Death Spiral

by Janie Chodosh

  “Gee, thanks.” I instantly start to undress.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean in a good way. It’s just so not you. Check it out.”

  She slides the closet door shut. The second I see myself, I gasp. I mean, yes, it’s me, but at the same time, not. My combat boots and thrift store dresses are my identity. Stripped of that and I’m someone else completely, which I guess right now is the point, so I should be happy.

  “Now for the hair,” Anj says, coming up behind me with a brush and guiding me to a chair. “Check you out girlfriend,” she says a few minutes later.

  For the second time I look in the mirror, and for the second time I hardly recognize myself. My tangles have been groomed to sleek perfection and tied into a graceful bun at the base of my neck.

  “You really are beautiful, Faith,” she tells me, “but the piercings have to go.”

  I take out all five of my earrings and Anj dabs me with lipstick and eye shadow. “We should start a TV reality show,” she says when she’s done. “We could call it American home makeover. We’ll round up all the mall chicks with bad hair and bad outfits and turn them glam.”

  I’m too nervous to comment or even to smile. While Anj hunts down her own outfit, I stay glued to my makeover chair, mulling over what we’re about to do and trying not to dwell on everything that could go wrong, the mile long list of what if’s. I’ve come too far to turn back.

  Once dressed, we go to the kitchen and Anj writes a note for her parents, explaining that we left early for school to put the finishing touches onto our biology project. “They won’t be up for at least half an hour,” she informs me as she places the note on the table. “They’ll never know how early we left.”

  We’re ready to go, but I linger and stare at the note, at the little heart Anj drew above the j of her name in place of a dot. The note says nothing except that we left early, but somehow every word is infused with love.

  “What it is?” Anj says, jiggling her keys and heading toward the front door. “I thought we were in a major hurry.”

  “We are. Just hold on a minute. You can go start the car. I’ll be there in a sec.”

  Anj stands by the door, her hand on the knob, eyes scrunched as if contemplating whether, say, I’ve lost my mind or chickened out. But then she shrugs, says okay, and goes outside. A second later I hear the engine start.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and punch Aunt T’s number. She picks up on the first ring.

  “Thank god. Where are you?” she says before I can say hello.

  I sigh. “You’re not going to like this, but I can’t tell you. I’m okay though.”

  “Okay! That’s it. You’re okay? Christ, Faith. Sam and I have been up all night worrying.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Seriously, I really am. It’s just…there’s something I have to do. I’m not going to stay on the phone long and I’m not going to tell you what it is, but I promise I’ll call you when I’m done.” The second the words leave my mouth, I realize there’s a way to let Aunt T know what I’m doing, a simple way to give her direct access to the truth. “I’ll have something to show you in a few hours. It will explain everything.” Aunt T tries to talk, but I don’t let her. “Before I go there’s one more thing…. I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done. I’ve been terrible. I know I have. This isn’t going to make up for how I’ve acted, but…I just wanted to say that I love you.”

  I’ve never heard Aunt T cry, so I’m not sure if the sound I hear on the other end is a sob until her voice breaks and she says, “I love you, too.”

  Before I can take in the moment or hang up or decide what to say next, Sam’s on the phone. “Faith, listen to me. We’re here for you. If you’re in trouble we can help. We can—”

  “I know,” I say. “Thank you. But this is something I have to do. Don’t worry. I’m not alone. I’ll be okay. I’ll call you.”

  And then I hang up.

  ***

  Anj attempts small talk once we’re on the road, but pleasant chitchat proves impossible, so instead she puts on a CD to chase away the nervous silence. A Coldplay album later and we’re on Arch Street, one block from the convention center, looking out over a backdrop of glossy buildings shiny as new credit cards. Anj doesn’t even bother with the parallel parking routine this time. She goes straight for the convention center garage, and at eight o’clock we’re positioned outside the Market Bakery at Reading Terminal to meet Jesse and Duncan as planned.

  A minute after we arrive I spot Duncan and a clean-cut boy wearing a collared shirt and khaki pants heading our direction past Hershel’s East Side Deli. It’s not until they’re upon us and I get a closer look that I realize who the boy is.

