A month before graduation, Marella pulls up outside her house and honks her horn.
“What are you doing here?” Bird asks, climbing in the passenger side in her pajama shorts and bunny slippers.
“Saving you from morbid reflections?” Marella says, and flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her makeup is smudged in a particular way that makes Bird wait.
“So, I’m sure it will be hard for you to contain your shock, but —”
“Sarah broke up with you?”
Marella’s lips twist into a hard smile. “I did it this time. For good, Bird. I can’t deal with it anymore, her always wondering what her mom will say and going on and on about that stupid waiting list for stupid Cornell, like her life will end if she doesn’t go to an Ivy. Is my life so small? Am I really only ever going to be that girl who married her high school sweetheart, because if so, I might as well die here. It’ll make a better story.”
“Congratulations?”
Marella touches her thumbs to her forefingers and closes her eyes in a Zen exhale. “Thank you. I had to come here because I couldn’t stop shaking. I still love her a little, but I’m sure it’ll pass.”
“Do you want to come inside? I wouldn’t mind some distraction from my morbid reflections myself.”
Marella’s eyes fly open. “Bird, I didn’t really mean, marrying your high school sweetheart — it would be different if I were madly in love with her.”
“He’s not my sweetheart, whatever he is.”
Marella nods slowly. “I was thinking of the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Ocean City? No, Rehoboth is prettier. Good ice cream. What do you say?”
“Right now? It’s after five.”
“I’ll buy the gas.”
Bird starts laughing. He’d love this. Her mother will hate it. And why not? “Wait here. I’ll get my suit. And, uh, some shoes.”
“Get one for me too, will you?”
“I think you’ve got several inches on me in the upper registers.”
“Then I will make some lifeguard very happy, won’t I? Hurry up, if we leave now we can get there before sunset.”
They drive with the windows down, singing Rihanna and Aretha Franklin and P!nk and Gladys Knight. They talk and laugh and eat ice cream on the boardwalk in their bikinis and not once do they mention the boy and the girl they’re both thinking about. It’s a game they play, to pretend that other kind of love doesn’t matter until, for a magical moment, it doesn’t.
* * *
The news breaks the day she gets her late acceptance letter from Stanford.
V-flu proven to be in development in US labs years before terrorist attack, reads one headline on her Twitter feed.
US Scientists Developed So-Called “Venezuelan” Flu, reads another.
And then, the punch: Exclusive: CIA whistleblower David Franklin speaks from undisclosed location in São Paulo about botched counterterror op.
Bird knows even before she clicks the link. Roosevelt sits in an armchair in a hotel room, talking to an unseen camera operator about why he decided to leak the documents that reveal US government responsibility for the worst flu pandemic in over a century.
“People were dying,” Roosevelt says, leaning forward. His face is a mask of sincerity. His shoe-polish eyes are shining. “And only I, and a few other people, knew why. I knew that America, the city on the hill, an example to the rest of the world, couldn’t continue down this path and remain the great country that I know it is. Bioterrorism is the issue of our time, and we need to have a responsible, and honest, conversation about it. I cared more about telling the world these truths than my career or my safety.”
Except that his career was ruined and his safety had probably been in serious doubt. And yet — she checks — it’s all there. The unequal distribution of the vaccine, the development of the long incubation period by US scientists, its deployment during drone strikes. He claims that Venezuelan spies stole the virus, but FBI operatives were aware of this and let the plot continue before losing control of it at the crucial moment.
Bird very much doubts anyone in Venezuela ever laid eyes on their so-called v-flu, but even with this lie she can’t deny the overwhelming good of Roosevelt’s disclosures. His motives are unmistakably self-serving, but for once she has a reason to be grateful to him.
She grabs her phone and runs downstairs, scrolling for Bao’s number. She plans to drive straight to his office, but stops short on the doorstep: A camera crew is waiting at the end of the driveway.
“Young lady?” A woman in a pencil skirt and fitted jacket, someone Bird recognizes from one of the cable news networks, hurries forward with a microphone. “Are your parents home?”
Bird is wearing short-shorts and a Cowboy Bebop T-shirt. Her hair needs a comb. This is how she will debut on national television. Her parents have been gone for a week in another undisclosed location, and she realizes that Roosevelt has complicated her life. Again.
“No,” she says, and slams the door.
* * *
Bao tells her that he’s “in discussions” and she shouldn’t contact him again. He promises he’ll get in touch if something changes. The news crews come and go, then descend in force when her parents arrive back home four days after the story breaks. They have been put on administrative leave, “just until this nonsense blows over,” her mother says. “I told them they were playing with fire to release the virus like that. But the work we did on the protein coding” — she looks wistful — “was some of our best.”
