by James Klise
I hesitated, acknowledging the truth of this. “Being off the pills isn’t good for you, Wes. Mimi and I have talked about it.”
He leaned toward me, eyes blazing. I realized he was furious. He was as pissed-off at me as he was at the rest of the world. “You and Mimi? Have talked about it?”
I nodded, even though he’d caught me in a lie. But a tiny lie, in comparison to all the others.
“I doubt that.” He sneered. “Give me a break. Mimi doesn’t even like you.”
This stung for a second. Since the very first day I’d met her, I had tried to be nice around her, despite how mean she was to me.
“Is that true?”
He tapped the bottom edge of his bruised eye with his fingers. “Dude, she thinks you’re a loser. She says you try too hard.”
I didn’t respond.
“Haven’t you noticed she’s always picking on you?”
“I … I thought maybe she had a crush on me.”
“Then you are one clueless clown.”
I had to agree with that. I felt like a complete idiot. First I’d mistaken Anella’s distance for indifference, and now Mimi’s meanness for flirtation. It struck me that I had developed a dangerous habit of seeing things the way I wanted them to be, rather than as they were.
Weirdest of all, Mimi wasn’t my favorite person, either. She’d teased me ever since our first lunch together, and now it turned out she honestly meant every bitchy remark she made. What a colossal waste of time. It was like I’d been constantly gift-wrapping myself for a person who never, ever wanted what was inside the box. Why had I ever tried to get her to be my friend?
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Wesley asked. He looked away, down the hallway toward the exit doors. “Don’t tell me you’re in trouble too.”
I stood and picked up my books. “I am, Wes. Big trouble.”
He swung back around to face me. “What kind?”
I bit my lip. After all that Wesley and I had been through together, I still couldn’t tell him my secret. I wasn’t ready.
I whispered, “The thing is, I can’t talk about it right now. But as soon as I can, I’ll tell you everything.”
“You better.”
“I will.”
“In the meantime, what are you going to do about it?”
“Excellent question,” I said, rising to my feet unsteadily. My stomach felt queasy. I needed to get out of there fast, before I joined the wretched ranks of those who had puked their guts onto that cursed ground.
twenty-three
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of dizziness and head congestion. I hid out in bed, barely able to breathe. I was afraid to blow my nose in case more of the scary brown glop came out. This wasn’t normal or common, despite what Dr. Gamez might claim.
My dad offered me cold medicine.
“Take one, kiddo,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better in twenty minutes.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I just need rest.”
“Quit whining, then,” he said, pulling my bedroom door closed behind him.
The truth was, I was afraid to take any other pills. I didn’t know how cold medicine might interact with the Rehomoline. And since I didn’t know Dr. Gamez’s personal phone number, I had to wait until I could sneak over to their house and talk to him in person.
One thing was clear: I needed to get off the pills. It didn’t matter what Dr. Gamez said. I didn’t want to keep taking them, waiting for them to start working for real. True, I didn’t feel attracted to Ivan anymore, or to any other boy. But I also didn’t feel attracted to Celia or to any other girl. Not the way I should have. How long was a person supposed to wait for a drug to start working? I missed the excitement, the obsession of attraction. I used to think about sex all the time. Now I felt numb—maybe the way Wesley felt on his Ritalin. For the first time, I could understand why he’d wanted to stop taking it.
I lay in bed, staring miserably at the ceiling. In the past, I would have jumped at the chance for a lazy day with nothing to do. I would have listened to music, re-read favorite books, watched a movie. But even these old pleasures had lost their appeal.
My cell phone rang. I looked at the number.
Celia.
I answered uncertainly. “Hi.”
“Why aren’t you at school?”
“So … you’re talking to me now?”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m sick.”
A pause. “Sick again. There’s a shocker.”
I sniffled, as if supplying evidence. “Thanks for the sympathy. I have a cold.”
“And I have about two seconds before the bell rings. Here’s the deal. I just found out that my aunt is going to New Mexico this weekend, visiting Rudy.”
“Good for her.”
“She asked me to stop by her condo to check on Abuelito.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Cool.”
“So,” she said slowly, as if giving me time to catch up, “I was thinking that maybe you could go over with me, and we could … be alone for a while.” Her tone was unusual, half flirty and half impatient. “It’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for, right?”
“Celia,” I said reluctantly, “you know I’m allergic to cats.”
“So you’ll take a pill or something.”
Please, no—for the love of God, no more pills!
“Maybe we should wait and see how I feel this weekend.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Celia, let’s talk about this in person. Not over the phone.”
“I need to go.”
“Celia,” I said, but she had already hung up.
Immediately, I knew. The next time we saw each other face to face, we would break up. Either she would say it, or I would.
Let her say it.
The thing is, I loved everything about her—her confidence, her humor, her brain, even her beauty. She was the most interesting, exciting girl I’d ever known, and the most fun. I just didn’t want to have sex with her. The pills were taking too long, and Celia was going crazy in the meantime. It wasn’t fair. I knew she would hate me. Most of all, I would miss her as a friend.
