by Ryan Schow
Staring at him, at his bright, mismatched clothes, his careless hair and the look of him hunched over my computer, I can’t help wondering about him. Wondering if I will like him. If we should even be friends. He’s brash, and he has a biting wit that’s hard to ignore.
“Jesus, this thing’s overly secure,” he says. He pulls up another screen, pours through various windows and files, then the staff directory, then back to the login screen. He clicks a button and code populates the monitor with letters and numbers and interspersed commands. Brayden types furiously, then sits back and says, “Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“A password, jeez. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
After a minute of uncomfortable silence, I say, “So you’re going to work for the FBI when you graduate? Is that right?”
“There’s no better way to learn about hacking than doing so with the blessing of the Federal Government. At least, that’s what I tell myself to keep from completely freaking out.”
“So, are they going to pay you for your six months worth of work, or is it like community service hours?”
“Forget the concept of money, or even me being a six month slave to a bunch of suits. When I’m done, I’ll be able to put as many zeros in my bank account as I want. Think about it. Money isn’t even money anymore. It’s just numbers in a mainframe computer. Those numbers in the bank’s system allow you to spend from numbers on a card, or pull paper from an ATM based on those same numbers. All numbers, get it? Who needs a real job when you have control of the numbers? Not me. You will be able to look me up at 123 Easy Street, Anywhere USA. Get it?” A sudden sideswipe of heat rolls through me, followed by a rush of pain, and it shows because Brayden says, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Headache,” I say. Gerhard’s shot is taking effect. “Plus my body aches. The treadmill and the weights did a number on me.”
The screen refreshes and Brayden says, “Bingo.” He returns to the Administrator’s page, types in the login ID and password he procured, then sorts through a few directories until he comes to the student directory listing from two years ago. Two more clicks and he says, “Okay, here we go. All you have to do is type in the name of the person you want to look up and voilà.”
“What if I have the year wrong?” He shows me how to go back and re-enter the year and that’s when my body practically bucks against the pain. It’s like someone’s clubbing my head open and jabbing various spots of my exposed brain with a fork.
He makes a face. “You don’t look so well.”
“Told you.”
“You sure it isn’t AIDS or something?”
“I think I’m allergic to goat’s milk.”
“Not likely. Hope you get feeling well.” He scribbles on a notepad beside my computer and says, “I wrote down the login codes and password for you and how to get to the student files. Make sure you log out when you’re done. It’s imperative.”
Electric pain radiates downward from my skull to my legs, making my body fold. I try not to show it, but it’s hard to miss with someone as inquisitive as Brayden watching me.
“Holy crap,” he says, really looking concerned now, “what’s going on with you?”
“Cramps.”
“Menstrual?”
“Of course menstrual, you moron.”
“Hey, easy, I have moms, too. I know all about their periods and that kind of stuff.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, groaning inside. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
He starts backing toward the door, like a trainer who’s trying to escape the cage when he realizes the lion has turned on him. “Are you sure—”
“Get out!”
3
My bones feel like they’re breaking, stretching, reforming and breaking again. I hobble to the bed, lower myself onto it, but even the pressure of lying down becomes unbearable. Whatever agony rocked me last night—the blast-furnace heat that nearly boiled my skin—this is worse. A cool bath won’t help. Sleep won’t help. Sitting on the bed, I wait for the pain to pass.
Gosh dammit, freaking pass already!
I feel squeezed into a trash compactor that’s turned on. I can actually feel the bone marrow and it aches to the point of me feeling either suicidal or homicidal. I’m not sure which. When the wave finally passes, it leaves in its wake a low rolling nausea that stirs in my stomach, and a sweeping dizziness that won’t quit. I’m reaching for anything solid. Trying not to fall. The floor beneath me shifts, the left half of my vision winks out, and suddenly, the entire room tilts and goes black.
