a major hurry.”

“We are. Just hold on a minute. You can go start the car. I'll be there in a sec.”

Anj stands by the door, her hand on the knob, eyes scrunched as if contemplating whether, say, I've lost my mind or chickened out. But then she shrugs, says okay, and goes outside. A second later I hear the engine start.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and punch Aunt T's number. She picks up on the first ring.

“Thank god. Where are you?” she says before I can say hello.

I sigh. “You're not going to like this, but I can't tell you. I'm okay though.”

“Okay! That's it. You're okay? Christ, Faith. Sam and I have been up all night worrying.”

“I know. I'm sorry. Seriously, I really am. It's just…there's something I have to do. I'm not going to stay on the phone long and I'm not going to tell you what it is, but I promise I'll call you when I'm done.” The second the words leave my mouth, I realize there's a way to let Aunt T know what I'm doing, a simple way to give her direct access to the truth. “I'll have something to show you in a few hours. It will explain everything.” Aunt T tries to talk, but I don't let her. “Before I go there's one more thing…. I wanted to say thank you for all you've done. I've been terrible. I know I have. This isn't going to make up for how I've acted, but…I just wanted to say that I love you.”

I've never heard Aunt T cry, so I'm not sure if the sound I hear on the other end is a sob until her voice breaks and she says, “I love you, too.”

Before I can take in the moment or hang up or decide what to say next, Sam's on the phone. “Faith, listen to me. We're here for you. If you're in trouble we can help. We can—”

“I know,” I say. “Thank you. But this is something I have to do. Don't worry. I'm not alone. I'll be okay. I'll call you.”

And then I hang up.

***

Anj attempts small talk once we're on the road, but pleasant chitchat proves impossible, so instead she puts on a CD to chase away the nervous silence. A Coldplay album later and we're on Arch Street, one block from the convention center, looking out over a backdrop of glossy buildings shiny as new credit cards. Anj doesn't even bother with the parallel parking routine this time. She goes straight for the convention center garage, and at eight o'clock we're positioned outside the Market Bakery at Reading Terminal to meet Jesse and Duncan as planned.

A minute after we arrive I spot Duncan and a clean-cut boy wearing a collared shirt and khaki pants heading our direction past Hershel's East Side Deli. It's not until they're upon us and I get a closer look that I realize who the boy is.

“You look like you belong at a yacht club,” I snort.

“And you look like Martha Stewart,” Jesse retorts, handing me a cup of coffee.

I thank Jesse for the coffee and turn to Duncan, who looks the same as always in his gray Edinburgh hoodie and jeans, and hand him our flash drive. “Did you make the badge?”

He pulls out a lanyard tucked into his hoodie and shows off the plastic sleeve holding a badge printed with the words
Randall Bell; Audiovisual Services
above a perfectly reproduced conference logo and grins. “All the credentials I need.”

“And did you email CNN?”

“No worries. NBC, ABC, MSN, FOX, you name it, I sent them the information. ‘You're about to learn of the biggest corporate conspiracy of the year,'” he says, trying to impersonate an American news anchor. “How's it sound?”

“The accent sucks, dude, but the tag line rocks,” Jesse, captain of the sailing team, says.

It's my plan and now is hardly the time to doubt it, but nerves and exhaustion are messing with my confidence. “Do you think they'll buy it?”

Duncan opens his mouth to respond, but Jesse cuts him off. “Are you kidding? Those news agencies prowl for stories twenty-four seven. If one of them gets this feed and another misses out, someone's ass will be canned. They'll be all over it.”

“And Doc?” I ask, worrying my fingers through Anj's scarf. “Did he agree to help?”

Jesse's eyes find the floor. “Not exactly,” he mumbles. Before my stomach can drop all the way to my feet, he looks up and adds, “But my mom agreed for him.”

“I thought your mom was sick and in bed.”

“Yeah, well apparently she decided to get up. She was waiting for me when I got home.” Jesse scratches at his neck like a dog with a new collar. “She must've overheard my little late night chat with Doc. Man did she kick butt. I haven't seen Mom in action in a long time. She made Doc promise to look at everything I gave him.”

