Code Red

by Janie Chodosh

  “I think it’s sets of read-alignment data that corresponds to each chile chromosome.”

  “And that would mean?”

  “If her extra-hot chile contains some foreign genes, then there’ll be reads that don’t match the reference. There’s software to find these reads. Esha showed me how to use it. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  We don’t talk as I anxiously check the size of the output files every few minutes and see that they’re still growing. After about a half hour of nervous silence, I have a file containing all of the extra-hot chile sequences that don’t match the reference.

  “Look,” I say, the thump of my heart matching the excitement of the discovery. “The extra-hot chile isn’t the same as the reference chile. So we have to figure out what the reads mean.” I remember something I heard about back in Philly when I was trying to find out what happened to my mom. “There’s a public database called GenBank. It’s a huge collection of genetic data containing almost everything ever sequenced. We can search it to see if we find any genes that match our mystery reads. It’s public access. I just need to figure out how to use it.”

  “Meaning we need caffeine and junk food?”

  While Amelia goes on a phone flashlight adventure and sniffs out the place for sugar and caffeine, I study the how-to tutorials on the GenBank website until I have enough of an idea how to get started. I paste in our mystery reads, choose some default options among the confusing set of choices, and kick the process into action, hoping I’ve done this correctly. And, hello, ladies and gents! The machine whirs into action. Although there are hundreds of reads in our set from the extra-hot chile, GenBank must have some seriously powerful computers paid for by our tax dollars because the answers come back in a few seconds.

  Amelia marches back in with enough vending machine junk food to fuel my entire senior class through first period.

  “Get this,” I say, reaching for a half-eaten bar of chocolate she must’ve scrounged from someone’s stash. “The extra-hot chile has at least five genes that code for enzymes that aren’t in the normal chile.”

  “It’s late, and I slept through bio,” she says. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that the cells in the extra-hot chile are doing something a normal chile doesn’t do, and I don’t think it’s an accident.” I put down the chocolate, too excited to eat. “My guess is those genes are giving Esha’s chile some new ability. But a guess isn’t evidence. I need to find out what the output product is of the enzymes.”

  Again, Amelia wants to know how, and again, I tell her I have to figure it out. I consult my friend, Google, and discover a database of biological pathways called MetaCyc. It’s public access. After I watch the tutorial, I learn that MetaCyc is a database of metabolic pathways from all domains of life containing more than 2,000 pathways from more than 2,500 different organisms.

  I search the database with the enzyme names from Esha’s chiles.

  Each search comes up with a hit that describes the reaction done by the enzyme. When I put all the chemical reactions together, I have an answer. I sit back and take my fingers from the keyboard. “Looks like the enzymes create the pathway for making liquid gold,” I say, letting out the breath I’ve been holding for what feels like all night. “And they all come from the plant Brugmansia.”

  Amelia stares at me with a cautiously guarded expression, one that echoes how I’m feeling. For the first time since we’ve met, it’s like looking in the mirror. “Does that mean we have proof?” she whispers, as if she’s afraid the proof will disappear if she speaks any louder.

  I nod. “We nailed her.”

  She keeps staring. “I know that look. You have a plan.”

  “Yep,” I say, elusively.

  “You going to tell me—or don’t you trust me?”

  I consider this question as I look at her angry face, then speak for several minutes.

  “You sure about this?” she asks when I’m done.

  I turn the question of trust back on her. “You’ll just have to have faith.”

  Thirty-three

  I have Friday off to prepare for the board meeting, and at nine a.m., after an evening with Clem in which we kissed twice more and still managed not to define what we’re doing, I’m at Alma’s in the kitchen with Mari and Amelia. We haven’t told Mari about the chiles being drugged. Of course what happened with Eslee isn’t her fault, but I’m pretty sure she won’t see it that way.

  Amelia’s designed the whole menu around the New Mexico chile: Parmesan green chile dip. Ginger chile spring rolls. Green chile mac and cheese. Red chile onion rings. Organic chicken and cheese enchiladas with fire roasted chile and tomato salsa. The one dish I’m in charge of is green chile stew. I have all the ingredients.