  “You look like you belong at a yacht club,” I snort.

  “And you look like Martha Stewart,” Jesse retorts, handing me a cup of coffee.

  I thank Jesse for the coffee and turn to Duncan, who looks the same as always in his gray Edinburgh hoodie and jeans, and hand him our flash drive. “Did you make the badge?”

  He pulls out a lanyard tucked into his hoodie and shows off the plastic sleeve holding a badge printed with the words Randall Bell; Audiovisual Services above a perfectly reproduced conference logo and grins. “All the credentials I need.”

  “And did you email CNN?”

  “No worries. NBC, ABC, MSN, FOX, you name it, I sent them the information. ‘You’re about to learn of the biggest corporate conspiracy of the year,’” he says, trying to impersonate an American news anchor. “How’s it sound?”

  “The accent sucks, dude, but the tag line rocks,” Jesse, captain of the sailing team, says.

  It’s my plan and now is hardly the time to doubt it, but nerves and exhaustion are messing with my confidence. “Do you think they’ll buy it?”

  Duncan opens his mouth to respond, but Jesse cuts him off. “Are you kidding? Those news agencies prowl for stories twenty-four seven. If one of them gets this feed and another misses out, someone’s ass will be canned. They’ll be all over it.”

  “And Doc?” I ask, worrying my fingers through Anj’s scarf. “Did he agree to help?”

  Jesse’s eyes find the floor. “Not exactly,” he mumbles. Before my stomach can drop all the way to my feet, he looks up and adds, “But my mom agreed for him.”

  “I thought your mom was sick and in bed.”

  “Yeah, well apparently she decided to get up. She was waiting for me when I got home.” Jesse scratches at his neck like a dog with a new collar. “She must’ve overheard my little late night chat with Doc. Man did she kick butt. I haven’t seen Mom in action in a long time. She made Doc promise to look at everything I gave him.”

  “That’s good, right?” I say, hoping for affirmation. “I mean if Doc’s looking at our data that means he’ll get a reporter.”

  Jesse shrugs. “No idea. Doc’s idea of taking action is locking the door to his study and thinking.”

  I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, forgetting for a minute that I’m wearing makeup.

  “Stop that!” Anj says, slapping my hand. “You’ll make a mess of yourself and then what will we do? Now if you’re going to sit here worrying over every little thing, we should’ve just stayed home.” She checks her watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. What’s next?”

  “Okay, you’re right.” I reach into my bag. “This is a map of the conference center. I downloaded the floor plan from the Internet this morning.” I unfold the paper and spread it on a table outside the bakery as the morning market comes to life. “Duncan, here’s the audiovisual room where they project the talks for the presentations in the Terrace Ballroom. You have to get in and out as soon as possible. How much time do you need?”

  “Ten minutes. It’s simple. A little cut and paste, and I’m good to go.”

  “Good. Anj, you’re running interference. You see a
nybody coming when Duncan’s in there, get rid of them. Jesse, you’re in the audience for Glass’ presentation with me.” I tap my fingers on the table and turn back to Duncan. “Everything you need is on the flash drive, you just have to—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Duncan interrupts, covering my hand with his. “No problem. Trust us. We know what to do. Now stop your blethering, and let’s go.”

  I fold up the map and put it back in my bag. “Okay,” I say, taking in each of my friends and settling my gaze on Jesse. “I trust you.”

  We link arms like Dorothy and crew trundling off on their journey to the Land of Oz, and walk down our own yellow-brick road, past Kamal’s Middle Eastern Specialties and The 12th Street Cantina, then across the glass-covered walkway over Arch Street, and finally into the convention center to bring down the wizard.

  A young guy carting an easel over his shoulder directs us to the registration area in the Broad Street Atrium, a sun-filled corridor with a row of long tables. Anj pays our fees with her credit card, and I fill in the registration form with jittery fingers listing myself as Faye Fuentes, sophomore at Penn. The registrar, a gangly woman wearing a gray pantsuit the same color as her hair, takes my form and looks it over. I bite my lip, waiting for her to call my bluff, to see through my suburban-girl dress-up routine and uncover my real reason for being here. Instead, she hands me a badge, a tote bag, and a map of the conference center and turns her attention to the next person in line.