Sometime later, while it’s still dark outside, my eyes flutter open to a dull throbbing in my head, a cocoon of intense pressure. Grogginess fades to concern. I need my bearings. As some modicum of clarity sets in, I realize I’m sprawled out on the floor in my room, and that my face is pressed into something sticky. A warm, wet pool that smells thick with the coppery scent of blood. Did I cut my head open? With only the barest of movements, searing heat and pain shoot through me. I can’t stand. Trapped by the pain, I can hardly even move.
Now I’m scared because even though the pills are on the counter in the bathroom, they might as well be miles away in my current state. Just being conscious is a crushing, mind-altering endeavor. Already I’m crying, moaning. God, I’m terrified. If I can’t get to my pills…oh crap, my legs. My shins feel like they’re being run over by diesel trucks. Crying becomes sobbing, which quickly becomes unrestrained blubbering.
I need to get to my cell phone.
Like now!
My purse is on the bed, not exactly on the edge, but close enough. Lying helpless on the floor next to the bed, all but paralyzed with muscle seizures and the feeling of crushed bones and the kind of unrelenting pain only drugs can fix, it takes a monumental act of strength and will power to make a fist in the blankets and pull them off the bed, toward me.
Chewing through my teeth, grunting and crying, one inch takes ten minutes. Two inches takes twenty-five. The floor, by now, is slick with sweat and tears. Blood is pushed in smears all around me, and I can’t stop with the great hiccupping sobs. My purse falls off the bed, the contents spilling on the floor around me.
Finally!
I see my phone, wrap my gnarled fingers around it, struggle to turn it on. Pressing the ON button feels impossible, but then the screen illuminates. Sobbing becomes relief, but the torment continues. I slide a shaky finger across the screen, see Georgia’s number in my call history, then press the entry. The phone rings. She picks up, sounding like maybe she was asleep.
“Georgia,” I cry into the phone. “Need help…my…room.”
Minutes later Georgia opens my door, which Brayden left unlocked when he left, and hurries inside. I must look a mess, what with all the tears and blood. Seeing me sets her into motion.
“Pills,” I say. “Bathroom.”
Seconds later Georgia is putting two pills down my throat, helping me swallow enough water to get them down. She works me into her lap, cradling me even though the uneven surface of her legs is murder on my ribs. The pain ebbs in a steady, constant flush. My reprieve comes at a price. I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life.
Am I dying?
About ten minutes later I feel Georgia lifting me, an impossible feat. My eyelids slide open, gracelessly. Where I should have seen strain in her face, I see none.
“Not as fat,” I mumble.
She unloads me onto the bed with a huff and a sigh and says, “I’ve lifted fatter.”
There is a moment of nothing—sleep perhaps, or a blackout—stripped from me by pressure being applied to my forehead. Through the layers of fog in my brain comes the awareness of Georgia cleaning my forehead. A cut perhaps? She bandages it, removes my clothes, tucks me into bed.
Working my eyes open, I try to focus on her. “You’re my angel,” I hear myself say. She smiles. My eyes slip shut again. The hypnotic tug of a dream pulls at me, weightless, dangling me on the precipice of s
leep.
“Love you,” I whisper.
From what feels like miles away, another universe perhaps, her velvet voice becomes a song between worlds, “I love you, too.” Then, even further away—a shimmer of sound so faint it might only be my imagination—the same soft, fading voice says, “It won’t always be this bad.” Then nothing.
Just almighty bliss.
4
I wake up rested, refreshed. Then the memory of last night hits, and a burst of chilled ickiness settles in, forcing an involuntary shudder. If last night taught me anything, it was that I need my pills on me at all times. Especially if I’m going to black out. Or turn into a freaking paraplegic.
I look at my clock. It’s still early. Early enough to…crap! I jump out of bed and head to the computer. I’m still logged in to the school’s records! Something inside screams to log off, especially since the username shows Administrator. It’s six-thirty A.M.
There might still be time!
