“Mmmmm. Caviar,” Aislin says.
It’s one of her phrases.
It’s late afternoon, and Solo has just entered my room. He’s holding Aislin’s shoulder bag.
Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.
“I’m sorry?” Solo says.
“It’s expensive. It’s … delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.
Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.
God, I’ve missed her.
“Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.
What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.
“Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have … the leftovers?”
Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.
And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.
I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.
She knows no fear, Aislin.
No, that’s not true. She
shows
no fear.
“Your bag,” Solo says, leaning back with his eyes wide and voice a little trembly. “It’s uh … security … you know.” He shoots a panicky look at me.
I shrug. I’m not rescuing you, dude. I look down to conceal an anticipatory grin because I know what’s coming.
Aislin takes the bag from Solo, but before he can escape, she clamps a hand on his wrist. She opens the bag and examines its contents. “So I guess they took my flask.”
“They said something about your personal property being returned when you leave.”
Good boy, Solo: a complete sentence.
“Wait!” Aislin says. She reaches into the bag and then, yes, draws out a long string of condoms. “At least,” she says, “they didn’t take anything I really … need.”
A strange whinnying sound comes from Solo. He flees the room.
Aislin laughs, delighted. She perches on the edge of my bed and I say, “You are such a bitch.”
“I know, aren’t I?”
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” I sigh. “I miss everything. I miss homework. I miss the very special stench that is the girls’ locker room.”
“Nerd. School’s over in a few days, anyway. They’ll let you make it all up in the fall.” Aislin pats The Leg. “Oh, crap, sorry! Did I hurt you?”
“No, actually. The pain pills work really well.”
“Don’t suppose you have any extra you feel like sharing?”
I breathe in deeply. “How’s Maddox?”
“Who?” she asks. “I’m sorry, that name slipped right out of my brain when I saw Mr. Scruffy McMuscles.”
“His name is Solo.”
She grins a huge, lascivious grin. “Why, of course it is. But he could be in a duo without too much trouble.” She switches on her serious face. “Maddox is out on bail. If he doesn’t screw up again they’ll probably let him go with community service.”
“If,” I say.
I know it’s wrong, but Aislin’s troubles are almost reassuring to me, they’re such a regular feature of our lives.
I first met Aislin in sixth grade. My dad had died over the summer, and she provided much-needed distraction. Even then, she was the glamorous fashionista, and at a point where I was still four years away from noticing that boys existed as something different and apart and interesting, Aislin was already charming them like a cobra mesmerizing prey.
She was also the only one who could make me laugh that horrible year.
“You know Maddox,” Aislin said. She looks down and away, her patented move to ensure I don’t know how much something is bothering her.
When he goes off to prison—and he will, someday—Aislin will probably wait for him. Her loyalty is fierce.
I love her.
“So what are you doing in here for fun?” she asks.
“Help me get into my wheelchair and I’ll show you,” I say.
It takes a while, but we manage to haul my giant leg and bruised body into my wheelchair.
Except, now that I think about it,
am
I bruised anymore?
“Push me over to the mirror,” I say.
It’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, gilt-framed.
I brace for the worst. I saw myself early on, a reflection in a piece of shiny equipment: It was not good. I had huge raccoon eyes, my nose was red, and there were two visible bumps on my forehead, one of which was about the size of an egg yolk.
Since then, I’ve been avoiding mirrors.
I stare at my reflected image in disbelief.
I’m me.
“Huh,” I say. Where are my bruises? My egg yolk? “Push me closer.”
“It’s kind of hard to believe you almost died,” Aislin says. “It’s only been, like, a few days.”
“It’s nuts,” I say. “I mean, my eyes were all…” I wave my hand around my face. “I looked like I’d been hit by a train. With good reason. I shouldn’t be this…”
Aislin shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t a regular hospital, right?”
“No, you’re right, it isn’t,” I say. “My mother was completely freaked about getting me out of San Fran and into this place. I guess she was onto something.”
