by Steve Alten
I’m angry at myself.
2
It’s seven thirty on a cool Monday morning in October. Cool in South Florida is any temperature below sixty-seven degrees. I’m waiting outside in my wheelchair for my driver to arrive to take me to school. My vintage Doors backpack is slung over my right shoulder, filled with stuff I’ll need later, like a few spare colostomy bags and my catheter.
The backpack was a gift from my mother. Mom loved music, especially classic rock. She weaned me on the Beatles and the Stones, and took me to Green Day, Coldplay, and U2 concerts to seed me as a fan. She bought me a guitar when I was ten and taught me chords, but I gave it up for the keyboard as my musical tastes shifted to more electronic bands like Swedish House Mafia and Linkin Park. And then one day I rented The Doors movie and the music touched my soul.
For all you Twilight fangers who never saw the movie, the Doors were a sixties American rock band . . . only they had a different feel. Their lyrics were poetry set to music, and the best stuff was dark and deep and seemed to capture the way I felt about my life.
For the music is your special friend—dance on fire as it intends.
Music is your only friend—until the end . . .
The Doors’ lead singer was Jim Morrison, a creative soul who lived on the edge and died at the age of twenty-seven from drugs. I bought the Doors’ CDs and googled everything I could about the late, great Lizard King—only to discover that Jim Morrison and I were kindred spirits. Turns out Jim’s father was also an overbearing rear admiral who liked to dress down his son, no doubt spawning songs like “The End” and its lyric, “Father . . . yes son, I want to kill you.”
Rest in peace, Mr. Mojo Risin’.
The Medic-van turned into our cul-de-sac and parked in the driveway. The rear right panel door slid open and a gate lowered into position. The driver—a hairless dude named Bill Raby—said good morning while he locked my wheelchair onto the sled. Bill was in his forties, a happy guy who spoke like he was from Canada even though he’s not, always adding the word eh.
“First day of school, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Good deal. Watch your hands, eh.”
Bill raised the gate, closed the panel door, and we were off to my new high school. After a ten-minute ride past strip malls and gated communities we turned right at a welcome sign that read Seacrest High School—Home of the Eagles. The campus was much larger than my old school—a series of three-story white concrete buildings connected by catwalks. There was a cement courtyard and a football stadium . . . and what am I doing here?
I wanted to be home schooled. I’ve always been an A student. I could ace the California Exit Exam with my eyes closed—the equivalent of a high school diploma. I could score high enough on an SAT to get into most Ivy League schools.
My grandmother said no. “You very smart, Kwan, but you need friends, you need to socialize.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Tut-tut. Even sharks need schools.”
I’m not a shark; apparently I just became an eagle.
The van parked curbside and my worst nightmare began. It’s 7:52 a.m. and there are students everywhere. Bill opened the side door and lowered the gate and here I am, world—Mr. Cripple—
And no one’s looking.
Did it bother me that my arrival had gone unnoticed? Well . . . yeah! I mean, what’s the point of being angry at the world if the world isn’t paying attention?
Bill unfastened my chair. “Have a good day, eh. I’ll pick you up right here at two.”
“Okay . . . eh,” I said sarcastically. Rolling ahead to a wheelchair-accessible section of curb, I searched for the administrative office. Two wrong turns and a second school bell and finally I located the entrance to the office—it’s a heavy steel door that is not handicap friendly.
Ironic that the Doors fan hates doors. The truth is—I’m not good with them. The first time I had to push and roll my way inside a door I leaned too far forward and fell out of my chair. Now I push, hold and roll—by the inch it’s a cinch, as Sun Jung says. Okay for getting inside. Getting out’s a bitch.
Fortunately, most people will hold open a door for a guy in a wheelchair, which is what a girl wearing purple leggings and a white tunic does for me. I thank her and roll on through to an information desk that is higher than my head. It’s like pulling up to a drive-in window on a tricycle.