With all the dirty laundry finally airing, Bird spends days locked in the house with her parents that are not as unbearable as she had feared. They can talk now, she discovers, in a way that hadn’t been possible in that web of secrets. She remembers what Coffee said: Scientists learn about the world. It takes governments to use that knowledge for good or bad ends.
But still: “Why don’t you guys work for someone else?” she asks. “Why not something more benign than CIA contracting?”
Greg Bird glances nervously at his wife, who purses her lips and then sighs. She looks at her daughter differently these days. Like someone she has to respect instead of control.
“I’ve been considering that, Emily. There’s even a possibility of a university position for your father.”
“Not if this scandal keeps up,” Greg mutters.
But the spotlight moves from the scientists — who, the editorial board of the Washington Post argued, were hardly responsible — to the FBI and CIA. Antiwar protestors occupy the National Mall (and the Pentagon parking lot for twelve very tense hours). The antiwar fire catches all over the world, particularly in countries that have deployed their own military in the US-led offensive. The director of the FBI resigns. In the background of the press conference announcing the nomination of his replacement, she sees the man she only knew as Donovan.
Her parents return to work; Bird returns to her last two weeks of high school. She falls asleep with her phone, but she doesn’t hear from Bao.
She graduates the same week that a special prosecutor is appointed to investigate presidential involvement in the secret bioweapons initiative. Rumors of impeachment are thicker than pollen in the late DC spring. Her parents come back home and watch her accept a diploma in a white dress. Charlotte gets an award for community service; Marella gets ones for English and Spanish and history. When they read out the chemistry award, she’s not the only one who winces. The Bradley winner hoists the white-wrapped present above his head and chants “Coffee” at the top of his lungs. The others take it up until the teachers wave them silent again.
“He was never that popular when he was here,” Bird whispers to Marella.
“Being a fugitive and a missing person does wonders for your rep.”
Felice comes in a wheelchair, looking remarkably healthy given the rumors. She’s cut her hair into a twenties-style bob that looks good on her. Bird says hi out of obligation and guilt, but Felice only raises a pe
ncil-thin eyebrow and ignores her.
After the photos and the congratulations, Bird and Marella and Charlotte sit together on the edge of the rose garden fountain. The tea roses smell like a different world from school, even in sight of that old building. They make her think of English gardens and French pastries.
“I’m going to the travel agency tomorrow,” Marella says. “Life is too short to spend it worrying about school.”
“London, Paris,” Bird says, smiling.
“I think I’m just going to stick close to home for now,” Charlotte says. “My dad needs me. But maybe in the fall, wherever you are …”
“I promise, I’ll want to see you. So you’re going to Stanford, Bird?”
“I don’t know,” she says. She’s beginning to think that even Roosevelt’s miracle won’t bring him back. That they’ll enforce the deal out of spite. Or maybe he just doesn’t want her anymore.
“Call me when you decide,” Marella says.
* * *
Bird spends too much time on blogs, because they pay more attention to the details of the v-flu scandal than any mainstream newspaper. She prefers the left-wing ones, because while the conspiracy theories make her laugh (US republicans wanted it released in California to decimate the democratic base, for example), they’re the closest she can get to having an argument with Coffee. She posts occasionally under a pseudonym, getting into debates that pass long, insomniac hours. She sometimes even finds the counterarguments convincing.
And two days after graduation, Bird finds a strange message in the comment threads of several blog posts.
Always. In the immortal words of Stevie Wonder: “Change your words into truth and then change that truth into love and maybe our children’s grandchildren and their great-grandchildren will tell.”
There’s a street in São Paulo with a vacant storefront just large enough for a coffee shop. Or maybe a bookstore?
Head shop?
Just kidding.
It disappears from most of them quickly — off-topic, vaguely spammy, invalid email address.
But it’s enough.
She runs down the stairs and nearly collides with her father, leaving his office. “Emily,” he says, and stops.
“Dad,” she says, “Dad, I’m going to leave.”
“Not Stanford, I take it.” Bird whirls around at the sound of her mother’s voice. Her arms are crossed.
Bird shakes her head. She wants to run away from her, hide forever.
“Where, then? Don’t tell me you’re planning to run feral with that new friend of yours.”
“São Paulo,” she says.
“The dealer!”
But she doesn’t have to hide, not inside herself, not in her mother’s projected image, not ever again. Her mother takes a step toward her and raises her hand. She will slap me, Bird thinks, but it won’t matter.
But she doesn’t. “Call us,” she says. “So we know you’re safe. I’ll miss you.”
The funny thing is, Bird believes her.
She walks outside. Then she calls Bao.
“He left me a message,” she says.
“I know.”
“Is it safe?”
He sighs. “I can’t say much over the phone, but you know it isn’t.”
She knows: Roosevelt waiting for her in Brazil; the very slight, very important lies in his skin-saving leaks.
“But they won’t kill us.”
“I can’t offer you absolutes, Bird. It’s safer to stay where you are. Safer for him.”
