Hyper

by Lawrence Ambrose

  I fingered the middle of her sheer lacy bra, but couldn't seem to find the clasps. She grabbed my wrists and forced my hands against her breasts, dragging them downward. The bra tore free.

  She slapped me.

  "What...?" I rubbed my face. "Why did you do that?"

  "I'm a bitch." She stood with her hands on her hips, sneering at me. "What are you gonna do about it?"

  Get the hell out of here? Her pale golden brown eyes glared at me through fierce slits, her sneer growing to Elvis Presleyan proportions – I'd never been a fan – as if deriding my manhood or whatever. I knew it was for show – or hoped it was – but I was still starting to get slightly pissed. I just wanted to have a lot of good, clean, semi-raunchy sex, not role-playing drama.

  Georgia arched an eyebrow. "Not man enough? Little boy wants his mommy?" She smiled evilly. "Or maybe his sister?"

  My face flamed. "What's wrong with you?"

  "I'm just in the mood for a man. A man takes what he wants." His sneer curved into a sadder shape. "Or at least men used to. As a hyper, you're a throwback to those caveman days, right?"

  "Uh, I guess so." I tried to compose myself. She was just playing a game. "So what, exactly, do you want me to do?"

  Georgia released a sigh that seemed long and exasperated enough to dangerously raise the CO2 levels in the room.

  "Never mind, Aiden. I'm sorry if I freaked you out. Let's just fuck, okay?"

  Which we did – once in the living room, twice more in her bedroom – before I noticed her flagging. It was great, but I couldn't help wondering if I'd missed out on something by not pretending to be a rapist or caveman. Maybe next time I could try being more forceful. Assuming there was a next time.

  We were lying in her giant bed, and the light peeking through the window curtains suggested we were approaching dinner time and my mother's paranoia would be gearing up. But mostly, I felt relaxed and not too desperate for more. Georgia was sprawled on the mattress as if someone had stuffed her with tranquilizers and dropped her from a height.

  "Sorry, again, Aiden for before," she murmured, sounding half-asleep. "It won't happen again."

  "That's okay. Though I should probably mention that I'm probably going to get a lot busier soon."

  "Oh? Busier at what?"

  "I work kind of part-time for a pharmaceutical company. They're going to need me to come in after school for a while."

  "What pharmaceutical company?" The sleep in her voice burned away. "And doing what, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "CellEvolve. Just lab work stuff."

  "CellEvolve needs you to help them with lab work?" She sounded deeply disbelieving.

  "Well, it's a kind of, you know, intern program."

  "Are they the ones who arranged your special classes with college professors, by any chance?"

  "Yeah. They'll be paying my way through college. That is, if I agree to it."

  "Oh. Hmmm. That makes sense. They want to groom their genius-level protégé."

  "I guess so."

  "Wait a minute..." Georgia tapped her head as if to jar herself awake. "Your last name is Stevens. I'm just putting this together. The co-inventor of Melatin is Alyssa Stevens. She's your mom?"

  "Right," I said. "I'm surprised how many people know who she is."

  "I think you'll find most women do, because of the popularity of Melatin." She sighed. "We've all been on it at one point or another, when the frustration proves too much."

  "Yeah, I know. Believe it or not, I spend most of my waking hours being frustrated, too."

  Georgia raised her head and smiled at me. "Are you still feeling frustrated right now?"

  "Uh, a little."

  "Then I suggest you come get yourself some relief."

  I HAD emails from Marcus Sallinger (CellEvolve Acquisitions) and Jenny Green. Marcus said that ten "lab participants" had been selected, per my previous approval, and that "operations are planned to commence this Monday."

  Jenny wrote:

  Hi, Aiden,

  What do I want? That's a good question. I've been asking myself that for the last couple of days. I would like to write your story, I won't deny that. But after meeting you, I haven't felt like myself. It's as if I'm twelve again sensing a boy's estrus for the first time, except ten times stronger.

  I would like to ask you for a favor. As I mentioned before, I would like to meet you when you're wearing Andrydox and I've sprayed my nose with Pheroblock. I want the chance to talk to you as a normal person without any pheromonal influences. I'm thinking this could help me get over these exaggerated feelings. A form of therapy, I guess you could say. Or maybe that would show me something. I'm hoping you're willing to do this, but I can understand why you might not be. After all, what do you get from it?

  We can talk more about other possibilities, including an interview, then. Or we can just say goodbye and wish each other luck. In your case, I don't think you'll need it.

  Jenny

  That was my fantasy: to be wanted for myself minus "pheromonal influences." My grand experiment with Xandra seemed to prove it was possible...or had it? Though she'd never been exposed to my special chemistry, the person she'd known had been a product of it. Without my hyper edge I never would've approached her, never would've had the confidence to speak to her, and never would've impressed her with my unique hyper vitality. All that must've made a difference.

  I wrote back suggesting another meeting at Ackland Park, Sunday afternoon at three, allowing me a couple of hours of pickup basketball with Jim at the Jefferson Rec Center. Possibly my last weekend of freedom and I didn't want to waste it.

