“You go, Sistah!” Marissa, a hippy chick who spends wads of cash to dress like she didn’t spend a cent, shouts.
Beside Marissa and Duncan—who stands up and calls, “Right on, Lass!”—Anj’s conclusion is met with silence. The status quo tipped to the liberal left is not the way things go around here. The winners write the history books and that’s who we’re taught about, but soon Mr. Robertson, with his gray comb-over and red sweater vest, starts to clap and the rest of the class takes the lead and follows.
When the bell rings, I slink out of the room, the word “asshole” attached to me like a kick-me sign. I’ve just managed to slip through the door when Duncan stops me and smiles.
“What?” I snot off. I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but seriously, what reason does he have to be smiling at me after I just blew off his girlfriend?
“Nothing,” he says, putting up his hands. “I’m just happy.”
“Well good. I’m glad for you.”
I’m about to walk my bad mood to a bathroom stall, the one speck of privacy in this place, when Anj bursts out of the classroom. She throws her arms around Duncan and nails his face with kisses. I’m thinking um, sure the presentation was good, but it wasn’t that good, was it?
“Mr. Robertson is recommending me for the independent study in Scotland next semester!” she squeals. “It’s going to happen. My parents agreed and my grandmother already said she’d give me the money!”
Scotland? Independent study? Anj is leaving? Is that why this assignment meant so much to her? So Mr. Robertson would write her a recommendation? I should be relieved. If Anj goes to Scotland, she’ll be nowhere near me. The Atlantic Ocean ought to be enough distance to keep her safe. Still, my stomach plummets to my feet, and my heart isn’t far behind.
Duncan’s freckled face goes blotchy. He springs Anj off her feet and spins her in a circle. “Bloody awesome! You’ll meet my mum and dad and stay with us in Glasgow. I’ll show you where Bruce and Wallace slaughtered the English at Bannockburn and Hamden Park where we’ve been slaughtering each other in football ever since, and I’ll take you out on the North Sea, and I’ll teach you how to drive British style and…On second thought that’s a scary idea.” He laughs so hard he has to put Anj down.
When he finally stops laughing, he elbows Anj in the ribs and they both glance in my direction. Duncan gives Anj a purposeful look, pecks her on the cheek, and takes off just as the bell for fourth period rings. Everyone darts off to class, but my former best friend and I don’t move. We stand on opposite sides of the hall, our backs to the lockers like we’re about to draw pistols and duel.
“You’re going to Scotland?” I snap, channeling all my anger, sadness, and guilt into a fight. “You could’ve told me.”
“Sor-ry,” she snaps back, glaring. “It’s not like you asked about my life. Besides, I did try and tell you. That day at the methadone clinic, but you were so preoccupied with whatever was going on with your mother, I didn’t have the chance.”
It’s my turn to drag out my syllables with pissed-off righteousness. “Well ex-cuse me for not asking. I’ve had a few things on my mind if you didn’t notice.”
I expect her to throw a match on my gasoline, so our friendship can really go out with a bang. Instead she drops her eyes and lowers her voice. “I didn’t want to hurt you, you know? Be another person who leaves? I tried to tell you again last week, but you wouldn’t return my calls, and you didn’t show up in the library after school, and then I figured you just didn’t care.” She pauses and looks up at me. “I’m going to finish junior year abroad. Duncan’s family agreed to host me.”
Words like “sorry” and “you’re right” are on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be formed, but Anj isn’t safe in Scotland yet, so instead of building a bridge, I go for dynamite and blow it up. “That’s cool. Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me. I’ve gotta go. Later.” I turn and start heading for my locker.
“You know what your problem is?” she calls after me.
I stop.
“You’re too scared to get close to anyone. I guess I thought eventually you’d open up or at least trust me. I wanted to be your friend, but you would never really let me be. I mean I get it. You took me to that place in West Philly where you used to live.”
My whole body tenses. How did she know I lived there? I never told her.
