Code Red

by Janie Chodosh

  “No idea what he thinks,” Clem says with a shrug. “He lives in LA. Vacation parent. I see him twice a year for three days.”

  “Hey!” Rejina calls from across the cafeteria, beckoning us over to her table before I can reply. “Y’all ready for tomorrow?” she asks when we get there. Clem and Rejina banter a bit about first day jitters, though Clem doesn’t appear to actually have any and seems to be making them up for Rejina, who talks too much and seems totally nervous. “You guys want to party tonight?” We’re both standing there, but clearly she’s only talking to Clem. “A few of us are meeting at Dahlia’s room, then walking to town.”

  “Nah,” Clem says, and although he’s looking at Rejina, I feel his attention on me. “It’s cool.”

  She looks disappointed as we walk away, but I notice that she doesn’t ask for my answer.

  Clem and I leave the cafeteria together and head to the dorm where the interns are housed. As we enter the building and walk down the hall, we pass door after door, some decorated with hand-drawn signs, announcing names of the occupants, others with cartoons or posters for bands, personal badges of introductory statements: Hello. I’m a metal head, who are you?

  We reach the end of the hall and Clem stops outside a closed door with no personal deco. “This is me,” he says. I’m about to say later and take off when he adds, “Would you like to come in, so I can play you a song? A good-night serenade, milady?”

  “Cute, but I seem to remember a ‘no opposite sex in your rooms’ rule.”

  “Live dangerously,” he says and unlocks the door.

  I can’t resist a challenge. I follow him in.

  He opens his violin case, adjusts the pegs, and bows each string in the magical act of tuning. Then he starts to play. And there you have it, ladies and gents. Faith Flores melts. I don’t even like classical music, but this is something different. This music is silk and clouds and butter and…well, just really freaking amazing. Standing there listening to him play I think how there’s who we want to be, and who we try to be, and who others think we are or should be. And then there’s just the truth—who we actually are. That’s the space Clem’s music comes from.

  He finishes and takes a bow. I’m too stunned to do anything but stare at him.

  “So, you didn’t like it, then?” he says, taking my silence for disapproval. “I can play other stuff, too. Not just classical. I can—”

  “No,” I interrupt, finding my way back to the physical world, the room, my feet on the floor. My voice. “It was…magic.”

  I would think someone with this kind of talent would have arrogance written all over their face, but Clem’s smile is shy and grateful and modest, and when we say goodnight, I leave his room with the gift of not just his music, but of his smile, too.

  The second I start huffing up the steps to my room on the second floor, though, gifts and magic are replaced by altitude-induced aerobic distress. Hello, body! You can start producing a few extra red blood cells and capillaries any time now. I get to my room, breathless, and collapse onto the bed. I zone and stare out the window as the sun dips lower in the enormous turquoise sky, turning the distant mountains a shade of pink I’ve never before seen. I’m beat from the journey, starting early this morning in Philly. My eyes are just drooping shut, Clem’s violin lingering in my mind like a yummy musical aftertaste, when I hear laughter and talking in the hall.

  “Come on!” a girl’s voice I recognize as one of the arts’ interns says.

  Her summons is met with giggles and a discourse on where the intern gaggle should go and what they should do. I remember Rejina inviting us—well, inviting Clem, anyway—to go party, and I imagine wherever they’re going and whatever they’re doing will involve some first-night-rule breaking. And with this thought of partying and rule breaking I’m back to the newspaper article: A New Drug for Northern New Mexico. I’m contemplating Brugmansia again, when my FaceTime ringtone sounds.

  I swipe and see Jesse’s blue eyes. “Christmas,” he says when he sees my face.

  “Chanukah,” I retort. Ask Jesse what day it is and instead of an answer, he might tell you, for example, that the name Friday comes from the Old English meaning the day of Frigg. Or that The 4-Skins are a working class punk band from the East End of London.