  I breathe in a sigh of relief and follow a woman wearing a sari and a badge that says Panjab University through the exhibit hall and onto the escalator to the second floor. From there we wander down a corridor lined with easels announcing presenters and titles of talks: Dr. Petrosky, Micro RNA in Human Disease; Dr. Kambu-Chanelli, Genetic Factors for Human Type 1 Diabetes; Dr. Chow, Genetic Susceptibility to Human Obesity; Dr. Leonard, Genes in Estrogen Metabolism. Eventually we find the Terrace Ballroom.

  “I have to pee,” Anj moans the second we stop walking. “I’m sorry. I can’t hold it any longer.”

  While Anj scurries off down the hall toward the restroom, Jesse and I worm our way into a group of people outside the ballroom, camouflaged by the sea of wool sweaters, blazers, and Polo shirts. Duncan lingers at the edge of the crowd, poised for duty. I give him the thumbs up and a nervous smile. He clears his throat, whips out his badge from inside his sweatshirt, and marches off toward the sign that says Audiovisual Services.

  He’s just reached the door when Jesse nudges me in the ribs. “Trouble,” he mutters.

  I follow his gaze and spot Starr Kelley, a gossipy exchange-student groupie from Duncan’s AP bio class, heading down the corridor in his direction. A flicker of recognition crosses her face when she sees Duncan. She smiles and picks up her pace, weaving her way through the crowd toward her beloved pet foreigner.

  I shoulder my way through students and academics, professors and doctors, no idea how I’m going to stop Starr before she blows Duncan’s cover.

  “Excuse me,” I say, elbowing between two gray-haireds deep in conversation.

  Starr waves her hands over her head to get Duncan’s attention. Ten more steps and she’ll be at his side. I call her name, hoping at least to throw her off course, but either she’s ignoring me or she’s gone deaf. She doesn’t turn.

  Duncan knocks on the door just as Starr calls his name.

  I stop in my tracks and look down as angry tears fill my eyes. All this for nothing. Any second the door will open, Starr will be at his side, and Randall Bell, audio services tech, will transform back into Duncan Wallace, Haverford High exchange student. Our plan is shot.

  Or not.

  When I look up, there’s Anj, barreling down the edge of the hall toward Starr. In the split second before Starr can reach Duncan, Anj intersects and throws her arms around Starr as if they’re best friends.

  “Hey, girl!” she coos, steering Starr away from Duncan. “It’s so cool seeing you here!”

  “Isn’t that Duncan?” Starr asks, straining to look back over Anj’s shoulder.

  Anj gives Starr an earnest look. “Dunc? No way. He’s home working on some art thing,” she says just as the AV room door opens. I hear Duncan, oblivious to the near miss, say, “Hey, man. I have some last minute changes for the first presenter. Are his slides queued up and ready to go?”

  I turn from Starr and Anj to see Duncan talking to the burly mohawked dude guarding the entrance to the audiovisual room. My heart, still hammering from the Starr episode, thumps against my ribs, as I wait to see how this drama will unfold.

  Mohawk regards Duncan, eyeing his badge and then his face. “I just saw Dr. Glass ten minutes ago. He didn’t say anything about changes.”

  “Yeah, I know mate.” Duncan smiles and turns the Scottish-charm factor up a notch. “He stopped me in the hall and gave me his flash drive. Said it was critical these changes get made. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

  Mohawk scowls at Duncan and doesn’t budge. I check my watch. Five minutes until Glass is on.

  “Randall Bell?” Mohawk says, consulting his Smart phone. “I don’t have anyone on my crew with that name. Are you filling in for someone?”

  I steal a glance at Jesse, who’s on his tiptoes craning to see above the ridge of shoulders and necks. “Nigel Rogers,” he mutters.

  “What?”