“Excuse me? Hello?” Reaching up, I slapped the Formica countertop for service.
A woman—I’m guessing a secretary—leaned over and offered me a well-worn smile. “Well, good morning. I’ll bet you’re Kwan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come around this way. Our principal, Dr. Lockhart, is anxious to meet you.”
Anxious to meet me? Was I a celebrity? The smiling secretary sure seemed excited.
Feeling slightly better about things, I wheeled around the barrier to where the secretary was waiting. She led me past a security guard and several student volunteers to a carpeted corridor.
The door to the principal’s office was open. Inside were wood shelves and a matching workplace, a sofa, two chairs, and motivational sayings in frames. Seated behind his desk, talking on the phone was a black man in his late forties with short-cropped dark hair and a mustache. He was wearing a charcoal-gray sports jacket over a white dress shirt and a brown bow tie with gold polka dots which fostered an Ivy League aura. His reading glasses magnified kind eyes.
Seeing me, he quickly finished his phone call. “Kwan Wilson! Hey, man, we are so happy to have you here at Seacrest High. My name is Dr. Anthony Lockhart and I’m the principal.”
No kidding. I’m paralyzed, not retarded. My eyes rolled involuntarily in my head. Okay, maybe not so involuntarily.
“Is something wrong?”
“To be honest—I don’t want to be here.”
“We call that ‘first day jitters.’ Everyone gets them.”
“Not everyone’s confined to a wheelchair.”
“You don’t seem that confined.”
“Excuse me? Dude, I’m paralyzed.”
“It’s Dr. Lockhart, and what I meant is that you’re not confined. After all, you made it to school. We had a quadriplegic student here a few years ago who obviously couldn’t do much in a physical sense, and yet he enrolled in our IB—an International Baccalaureate program that provides a great stepping stone for advanced students like yourself. Doug graduated with honors and went on to Florida State.”
“Good for Doug the quadriplegic. Good for Stephen Hawking and Christopher Reeve. Their successes don’t make me feel any better.”
Ahh, there’s that anger talking. Only the principal doesn’t seem to notice. Why was this guy so happy to see me?
I had a few thoughts and they were pissing me off.
“Kwan, you seem pretty angry. I realize you’re still adjusting to major changes in your life—”
“Major changes? Did you ever play competitive sports, Dr. Lockhart?”
“As a matter of fact, I played football in college and ran track.”
“I played basketball in high school. As a sophomore, I was the varsity’s starting point guard. Averaged eighteen points a game, eight rebounds, and nine assists. One reporter called me the next Jeremy Lin, even though he’s Chinese and I’m Korean. I was getting looks from Division I colleges—Stanford . . . UCLA. Best of all, I could shoot the three-ball. Steve Kerr made a living in the NBA off the three-ball. I had plans. I was working out hard back in San Diego, training with a Navy SEAL instructor. Then one day I was driving and . . .”
I was losing control, so I shut up and bit my lower lip and stared at the framed family photos on Dr. Lockhart’s desk. He had a wife, a son, and three girls. They looked happy. Happy principal. Happy family.
I hated happy.
“Look, son, I can’t
begin to relate to what you must be going through, but I know what it feels like to lose your athletic dreams. Blew my Achilles out when I was a junior. Injuries happen. Age happens. Even professional athletes have to give up the game at some point and decide what they want to do with the rest of their lives. You’re highly intelligent. You have options. Tell me—do you have any interest in sharks?”
Sharks? “Does this have something to do with my grandmother?”
“Why? Does she like sharks?”
“Never mind.”
“Our school was selected to participate in a student internship program with a new facility in Miami—the Aquatic Neurological & Genetics Engineering Lab—ANGEL for short. They’re harvesting stem cells from certain species of sharks in the hopes of developing cures for cancer and other diseases.”
“Pass. I have no interest in swimming with sharks.”