While I contemplate my reflection, Aislin pokes around the room. “Giant flat-screen, nice sound system. Maybe I should get run over.”
“I had stitches here,” I murmur, peeling back a strip of surgical tape. “Right here on my cheek. Now there’s nothing.”
“Lucky,” Aislin says. “Would’ve been hard to cover with makeup.” She slides open my closet doors. “Whoa. Primo robes. Can I steal one?”
I glance at the closet. My sketchbook is on the top shelf, barely visible. “Hey, can you get that down for me? My mother probably had someone stash it there.”
“Have I mentioned that your mother’s an ice-cold bitch?”
“I believe you may have mentioned that in passing, yes.” I hold up my cell phone. “At least she finally let me have my phone back. Charged and everything.”
Aislin stands on tiptoe and retrieves the sketchbook. She browses through the pages, holds one up for me to see.
“I love this guy. You’ve been working on him forever.”
“He’s a cartoon. He has no depth. No soul.”
“Screw depth.”
“I can’t get the eyes right.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But he’s got great lips.” She taps her chin with her index finger. “You know, he reminds me a little of what’s-his-name. So-hot.”
“Solo.”
“Needs a body, though. Your drawing, I mean. So-hot’s doing just fine in that department.” She smirks. “If you need suggestions, I can help you finish him. If you know what I mean.”
I ignore her. “Must be genetic. My dad never could do faces, either.”
“But he was a sculptor.”
“Sculpting, drawing. Same problems.” I stare out the window at the undulating hills wreathed in fog. “I remember once he tried to draw my mother. He was using oil pastels, I think. He gave up after a couple tries.”
“Must’ve been tough, capturing Satan on canvas.” Aislin places the sketchbook on my bedside table. “Hey, can you draw, anyway? With your arm all mummied up like that?”
“Nah.” I consider my crushed hand. “Although the way things are going, who knows?”
“So where’s the minibar?”
“There’s a fridge in that cabinet with sodas in it.”
Aislin pulls a flask from the back waistband of her shorts. Naturally, security only found the one in her purse: who carries more than one?
She takes a swig and holds the flask out to me. “Cough syrup?”
“You mean vodka?” I ask. I don’t want to show disapproval, I really don’t, because it bothers her when I do and it creates a barrier between us.
“Lemon vodka, cough syrup, who can tell the difference, really?” Aislin asks.
“I’m actually tempted,” I say. “But, no.”
“You’re on meds.”
“Plus I don’t really drink.”
“You’ve had beer.”
“Don’t get caught or my mother will ban you. And listen to me, Aislin: I’m all alone in here. I need you.”
She acts tough. But she gets tears in her eyes and gives me a hug. “Don’t worry, no one will keep me away from you,” she says. “Now, let’s go find Mr. Bashful. I’ll tell him you like him.”
“I will kill you if you say any such thing!”
“Yeah, right: You’re in a wheelchair. You’re not that scary.”
“There’s something else I want to show you first.”
Aislin steers me toward the door. “What is it?”
“I’m making my own male.”
She frowns. “Mail, like e-mail?”
“Male, like m-a-l-e.”
“You have my full attention, girl.”
– 13 –
SOLO
So. She has a friend. Not at all the kind of friend I would have expected.
Interesting.
I watch from the end of the hallway as Eve and Aislin head toward the elevator. Aislin’s pushing the wheelchair at full throttle. Eve is cracking up.
Man, she has a great laugh.
How to do this without being obvious? She’s not dumb, Eve, she’ll know I’m trying to get to know her if I just keep accidentally running into her.
I
do
need to know her, at least a little. Not as a girl, of course—although she is definitely, well, that. But that’s not really the point.
You’re so full of it, Solo. Of course that’s part of it. Why not be honest with yourself and admit that’s part of it?
Yes, okay, yes, you need to get to know her in order to decide whether she’s useful. But dude. Solo. Dude: That’s not all of it.
