Twice Shy (8 page)

Ani's reply was acid. "That was Dylan defending me from your psycho girlfriend."

"Fuck you, Cutter!" Devon spat, stepping forward.

Ani stopped her with a glare. "Try it," she muttered. She was sick and tired of being pushed around by a soulless mannequin. What Mike saw in Devon she would never know.

Mike stepped between them. "Hey! Calm down." His body was turned toward Devon.
He's protecting
me
from
her
.

Mrs. Weller stepped out of her classroom, one eyebrow raised at Devon. "Miss Holcomb, language."

Devon had the good grace to blush. "Yes, Mrs. Weller."
Always the angel in front of adults.
Mere compliance was never enough to satisfy Mrs. Weller, who ignored Mike to look at the girls.

"What's going on, ladies?" she asked. Mike took his cue and stepped back.

"Nothing," Devon said. "Nothing at all."

Mrs. Weller looked at Ani. "Ani?"

Ani didn't reply.

"It didn't sound like nothing." Nobody said anything. Finally, Mrs. Weller gave her verdict. "Devon, you have detention with me tonight—"

"I have practice!" Devon protested.

"Then you'll be late," Mrs. Weller snapped. "And unless you want more, you'll be quiet." She turned to Ani. "Ani, you have detention tomorrow."
No point in protesting.
"You girls stay away from each other, or I will make your lives rather more miserable than you can imagine."
Fat chance.
"Now get to class."

Devon mouthed, "You're dead, Cutter," before stalking off, Mike at her heels. He turned around long enough to give her an apologetic shrug.

I know it can never be me, but why
her
?

*  *  *

Sarah Romero: expert on ZV epidemiology, former cardiac surgeon, current school nurse, and mother of one. It was the first of these that took her out of town the next day and the day after. A recent ZV outbreak had been pacified by the Venezuelan military, but it had triggered a conference on modern techniques for ZV control at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester. This left Ani on her own during school, with no refuge to flee to.
I'm seventeen years old, dead, and I miss my mommy. Pathetic.

Fey had a new lip ring, alternating bands of fake gold and fake emerald, and Jake couldn't keep his stoned eyes off it. Trapped together in the cafeteria, Dylan tried so hard not to look at or speak to Ani that he might as well have been screaming.

Fey dropped her fork of mashed potatoes and rolled her eyes at Jake. "Not for nothing, you're freaking me out. Just go hide for a while. Shoo." Jake recoiled, then grinned at Dylan. Fey waved him off. "I said 'shoo'. Beat it. Scram." As Jake got up from the table, she turned to Dylan, who hadn't looked up from his hands. "And you with him. Scat. It's girl time." Dylan followed Jake to the far end of the Anime nerds' table, where they were sure to get funny looks, but nothing more.

As soon as they were gone, Fey grabbed Ani's hands—they'd been in her pockets with the hot pad—and leaned in, nose to nose. "Is Dylan totally obsessed with you or what? He hasn't looked at my ass once today, and he's totally bugging. What gives?"

Ani withdrew her hands and held them up in a shrug. "I hadn't noticed." Her smile didn't even convince herself.
Please just let it go, Fey.
She knew she wouldn't.

"Yeah, sure you hadn't," Fey said through another bite of potatoes. "Spill."

Ani schooled her features and tried again. "There's nothing to spill, Fey. I have no idea what's going on in that demented little brain."
True, as far as it went.

Fey looked in her eyes, searching. "You're a good liar, but not good enough." She leaned back. "Fine, you don't want to talk, you don't want to talk. Better you than me anyway." She shoved another fork load of potatoes into her mouth.

*  *  *

As weird as it was to be in school without her mom, being home without her was weirder still. After an uneventful three hours at the Lair, Ani locked herself behind familiar walls, closed the blinds, changed into her nightgown and sat at the Baby Grand in the dark. She closed her eyes. Mussorgsky's
Une Larme
flowed from her hands, through the wood and ivory and taut metal, and out into the air. Haunting and melancholy and sweet, it ended with a hint of hope. While she found no flaw in her technique, she had yet to evoke the emotion it should have, so she tried again. And again.