“I figured it out, Faith,” she says, answering to my body language and inner thoughts. “You didn’t have to tell me. And I see how hard it must’ve been for you. But the whole world isn’t shit just because you had a rough time.” She pauses and sighs, but I will myself not to turn. “All the times I’ve invited you over, you never said yes. It’s not even about the project and doing all the work myself this weekend. Because I did it, and I feel really good about that. It’s just that you didn’t return my calls. You didn’t even give me an explanation about what was going on. You just turned your back and for no apparent reason blew me off. It’s as if our friendship is a joke.”
I hear the click of her clogs on the tile as she walks away, but I don’t turn. I don’t tell her that our friendship’s not a joke. Never has been. Never will be.
***
For the next two days I wait for Dr. Monroe’s results and try to concentrate on school. I’ve pissed off Anj enough to make her totally ignore me and possibly hate me. (Big sarcastic pat on the back for that). Jesse, on the other hand, doesn’t ignore me, but rather turns up wherever I go. Need a sip of water? There’s Jesse at the drinking fountain. Bathroom? Jesse’s gotta go, too. Every time I see him, he breaks into conversation, monologue actually, since I don’t answer.
A few times I almost crack a smile, like when he tells me about his new organic hemp boxers (standard rise, roomy cut), but alas, smiling will only egg him on, so I remind myself of Dr. Carlisle’s “accident,” put in earbuds, and tune him out.
I haven’t seen the Rat Catcher since my drug bust, so I’m thankful for that at least, that and the fact Aunt T and I have made a full, superficial recovery. I don’t care how superficial it is. At least there’s someone to talk to, even if it is about the weather.
Dr. Monroe’s text comes Thursday during a biology lab on cell division where we’re supposed to be peeling onions and making microscope slides. I grab a pass with the excuse of too much onion burning my eyes and escape to the bathroom to check the message. Call me is all it says. I stand by a dripping faucet and punch her number. She picks up on the first ring.
“We have to talk.”
“Okay, when? Can you meet somewhere? I don’t know if—”
“Now.”
“Now? Uh, okay.” I slip into a stall and perch on the edge of the toilet. Someone’s doused the place with air freshener. The stench, that has nothing to do with flowers and everything to do with chemistry, makes my eyes water. “I’m listening.”
“When was that sample from you brought me?”
“About two years ago,” I say, feeling defensive, though I don’t know what about.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Dr. Monroe mumbles.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I sequenced the DNA on the stamp.”
“And?”
“And the mutation wasn’t there. Two years ago your mother didn’t have the mutation, and before she died she did. That’s what doesn’t make sense. I thought maybe there was a mistake and the samples were from two different people,” Dr. Monroe goes on, “so I did a genetic profile and sure enough both samples are from your mother.” I try to cut in with a question, but she doesn’t let me. “I’ve spent the day researching this, Faith. Every known case of genetic IPF is something you’re born with. The mutation has never been known to happen spontaneously. Never.”
I feel like I’ve been trapped in some surreal Salvador Dali painting. Attack of the double helix! Revenge of the death spiral! “Then how did she ge
t it, unless someone gave it to her?”
Dr. Monroe doesn’t answer.
“Hello? Are you still there?” I lower my voice as the bathroom door opens. A tall, skinny Goth chick with black lipstick and bone-white skin crosses the room, cracks the window, and lights a cigarette.
“Still here. I’m thinking.”
“About what?” I say, closing and locking the stall door.
“About what you said.”
“What I said about what?”
“About someone giving her the mutation. It’s not impossible, but why would someone do that?”
“Not impossible!” Screw whispering. I don’t care what Goth Chick hears or thinks. I’m the junkie’s daughter. The druggie who got busted for dope. Now I’ll be the crazy girl in the bathroom stall ranting into the phone. “That’s insane! You’re saying my mother had some mutation when she died that she didn’t have two years ago, and the only way she could’ve gotten it is by someone giving it to her? How the hell would someone do that?” I don’t actually expect an answer. I expect Dr. Monroe to laugh and tell me I’m on some candid camera reality show.