“That's good, right?” I say, hoping for affirmation. “I mean if Doc's looking at our data that means he'll get a reporter.”

Jesse shrugs. “No idea. Doc's idea of taking action is locking the door to his study and thinking.”

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, forgetting for a minute that I'm wearing makeup.

“Stop that!” Anj says, slapping my hand. “You'll make a mess of yourself and then what will we do? Now if you're going to sit here worrying over every little thing, we should've just stayed home.” She checks her watch. “We don't have a lot of time. What's next?”

“Okay, you're right.” I reach into my bag. “This is a map of the conference center. I downloaded the floor plan from the Internet this morning.” I unfold the paper and spread it on a table outside the bakery as the morning market comes to life. “Duncan, here's the audiovisual room where they project the talks for the presentations in the Terrace Ballroom. You have to get in and out as soon as possible. How much time do you need?”

“Ten minutes. It's simple. A little cut and paste, and I'm good to go.”

“Good. Anj, you're running interference. You see anybody coming when Duncan's in there, get rid of them. Jesse, you're in the audience for Glass' presentation with me.” I tap my fingers on the table and turn back to Duncan. “Everything you need is on the flash drive, you just have to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Duncan interrupts, covering my hand with his. “No problem. Trust us. We know what to do. Now stop your blethering, and let's go.”

I fold up the map and put it back in my bag. “Okay,” I say, taking in each of my friends and settling my gaze on Jesse. “I trust you.”

We link arms like Dorothy and crew trundling off on their journey to the Land of Oz, and walk down our own yellow-brick road, past Kamal's Middle Eastern Specialties and The 12th Street Cantina, then across the glass-covered walkway over Arch Street, and finally into the convention center to bring down the wizard.

A young guy carting an easel over his shoulder directs us to the registration area in the Broad Street Atrium, a sun-filled corridor with a row of long tables. Anj pays our fees with her credit card, and I fill in the registration form with jittery fingers listing myself as Faye Fuentes, sophomore at Penn. The registrar, a gangly woman wearing a gray pantsuit the same color as her hair, takes my form and looks it over. I bite my lip, waiting for her to call my bluff, to see through my suburban-girl dress-up routine and uncover my real reason for being here. Instead, she hands me a badge, a tote bag, and a map of the conference center and turns her attention to the next person in line.

I breathe in a sigh of relief and follow a woman wearing a sari and a badge that says Panjab University through the exhibit hall and onto the escalator to the second floor. From there we wander down a corridor lined with easels announcing presenters and titles of talks: Dr. Petrosky, Micro RNA in Human Disease; Dr. Kambu-Chanelli, Genetic Factors for Human Type 1 Diabetes; Dr. Chow, Genetic Susceptibility to Human Obesity; Dr. Leonard, Genes in Estrogen Metabolism
.
Eventually
we find the Terrace Ballroom.

“I have to pee,” Anj moans the second we stop walking. “I'm sorry. I can't hold it any longer.”

While Anj scurries off down the hall toward the restroom, Jesse and I worm our way into a group of people outside the ballroom, camouflaged by the sea of wool sweaters, blazers, and Polo shirts. Duncan lingers at the edge of the crowd, poised for duty. I give him the thumbs up and a nervous smile. He clears his throat, whips out his badge from inside his sweatshirt, and marches off toward the sign that says Audiovisual Services.

He's just reached the door when Jesse nudges me in the ribs. “Trouble,” he mutters.

I follow his gaze and spot Starr Kelley, a gossipy exchange-student groupie from Duncan's AP bio class, heading down the corridor in his direction. A flicker of recognition crosses her face when she sees Duncan. She smiles and picks up her pace, weaving her way through the crowd toward her beloved pet foreigner.

I shoulder my way through students and academics, professors and doctors, no idea how I'm going to stop Starr before she blows Duncan's cover.

“Excuse me,” I say, elbowing between two gray-haireds deep in conversation.

Starr waves her hands over her head to get Duncan's attention. Ten more steps and she'll be at his side. I call her name, hoping at least to throw her off course, but either she's ignoring me or she's gone deaf. She doesn't turn.

Duncan knocks on the door just as Starr calls his name.