  It’s only when I start to prepare the stew that I realize cooking means more than boiling water or spreading peanut butter onto bread. According to the smiling woman on the website of the five-star recipe Amelia pointed me to, the recipe is easy, but when the garlic zings off the cutting board and flies to the floor where Sopapilla immediately licks it, sneezes, and gives me a disgusted look, I mutter. “Yeah, well, the theory of relativity is easy, too, if you’re a physicist.”

  “You don’t chop garlic with a butter knife, Guera!” Amelia snaps. With a few quick flicks of the wrist and a sharp blade, she has a new clove sliced and ready to go.

  I mumble thanks and move on to the onion. “You have no power over me, onion!” I announce, but within seconds my eyes are burning, the tears so profuse I can’t see a thing and I have to retreat to the other side of the kitchen where Mari’s drinking lemonade, watching the whole thing unfold with an amused smile.

  “Any more thoughts about ‘Teen Chef’?” she asks Amelia, as Amelia takes over onion chopping.

  I’m certain Amelia’s going to lie, omit the detail about having aced the audition and actually gotten accepted. “They want me on the show,” she says instead. “It’s filming in Albuquerque on July 18th. The episode’s called ‘Show Me How Spicy You Can Be.’” She finishes chopping the onion and swipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. “But I don’t know.”

  Now I’m certain Mari’s going to give Amelia a hard time about her indecision, tell her she has to accept. Again I’m wrong. “I guess you should only do it if you really want to. What’s that movie?”

  “Like Water for Chocolate,” Amelia says, reading her mind.

  When nobody explains the meaning of the reference, I say, “What about that movie?”

  “Tita, the main character can only express herself when she cooks,” Mari says, her eyes still on Amelia. “And she totally loves the food she makes. I’ve always said Mia’s like Tita, and that’s what makes her food so good. It’s not just that she’s a really freaking good cook, it’s that she loves it. You can taste the love. She affects people that way.” She shrugs and looks down at her drink. “But if she’s not feeling it, then she shouldn’t go on the show because she’ll just tank.”

  I’m not sure if Mari’s pulling some kind of reverse psychology trick or if she’s just being honest, but the meat for my stew needs browning, and I’m too stressed out by my inability to do the browning and not give someone food poisoning from undercooked meat to care. I go to the stove and stare at the meat. I’ve never actually handled uncooked meat. Meat comes in perfectly round, cooked patties sandwiched between two buns.

  “Earth to Guera!” I hear Amelia say. “You’ve been staring at that meat for five minutes. You going to do something with it or wait and see if it cooks itself? Move over.” She bumps me out of the way, and within seconds, has the meat, along with the garlic and onion, sliced and browning in a frying pan. “Can you handle the rest? Chopping chiles and putting it all into the pot with some potatoes and a little water?”

  “I’ll help.” Mari pitches in, thank god, because even though Miss Like-Water-For-Chocolate makes it sound
so easy, I’m afraid of being the world’s biggest recipe moron if I get it wrong.

  “Thanks,” I say to Mari when the stew is happily cooking on the stove.

  “No prob. You excited?”

  “Totally.” I hide my eyes because what’s in them is apprehension about my plan, not excitement, and I don’t want Mari to see that and ask why. “It’s going to be great.”

  Once the meat-onion-garlic-chile concoction appears cooked (appears being the operative word, because really I have no idea) I pour it into a bowl. The way I’m sweating, you’d think I’d just run a marathon (or jogged around the block). Not Amelia. She has not a drop of sweat on her brow. Not a glob of meat, a peel of onion, or some other food ingredient smeared on her apron, arms, or (how’d it get there?) face.

  At two o’clock, when Amelia pulls the final pan from the oven, I decide miracles are real. My green chile stew is complete, and the kitchen smells are to die for. Mari goes to her room to rest, and Amelia and I agree to leave for SCPG at three, which gives me an hour to put the finishing touches on my plan—the one detail I’ve left for last, timing being everything. While Amelia goes to get ready, I take out my laptop, which I brought with me, and e-mail Virg.

  Dear Officer Virgil,

  I think I know how Eslee was poisoned and I think I can prove it. Meet me by the back door today at SCPG at 3:30. I’ll explain everything.