I type in Kaitlyn’s full name and her records pull up. With my pulse pounding, I skim the information quickly. Her grades tell me she was smart, her looks and height were average, and her old dorm room was two floors up from me. Based on her admittance records, she was part of the school’s opening semester four years ago. A freshman. I scan the files, locate a copy of her initial contract with Astor Academy, print it out. Thankfully, the file lists her parents’ address as well as her medical records. Plus there’s a photo.
I print all five pages of her file, then log out.
Should I tell Brayden I was logged in all night? Maybe, but maybe not. I should at least apologize for the way I mistreated him. Will he forgive me, or treat me the way he treats everyone else he despises?
Looking through the hard copy of Kaitlyn’s information, I stop at the picture for her school ID. Kaitlyn was a pretty girl, not beautiful like the non-triplets, but certainly worthy of a second look if you were a fourteen year old boy. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, one hundred ten pounds, athletic physique. I flip through a few more pages and stop when I see her tuition fees were waived. Waived? On the next page is the name that sends a hard chill down my spine: Dr. Wolfgang Gerhard. He was treating her. But for what? Was she taking shots like me? Could this have something to do with her disappearance?
Scanning the medical profile sheet, there are notes indicating she suffered from Chronic Myeloid Leukemia. As a young teenager she endured an experimental bone marrow transplant procedure promised to stave off the disease. I jot down the name of the treatment program, Google it and in about two minutes learn that five years ago it was a treatment program out of Mexico with some very lethal side effects. Cross checking her files, it says she nearly died. With a few minutes left before I need to leave to meet the girls at the cafeteria, I Google Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.
Chronic Myeloid Leukemia (CML) is a cancer of the blood and bone marrow in which the body produces cancerous white blood cells. Apparently blood cells are made in the bone marrow, something I didn’t know before. With leukemia certain blood cells become abnormal or defective, and then the body continues producing large numbers of these abnormal cells. What is unusual about CML is this diagnosis usually occurs around age sixty-six and usually with men. How is this possible for a girl Kaitlyn’s age?
Further in the article it says this disease rarely effects children. No wonder the treatment was experimental. I return to the contract and see Kaitlyn’s parents’ signatures following a complicated paragraph interspersed with the words, cellular regeneration of normal white blood cells, and all the sudden I realize Gerhard tried to do for Kaitlyn what he is doing for me: fixing a problem by altering her body’s DNA. Making the defective parts normal. Did Kaitlyn suffer the same treatments as me? Did she die because of it?
The final line reads: treatment fees waived.
Treatment fees? With everything going on, having had “treatment” all my life in one form or another, I never considered the fees. The clock says 6:57 A.M. Should I risk logging in again?
“The hell with it,” I mutter.
Quick as can be, I follow Brayden’s log-in instructions. Instead of accessing Kaitlyn’s files, I locate mine. A quick search takes me to my contract page. Seconds later the document is printing. The clock shows 7:00 A.M. I log out. Only when I’m officially out do I realize I’ve been holding my breath practically the whole time. Trying to breathe normal again, steadying my pounding heart, I skim the printed contract. The school’s tuition—which Kaitlyn’s parents had waived four years ago—is two hundred fifty thousand dollars per year.
“Christ on a crutch!”
Two hundred fifty thousand dollars?!
I move to page two and see a description of my own treatment protocol. My treatments differ from Kaitlyn’s, obviously. I don’t have CML. I see words like social anxiety disorder, depression, slow metabolism, and possible body dysmorphic disorder. Seeing the words is no biggie, but the price to cure them is a very big biggie. It’s a colossal biggie. Twenty-five million dollars?! In addition to the tuition fees?!
All of the sudden I can’t breathe.
Two hundred fifty thousand is a far cry from twenty-five million!
Me attending Astor Academy is no accident. Not a hideaway from the paparazzi. Not a baby sitter for me while my father is working himself to death and Margaret is suffering through rehab 2.0.
No, this was planned long ago.