  “No. Not Chanukah,” he snorts. “Chile peppers. That’s what they ask you in New Mexico when you go to a restaurant: red, green, or Christmas. Red chile, green chile, or both? Get it? Christmas. The whole chile thing is confusing if you ask me,” he goes on. I didn’t ask, but before I can elucidate this fact, he continues. “What’s up with calling them chile peppers anyway? Did you know they’re not even in the pepper family? And why in New Mexico is chile spelled with an e at the end and not an i?”

  “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

  “Nah. I’m good.” He flashes a big grin. “Studied for twenty minutes already. I have ten days before the ACT. So, how was it? Your big first day in the Land of Enchantment. Enchanting?”

  I flip onto my side and stare out the window at all that space and too much sky. It’s like the opposite of claustrophobic. It’s open-o-phobic. Where’s the corner store? The DQ? The Wawa? “Pretty good, I guess.”

  “‘Pretty good?’ Could you possibly give a duller answer? That’s like saying good job or nice work or not bad or—”

  “I found out something interesting,” I cut in, more than anything to stop his rant before it really gets going. “I saw an article in the paper today.” I tell him about Brugmansia and the drug making its way through the area.

  “Faith,” he says, and now his tone is serious, “you have that voice.”

  “What voice?”

  “The one that says you’re going to stick your nose in something that has nothing to do with you, as opposed to sticking it into something that does have to do with you, like your father. Have you started looking for him?”

  With this reminder of The Jerk, my thoughts jump to my just-in-case file (just in case I do decide to look for him), a manila envelope with two things I found in Mom’s stuff after she died: a blurry photo of The Jerk and an article torn from the Santa Fe newspaper dated two years ago, saying he’d been arrested here for drug possession. “No,” I say, turning from the window.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I look for him I might find out he’s a worse jerk than I already think he is. Or that he’s a drug addict like mom was and I have two sets of junkie genes. Or he’s part of some fundamentalist, right wing cult or he’s a Satan worshipper or a polygamist.”

  “Or a right wing-Satan-worshipping-polygamist-murderer who sucks the blood of small children.”

  “I’m serious, Jesse. I didn’t come here to find the guy. I came for the internship. I’m just not sure looking for him is a good idea.”

  “And neither is letting fear make your decisions.”

  “It’s not fear,” I say defensively.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know. Self-protection. Common sense.”

  “Well, you’re there for six weeks. A lot can happen in that time.” He pauses. Even though our FaceTime eye contact is an illusion, I feel the intensity of his gaze. “I miss you. Stay out of trouble.”

  “What trouble could I possibly get into?” I tease, resorting to default mode when it comes to expressions of sincerity, but then I add, “I miss you, too.”

  We say good night and hang up. As I strip off my clothes and climb into bed I can’t help but wonder if the possibility of finding out something horrible about a parent is worse than having no parent at all.

  Three

  I wake up recharged the next morning, ready to check out the seriously ass-kicking molecular miracle of plant genes. The lab isn’t exactly a place most kids my age fantasize about, but for me, total dreamville. Adventures in microbiology day one, here I come.

  I slug d
own a quick breakfast, then take the cross-town bus and arrive fifteen minutes later at the Salazar Center for Plant Genomics. A thin woman I’d guess to be in her mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a plaid button-down, with academic-chic round glasses, wavy blond hair, and freckles, meets me in the lobby.

  “You must be Faith. I’m Esha Margolis,” she says, extending her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I respond with the polite and practiced greeting drilled into me by Aunt T when she saw me toss my head and give a “Wuzzup?” to a teacher I saw at Walmart. Looking at Esha, though, I get the feeling that a “Wuzzup” wouldn’t bring about the end of civilization. She has a hip, laid-back vibe, the kind of cool you don’t try to be, you just are.

  “It’s great to finally meet you, too,” she says with a comfortable smile. “I’m glad to have you here. You know, Faith, over 300 students applied for this position, but as soon as I saw your application I had a feeling you were the brightest of the bunch. And then after we spoke, I knew I was right. I think you’ll be a great help to me this summer. You’re just the person for this job.”