Dr. Lockhart smiled. “You misunderstood. Dr. Becker isn’t looking for divers; she needs volunteers who possess data entry skills and tested high in the sciences.”
“Pass.”
“Before you pass, you should know that Dr. Becker is using these stem cells to repair spinal cords in rats. One day she hopes to use her protocol on humans.”
“Do you know what I do all day? I surf the Internet. I read about every spinal cord study being conducted in every country . . . Korea, China, Israel, the EU. Stem cells are great and one day they may actually work. But for every one drug or treatment that works, a thousand fail. And the one that works—it takes twenty years and about $100 million to advance it from lab mice to gaining FDA approval. So you’ll excuse me if traveling after school in a wheelchair to some fish lab in Miami just to enter data on a voluntary basis doesn’t excite me. But hey, no worries. My 4.5 GPA and FCAT scores over the next two years should still help your school maintain its high academic status and prevent any losses in salary among you and your staff.”
The principal stopped smiling.
“Was there anything else, Dr. Lockhart?”
“Mrs. Krantz has your class schedule. Have a good day.”
Having “dressed down” the principal, I wheeled myself out of his office, experiencing the same rush of adrenaline and satisfaction the Admiral must have felt when he berated me back in the hospital.
3
My first period class was biology, in room 6107 . . . like that made any sense. By the time I located the right building and found the elevator to take me up to the second floor, I was already ten minutes late.
Arriving outside the classroom I faced a new challenge—the door opened outward on a seriously strong spring-loaded hinge—so strong that I couldn’t open it wide enough to gain enough leverage before the damn thing would bang against my wheel and re-close.
After thirty seconds of this insanity a student held the door open from the inside.
The science teacher’s name was Mr. Hock. He wasn’t that old, but he seemed a bit grumpy. I’m guessing he was pissed off at me for interrupting his lecture.
“Class, this is Kwan Wilson—a transfer student from California. Kwan, I don’t have a desk for you yet. Why don’t you just park your chair by the wall for now and do your best to follow along.”
“Yes, sir.” I backed down the aisle between the first row of students and the wall nearest the door, stopping between the second and third desks. For a moment I debated internally about opening my backpack to retrieve a legal pad and pen, but feared the disturbance might further distract the teacher, who was already continuing his lesson.
“Last week we studied DNA; today we’ll be looking at ways DNA can be genetically modified. Who can tell me one way a species can be genetically altered to create an entirely new species? Tara?”
A girl with Jamaican braids looked up from reading her text message. “Um, sorry. What was the question?”
“The question is—why are you texting in my class?”
“Sorry Mr. Hock. It’s important. From my mom.”
“Sure it is. Now put it away.” Mr. Hock looked around the classroom. “I realize it’s early, that your brains are still half asleep, so let’s try this again. I’m looking for an example of one species genetically modified to create a new species. No one?”
I knew a dozen examples but remained silent.
“Anyone here own a dog?”
Hands shot up, giving the discussion a pulse.
“Who can name a breed of dog that was created by mating two different breeds?”
“Labradoodle,” blurted out a guy seated in the front row. “That’s a Labrador and a poodle.”
“Good, Jason. Anyone else?”
“Pekepoo.”
“Another poodle hybrid—good.”
“Our Yorkshire terrier is part bichon. Does that count?”
“Absolutely. So we now know crossbreeding changes the genetic blueprint of an animal. Next question—why crossbreed a species?”
“To see what the puppies will look like?”
“Think a little deeper, Lance.”
“To combine stuff you like in both kinds of dogs?”
“Very good, Susan. Can you give us an example? Here’s a clue: try not to think like someone living in the twenty-first century. Imagine yourself a farmer living a thousand years ago. What traits might you want in your dog? Anyone? Just call it out—live dangerously.”
“Protection?”
“Yes. And not just of the home. A sheepherder would want a species of dog capable of protecting his flock. What else?”
“Intelligence.”
“Absolutely.”
“Good with kids.”
That one drew laughter.
