I walked an imaginary gangplank over to her. She stepped so close I could smell her perfume. Her mouth parted as she breathed me in deeply, as if she was a panther baring her teeth in the flehmen response. Her warm breath brushed my face. I flinched, taking a step back. This was getting a little Bates Motel for my taste.
"You've been drinking, haven't you?"
I had to think fast. My mom was like a pit bull when she fastened onto something – particularly logical inconsistencies. I held up my hands.
"Okay, okay," I said. "We went to her apartment and she served me a little brandy. I didn't get drunk or anything and nothing happened."
"You were alone with a girl in her apartment and nothing happened."
She made it sound as if a hungry fox was trapped in a henhouse and never touched a chicken.
"Yeah." I offered a theatrical sigh. "Not that I didn't want it to, I admit that."
"You're saying she rejected you?"
"Is that so impossible to believe?"
"Aiden..." She straightened out her blouse, lowering her eyes. "I know your Andrydox isn't working."
"I told her I was hyper."
My mom's eyes widened – and then narrowed. She was thinking it through and it made sense to her. I could tell by the way she inclined her chin. Not quite a nod, but close enough.
"She didn't take that well?"
"No. She didn't appreciate that I hadn't mentioned that before." I was learning that it was easier to lie when you partly told the truth. "She couldn't see being with a hyper. Especially someone she thought was getting so many special privileges – like fifty thousand dollar gift cards and private tutoring by elite professors like Peter Lacey."
"You told her about that." My mom was half-smiling.
"I wanted to be honest with her. Stupid, huh?"
"She would've found out the truth sooner or later anyway."
"I kind of wish it had been later."
My mom stepped back from me, smiling openly now, her eyes glowing with sympathy. "I understand what you must be going through, Aiden. It's been months since you've..."
"Right," I said.
"For someone with your hormone and energy levels, that must be incredibly frustrating."
I bowed my head in grave homage to my courage and self-sacrifice.
"It won't be that much longer." She patted me on the head. "You'll find someone who will want to be with you for yourself, not for how your pheromones affect them."
"I hope you're right, Mom."
"It will happen. Try to be patient."
"I'll try."
I returned to my room. I couldn't help feeling some pride that I'd managed the near-impossible of hoodwinking my mom, but I still hated doing it. It was just one of those tragic necessities.
When I flipped on the bed lamp I was startled by the spectral figure of my sister, standing with arms folded in one shadowy corner of the room.
"So she bought your bullshit story," she said, the music booming from her adjacent bedroom rendering her voice nearly inaudible. "And she's supposed to be so brilliant."
"She is brilliant," I said. "And she wouldn't be happy if she found out you were in my room right now."
"She'd probably be jealous."
"Don't be stupid."
"Gosh. If only you followed that motto."
"Leave."
"Make me."
"I could, you know."
"I know. You're a big, muscular guy now. Big all over."
I was torn between wanting to punch Melanie in her smirking face and preening. I slumped down on my bed with a sigh.
"It's inhuman what they're making you do," she said, shuffling closer. "And it's nuts to make sex illegal for people under eighteen. But that doesn't change the fact that if they catch you again, you will back to Woodvale Juvenile Detention Facility or worse for years."
"Thank you for that reminder, Melanie."
"But you could get relief without endangering yourself, from someone who loves you – from someone you can trust absolutely. Anyone out there could report you. You know it's already happened once. It could've happened more than once if Gertie's parents hadn't decided to look the other way."
I eyed the ceiling and said nothing.
"There's a risk for other people, too," my sister pointed out. "That poor student spent three months in a federal prison. It could've been a lot longer."
"Thanks for that reminder, too."
"I'm just trying to protect yourself from yourself, dickwad. When you're in the thrall of your hormones you do dumb stuff."
"I'm in the thrall of them 24/7 when I'm not on Melatin."
"But I've noticed you're more calm and clear-thinking when you've had some relief. That's one of the ways I know you've been with someone."
"You should skip studying psychology and become a psychic."
"In other words, I'm right?" She was smiling.