“And he knows that?”
He snorts and she hears the smile in his voice. “Oh, he knows.”
So he has given her a choice. Stay away and live without the government’s cold shadow. Or take this chance, come for him, and live with the danger. Because together, she and Coffee will never be safe.
“I should stay away from him. For his own good.”
“You should,” Bao agrees. “But I — well, good luck.” He hangs up. Bird stares at the screen of her phone until she gets a text message from Marella.
Just bought a one-way to Paris.
And Bird types:
Coming with you, babe. But we need to stop somewhere first.
Marella calls. “Bird, oh my God, Bird, did he —”
“São Paulo,” she says, laughing and crying. “London, Paris, São Paulo.”
* * *
When I get to São Paulo, he will meet me at the airport, holding words instead of roses. We will tell each other stories of how we spent long months without each other’s company. We will laugh about our parents and say unkind words about our governments and look into each other’s eyes like the stupidest couples in Paris. We will have sex and we will be careful and we will chase each other through the parks and down the streets of this city I already love. I will take pictures of buildings and argue with him over which neighborhood is the best, which shop would make us happiest, what sort of world we will live in, he and I, growing old together. We will travel the world with my best friend. We’ll go to college and learn things we hate and things we never knew and things we will spend our lives understanding.
And if, some nights, I wake up to the memory of peach schnapps and vomit and the dull brown eyes of a man who might still hurt me, I will remember the boy who pelted down the driveway after a car he could not possibly catch. I will remember that the nightmare is over because we ended it, that we are healthy and alive, even if we are never completely safe, and I will hold him close, and I will go back to sleep.
I grew up in the district (“What part?” the joke goes. “Bethesda.”), and writing this novel has been a trip home in many ways. While the actual events and characters are entirely fictional, the atmosphere of the city reflects my own experience. So first I have to thank my family, for the macaroni and cheese at Thanksgiving, the arguments over lemon in the sweet potato pie — and the space to pursue my own wild dream of being a writer.
John Hart-Smith, for careful notes and much-appreciated corrections about the world of government contracting.
Abby, Alexis, Amanda, Bianca, and Lauren for DC reminiscences, suggestions, and critiques — and for reminding me of the parts that I loved.
Tamar, for always being so supportive and smart — thank you for sharing your excitement for this story with me when I needed it.
Justine, for taking my messy first drafts, understanding exactly where I want to go, and helping me get there. Scott, for the surprise notes that were like Christmas (or Thanksgiving) come early.
Ellen and Delia, for so graciously letting me crash in their spare bedroom when it mattered. I finished this novel thanks to that gift of your space.
Bill, for taking me out in Seattle and arguing plot with me for hours, like old times.
Steve Rendall, for his generosity in listening to my political plot difficulties and hashing out plausibly fake scenarios over sangria.
Martha Marsh and David Wohl for their generous help with niggling details of medical protocol. Needless to say, extreme implausibilities or outright mistakes are entirely my own.
My team at Scholastic deserves an ode for their work on my behalf. Arthur Levine and Emily Clement could not be more incisive or understanding in their editorial process. (And sorry, Emily, for all the thematic hay I made with your first name!)
Finally, Jill Grinberg, Cheryl Pientka, and Katelyn Detweiler make my life better with their wisdom, care, and support.
As always, thank you.
Alaya Dawn Johnson’s first novel for young adults, The Summer Prince, received three starred reviews, was longlisted for the National Book Award, and was a 2013 Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year. She grew up in Washington, DC, where she attended the National Cathedral School. She went on to Columbia University and now lives in Mexico City. Visit her at www.alayadawnjohnson.com
Text copyright © 2014 by Alaya Dawn Johnson
All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since
1920. SCHOLASTIC, the LANTERN LOGO, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson, Alaya Dawn, 1982– author.
Love is the drug / by Alaya Dawn Johnson.
pages cm
Summary: Emily Bird is an African American high school senior in Washington D.C., member of a privileged medical family, on the verge of college and the edge of the drug culture, and not really sure which way she will go — then one day she wakes up in the hospital with no memory of what happened.
ISBN 978-0-545-41781-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. African American teenagers — Juvenile fiction. 2. African American families — Juvenile fiction. 3. Teenagers — Drug use — Juvenile fiction. 4. Elite (Social sciences) — Juvenile fiction. 5. Washington (D.C.) — Juvenile fiction. [1. African Americans — Fiction. 2. Drug abuse — Fiction. 3. Washington (D.C.) — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J6267Lo 2014
813.6 — dc23
2014003445
First edition, October 2014
Epigraph from On Drugs © 1995 by David Lenson, University of Minnesota Press. Used with permission.
Cover art & design © 2014 by Phil Falco
e-ISBN 978-0-545-66289-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Love is the Drug Page 34