  Faith Flores

  I attach a summary of the data I got from Esha’s computer and press send, then change into the clothes Dahlia lent me for the occasion. Suited up in a black skirt, white tee, and black shoes, I go to Amelia’s room and knock.

  “If you say a word I’ll kill you,” she says when she opens it.

  I have no intention of dying at sixteen, so I keep silent.

  Her hands fly to her hips. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “You said not to.”

  “Anything bad, Guera! Just say something nice.”

  I take in her clean white linen pants and jacket, her poofy, white chef hat, the lack of facial piercings. “You look ready to kick some serious chef ass,” I say. “Where’d you get the hat?”

  “Chef Anthony, the guy I did the internship with last semester, gave it to me. He said someday I’d be the head chef at one of the best restaurants in town, but after the whole mole fiasco, I threw it in the closet. I thought today would be the perfect day to wear it.”

  “If only Red were here to see you.”

  ***

  We arrive at SCPG just before three-thirty. Esha’s already there. While she and Amelia bring the food from the truck to the kitchen (minus my chile stew, which I tell them I’ll handle) I excuse myself and race to the back door to wait for Virg.

  At four, there’s still no sign of him, and I start to panic. My plan calls for police backup. I’m gnawing my lip to pulp when my phone rings. I jump, thinking it’s Virg, but when I check the screen my heart sinks. It’s Esha.

  “I can’t find the soup spoons anywhere,” she informs me. “Amelia says you’re bringing stew. We can’t eat stew without soup spoons! Where are you? We really need those spoons. Do I have to go and buy some? Should I send—?”

  “No. I’ll be there in a second,” I say, faking a calm I don’t feel.

  I trudge back up to the small kitchen through the back door, commanding myself to stay calm. As opposed to Esha whose shit is falling straight out of her ass. “Where are the soup spoons?” she repeats like a brain-addled dementia patient the second I walk into the kitchen. “We only have teaspoons. How can we eat stew with teaspoons? It’ll be a disaster!”

  “It’s okay,” I say, producing the appropriate spoons. “The board isn’t going to cut funding because of our spoons.”

  “What about the napkins? I only see paper. I thought we agreed on cloth? Paper looks cheap.”

  “They’re right here. Everything’s going to be fine,” I say, repeating my mantra, willing it to be so.

  At five, boardmembers start to appear in the conference room where we’re serving dinner. Amelia walks around with a tray of ginger chile spring rolls, fire-roasted salsa and chile sauce, Parmesan green chile dip, and homemade tortilla chips. I listen to the sounds of gastric contentment as people go for seconds and thirds. I even hear one of the boardmembers asking Esha for the name of the caterer.

  “Looks like they love your food,” I say to Amelia when she comes into the kitchen to restock her tray.

  She shrugs me off, like it’s no big deal, but she’s humming to herself and smiling as she goes back into the room.

  At five-forty-five, appetizers are over and still no Virg. Dr. Richmond clinks her glass and asks her guests to be seated. “Welcome,” she says to the smiling posse of PhDs, the intellectual per-capita of a small nation. “It’s a pleasure to have you all here. Tonight we’re celebrating our New Mexico chile projects.” She looks around the table with her dazzling smile as everyone claps, then lifts a hand and continues. “While there are those in the community who are against the progress we are making at SCPG, we cannot let fear and politics get in the way of good science. We here at SCPG have a solution to a problem plaguing New Mexico. A solution that could revive an industry and save thousands of jobs. A solution that merges the tradition of the past with the progress of the future. Yes, we’ve had a setback, but we will not let renegades stop us. Tonight we celebrate the growth of SCPG and we dine in honor of the New Mexico chile.”

  Applause, applause, happy congratulations. While the feel good banter continues, I set bowls of my green chile stew around the table, wondering if my plan has any chance of working without a cop here, or if I’m about to humiliate myself, destroy my reputation, and lose any chance of a future in science. I glance at Esha as I set her bowl in front of her, but she’s busy talking to a suited boardmember and doesn’t meet my eye. It’s now or never.