Mr. Hock held up his hand for quiet. “Disposition is actually an important trait. Keep in mind that all dog breeds can be traced back to wolves. The ability to domesticate an animal was essential hundreds of years ago.
“So we all agree mating one breed of animal with another can improve the species. What about crossbreeding two completely different species—for instance, fruit trees. Cross-pollinate the seed and you change the fruit, right? Sometimes it happens naturally, like when the wind blows pollen from one tree to another. Or it can be deliberate, like when a fruit grower cross-pollinates an orange with a lemon.
“That leads us into today’s lesson—GMOs. Who here has heard of genetically modified organisms?”
Nearly everyone raised their hand.
“Can anyone tell me how GMOs are engineered? Anya?”
I turned around—my senses assaulted by a mocha-skinned beauty seated in the last row. The silver wavy bindi she wore on her left arm like a jeweled tattoo revealed her Indian heritage, as did her high cheekbones and long jet-black hair—the latter westernized by two auburn strands. A tight chocolate-brown long-sleeved top and a white skirt revealed a body that would draw stares on any beach. But it was her eyes that poached my soul—bright blue eyes that glistened like the shallows of an azure sea. One could search all of India and never find eyes like hers, and when she spoke in a British accent I realized that she had probably been raised at some point in England.
Oh yeah . . . and she was smart.
“. . . genetically modified organisms such as crop plants have been modified in the lab to increase their resistance to certain pesticides. Monsanto has used GMOs to monopolize the agriculture industry, creating seeds that are resistant to their own pesticide—Roundup. Back in India, our farmers were forced to buy GMO seeds from Monsanto. These seeds produced one crop and died, as opposed to healthy seeds which produced crops with seeds that could be harvested again and again. Monsanto genetically modified their seeds to be sterile and resist their own brand of pesticide, which gets into the food supply we consume on a daily basis, causing an increase in cancer and other diseases. Farmers have fallen into debt from trying to make a living growing Monsanto’s genetically enginee
red Bt cotton. Over a quarter-million Indian farmers have committed suicide.”
Beautiful and brilliant. And me? I was the human equivalent of Monsanto’s GMO—a crop with a barren seed. And yet so smitten was I that I found myself raising my hand like a desperate frog hoping to plant a mental kiss on his princess.
“Anya’s right. Roundup is a herbicide that contains glyphosates. Glyphosates have been shown to cause birth defects among animals and humans. Glyphosates are also responsible for wiping out bee colonies. Bees are important because they pollinate plants. Lose the bees and we’re screwed.”
I felt the class staring at me. They probably weren’t expecting the gimp to have a brain.
The tall guy seated behind me to my left stood, pointing at my legs. “Look! He’s peeing in his pants!”
I looked down. Sure enough, urine was flooding the front of my jeans, dripping onto the floor.
As a rule, I insert my catheter once every four hours. It had only been two and a half hours since I had woken up, but stress causes one to pee more frequently—and I was clearly stressed.
And helpless.
And humiliated.
And suddenly desperate to get out of there—the cell phones already starting to appear, their video apps threatening to turn one bad moment into a lifetime of grief.
I charged the exit, thankful the door opened outward. Ramming it open, I wheeled like a madman down the corridor—bypassing the elevator, hell-bent on flinging myself down the concrete stairwell and ending the torture.
Principal Lockhart appeared out of nowhere to block my attempt. “Whoa now, easy son! You’re going way too fast—we have a speed limit, you know.”
I was too angry to form words, so I just grunted, tears of frustration flowing past my cheeks.
He saw the tears; then he saw the front of my pants. “It’s okay, I can fix this. There are laundry machines in the stadium. It’ll be quicker if I push you.”
Simple, quick, and logical.
Accepting his solution, I slumped in the chair and let him take over. We rode the elevator down one floor; then he pushed me across campus to the football stadium while he called a custodian on his walkie-talkie to let us into the equipment room.