“Maya,” she said, ignoring my news, “I asked you if you thought it was appropriate to continue the experiment, and I’m going to ask again. We’ve talked about what happened, sort of. We talked about it clinically. But we didn’t talk about the aftermath.”
“I logged in all my temperatures after the serum. I wrote up all the physical changes.”
“Yes, but I’m speaking of your qualitative observations days after the experiment. I have to ask—how is Kyle? I saw you guys in lab today. You weren’t interacting like you used to.”
The truth was that Kyle was fine; he just didn’t want to deal with me. The awkwardness had improved in the two weeks since our evening together, but only enough to make us functional. We’d managed to bond over Ann when she dashed through the lab wearing thick, dark pants and her leather jacket on an eighty-degree day.
“How is she not sweating?” I had whispered before turning back to my work.
“Vampires don’t sweat,” Kyle responded, and we grinned at each other like we used to.
I had reveled in the normalcy of the moment, but the status quo had not been fully restored. On the one night we’d taken a whiff walk, he rushed through the experience, claiming he was starving and that we needed to hurry up and get to dinner. The normal parts of dinner weren’t really normal. At the skewers place, he barely ate. Yael seemed oblivious and filled the gaps in the conversation with talk about an ex-girlfriend who’d recently posted old pictures of one of their trips to a beach in Tel Aviv to her Facebook profile.
“Who does this?” Yael had asked us. “Why would you post a picture of your ex-girlfriend from six years ago on your Facebook page?”
“You’re still Facebook friends with your ex?” Kyle asked.
“No!” Yael shouted, prompting the table behind them to look our way. “I de-friended her years ago. Her profile is public.”
“Why are you looking?” Kyle asked.
“Because she’s my ex-girlfriend. You’re telling me you don’t google your ex-girlfriends? Maya, you’re telling me you don’t google Whit?”
“We all do things we shouldn’t do, but the point is, we shouldn’t do them,” I muttered.
Yael mumbled what I assumed was a Hebrew swear word and looked down at her plate.
After dinner, Kyle bailed again. “You guys go ahead—I just need to check on something back in the lab,” he said, and left us.
“What do you think that was about?” I asked Yael as we watched him run.
“A girl, I think,” Yael said, shrugging. “A few days ago, when he told me he had to ‘chat with someone from another lab,’ it turned out he had hooked up with one of the techs from next door—the one who wears those sleeveless turtlenecks. He admitted it the next day.”
“He hooked up with her?” I was surprised by the rage in my voice.
It wasn’t just that he had hooked up with Turtleneck Girl, it was that he had told Yael about it and not me. Also, if he was capable of hooking up with other people, then I shouldn’t have to be up at night worrying about how we’d ruined our friendship.
“Whatever. He can do whatever he wants,” I said before Yael could speak.
I didn’t want to explain any of my confusion about Kyle to Ann, who was now waiting for me to make a case to continue. I needed to downplay any negatives.
“The thing is,” I started, thinking of a way to sum up the aftermath of the tests so that Ann would allow me to continue the project, “it’s awkward because Kyle and I are friends, and then we kissed. But what happened between him and me . . . it’s not relevant to our project, and really, that won’t be a concern with the next two subjects.”
Ann arched one of her brows.
“Maybe I should have picked a different subject,” I admitted. “Maybe Kyle and I had become too close. I also should have stopped that kiss. It was just late, and I was confused, I guess.”
Ann placed the soda can she’d retrieved from the kitchen on the short bookshelf next to the couch. I noticed that she owned a copy of The Dispossessed, which was a staple of my mother’s collection.
“Did my mom give you that book?” I asked.
“Which one?” Ann asked.
“The Dispossessed. It was one of her favorites. We have two copies at home.”
She cleared her throat. “I bought it at a used bookstore after your mom died. I knew she liked it. I haven’t read it yet.”
“I tried to read it when I was in high school, but I couldn’t get through it. It’s weird; I sort of don’t like reading science fiction. Maybe that’s a bad sign. My mom loved it, which I find odd, because most sci-fi doesn’t make much sense when you think about the science. I mean, she even loved time-travel books. She loved teleportation books, even though she could tell you why it would never be possible.”
“Maya,” Ann said, clearing her throat and eyeing the One Direction binder, which sat on the other side of the couch, “you’re the one choosing these subjects. We didn’t talk about your feelings for them and how this experiment might affect your life.”
“I didn’t think it would,” I admitted. “I mean, my feelings for Kyle are what they’ve always been. He and Yael are, like, my closest friends now, if you don’t count Bryan.”
Ann nodded. “I ask this without judgment, Maya, and I’m treating you like a real colleague—like your mother would have treated me—so please don’t be offended when I ask, why did you reciprocate with Kyle? Why do you think that happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said, because really, I didn’t. “It’s like I said in my notes—I felt physically altered. My temperature was up. I was flushed just like him. It was almost like I was responding to his pheromones too, like my body knew we were suddenly a match. I wish my mom were here, because I’d ask her to get more specific about whether she believed the serum affected the person taking it.”