"I'm not going to use you like a piece of meat, Mel. You're my sister, for God's sake."
"That's it, Aiden. I'm not just a piece of meat. I love you and you love me, right?"
"I might love you, but I also kinda hate you, you know?"
She laughed softly. "Me, too."
We both jumped as a hard knock sounded on Melanie's bedroom door.
"I'm going to bed, Mel," my mom called. "Please turn down your music or put your headphones on. And it's just about bedtime, by the way."
Meeting my "What are you going to do now?" gaze, Melanie slipped a remote from her jeans and with a tap lowered the volume in the next room. We heard our mother's footsteps recede and her bedroom door close.
"Good one," I said.
"Thanks. Anyway, as I was saying..."
"It's not healthy or normal, Mel. As a future psych major, you ought to know that."
"You think not having sex is healthy? What about today's romantic relationships is normal or healthy? Since the MES virus, everything between men and women is screwed up. You have noticed that, haven't you?"
"So what are you saying? Incest is the new normal?"
"Maybe not in the long-run, but I bet it's common with young hypers, given the ridiculous laws." She raised an eyebrow at me. "Didn't you read between the lines when your famous pal Ragnar Norquist talked about his family being 'very supportive'?"
"Come on. That's a pretty big leap of logic."
"Is it? You should ask him about that sometime."
I glared at her while battling an inner twitch of apprehension. Ragnar had always been a bit vague on that subject.
"That's none of my damn business," I said. "Anyhow, however other hypers handled it doesn't say anything about what I should do. Yeah, things have been kind of warped for the last thirty-eight years, but I'd rather not ad to the weirdness."
"Riiight. Better to risk five years in prison than violate a taboo."
"God, would you please stop talking about prison? Besides, I thought you had a boyfriend. Joseph something or other?"
"Malcolm. Malcolm Dickson. Or as I affectionately call him, Limp Dickson."
I wasn't able to stifle my laugh. You couldn't make crap like that up. "Not to his face, I hope."
"Not yet." Her own laugh ended on a down note. "It's not his fault. It's what that damn virus does. I'd need like thirty guys to be satisfied. Some of the cutest girls like Sonja Wilson actually do something like that, sucking the pool of available men dry. And not completely in the allegorical sense."
I gave her a weary smile and nod.
"The rest of us have to take the dregs," she said. "Not that I would do the same if I were hot as she was."
"Sonja Wilson doesn't have anything on you," I said. "Except being more mercenary."
Melanie touched her hair. I couldn't be sure in the dim light, but I thought I spotted a shade of extra color in her cheeks.
"Sheesh, you really think I'm in her league looks-wise?"
"Sure. But that's not the point. If it weren't for my pheromones, we wouldn't be having this conversation, wo
uld we?"
My sister lifted her shoulders sadly.
"It's just chemical determinism, Mel."
"What isn't? So you think it's a matter of choice who people are attracted to or who they fall in love with?"
My sister could be really depressing sometimes.
Chapter 22
RAGNAR AND THE SACRAMENTO Kings were back in town playing LeBron James' Cleveland Cavaliers, and I had front row seats courtesy of the Kings' star player.
The Kings had made a couple of incredible trades/Acquisitions during the off-season. One was Harry "Spider" Nelson. 6'10", with long arms and a whippet-thin but muscular body, The Spider had been a college star but had battled injuries early in the NBA – most pundits attributed them to his slim build – but now in his third year, after being snapped up for a song by the Kings, he had strengthened his body enough to withstand NBA rigors and was finally coming into his own. He had exceptional leaping ability, long arms and monstrous hands, and played around the basket with a strangely ballet-like grace. Opponents didn't know where he was coming from on either offense or defense: a swooping block or a plucked rebound from the air high over the rim could result in a precision full-court pass or a thunderous dunk. He was almost impossible to guard, incorporating an array of feints and spinning moves that could carry him from twelve feet out to the rim in the space of a breath. If by some miracle you did guard him, he could pass with the best of them.