“They could’ve used a gene therapy vector that targets the lung, something like a modified adenovirus,” she says instead.
Either I’m losing my mind or Dr. Monroe’s losing hers. Is this a trick? Some way of trying to confuse me and throw me off the track of what really happened? Like the genetic IPF is a scam and it’s all about the side effects? A curl of smoke rises above the stall. The odor seeps into my nose and makes me cough. Then again what if it’s not a trick? What if what Dr. Monroe says is true? Why would she lie?
“Okay, fine, say you’re right. How could I find out more about that adenovirus thing?”
“Well, there’s the GenBank database,” she says after what seems like forever. “It might be possible to look for adenovirus vectors and see if there’s a specific modification to the virus that’s used for gene therapy, but—” She stops suddenly. I can practically hear the thoughts whirring around inside her head. I don’t need words to know what’s coming next. “Look Faith, this is way out of my league. I have no idea what happened to your mother, and frankly right now investigating this is beyond my capability. Maybe it was a spontaneous mutation. Just because it’s not in the literature doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Diseases mutate and change. Or maybe there’s some other explanation. I don’t know, but right now this is more of a scientific problem than I can handle. We can get together after my tenure review and the conference, but until then, I just don’t have the time.”
“Well who does have the time then?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe Dr. Glass at PluraGen. He knows more about IPF than I do. I’m sorry, Faith. Really, I am.”
“Okay,” I say, and thank Dr. Monroe for all she’s done to help me. She apologizes again for not being able to do more, promises to call when she gets through her tenure review, and we say good-bye.
Goth Chick takes off, and I have the bathroom to myself. I don’t waste any time digging Glass’ card from the trashcan of my bag and dialing his number. The secretary answers and gee, what a surprise, a high-up dude like Glass is busy and unavailable to talk to a peon like me. She puts me through to his voice mail and tells me to leave a message.
“Hi, Dr. Glass,” I say to the machine. “This is Faith Flores. I met you the other day.” I jog his memory about my mother, and then say, “So, it turns out my mom had a genetic form of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. There are a few things I don’t understand, though, and since you’re an expert in the disease, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” I leave my phone number and hang up, but I don’t leave the stall, my safe haven from the watchful eyes and burning ears minding the halls and trolling for gossip.
There’s one more person to talk to. I’m not sure what he’d know about the disease, but he is a doctor and he’s been part of this, so I figure it’s worth a try. I punch the number for the meth clinic. When Veronica answers, I tell her I’d like to speak to Dr. Wydner.
“You and about a hundred other people,” she says. “But ya’ll can’t ‘cause he’s out on family leave.”
“Family leave? Is it about his daughter?”
“Normally that sort of information’s confidential, but the doc asked us to let people know since it’ll be a while before he’s back.” There’s a brief silence, and then she says, “She died.” Another silence, and then, “I can take a message.”
I rest my head against the plastic sidewall of the stall and remember the father-daughter routine in Dr. Wydner’s office. “Just tell him Faith Flores called,” I say. “He’ll know who I am.”
“I will,” Veronica promises, and after taking my phone number she hangs up.
For some reason, more than anything that’s happened in the past few days, Dr. Wydner and his loss bring all the pain I’ve been keeping down rushing to the surface. At first it’s one tear, but then another falls, and another and before I know it, I’m doubled over, clutching my stomach, hardly able to catch my breath. My chest heaves and snot drips onto my chin, but this time I don’t try and hold it in or hide from my grief. I open the floodgates and let the feelings gush, a full-on emotional deluge.
The tears leave me eroded, a battered landscape, and soon I can’t cry anymore. I stumble out of the bathroom in a wobbly daze and walk straight into Jesse.