As she finished the third time, she heard the latch on the kitchen door jiggle, and opened her eyes. She spun off the bench and stood, then tiptoed to the couch, avoiding the creaky floorboards. She reached behind the couch, found the cherry stock, and lifted the shotgun from the cradle velcroed to the upholstery. The kitchen door opened, and she tensed.

Mom's rules were clear: no one sees the basement. Ever. A security system might scare away an intruder, but it would bring the police, too, and that was unacceptable. Hands shaking, she stepped deeper into the shadow afforded by the media center.
My heart should be racing.
It beat with mechanical precision, correct to a thousandth of a second and useless except as subterfuge.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway, lean, perhaps six feet tall. It ran its hand through its ridiculous poufy hair.
Oh, great.

"Don't move," she said. She cocked the shotgun for effect. A cartridge pinged on the floor.
Already chambered. Go Mom.

"Ani, it's Dylan!" the figure said.

"I know. That's why I haven't shot yet." She didn't move, didn't turn on the lights. "You want to explain what you're doing breaking into my house?"

"I... I have to talk to you."

"Ever heard of a phone call? Text? Doorbell?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I wanted to see you. I heard you practicing. I didn't want to interrupt."
That worked.

She set the shotgun on the couch, felt along the wall and flipped the dimmer switch. He squeezed his eyes shut against the burst of light, and she used the opportunity to tighten the sash on her nightgown.

Dylan's eyes opened, then widened as he took her in. "Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" It had been a long time since someone had looked at her that way. She was way past embarrassment, and if he weren't such a creeper, she'd feel flattered. A little. He smiled. "I didn't figure you for pink."

"I didn't figure you for breaking into my house." She sat on the couch and crossed her fishy white legs as his chest puffed out a little.

"I'm full of surprises."

"You're an idiot who almost got himself shot." She nodded to the loveseat. "Take a chair." He sat, deflated.

They looked at each other for a minute. Ani forced herself to stop chewing her lip.
I stare at the inside of a refrigerator eight hours every night. I can outwait anyone.

At long last he spoke. "Take off your wig."

Ask, much?
"No," she said.
At least there was no 'bitch' this time.

"Please?" His voice was full of the desperate intensity that was so effective at turning off Fey... and every other girl on the planet.

"I said no."
And who the hell are you to even ask?

He scowled. "I just want to see—"

"It's not going to happen, not today, not ever. It shouldn't have happened last night. That stupid dog..." She scowled.
Poor Mac never did anything to hurt anyone. He was protecting his family from the monster.

"You killed it with your bare hands," he said. "All that hot blood—"

She gave him a withering look. "Do you have to fill every pause in a conversation?"

He looked down, silent. She got up, scooped the shotgun shell off the floor, and set it on the piano. She turned around. Dylan's mouth was open, his head listing to one side, his eyes unfocused.
What an idiot.

"You're stoned."

He blinked hard, then nodded. "I am. I'm trying to make sense of last night."

"Good idea," she said. "Getting high makes everything so much clearer." She leaned back against the piano.

He nodded. She put her hand to her forehead.
Yeah, I really meant that literally.

When she removed her hand, he was inches from her face. She froze. He ran a warm fingertip down her safety-pinned cheek, his eyes on her lips. He started to pucker, and she straight-armed him in the chest.

His ankle hit the corner of the coffee table and he tumbled backward, arms spiraling. He landed hard on his tailbone and tears sprang to his eyes. He clutched his left hand to his chest, his face twisted in pain.

"I like you, Dylan."
I don't. You're creepy and pathetic and full of meanness and hate.
"But not that way."
And besides, I'm not who you think I am.
"Go home."

Tears flowing, he bolted for the kitchen door.

She watched him lope across the lawn and hop the fence, then she re-locked the door.
Lot of good that lock does.

A few minutes later, tires squealed in the darkness.

Chapter 11

It felt weird to have a Thursday off school. Ani's mom had called to let her know that she'd be home around noon—because it was Veteran's Day, she was skipping the last half-day of the conference in order to get some research done. Ani spent the morning painting landscapes and tidying up around the house.