The other new player, Jack O'Connor, was called the "second coming of Dave Cowens." A six-nine, red-haired white guy with decent hops and exceptional strength and skills but whose best attribute, as was the case with his Celtic prototype, was playing like a madman. First starting as a power forward, his fiery, bruising, perpetual motion style under the backboard soon earned him solid stints at center.
With a 37-11 start and first place in the Western Conference, the Kings were back. People were saying it was like the heydays of Vlade Divac, Chris Webber, Peja Stojaković, Jason Williams, and Mike Bibby. Those guys were before my time, but from the tapes I'd watched they'd come within one mis-tap by Vlade of winning the NBA championship. Now, with Ragnar's leadership, the championship was within reach again.
I was here with Jim Jackson, sitting three rows back, slathered in Andrydox, so no one paid much attention to me. They probably assumed Jim and I were with one or both of the boisterous thirty-something couples on either side of us since two guys our age obviously couldn't afford $400 tickets.
"Man, I can't believe this," said Jim. "This is like a dream come true."
"For me, too. I just hope they don't plan on resting LeBron tonight."
LeBron James, now thirty-four, often found his minutes reduced in back-to-back games. It was a novel body-saving strategy that had paid big dividends for Cleveland in the playoffs, where a healthy King James had been able to lead his team to two finals and one championship in the last three years. I thought it might be a winning strategy for the team, but at times it was a bitter loss for the fans.
But tonight was a match-up between conference leaders, and I guessed the coaches had decided there would be no rest for the weary since everyone, including LeBron, played long minutes.
The first half was fairly close, with some spectacular plays on both sides – a dunk from near the free throw line from Ragnar, a run-down lay-up block from LeBron, a facial dunk on the Kings' center by Kyrie Irving, and a whirling drive and reverse dunk by Spider Nelson – but the younger stars of Sacramento began to wear down LeBron and Cleveland in the second half. The turning point, it seemed to me, was on a Kings fast break where LeBron ended up near the basket and Ragnar exploded into flight from a full-out sprint a couple of feet inside the foul line. LeBron went up for the block with an air of stoic resignation but not high enough to block Ragnar's ferocious dunk.
That play seemed to break the Cavaliers' spirit, and Sacramento went on a scoring rampage. I almost felt sorry for a tired-looking LeBron and his team as the Kings surged to a fifteen and then twenty-point lead. Being 34 and having to chase super-athletic guys in their early twenties up and down the court had to hurt.
"I could see you being out there running with them," said Jim.
"What?" I shot him a startled look. "Are you serious?"
"Cleveland needs a good point guard."
"Ha."
"Heck, the Kings could use a true point guard. Ragnar doesn't really like bringing the ball up, and Mackey" – their six-two starting guard – "isn't anything special."
"I think you're making too much of me being hyper, Jim. It doesn't make me superman. I'd be lucky if I could make a small college's starting five right now."
"Right now." Jim gave me a knowing smile. "When I first met you a few months ago, you could barely even dribble. I've never seen anyone improve in a sport as fast you have. You're a work in progress, buddy, and you're just getting started. How good could you be in two years if you kept working at it?"
It was a disconcerting thought. Logically, I could improve a lot in terms of skill. To the point of being a decent Division 2 or 3 college player? Maybe. The NBA? In my dreams.
I wasn't going to argue the point with Jim, because he was obviously a dreamer.
"I guess we'll have to see about that," I said to him.
After the game, we flowed out of the Golden West Center with the jubilant crowd. Playoff talk was in the air. A few bold individuals spoke of a possible championship run.
I drove Jim south out of town toward Ragnar's home for a dinner with him and Meredith Baxter, my former tour guide of the rich and powerful in Aspen. Ragnar and Meredith were now an item. I wasn't sure about the exact nature of that item, but I imagined it involved a lot of fireworks which I refused to visualize.
I'd talked to Meredith briefly a couple of times, but hadn't seen her since the Rocky Mountain Conference in Aspen. I'd seen Ragnar a few weeks ago. He'd actually come to one of my home games incognito. Not an easy feat, but he'd worn this ridiculous brown wig and had actually pulled it off. I still remember Jim, Gertie, and Keith's bulging-eyed shock when he'd revealed himself in the school parking lot.