I decide to let it go. Let Eve and her friend have some time. I don’t need to push it right now. Plus I have work to do.
I watch them rolling away.
Damn.
I don’t like them being here. I’ve gotten along so far in life without so-called peers. I have some people I talk to online. Actual humans my own age, really not important.
And yet I almost can’t resist the magnetic pull as they head into the elevator.
The elevator doors slide shut. “Damn,” I say, resisting my desire to punch something.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s work, of course. It’s not like my twenty closest friends have my number. It’ll be someone needing a doughnut, or a rack of instruments run through the autoclave, or some forgotten thing fetched from a car in the parking lot. In theory it could be one of my online teachers, but that’s unlikely: I keep up with my work. It’s not a strain.
I check my screen. Tattooed Tommy wants a cappuccino and a poppy-seed bagel.
I groan, head to the elevator. I push “7” and I’m whisked to The Meld, the incredible space where the Big Brains hang out. It’s a vast open area—you could park a passenger jet in it—but it’s broken up into pods of moveable workstations. It’s like they took the cubicles from every boring office on earth—one wall, plus a desk and chair and all of that—and rigged them so they could be driven around.
Each workstation has an electric motor and four nylon wheels. They form into groups and they break apart and re-form into different groups. You never know where any of the individual Big Brains might be just by looking, but we have an app that shows current locations. I know, for example, that Tattooed Tommy, the crazy-smart biochemist from Berkeley, is at grid J-7.
In the kitchen, I grab the coffee cart. Caffeine in various forms, organic herbal tea, bagels, muffins, energy bars. This isn’t my job, but I don’t mind covering for the regular dude. There’s no better way to find out what’s going on than by being a peon everyone ignores. If you’re the coffee guy, it’s just assumed that you don’t understand anything you see on the computer screens, holographic displays, and even the occasional old-school chalkboard.
In a place filled with people who think of themselves as Big Brains, a guy dishing out fruit cups is invisible. No one notices when I seem to be checking e-mail on my phone, but I’m actually taking a picture or hitting the “record” voice memo button. I’ve got a pretty good memory, and that helps, too.
I pause and take a swig from my water bottle. Karen, one of the biochem research assistants, grabs a cheese Danish off my cart. “You get a promotion?” she asks.
I shrug, move on, keep my eyes open. It’s hard to steal data here, very hard. But not impossible.
My biggest problem: At Spiker Biopharm, we don’t do cloud.
It’s a security thing. Everyone uploads data to the cloud. That’s where people have their pictures, their tunes, their manuscripts, whatever. But Spiker isn’t “whatever,” so all Spiker data goes strictly to in-house servers.
No CD burners. No USB ports for thumb drives.
Which makes it very complicated for me to steal data. And yet …
There’s a file in the cloud. I’ve encrypted it so heavily the CIA couldn’t break in. People usually use a four- or five-character security code. My code is thirty-two characters long.
I comfort myself with this knowledge as I make my way toward Tommy.
“Bagel and a capp, right?” I ask.
He’s around thirty. Covered in tattoos, everywhere except his hands, neck, and his face. Even his forehead has the word “Pixies”—that’s an alt-rock band—in gothic script.
Tommy thinks of himself as a cool guy. He’s nice to me, in the condescending way that a person who’s always been the smartest guy in the room is nice to someone he sees as inferior.
“Poppy seed?” he asks.
“Poppy seed,” I confirm.
He takes the food, sighs, and shakes his head. “Hey, kid. Have you met the girl?”
I guess what girl he means, but I need to play dumb. “What girl?”
“The kid. The daughter. I don’t know her name.”
“You mean Evening Spiker? Yeah, I met her.”
He looks at me doubtfully. He’s judging whether I can answer his next question. He’s wondering whether even communicating with me is a waste of time.
“What’s the deal with her? She bright? Stupid? What?”