She heard the lock in the door and sighed in relief. As her mom walked in, Ani grunted in surprise. A cute pixie cut had removed most of her hair, and she was wearing a pink business suit Ani had never seen before.

"Do you like it?" her mom asked. She kicked off her heels and Ani noticed that she was showing a little cleavage and a red lace bra.
Oh, God, that's going to take some getting used to.

"It's cute," Ani said. "It looks really nice. Midlife crisis?"
Mental breakdown? Late-onset sluttiness?

The spark in her mom's eye faded a little, but her smile widened. "Something like that. Here." She held out the bags.
Okay, let's not talk about it. Whatever "it" is....

Ani smiled back and helped her with her bags, two from the conference and two full of new clothes. Her mom changed into scrubs, used the bathroom, ate a light lunch, then clapped her hands together. "Are you ready?"

Ani smiled, the safety pins in her cheek pulling it lopsided. Her mom was at her most animated when doing research, and she loved to see her so happy. "Let's do it!" The bookcase was on Teflon sliders. Ani slid it out of the way, exposing the basement door as her mother got the key to the padlock.

*  *  *

Ani spent the next several hours being poked, prodded, cut, injected, extracted, and implanted. Cells were removed from her body, subjected to chemical concoctions, and examined under microscopes. In its own way, it was kind of fun. It was almost eight o'clock—they'd worked through dinner—when her mother gave her a sad smile. "Sweetie, I have a new serum I want to try tonight."

"Okay," Ani said. "I'll go get some audiobooks." She went upstairs, and returned a few minutes later with the old CD changer and a stack of Amy Glenn Vega's
Nursing Novellas
. She programmed the CD player while her mom watched her, a tear in her eye.
All this crying is starting to freak me out.
"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." She wiped it away. "I hate putting my baby in there. And I hate what might happen if things go wrong."
We've done it a million times.

"I know, Mom. But we have to try, and we have to be safe." She opened the steel door in the wall, revealing a tiny room—it used to be an industrial coal furnace—equipped with a steel-reinforced recliner. As her mom shackled her in, she tried not to let her eyes wander to the propane tubes in the wall, or the asbestos-lined steel chimney above her.

"Are they tight enough, honey?" her mom asked. Ani tried to sit up, lean forward, reach with her arms. She had no more than two inches of freedom in any direction.
Perfect.

"Yup."

"Okay." Her mom inserted the steel bite-guard into Ani's mouth, then moved around behind her and pulled the leather straps tight. "Good?"

Ani nodded, and her mom switched on the digital video camera and shifted into doctor mode. She moved out of sight behind Ani.

"November eleventh, eight-twelve p.m. ZV-counteractive gamma-four trial one. Subject is female, seventeen years old, animate two years. Current success with beta-four excellent but dropping. Administering two hundred cc's gamma-four via injection into the anterior cerebellum."

No matter how many times it happened, Ani never got used to the feeling of needles entering her brain. The prick through the skin, the push through the bone, and then... nothing. It didn't feel like anything at all. The needle pulled out, and a moment later, her mom appeared in front of her, surgical mask over her face, eyes searching.

"How do you feel, honey?" Ani shrugged. "Any discomfort?" She shook her head. "Intoxication? Trouble thinking?" She shook her head again, and her mom turned to the camera. "No dilation, no visible response. Cognition appears to be human-normal." She turned back. "Good night, sweetie. I love you. I'll monitor your condition from upstairs."

Ani mumbled "I love you, Mom" through the bite-guard. It might have sounded like English. The steel door closed, and she heard the bar fall into place. Words flooded through the speaker in the wall, and she tried to lose herself in the fiction.

*  *  *

At four-thirty a.m. her mom came in wearing a new nightgown, sheer cream-colored cotton and lace. She ran a battery of tests, then removed the bite guard and asked Ani questions. No, she wasn't hungry. Yes, she felt good—fantastic, in fact. She lived in Ohneka Falls, New York, was seventeen, a junior in high school. She knew the year, the president, blah blah blah. Satisfied, her mother unshackled her so she could get ready for school.

*  *  *

Dylan skipped school on Friday, which was awesome. He wasn't there Monday or Tuesday, either. Jake said he was sick and would be out for a week.
Super-awesome.