“Ahh, crap. Geez, Jesse,” I say, wiping my nose with my sleeve. “Can’t you give a girl some space?”
“No. Not when you disappear for half a class, or should I say for a whole week. You don’t return my calls. You won’t look at me. You’ve been avoiding me and—” He stops himself when he notices how I look, which I’m guessing from his expression isn’t so hot. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Did something happen?”
I steel myself not to answer. At that moment Chip Walker strolls by and calls out to me.
“Hey, Stoner!” He winks and lifts his hand to give me the high five. The hand and wink are meant as compliments, an invitation to some sort of insiders club, but I shoot him a fierce look that says “eat shit and die.” I’m not one of them. I’m not one of anybody.
“Bitch,” he mutters and keeps walking.
Before I can react, Jesse’s on Chip’s back with his arms locked around Chip’s gorilla neck. Jesse’s half Chip’s size, but he has the element of surprise in his favor and for a moment he hangs off Chip like a lion hanging off a wildebeest. Chip grunts and with a strong shake of his shoulders, drops Jesse to the ground.
“Faggot,” Chip mumbles under his breath and struts off to find someone else to harass.
Jesse leaps to his feet ready for more action, but I grab his arm. “Ignore him. The guy’s got an IQ of like three. Give it a rest.”
Chip rounds the corner. Jesse breaks free of my grip. For a second I think he’s going to go after Chip, but he just kicks a locker and lets out a string of creative expletives starting with the word mother.
I fiddle with the bathroom pass, unsure what to say. “Are…you okay?” I finally stammer, fully aware of the lameness of the question. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“You’re welcome.” He flashes me a dark look and slaps dust off his butt. “You can pay me back. Come.”
He drags me down the hall and down a flight of steps to the first-floor auditorium where the stage is set for the production of Romeo and Juliet, the tale of star-crossed lovers. The auditorium is empty. Dress rehearsal isn’t until the evening, so we have the place to ourselves. I sink into a front row seat. Jesse hops up onto the stage.
“I’m Romeo. You’re Juliet,” he says, looking up to the balcony of his beloved with his hand over his heart. It’s meant as a joke, some way to blow off steam, but I think of Moneybags, of Tia, of Doc, and I don’t laugh. Jesse and I aren’t from rival families, but still, our worlds are totally different. We might as well
belong to feuding clans.
After a few minutes of messing with the set and spewing various incomplete lines of Shakespeare, Jesse hops off the stage and plops onto the piano bench. I feel him watching me.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says.
“Nothing,” I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on a piece of neon-pink bubble gum stuck to the floor.
“You’re lying. You’re up to something, and you’re not telling me.”
“What, like you tell me everything?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I look up and in a snide, mocking voice say, “I know the Harvard department of English offers a well-rounded program of all the classics, so I’m sure if I’m accepted I’ll broaden my perspective.”
For a second Jesse looks confused, but then his lips tighten and the usual warmth in his eyes disappears. “You were spying on me?”
“No. Well, yes actually.”
Jesse runs a hand across his mouth. He stares at me like I’m a stranger, and it’s this look more than anything that kills me.
“Why didn’t you come over?” His voice is soft, tender even. I wish he’d yell at me. Anger is easier. I know how to put up a good fight and pretend not to care. “I would’ve wanted to see you. I would’ve wanted you there.”
More than anything I want to believe this is true, but believing requires hope, and I’ve been burned by hope far too many times to get high on that drug again. Hope is worse than heroin. Instead I go for mean.
“You were doing such a nice job of ass kissing and being a two-faced hypocrite, I didn’t want to get in the way. You have to make a good impression you know.”
“Come on, Faith. That’s not fair. You don’t understand. I—”
“That’s the thing. I do understand, Jesse,” I say, cutting him off. “Face it. Your life is totally different than mine. You have the Doc MD, PhD gene. I have the junkie one. You have Harvard. I have the community college. It’s only a matter of time before real gets dull.”
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