In fact, the contract was dated five months ago. Five months! I wonder who’s idea this was. Margaret’s for sure! That bitch. Then again, my father said he didn’t want me having plastic surgery, that he didn’t want me obsessing over it the way Margaret did. Could it have been his idea? What Gerhard said to me on my first day with him was the treatments would restructure my DNA rather than treat my symptoms.
This had to be my father’s idea. That’s when I see his signature. Only his signature on the bottom. Margaret doesn’t know about Gerhard? About any of this?
She doesn’t even know!
What this means for me, however, is as concerning about what it meant for Kaitlyn. Why would the school waive her fees? Twenty-five million, plus a quarter million a year is hardly pocket change. Was she a guinea pig? Did the experiments end in her death?
Sick to my stomach, uncertain, I stumble out the door and head for the cafeteria where I plop down with a tray of food like a member of the living dead. Georgia warms me with a smile. I thank her for helping me out last night, but my voice lacks any actual warmth.
“I’m glad I could be there for you,” she says, and I wonder what I did to deserve a friend like her. Her voice triggers something in me. The memory of her saying she loved me last night. This touches me in a way I never knew friendship could.
Shaking away thoughts of Kaitlyn, I take her hand in mine and say, “You have no idea what it meant for me to have you there last night. I felt like I was dying. Like I was going crazy with the pain. Then you showed up.”
Her smile is sweet, generous, more than a bush pig like me deserves. She says, “How do you feel this morning?”
“A little weak. Traumatized, if you really want the truth.”
“I bet.”
Victoria and Bridget join us and then Julie Satan and what is fast becoming the Diabolical Two come waltzing into the cafeteria like they own the place. The sight of the three of them is worse than a migraine. The weight of my issues has become unmanageable. Julie walks by, flips me off; Cameron walks by, flips me off; Theresa walks by, glares at me with black, narrowed eyes then flips me off, too. Through that entire exchange, the only thought I can muster is, where’s Maggie? She’s the outcast of their little clique, the only girl who isn’t a raging scab. For the life of me, I don’t understand why she hangs around them. Or really where she went.
Brayden walks in with Laura and they both wave at me. I smile and wave back, but my smile falls flat under its own weight, as if gravity wants my face to be a perpetual frown. I can’t stop thinking of the cost of me being her
e. Am I so disgusting my father had to pay millions of dollars to fix me? He must think I’m hideous!
God, shouldn’t my eyes be watering right now? Shouldn’t I be puking? Maybe Gerhard’s treatments are working. At least my suffering isn’t for nothing. Still, there’s comfort in crying, comfort in being sick—I’ve become so used to it that its absence feels unsettling.
“What’s wrong?” Victoria asks. I shake my head, stare at my food.
“Rough night,” Georgia says. “She’s been sick.”
Victoria apologizes, tells me she hopes I feel better, then says, “I still can’t stop thinking about you and the bucket of barf. How you laughed at Cameron when she slapped you in front of everyone. That was awesome.”
She’s obviously trying to cheer me up. I lift my eyes and look at her. A grin spreads across my face. Looking at Georgia, how we’re becoming friends, our time together moves me. She has been there in my most triumphant moments, and my worst. Is this how two people can become so close in such a short amount of time? With moments like these?
“You’re my hero now, too,” Bridget says.
Just then the girl from the elevator, the one who added to the puke bucket, breezes into the cafeteria. She looks like she’s searching for someone. She sees me and starts toward our table.
“Oh, no,” I mutter, “I don’t need this right now.”
“What?” Georgia says. She sees the girl, says, “Oh, yeah. Amy Masterson.”
Amy walks up to the table and says, “The barf in the bucket, that’s what you threw on Cameron O’Dell’s door?”
My insides fold in on themselves with fear. The blood in my face drains south so fast I’m sure I’ve turned bone white. “Yeah,” I admit.
Amy smiles big, leans over and gives me a hug. “That’s the most awesome thing ever! I don’t know you, but I totally love you right now.”