  Instead of basking in the glow of her praise, I fizzle with anxiety. I reach into my pocket and finger Mom’s Zippo to calm my nerves. What if she’s wrong? What if I’m not just the person for the job? What if I’m not good at detailed lab work? The cool metal of Mom’s Zippo in my fist helps me relax. I’ve kept the lighter since her death—and why not a lighter? Little kids have blankets and stuffed animals. Adults have Xanax. I have a Zippo.

  “Before we head down to the lab, I want to introduce you to Dr. Richmond, the president of SCPG.” Esha leads me down a hall and knocks on the door of a corner office. A moment later a woman with a blond, blunt-cut bob and a sharp, angular face like a geometry lesson comes out to greet us. Esha introduces her as Dr. Richmond and says something about her big project with the New Mexico chile, the details of which I don’t hear because as I shake this polished professional’s hand, the president of the entire company, my anxiety spikes to an even higher level. Dr. Richmond looks at me like she’s expecting Esha’s new teen intern—who’s been chosen out of 300 applicants—to speak and not just stand there, mute.

  “So, why are they called chile peppers, anyways?” are the mortifying words that come out of my mouth, an uncharming regurgitation from Jesse. I should leave my verbal vomit at that, but with both women looking at me, nerves keep me talking. “They’re not even in the pepper family, and why do you guys spell chile with an e at the end and not an i?” And thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I will now die of embarrassment.

  “Those are great questions,” Dr. Richmond says, preventing my untimely demise. “In answer to your first question, we really don’t call them peppers around the lab for just for that reason. They’re in the Capsicum genus—from the capsaicin alkaloid that makes them so hot. At least one story about why they’re called peppers has to do with Christopher Columbus.”

  “What, like he wanted to commit genocide against them?” I bite my lip and think this time my mouth really has gone too far.

  Esha laughs and answers for Dr. Richmond. “It’s that he was the first European to discover them. He was looking for another type of black pepper and he found small, hot pods that were used as seasoning by the Native Americans. He called them pimientos—meaning ‘black peppers’ in Spanish. The name stuck I guess.”

  “Well, the dude had a real problem with getting names of things correct.”

  “Can’t argue with you on that,” Esha responds, fiddling with her necklace.

  “As for the spelling,” Dr. Richmond says, picking back up my other question. “In New Mexico, chile with an e refers to a capsicum pepper. Chili with an i is the Texas chili dish—chili con carne—chili with ground meat, beans, and spices. The Spanish who immigrated to New Mexico changed the indigenous name chilli to chile.”

  “And not only that,” Esha pitches in, “in 1983 a New Mexico senator had the chile with an e spelling actually entered into the Congressional Record.”

  “Wow. You guys are like serious hardcore chile historians.” I give a double thumbs-up and flash a smile, hoping I look enthusiastic and not psychotic.

  “Not just historians. We’re about the future,” Esha says. “Dr. Richmond is going to change the future of the industry with her genetically modified seed.”

  “Modified for what?” I ask, hoping she hadn’t explained that before when I was shaking Dr. Richmond’s hand and too nervous to listen.

  “For a chile resistant to an insect called the beet leafhopper that’s been decimating the crop for the last five years,” Dr. Richmond replies. “With climate change and warmer winters, it seems we’ve created conditions for them to thrive. The chile is vital to New Mexico. Not just to the culture and food, but to the economy as well.”

  “Right! I got this one! Red or green? The state question. I didn’t actually know states had official questions. Like what’s South Dakota’s question? Or Arkansas’? And why’s there an s at the end of Arkansas anyway?” I reach into my pocket for the lighter, clear my throat, and make myself stop rambling. “Have you finished the project?”

  “We’re in the final stage of field-testing now. In one month we’re having a board dinner to celebrate their official release to the public.” She smiles at Esha. “Esha’s in charge of that event. I’m sure she’ll benefit from your help with the dinner. She’s been working day and night to help me get this off the ground.”