I felt nauseous, sicker than ever.
I got out of bed and went to the kitchen. My grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table, going through a stack of utility bills.
I put my head down on the table and groaned.
She laughed. “Melodramatic, as usual. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
I mumbled, “I can’t sleep.”
Hello? I haven’t slept in four months.
“Get back in bed. Miracles can happen.”
I lifted my head. “You know what? I don’t believe in miracles anymore.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Do you?”
She ripped a check from her checkbook. She stuffed the check into an envelope, grinning a little as she licked the flap. “Yeah, I do,” she said.
“Why?”
“I see them happening. Look right here, it’s a miracle we can pay our bills every month.”
“But miracles like in the New Testament? Or in your book of Bible poems? I don’t buy it. I think they made that stuff up to convince people that Jesus was God’s son.”
She breathed heavily, as if annoyed. “Let me put it this way. Do I think that at the wedding at Cana, Jesus really changed water into wine? Well, that seems like magic, and I don’t believe in magic.”
“So you admit, they made that stuff up.”
“Not exactly. I think that Jesus had such a loving presence that the people didn’t need wine at that wedding party. They had just as much fun with water, because of Jesus’ company. The water became like wine, because they were all so happy.”
I wasn’t convinced. “What about the loaves and the fishes? Jesus was so loving while he was preaching that people didn’t get hungry? I doubt it.”
“Who knows? Maybe Jesus’ preaching was so effective that people were inspired to s
hare what they had. Maybe people went to their homes and got more food to share, in the spirit of the sermon. And in that way, a tiny bit of food became a whole lot more.”
“Maybe.”
“Jamie, think of miracles as changes in perception. All those stories about Jesus healing blindness—it’s such a powerful metaphor. What were these people blind to? Their selfishness? Their ego or fear? Jesus showed people a way to be happier in their lives. And yes, I do think that kind of miracle happens. More often than you might expect.”
“So you’re saying, for example, that Mom and Dad’s business failing is only a matter of their perception?”
She seemed to choose her words carefully. “I’m saying that if they changed their perception, maybe they would understand what they are supposed to be doing to make money.”
“And my not being able to sleep is just a matter of changing my perception?”
“Who can say? Maybe you’re not supposed to be sleeping. Maybe you’re supposed to be doing something else. You don’t appear very tired to me right now. You seem unhappy and crabby, as you have for several months. And it wouldn’t be the first time in the history of the human race that a teenager felt that way, so I’m not exactly in a panic about it.”
“Thanks a lot.”
I got up from the table and went back to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I sat on the bed, taking big breaths to fuel my frustration. Nobody ever understood how I felt. It didn’t seem fair for her to sit there and talk about miracles happening through changes in perception when her goddamn medicine cabinet held enough pharmaceuticals to heal the whole goddamn neighborhood. Obviously she wasn’t relying on a miraculous change-of-perception to keep her healthy.
I filled another two tissues with black gunk. Then I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and snuck out through the bedroom window.
Running past the Bound & Ground, I noticed it was dark inside, all the lights off—odd for a weekday afternoon. Then I saw the red “For Sale” sign posted in the window. Rita sure didn’t waste any time. She was taking her chance on love, all right.
I pushed through the iron gate of the Gamez property and jogged up to the front door. I entered the security code and walked in. I no longer felt like a trespasser. After spending so much time there, I felt like I finally belonged. But the school day was over, and I knew that I risked seeing Celia. I went straight down to the lab.
Dr. Gamez looked up from his desk when I knocked. “Good afternoon, Jamie,” he said. “You are not expected today.”
“This isn’t working. I’m sick.”
“Yes, I can hear you have a cold.” He stood up and came around the desk to me. He placed his hand on my forehead, then behind my neck. “No fever. Just a cold, I suppose.”
“May I?” Boldly I took the handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket. I blew my nose—a satisfying, wet honk—and handed it back to him. “Here’s the latest problem.”
When he looked into the handkerchief, his face made an expression that would have given me some pleasure if it weren’t so alarming.
“I see.”
“And I still have the blurry vision and the aching muscles. And I still can’t sleep. And I don’t think any of this is ordinary or normal. The drug is causing it.”
“A logical conclusion.” He returned to his side of the desk and sat down. He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder of notes. “A new drug goes through many generations before it’s ready for the general public. We change the dosage, alter the formula, improve the taste, even. It’s common for early stages of medicine to have minor side effects.”
Those words again: common, minor. “I don’t think of these side effects as minor. What is that freaking gunk coming out of my nose?”
He was writing notes. “Unclear. Harmless, I assume. It looks like a combination of coagulated blood, mucous membrane, perhaps cerebral fluid.”
“Brain fluid?”
“Please, calm yourself. Jamie, you understood all along that the drug would affect your brain. That’s what it is targeted to alter. Not your knees or your toes, for goodness sake.”
