Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature

by Robin Brande

  “Which raises an interesting question,” Ms. Shepherd said, glancing over at the Back Turners. “Because if you don't believe in evolution, then you must not believe that diseases change over time. In which case, there would be no need for anyone to get new flu shots every year, because obviously if we've been vaccinated once, that should last forever, right?”

  “Brilliant,” Casey whispered.

  “Just something to think about,” Ms. Shepherd said. And then the bell rang.

  And I just sat there. I didn't want to move. I wanted to sit there and understand everything I'd just heard.

  Because I think until that moment, I was only sort of paying attention. I was treating biology like any other one of my classes—just something to learn so I could get a good grade and move on. I appreciated that Ms. Shepherd was making it fun and interesting, but it was still just a class.

  But as of today, I have to admit it: I have a crush on science.

  Can you love a thought? Can you love a concept?

  Not to be too dramatic, but when Ms. Shepherd explained that about the flu shot and about us all being freaks of nature, it was like something reached inside my chest and yanked on my soul. Like somebody opened up my head and shouted down into my brain, “Do you get it? Mena, are you listening?”

  It's just that it all makes sense. In the same way that God makes sense to me sometimes and I really think I can feel Him. I can see the order to things, His purpose behind them. I wish I felt that way more often—about God, I mean—but whenever I do, it's like someone has pumped up my heart with helium, and I can barely keep from floating off into space.

  I was still sitting there, all dreamy, when Casey said, “Library?”

  “Uh-huh.” Somehow I gathered up my books and followed him into the hall.

  Teresa and the others had already faded into the crowd. Another blessing. I walked along slowly next to Casey, savoring the buzzing in my ears.

  “So,” Casey said as we coasted along, “what did you think of Fellowship? Incredible, no?”

  “Huh? Oh, I didn't watch it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” I said, still happily ambling along. “Look, the truth is, I'm never going to watch it. My parents won't let me.”

  “Because?”

  And that's what snapped me back to reality.

  Seventeen

  How much do I really want Casey Connor to know about my life? You want to be able to pick and choose the good parts—the parts that make you look as little like a freak as possible (no matter what Ms. Shepherd says about the freaks inheriting the earth)—and keep all the other ones to yourself.

  But on the other hand, how can you make friends with someone if you don't let him in a little? So there I was, Moment of Decision, and Casey was giving me his usual skeptical/inquisitive/semi-amused sort of look, and it just came out.

  “Sorcery.”

  “Sorcery,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  He squinted at me and waited for further developments.

  “Lord of the Rings has wizards, right?”

  “Yes,” Casey said. “That it does.”

  “Well, my parents don't approve of stories about magic and sorcery and stuff.”

  “Because …”

  I took a deep breath. Here it was, the line I was crossing over, and Casey would either laugh in my face or—or I didn't know what.

  “Because sorcery is from the devil.”

  “Of course,” Casey said, without a hint of sarcasm.

  Emboldened, I said, “And we don't glorify the devil in our household.”

  “Unlike the way we do in mine. Midnight sacrifices and bloodshakes and all that.”

  “I'm serious.” I glanced at Margo Alden going by. She'd know exactly what I was talking about. Her mother once confiscated The Littlest Witch from Margo's backpack and made the school librarian remove it from the shelves.

  “So let me guess,” Casey said. “You have also failed to read Harry Potter.”

  I nodded.

  Casey collapsed against the nearest wall like he'd been shot. “Must … get … help. …”

  He didn't care that people were staring, but I certainly did. That's all I need is to draw more attention to myself. “Thanks a lot.” I set off in a huff.

  Casey blocked my way. “Come on, Mena, you can't be serious. You actually buy all that?”

  “Buy what? That my parents would kill me if they caught me watching any of those movies or reading Harry Potter?“

  “No, that whole devil and sorcery stuff. Come on— we actually live in modern times. Telephones, cable, penicillin—”

  “Forget it,” I said, but I noticed I kept walking with him. I probably should have just said goodbye and let him go on his way. He's never going to understand.

  “There's nothing satanic about Lord of the Rings, or Harry Potter, for that matter. Good triumphs over evil— what's more American than that?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Enjoy them.”

  “What if I let you watch it at my house?”

  We stopped just outside the library doors. “First of all, there's no way my parents will ever let me go to your house—”

  “Have you asked them?”

  “No. And second, I would never do something behind their backs like that—”

  “Oh, so you've never lied to your parents?”

  “No. I happen to prefer the truth.”

  “So this thing,” Casey said, waving his hand, “this thing you're grounded for life for—what's that all about, Little Miss Can-Do-No-Wrong?”

  Considering how little respect he had shown for the whole anti-sorcery thing, there's no way I was telling him the other stuff. “None of your business.”

  “None of my business because it's so terrible I'll be shocked you could do such a thing? Or none of my business because it's another one of these bizarre no-wizards-for-Mena kinds of things? Wait, let me guess—does it involve elves?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Very persuasive,” Casey said. He gave me a little bow and opened the door for me.