If Georgia Selby's cubist house was a mansion, Ragnar's property was a palatial estate. It looked like the Parthenon redesigned in glass and steel by a modern architect on LSD. I couldn't decide if it was brilliant or demented. But it was big – really big – and unforgettable. I'd been here once before and spent an afternoon swimming in the Olympic-sized pool, working out with Ragnar in his gym, and playing fierce but one-sided games on his NBA regulation hardwood basketball court.
The stainless steel gate opened as we drove up, courtesy of the camera on the ten-foot fence, I supposed. We drove in past what appeared to be a mini-tropical island to the towering pair of semi-circular front doors. No steps from the driveway; a gentle, smooth incline of lightly scuffed white stone seamlessly joined the terrace before the front doors.
"This whole place is like from another world," Jim murmured.
"Or universe," I said.
Meredith greeted us at the doors. She was even prettier than I'd remembered – but now her bushy gold-streaked brown hair hung in tangles to her shoulders instead of being coiled around her head, and her matching gold-brown eyes and white teeth were nicely accented by a darker tan.
She pulled me into a hug and shook Jim's hand.
"Ragnar's in the pool," she said. "I saw you drive up on the gate screen." She made a vague motion behind her. "Come on in."
We followed her along a tile pathway. The place was so full of plants and glass windows/walls that showed plants that I had the illusion we were walking outside. Ragnar, I guessed, preferred a "green" lifestyle.
The 50 x 25 meter pool was lined with multi-colored ceramic tiles and glass art. At night, the tiles and glass lit up, and it was as if you were gazing down into a tropical ocean complete with reefs and sand and weird, glowing fish. I didn't know if this vision had sprung from Ragnar's head or if someone had put it there, but the impression was beyond amazi
ng. In daylight, the pool looked to me more like a big emerald set in a brooch because of all the artistic tiles that extended out from the water.
Ragnar was swimming – long, lazy, relaxing strokes. He rolled from a leisurely crawl into a backstroke and raised a hand in greeting. He climbed out of the pool, and wetly glistening classic Greek god: broad, muscular shoulders, sculpted stomach, narrow waist, and slightly over-sized thighs – as if someone had pumped them up with air. It was one thing to see him in a basketball uniform with its long shorts or normal clothes, but seeing him shirtless in swim trunks was a whole different experience, Aiden thought. A lot of athletes were buff, but the Kings star guard had taken his physique to a near-otherworldly level. He carried muscle on muscle – not an ounce of fat in sight, as far as Aiden could see – while somehow appearing slim.
They exchanged high-fives. Ragnar slapped Aiden's shoulder and motioned them to a poolside table adorned by drinks and hors-d'oeuvres.
"I'll grill up some steaks in a minute," he said. "Help yourselves to whatever."
"Great game," Jim offered as we all sat down.
"Thanks. I really like the way our team is coming together."
"I think you'd crush Cleveland if you met in the final."
Ragnar gave him a dry smile. "That was just one regular season game. We'll see where we're at in the playoffs. But I'll tell you this. Right now, barring injury, I like our chances against anybody."
"I'm with you," said Meredith.
"All you're lacking is a great point guard." Jim winked at me. "Someone like Aiden here."
I expected Ragnar to laugh that off, but instead he looked thoughtful.
"Strangely enough," he said. "I've been thinking the same thing."
I gave him a quizzical look. "You mean improving at the guard position?"
"Both." He shot me his patented big grin that photographers loved to capture, much as they had with Magic Johnson before my time. "I think you could make a great NBA point guard, if you work hard enough."
For an instant I saw a completely unplanned and different path for my life. It was as if my whole world had shifted twenty degrees to one side. I was barely coping with being hyper, but that didn't require a massive life-shift. I would still be a research scientist of some kind and complete the education to accomplish that. Playing professional sports would take me completely off my life's "rails."
Hyper Page 27