“I wish your mom were here too.”
I watched Ann as she pulled a stray thread from her sweatshirt. Her eyes were glassy.
“It must be hard for you without Mom,” I said.
It was the same statement that was often directed at me. Must be hard. I knew there was no good answer.
Ann smiled.
“She was a good friend and an incredible mentor. She’s the reason I chose MIT. Dr. Araghi is trying to work with me, but it’s not like it was. I just have to figure out where to go from here. I really thought I’d have a career with your mom.”
I placed the grilled-cheese plate on the coffee table and pulled a yellow couch pillow onto my lap.
“I wish I had known her like you did. I mean, we were really close. But I didn’t know her like a real friend. I wish I had known the person who did all of this.” I pointed to the binder, to the experiment. “She never seemed like someone who would have done secret research. I wish I could have known her as that kind of person.”
“You weren’t supposed to know her like I knew her,” Ann said in the flat tone I was learning not to take too personally. “She was your mother, not your friend or colleague. You knew her as you should. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Our parents are our parents.”
She shook her head before I could respond.
“I’d like you to consider your own mindset as you document your findings, Maya. Spend the weekend writing out some more detailed thoughts about the variables that could have been at play with Subject One before, during, and after the serum. It’s relevant, at least to me. I want you to get more specific about what changed that night.”
I nodded.
“As for this second subject, I’ll need to begin that serum soon. We need to stick to our calendar. Once we hit mid-August, the lab is going to be crowded with the kind of people who notice when something is missing.”
“Do we even have to do the second subject?” I tested. “Can’t we just move on to Whit?”
Ann stood up and brought our plates to the kitchen. I followed her and stood in the doorway as she washed dishes.
“It seems to me that the second subject is even more important now,” she said over the running water. “It turns out you were unclear about the nature of your relationship with your first subject. I think it’s important to try this with a stranger, someone with whom you share almost no emotional history.”
I nodded, knowing that my desire to skip the second step was about impatience, not science. Whit hadn’t checked in since the run-in at Bryan’s performance on the Common.
“I have a pretty good Subject Two,” I said. “A perfect test case. No emotional bond at all on either side. No potential for weird aftermath. He’ll leave town in a few weeks.”
“And you have access to this person’s DNA?” Ann asked.
I brought out my backpack and removed a plastic bag, which held Asher’s jacket.
“It’s on his jacket, which was in my bedroom.”
Ann’s eyebrows arched again.
“It’s not like that. This guy has never been in my bedroom. He’s a friend of Bryan’s who let me borrow his jacket, and I brought it home, but I swear, there’s no bond there. I just keep forgetting to return the jacket. The guy is in the play with Bryan this summer. He knows me as Bryan’s sidekick.”
“Sounds good,” Ann said, just before letting out a yawn. “Let me drive you home.”
“You have a car?”
“I told you, my parents are well off. I don’t use it much, but it’s late.”
“I’m fine to walk,” I said.
“It’s after ten. Your mother wouldn’t want me to let you wander around Central Square by yourself.”
“I’m out this late all the time,” I said, groaning like I used to with my mom. Ann was basically the same age as Yael, but she acted so much older. I followed Ann as she slid on sandals and left the apartment with her keys. I was both annoyed and somewhat comforted that I was in the presence of an overprotective-parent type. It had been a while since I’d been policed.
We were mostly silent on the ride back, trading yawns over the voices on public radio. When she pulled up to Gardenwood, I could barely keep my eyes open.
As I fiddled with my keys in front of the house, I could hear her motor running, waiting for me to get safely inside.
This time when I checked my email before bed, there was a third message from Whit, with a new subject line that said Another super awkward message.
I let out a laugh and opened it, less scared to read one of his notes now that I’d survived seeing him in person.
Hey, it was nice to see your dad, and Bryan was great, it said. It was also nice to see your face. Please let me know if we’re allowed to get coffee like humans. If it’s too much, I understand, but it would be nice to hang out.—W.
I hit reply.
Soon, I wrote. I just have to figure out some stuff and then I think I’ll be ready.
He responded within seconds, the new message popping up in bold. Great. It would mean a lot.
Okay, I wrote back.
Great, he responded again before I had time to breathe.
I shut the computer down then, forcing myself to quit while I was ahead.
16
The Boston Shakespeare Project had a big private party midway through its summer run. The expensive celebration was called the Midsummer Soiree.
Unlike the group’s official fundraising events, where actors were expected to work the room, charming donors, the Soiree was the cast’s chance to drink too much and let loose.
The teens in the Junior Barders program had no business being invited to the festivities—if their parents knew what happened at the event, they’d probably sue—but the kids were welcomed every year and managed to keep everyone’s misdeeds a secret.
Bryan first brought me to the Midsummer party during his second Junior Barders summer, when he was King Oberon. I was surprised to see that he had not exaggerated the scale of the event; it was, as promised, the most over-the-top fete I’d ever seen.