  And that's what's so irritating about him. One minute he's all over me, making me feel like an idiot, and the next he's being all gentlemanly and nice, helping me scrape my books off the floor or holding doors for me or whatever. He'd probably laugh in my face if I told him about the whole Denny Pierce thing, and then buy me a bouquet of roses.

  “Can we please just drop this?” I whispered as we entered.

  “Of course. Provided you show up at my house this afternoon so we can both get our A's. And I can get my name on Ms. Shepherd's website.”

  “Forget it. I can't.”

  “Have you even asked your parents?”

  “There's no point.”

  Casey pulled out his cell phone. “Try.”

  I swear, that guy is so annoying. “I can't call from in here.”

  “Then let's go outside.”

  “You're really a pig.”

  “Thank you kindly. Now let's go.”

  Out we went again, into the hall. “I have my own phone, thank you.” I punched in my parents’ office number. It was all so pointless.

  “Mom?” My voice cracked a little. I hadn't really prepared myself. “Um … hi.”

  “What is it, Mena. I'm on the other line.”

  “Great. Um, I have this project due in … in biology? And my lab partner—you know, Casey?—wants me to work on it after school.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  Casey gave me an “I told you so” smirk. As if I needed that.

  “Okay,” I told my mom, not believing my good luck. “Thanks.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “Um, Casey, can your mom drive me home?”

  He nodded.

  “Casey's mom will take me.”

  “Fine,” my mother said. “Have her come in when she drops you off.” I could tell she was trying to rush me off the phone.

  “Casey's m
om?”

  “No, Casey. Be home for dinner. Bye.” And she hung up.

  And I had to stand there for a moment, the phone still at my ear, processing what she said.

  Have her come in when she drops you off.

  Casey's mom?

  No, Casey.

  Oh. No.

  Hadn't I said Casey was a boy? Hadn't I called him a he? Maybe I didn't. Maybe I'd never said it once.

  Let me be clear: I know my parents’ feelings on this. They are beyond freaked over the idea that someday I might meet some boy who isn't a good Christian, and I'll be drugged or just swept away by hormones, and I'll go back to his place and have sex (they don't even deal with the unprotected part—it's the sex that horrifies them), and then I'll be ruined for my eventual husband, who'll expect me to be a virgin on our wedding night.

  I know this because they've only lectured me about a million times. As has Pastor Wells. As has the youth minister. Everyone in my youth group understands what's required here, even though Adam Ridgeway spent a good deal of effort one night trying to convince me otherwise.

  So that's why I knew I should call my mom back right away and confess. I couldn't let her believe something false. In fact, not telling her the truth was the same as lying.

  But it's not like anything bad was going to happen. Casey's just a friend—not even that—he's just my lab partner.

  “So she said okay?” Casey asked.

  I nodded slowly. “She said okay.”

  Eighteen

  Casey's neighborhood isn't like mine. Mine is all new and two-story and cookie-cutter, and the only way you know it's your house is by the number and any lawn or porch art you feel like putting out there. We have a black wrought-iron bench to the left of our door. Whoo-hoo.

  But the houses in Casey's neighborhood look like ones you see on old reruns—single-story brick, with old, huge trees everywhere. Some of the lawns are pretty ratty, and there are bikes lying on their sides where kids left them, and basketball hoops in driveways, and all these personal, homey touches you'd never get away with in my subdivision. If you had a car with a flat tire out front or an even slightly brown lawn, forget it—the home owners association people would be all over you.

  The front of Casey's house is nothing great—just a gravel driveway and a few planters with some flowers— but inside. Inside.

  I don't know if I've ever seen a more beautiful home. And I've been in some really expensive places—like Bethany's house—but those are pretty in a manufactured way. All the furniture is new and you can tell it cost a lot, and everything matches and the cushions are placed just so—the kind of house where you're afraid to sit on anything because you might wrinkle it or leave a butt mark.

  But walking into Casey's house was like walking into a forest. Seriously. The whole place was wood this, plant that. Huge bookcases on almost every wall, filled floor to ceiling with books. Bushy trees growing from pots. Wooden tables and stools, a wood-frame couch, and these low, big-armed chairs with cushions that didn't match but went perfectly together.

  I just stood inside the doorway, staring. “Wow. This is really—”

  “Yeah, my mom did all of it.”

  “What, the decorating?”

  “Yeah, and she made all the furniture. All of it. Even the lamps and that bowl over there.”

  “Wow, is that like her job?”

  “Nah, just a hobby. She's really an architect.”

  It didn't seem cool to say, but the most I've ever made for our house is a macramé plant hanger. Oh, and a pot holder. I can't imagine putting together a whole couch from scratch.

  “Come meet your test subjects.” Casey led me through the kitchen. It had dark wood cabinets, a pale wood floor, a big rag rug, fruit and bread and spices and a coffeepot on the counter—a kitchen that looked like people actually ate there, as opposed to ours, which is all white and glass and stainless steel and perfectly clean and perfectly cold.

  “Out here.” Casey opened a door at the side of the kitchen, and we stepped into the darkened garage. He flicked on the light, and there they were.