  When I’ve set the last bowl, I stop at the head of the table and clear my throat. “May I have your attention, please?” The room goes quiet. A drop of sweat slithers down my neck. “Hi, everyone. My name’s Faith Flores. I’m an intern here at SCPG. As Dr. Richmond said, tonight’s meal is all about the New Mexico chile, but before we get started with the main course, we have a little surprise.” Another drop of sweat meets up with the first, making for a perspiration party. I notice Amelia’s stuck her head out of the kitchen and is looking at me nervously. “While we can’t taste Dr. Richmond’s engineered chile tonight because it’s not quite ready for the market, we can taste Esha’s chiles, which she’s been harvesting for several months. So to honor her hard work I made green chile stew using her genetically modified extra-hot chiles.”

  Esha laughs politely without taking her eyes off me. “That’s a great idea, Faith, but unfortunately there were no chiles left after the fire, so I don’t see how this is possible.”

  “Ernie was able to harvest some before the fire,” I say, placing a hand to my heart and feigning gratitude.

  Esha clears her throat and looks around. She’s still smiling, but her eyes have changed. She no longer looks so smug.

  “Dig in and enjoy!” I exclaim.

  There’s a clinking of silverware and a rustle of napkins. I’m on the verge of death by nerves as people raise their spoons. Come on, Esha! I scream in my head. Are you just going to stand there? I’m counting on you to tell them not to eat it!

  Just as a woman in a yellow dress touches her spoon to her lips, Esha jumps up and shouts, “Wait!” A few surprised boardmembers drop their spoons, others pause, spoons mid-air. “Nobody move! Don’t taste anything!” Esha snaps her fingers, as if summoning a butler to clear away the dishes. When nobody comes, she starts collecting them herself. She races around the table grabbing over people’s heads, slopping bits of soup onto silk shirts and linen blazers.

  “Ouch,” Dr. Richmond cries when hot liquid spills onto her arm. “Esha, for God
’s sake, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Why shouldn’t all these people taste your chiles?” I call over the chaos. “Don’t you want to share with the board the work you’ve done?” Esha’s eyes bore into me. “It’s not because you engineered liquid gold into your so-called extra-hot chiles, is it?”

  “That’s insane!” Esha shoots back.

  “No,” I say, speaking softly now. No need to shout. The room has gone quiet. “What’s insane is that you didn’t grow a chile. You grew a drug.” Dr. Richmond sits frozen at the head of the table, Jonah beside her. “Are you afraid someone will die if they eat it? Like Eslee? Like Mari, my half sister, almost did?”

  “Okay, Faith, that’s enough,” Dr. Richmond says to me, but she sounds shaken.

  “There’s proof!” I’m back to shouting now. “And you can see it on the central server in Esha’s data. You’re all scientists. You’ll understand it.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Esha sounds calm, but there’s a storm behind her eyes.

  “If it’s so ridiculous, why don’t you taste it yourself?”

  Little clusters of bombs detonate around the room as everyone starts talking at once, but it’s Esha who penetrates the uproar. “You are an attention-seeking child,” she says to me, commanding everyone’s attention with the threat in her voice.

  “You’re wrong on both things,” says a familiar voice in the back of the room. I spin and see Virg standing in the doorway, holding up a badge. “She’s a teenager, not a child, and she’s not seeking attention.” He walks toward Esha through the now dead silence. “You’re Dr. Margolis?”

  She clears her throat. “Yes. That’s right. I’m the lab director. I hired Faith.”

  He nods thoughtfully, then turns to me. “Hi, Faith. How’re you holding up?”

  “You know each other?” Esha asks, crevices of doubt cracking her smug expression.

  “Yes, not only do we know each other, but Faith invited me to be here.” I’m too nervous to take his smile for anything more than a physical anomaly, a tick, an uncontrolled movement of muscles, and I keep quiet. “I read your e-mail and the information you sent me. Took a while to find someone who understood it. Sorry I’m late.” He turns now to Esha. “This morning, you might be interested to know, we took a young man by the name of Cruz Sampson into custody on charges of dealing liquid gold. He had a very interesting story to tell us about how he came to be dealing the drug, and how liquid gold has been made to grow inside a chile pepper. At first I thought his story was crazy, but then I received Miss Flores’ e-mail, and it looks to me like his story might just have some truth to it. More than that, it appears that this drugged chile was ingested by one girl who died and by another one who almost died.”