  “Of course,” I say. Then I contemplate the whole genetic engineering thing. Aunt T, having donated to save the bees and the sea turtles, gets gobs of requests for money from environmental groups. I’ve seen more than one letter coming to her with slogans touting the evils of GMOs. “So, are people into the GMO thing around here? I’ve heard they’re dangerous.”

  “Everyone has something to say about genetically modified foods these days,” Dr. Richmond responds.

  “What, like you turn into a mutant if you eat one?” I’m trying to be funny, but this time nobody laughs.

  “Let’s just say there’s a lot of misinformation out there.” It’s Esha who replies this time.

  Dr. Richmond nods thoughtfully and looks at me. “You have to be careful about your sources and what you read and who you talk to. When it comes to GMOs, people easily let their emotions get in the way. There are plenty of people out there with kneejerk reactions to anything GMO, people who might say you’re putting yourself at a risk for cancer if you eat them. Tumors. Allergies.”

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “I base conclusions on research, knowledge, and evidence. Let’s say you saw a graph that showed the rise of autism with the rise of organic food, would you say organic food causes autism? Or if someone does yoga every day and gets cancer, would you say yoga causes cancer?” Dr. Richmond looks at me, but I don’t think she’s expecting an answer. “Just because two events happen at the same time doesn’t mean one caused the other. That’s what happens all the time with GMOs. People get scared. They think a GMO causes some symptom and they leap to conclusions. It’s easier to know what to believe when you make things black and white. Science and media can easily be manipulated to scare people into believing anything. But there’s no scientific evidence that GMO foods pose any risk to the consumer.” She walks into her office and motions me to follow. “Look at this,” she says, and points to a world map that’s covered with red and green dots. “The red dots represent the Earth’s current population of seven billion people.”

  I nod and study the clusters. “And the green ones?”

  “Projected population of 2050. Nine billion.”

  “That’s a lot of people,” I say, the ultimate “duh” answer.

  She turns away from the map and looks at me with those sharp and focused eyes. “You think we can feed all those people the way things are?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I�
�m guessing not?”

  “Not if we want to have trees and forests. Genetically engineered food will play a critical role in addressing global food security.” She looks like she wants to say something more, but her phone rings. She checks the screen and tells me she has to take the call. I leave and she closes the door behind her.

  Esha leads me down a flight of stairs and into the lab, a brightly lit, clean white room. Stainless steel counters line the walls. Big box-like machines sit on tables. From the lab I visited back in Philly when I was investigating my mom’s death I recognize the machines as DNA sequencers. “So, here it is,” she says, gesturing into the space. “Your home away from home for the next six weeks.”

  As she gives me a key and a swipe card for the building and the lab, a black guy with short, tight dreads, and wearing a Green Day concert T-shirt looks up from his computer. “You play volleyball?” he asks in the kind of extremely cool British accent that reminds me of the Orcs from Lord of the Rings.

  I flash on an unpleasant image of a school gym and a volleyball net and vigorously shake my head.

  “We have a game today at five,” he goes on. “I’m captain of the SCPG team. We’re playing the guys from Los Alamos. They beat us last year, so if you can serve it up, you’d better let me know.”

  “Don’t worry about volleyball,” Esha says, noticing the horror on my face. “It’s not a prerequisite for working here. Faith, this is Jonah, operations manager. Jonah, meet Faith, our intern.” Jonah reaches out with a fist bump and starts in again on volleyball, but Esha cuts him off. “Your basic job for the next few days will be to enter bar codes and sequencing instructions for DNA samples into the database and then work on quality control of the samples,” she tells me. “After that we’ll move into bioinformatics.” She leads me to a desk separated from the sequencing machines by a cubicle partition covered in blue fabric and taps a computer to life. “We get an average of fifty samples a week. The work isn’t the most exciting, but it’s important to be thorough and not make any mistakes. Working in a lab is all about precision. A mistake could mean ruining years and years of someone’s research.”