“But when will it make me … attracted to girls?”
“What do you mean?”
I sank into the chair across from his desk, nearly in tears. “Dr. Gamez, so far, the pills have only made me less attracted to boys. When will they make me more attracted to girls?”
He looked up from his writing as if surprised by the question. “Never.”
“Never?”
“That’s not the purpose of this drug. Listen to me now. Months ago, when we first discussed this, I told you exactly what the drug was designed to do. I compared it to a pet-allergy pill, remember? This drug is intended to diminish an unwanted response to a very specific stimulus.”
I nodded, recalling the conversation.
“And it appears, from your experience, that the medicine is successful in that effort. Your libido seems to be virtually numbed.”
“But …” I choked, “I thought … I thought they would make me attracted to girls, too.”
He folded his arms. “Then you were mistaken.”
“So I won’t ever be attracted to girls?”
He smiled reassuringly. “A different pill, maybe, in the future. That is the wonderful promise of medicine. If there is a large enough demand for it, then a pharmaceutical product naturally will be developed. You must not give up hope for that.”
I wiped my face with my sleeve, embarrassed to be crying in front of Dr. Gamez. “You misled me about the drug. You made it seem like a miracle or something.”
“In the eyes of many people around the world,” he nodded, “it will be a miracle.”
“But you encouraged me to date Celia. Wouldn’t you say that was a little misleading?”
“Be reasonable. Would I have let you spend so much time alone with my daughter, both here and at a romantic resort in Mexico, if I honestly thought you would try to screw her?”
His crassness stunned me into silence.
“I need you to be quiet for a moment, Jamie, so I can think of something to give you to decrease the loss of cerebral fluid.”
“Not necessary.” I pushed the chair away from the desk. “I’m done with the drug.”
He sighed impatiently. “We won’t have that conversation again. You need to continue to take it until we have arrived at a satisfactory formulation of the medicine.”
“No.”
“Really?” He took a breath, and for the first time he raised his voice. “Then I have no choice but to have you arrested for theft and thrown into juvenile detention. Your family will go broke trying to secure your release. I will see to that.”
I leaned forward, wanting to hit him or strangle him. “Do you want your daughter to learn what you’ve been doing? That you’ve known all along that her boyfriend isn’t really attracted to her? Don’t you think that will make Celia a little bit angry? Seriously, I’m not taking another single pill.”
He glared at me. “When I first met you, you may recall that I complimented you on your powers of observation and your sensitivity, not your intelligence. Are you willing to risk the side effects that will come if you abruptly stop taking the medicine?”
“What side effects?”
“Ones that would make the minor discomforts you’ve endured so far seem like a day in the park.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Are you foolish enough to take that risk?”
I leaned back in the chair, nearly shaking with anger. He was right. I had no idea what withdrawal from the pills might be like. I was already freaked about the weird fluid leaking from my brain.
I felt defeated, paralyzed. “What happens next?”
“We need to figure out what is wrong with the current formula. We might not have even noticed a problem if it were not for your cold, so we must be grateful for that. We need to work quickly.”
“What’s the hurry?”
He stood from his chair and reached
for a thick medical reference book from a shelf. “In the coming weeks, we will begin testing at sites in Asia, Africa, and South America. My assistants have been traveling for the past month, finding subjects willing to participate in the study.”
I recalled the list of names I’d seen, so many weeks ago, in his briefcase. “Will you give them the complete information? Or just half, like you gave to me?”
He pretended not to hear me as he consulted the book’s index. “Once the foreign tests have been conducted, we will begin conventional testing in this country and apply to the Food and Drug Administration for approval.” He thumbed through several pages, scanning for the information he needed. “Ah, good enough. I may have something in my lab for you to take for a few days, until we can correct the drug formula. Sit still for a moment while I get it.” He lowered the book and smiled at me, almost warmly, but I knew it was his control over me that pleased him most. “I assure you, by tomorrow your young snot will return to normal.”
He left me sitting in the chair, looking around the room in a daze. At the books and maps, the statue of the Blessed Virgin, the fancy microscope. My eyes finally settled on the big glass jars of marshmallow pellets. Staring at the jars, my vision blurred, the white pellets all running together in a gooey mass. I felt powerless and despondent under the weight of something strange—something so much bigger than me. How long had I been feeling that way?
It’s embarrassing now to admit, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized: This doctor is a villain. This drug is evil.
Dr. Gamez was like a wack-job evil doctor from a bad sci-fi movie. He had a sinister plan, and I was only one small part of it. If he was successful, how many people would be taking Rehomoline all over the world? Religious extremists could use the formula to repress the desires of gay people. In countries where homosexuality was still a crime, gay men could be forced to take the pills by law, against their will. I could envision a whole category of people whose hearts had been numbed. An army of robots.
What good could come from a pill that removed a person’s capacity for desire? I couldn’t believe I had willingly taken the pills for months, thinking they would make me straight—a whole different person. Instead, all they did was strip away the essence of what made me a person.