The hosts of the annual affair were Bradley and Nicholas Epstein, a local couple who gave tons of money to theaters around town. They lived in a colonial historic home off Centre Street in Jamaica Plain, steps from a historic community theater, which was also on their list of beneficiaries.
This year’s party was already packed when Bryan and I arrived at seven. We could see bodies through the windows and hear Beyoncé playing from the street. Bryan clapped his hands as we approached the front door. “Look!” he shouted. “It’s happening!”
I followed his eyes and spotted the top of a tent that had been set up in the backyard. I couldn’t even begin to guess what Bradley and Nicholas had done to the house for the affair this year.
Last summer, they’d decorated all the rooms to resemble different Shakespeare productions. There was a cauldron in the kitchen with catering staffers dressed up like witches for Macbeth, and a Tempest tent out back that had a wind machine and sprinklers. That last feature became too popular with the drunk guests, and by the end of the night, they had ripped the plastic down and were using it like a Slip ’N Slide.
“Think this party will have a theme?” I asked as we made our way through the door. “How would they decorate the house like All’s Well That Ends Well?”
“It could be . . . something Parisian. Or Italian.”
“I still don’t understand the point of this play.”
“It’s not about the point; it’s about the story.”
“Nothing really happens.”
“You weren’t paying attention, then.”
I wore a loose sundress, which Bryan said looked like a bag with flowers on it. Maybe so, but that would be better for the experiment.
“Remember, you are the control,” I had whispered to myself in the mirror before we left, allowing myself some Vaseline on my lips and one stroke of mascara on each eye, which was all that had been on my face the last two times I’d seen Asher.
Once inside, Bryan slammed the front door harder than he intended to, and then the Epsteins’ dog was on us, barking wildly and hopping up on our knees.
“Rita!” a man yelled, running after her. “Rita! No. No, girl.”
The fuzzy terrier stopped and barked at me twice, its eyes full of so much rage I retreated until my back was against the door.
“Rita,” the man commanded again, causing the dog to spin around to face its master.
They stared at each other then, like they were having some sort of silent conversation. Then Rita ran away, her head down in shame, as if she had been sent to her room.
“Hello, hello, come in,” the man said after Rita’s departure. “Nick Esptein. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
“Well, she’s a dog,” I said.
Nick glared at me for a second, like I had insulted him.
“We slammed the door too hard. I’m sure it upset her,” I added.
“Well, she knows better,” Nick said.
Bryan stepped in front of me. “I don’t know if you remember me—I’m Bryan Russo, one of the Junior Barders, and this is my friend Maya.”
“Of course! The fairy king! And now Parolles!” Nick pronounced the character name in a French accent. Or maybe Italian. I couldn’t tell. “We’re big fans. Welcome, welcome. The other Junior Barders are out back. Ignore the adult debauchery in the living room.”
We followed him through the house to get to the backyard, passing the living room, where I could see a pack of adults smoking something in a circle.
I also spotted what appeared to be a new hand-painted antique piano in the corner of the room. The Epsteins kept their place looking like a museum and added to their collection of antique musical objects every year. Bryan tugged on my hand to make sure I was keeping up. Nick stopped when we got to the kitchen, where a man in a tie and sport coat, whom I recognized as Bradley Epstein, inspected a tray of stuffed mushrooms on the counter. Behind them, the actor who played the clown poured whiskey into a tumbler.
“Bryan!”
Th
e piercing voice of Kimberly Katz was unmissable, especially because she was shouting and perhaps already drunk.
She came into the kitchen from a sliding-glass door that opened into the backyard. She wore a sundress similar to mine, but hers fit better because she was taller. Mine went to my ankles, but seeing hers, I realized it was probably supposed to hit midcalf. I tried to correct my posture, suddenly feeling like a toadstool.
“Maya,” Kimberly said, reaching her hands to my shoulders and straightening my dress, “you look adorable.”
“You guys look like twins,” Bryan said, eyeing the red and yellow flowers that covered both our dresses. I glared at him.
“Come outside. There’s croquet. And everything’s French!” Kimberly grabbed Bryan’s hand, and he followed.
“I knew it! Come!” he yelled back to me. I followed until I got to the patio, where I spotted my subject.
Asher sat on the back porch, sipping something clear from a tumbler glass. I sat down next to him and took one of the plastic champagne flutes that were lined up on the table.
“What is this?” I asked, taking a sip. It tasted a little like my dad’s spiked grape-juice concoction, but it was pink.
“They’re calling it Puck’s Potion or something, but I think it’s just wine and soda water,” he said.
“It tastes like cough syrup, but sort of in a good way,” I said.
Only one drink, I told myself. More than that, and I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my reason for being there.
I’d spent days dropping the second serum under my tongue, and I figured that the fate of the second phase of the experiment rested on this night. The party might be my only chance to see Asher, at least offstage. He’d probably pack up and get out of town as soon as he was finished with the last Barders performance, which was only a week away.
“These guys must be so rich. This place is crazy,” he said. His eyes were on the pack of Junior Barders who were attempting to start a game of croquet on the lawn.
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