  “The guy at the door with the Mohawk. His name’s Nigel Rogers—it says it on his badge.”

  Before I can ask another question, Jesse’s striding through the crowd toward Duncan and Nigel.

  “Nigel!” he shouts, causing Mohawk to look up. “Dude, total emergency. Major glitch in the system. Dr. Petrosky’s talk is supposed to be broadcast to University of Lithuania, and the HD feed on the first floor’s down.”

  “Dr. Petrosky?” Mohawk says, consulting his phone again as if the gadget might inform him who Dr. Petrosky is.

  “Come on, dude, head of the whole human genome thing. Like the most prominent scientist in the world,” Jesse says as if you’d have to be an idiot not to know this.

  Nigel swipes a hand across his forehead. I see his mountainous shoulders brace beneath his black tee.

  “I’m telling you, man,” Jesse goes on, “It’s your balls if this thing isn’t fixed. I was told specifically to find you.”

  Nigel turns to Duncan. “A change, you said?”

  Duncan jams his hands in his pocket and nods.

  “Make it fast. Glass is on in five minutes. The talk’s lined up on system one. Don’t mess with audio,” he snarls and then turns and follows Jesse down the hall.

  The second they clear the corner, Duncan slips into the AV room to work his magic. I watch the door close and then head to the ballroom to grab a program and find a seat.

  Twenty-four

  It’s not just the word ballroom that gives me the feeling that some guy in a tux is going to come around with a tray and offer me a glass of bubbly or a piece of cheese speared on a toothpick. It’s the whole vibe of the place—the formal rows of black chairs lined up behind white-clothed tables, the domed ceiling and crystal lights, the stage with the podium set in front of three movie-theater-style screens. Instead of sequins and penguins, though, serious looking people with practical shoes and laptops primed for hardcore note taking occupy the chairs.

  I take in the name tags and faces as I walk the aisles, searching out a place for Jesse and me to sit: Harvard, Penn, Cambridge, Beijing Genomics Institute, Universidad de Guadalajara, Institute for Systems Biology. The red carpet of the scientific community. But what about Doc? Is he here? Did he bring a reporter?

  I’m starting to go woozy from the Saharan climate in the room and the lack of sleep when I spot him leaning against a side door, deep in conversation. I’d recognize the scowl anywhere. I ignore my churning stomach and march across the room.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Schneider,” I say, coming
up next to him. “I’m Faith Flores. Jesse’s friend.”

  Doc’s eyebrows knit together over the bony ridge of his nose, and for a second I think he’s going to snub me again. “Yes, I remember,” he says, unsmiling, but at least this time he reaches out to shake my hand. “You look different. Where’s Jesse?”

  I ignore the comment about looking different and point to the door. “Out there somewhere.” I try to remember how to breathe as I ask the next question. “So, Jesse gave you our data. Are you going to help us?”

  “I’ll tell you what I told Jesse,” he says, his expression unreadable but his tone harsh. “You kids are sixteen. This idea that you can just march into a scientific conference and accuse the keynote speaker of murder is ridiculous.” I’m still on the word ridiculous when he says, “But Jesse showed me the evidence, and I couldn’t ignore it.” He nods to the unshaven man with the wire-rimmed glasses and receding hairline standing next to him.

  The man steps forward and shows me his press pass. “Tom Bradley,” he says. “Lead investigative reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Ryan showed me your data.” I’m slow on the uptake, and it’s just occurring to me that by Ryan he means Doc, when Tom shows me the stack of papers. “If what these indicate is true, we have something significant on our hands. I’d like to get the background on this. How…”

  Before Tom can finish his question, a petite woman in tall boots and a knee-length skirt steps onto the podium, and the lights dim. Tom tells me we’ll talk later, and he and Doc head to their seats in the front row. I slip into one of the only seats still available, halfway to the back of the room, and wait for the show to begin.

  The woman taps the microphone, and the crowd goes quiet. “This year marks the sixtieth anniversary for the annual conference of the American Society of Human Genetics.”

  I peer anxiously over my shoulder toward the door for Jesse or Duncan. No sign of either.