  Let me just say, I understand my mother's position. She likes a clean house. She likes order. I gave up long ago trying to talk her into having a pet. “Muddy footprints,” she'd say, or “Mena, think of the hair everywhere!”

  But looking at those twelve sweet little black faces, and the twenty-four paws propped on the edge of the playpen, and the tails wagging like crazy, and the little barks calling, “Pick me! Pick me!” it was hard to justify not bringing every single one of them home.

  “Oh my gosh, Casey.”

  “I know.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Six weeks. Don't you love them?”

  And he was exactly right.

  I don't think I realized until that moment what it was really like to be in love. I actually had to press my hand against my heart to keep it from leaping right out of my chest. “Can I hold one?”

  “Sure.”

  I picked up the puppy right at the center of the bunch.

  “That one's Christmas,” Casey said. “She's a sweetheart.”

  “Christmas?”

  “Yeah, see how they all have different-colored ribbons around their necks? That's to tell them apart. We call them by their colors until someone buys them and gives them a real name. We ran out of regular, so we had to use leftover Christmas ribbon for her.”

  “Christmas.” I snuggled her against my chest. She yawned and licked my chin. I almost started crying. That was it—completely, madly in love.

  “How many have you sold?” I asked.

  “Four. One of the girls—Lily over there—and three of the boys. You want one?”

  Sure, break my heart, why don't you? “I can't. My parents won't let me.”

  “Too bad. They're going to be great dogs. Abbey's last litter turned out two search-and-rescue dogs and three handicap companions. You can already tell these ones'll be just as smart. Which is why I propose them as our science project. Come on—want to take them out?”

  Two by two—one in each arm—we carried a dozen black Lab puppies out of the garage into Casey's grassy backyard, where the puppies immediately began to roll around and run and tumble over each other and experiment with their sharp little puppy teeth on each other's tails and floppy ears.

  I was so mesmerized, I didn't see Casey's mom come out.

  “Honey, did you offer your friend a snack?” she asked.

  “Not yet.” And he introduced us.

  She was a taller, prettier version of Casey, with that same ivory skin and dark curly hair piled in a scrunchy on top of her head. She had dark blue eyes just like Casey's, too.

  And looked about a million years younger than my mom. She wore jeans with black slides and an oversized denim workshirt. And no makeup. My mother would die before she let anyone see her like that.

  Mrs. Connor extended her hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Mena. C's told us a lot about you.”

  “C?”

  Casey said, “I'm C, Kayla's K. Otherwise you have to wait until the second syllable to know who's being yelled at.”

  “That's right,” his mother said. “I'm always yelling. You kids hungry?”

  I nodded, but mostly I was still puzzling over the whole “C's told us a lot about you.” Like what? He's only known me a week. I sure haven't gotten around to mentioning him to my parents. Not that that's a huge surprise. They'd probably schedule a parent-teacher with Ms. Shepherd and demand she assign me to a girl.

  “I'll watch the babies,” Mrs. Connor told Casey. “I need a break anyway. There might still be some lasagna in the fridge.”

  I wasn't anxious to let go of Christmas, but lasagna did sound awfully good. Another lunch period in the library had left me semi-starved.

  We went through the sliding glass doors back into the living room. “There's some pizza, too,” Mrs. Connor called after us.

  “I love your house,” I told Casey, and I wasn't enti
rely talking about the place. I loved that there was pizza and lasagna. I loved that the whole house smelled like wood and books and felt like a place you could really relax. I loved that Casey's mom actually talked like a real person to us instead of the fake way my mother talks to my friends—”And how was school? And how are your parents? Be sure to tell them I said hi.” Like anyone actually tells someone hi.

  I followed Casey to the kitchen. “Your mom's really pretty.”

  “Thanks.” He seemed sort of embarrassed by the compliment. He opened the fridge and pulled out a casserole dish.

  “Is it all right if I look around?” I asked.

  “Help yourself. Don't try to take anything—we have hidden cameras.”

  While Casey warmed up lasagna in the microwave, I wandered back into the living room. Okay, I admit it—to snoop. You can tell a lot about somebody by the little things they leave around.

  Like the pictures on the mantel. There were a bunch with Casey at various ages and a girl I assumed was his sister. They looked almost identical, except she was a little taller. There were a few pictures with Mrs. Connor and a guy I assumed was their father. Obviously Casey and his sister got their hair from their mother, since their dad's was this thin, wispy reddish blond.

  “He died,” Casey said matter-of-factly. I turned to find him carrying in our plates.

  “Who?”

  “My father. It was really sad. You want some milk?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “I'll be right back.” Casey disappeared into the kitchen before I could think of something better to say.

  But you have to say something, right? So when he came back I went with the usual, “I'm really sorry.”

  “It wasn't your fault.” He handed me my milk. “Want anything else?”

  “No, but—”

  “So, the project,” Casey interrupted, sinking onto the couch.

  Okay, so obviously he didn't want to talk about it. I can take a hint. I stopped trying to console him and sat on one of the cushy chairs.

  “We only have the litter for about two more weeks,” Casey said, “so we need to get on this right away. If you agree.” He shoveled in a forkful of lasagna.