  AN ODD vibe had developed at the UC Jefferson Recreation Center while Jim and I had been playing pickup ball over the last couple of weeks. First, a lot of varsity and junior varsity level players had started showing up. Second, a number of female varsity basketball and volleyball players made an appearance. Third, the guys were super-competitive. It wasn't unusual for dudes, especially varsity ballers, to play hard, but – maybe to impress the female athletes, or crush the high school stars, or because they wanted to "get the hyper" – these dudes came to kill. And it turned out I was number one on their hit-list.

  Once they identified you as "hyper," I was learning, athletes had two basic attitudes: 1) you were expected to be an exceptional athlete (as many white guys expected black guys to be faster and jump higher); 2) you needed to be put in your place (to that end, hard fouls and extra-aggressive play were not only okay, but would earn you praise from your teammates).

  "Suck it up," Jim advised me quietly after I got knocked on my ass driving to the basket. "If you ever go pro, it will be a lot worse than this."

  "When the hell did I ever say I wanted to turn pro?"

  One guy, Joe Vance – actually the star running back for the UCJ football varsity team – had made it his personal mission to use every inch of his muscle-bound, 220, 6'3" frame to crush me. He followed me around like my shadow, except a shadow had more respect for personal space and didn't elbow you in the ribs or face.

  After I blocked his first shot, Vance made a point of either shoving me off with his free hand or dipping his shoulder into my chest before attempting a shot. When he drove to the basket I got a forearm in my face for the audacity of following him in.

  On defense, he wasn't averse to sticking a foot out to trip me or hammer me on the arm when I tried to shoot. On a few occasions when I shook free for an open shot, he'd slam into me long after I released the shot. Sometimes he'd grin and mumble a facetious "sorry," as if daring me to do something about it.

  Jim made a move to intervene a couple of times, but I waved him off – especially since several varsity players stepped in with apparent eagerness to get physical.

  The final straw for me was when he had a breakaway path to the basket on an outlet pass and I closed in to defend. He back-slapped me in the face, and I saw red. After a momentary stumble, I caught up with him as he launched into his lay-up, smacking into him at ful
l speed. We both went to the floor hard – though Vance much harder – and ended up skidding maybe eight feet from the basket.

  Predictably, all hell broke loose. Vance started pummeling me on the ground; Jim rushed over to help and started trading punches with Vance's teammates; and our team mostly absented itself from the festivities.

  I'd never been in a fight before in my life. While Vance hammered me with short punches and attempted to climb on my chest, I slithered out of his grasp and kicked him flush in the face with both feet. Surprisingly, that desperate tactic proved to be highly effective – not only knocking Vance away but leaving him crumpled in an apparent stupor. Some guy threw a punch at me as I rolled to my feet, which I narrowly dodged.

  "Stop fighting!" a shrill woman's voice commanded. "I'm a Center manager. Stop fighting now or face criminal charges!"

  Everyone backed away from each other. I didn't think I'd ever been so attracted to an overweight woman with a shrill barmaid's voice in my life. She was stout and earnest and bristling with bureaucratic authority, just when I needed it most.

  "What happened here?" she demanded. When no one replied, she thrust her finger into the opposing center's chest. "You! Tell me!"

  "This punk" – he jerked a thumb at me – "basically clotheslined Joe here." He paused to help his groggy teammate stagger to his feet as the others murmured their support. "Joe was running in for a lay-up and this asshole basically tackled him."

  The rec manager turned her fierce glare onto me. "Is that true?"

  "Yes, but – "

  "What's your name?"

  "Aiden Stevens."

  "Mr. Stevens, you are banned from this facility for one year, starting today. Fighting is strictly prohibited, no exceptions."

  "But he was fighting, too!"

  "In self-defense, apparently. Self-defense is permissible. Pick up whatever things you have here and leave this facility immediately. If I see you here again, I will call the police."

  No exceptions, except when there are exceptions. I doubted I'd impress her by pointing out the logical inconsistency. Joe Vance stumbled away, shaking off his teammates' support, casting an evil look back at me on his way toward the locker room.

  Jim laughed when we pushed out through the front doors.

  "Man, you really laid the asshole out!"

  "Yeah." I wasn't feeling all that proud of myself. "Do you think I was justified?"

  "Are you fucking kidding me? That guy must've flagrant-fouled you a dozen times. He had that coming and more." Jim shook his head, and I moved away to avoid flying sweat. "I can't believe you took it as long as you did. I would've punched him after the second foul."

  "Ha. Thanks."

  "Anytime, buddy." He slapped an arm around my shoulder and took a hard look at me. "Man, you're a mess. You better not let your mom see you like that."

  "Well...I'm actually going someplace to meet somebody."

  "Like a date?"

  "Yeah. Maybe."

  "Someplace that doesn't have a dress code against blood?"

  He guided me to face my Beamer's driver's side window. A line of dried blood descended from one nostril to my upper lip, which had swollen to freshly bee-stung size. Assorted bruises and contusions adorned the rest of my face and forehead. My nose appeared a bit off-center.

  "Dude, you look like you were in a car accident," said Jim in admiring tones, studying my reflection along with me. "I wonder if your nose is broken."

  I touched it lightly. "It's throbbing, that's for sure."

  "You sure you're okay to drive?"

  "Yeah. I'll just stop at a rest stop on the way and clean up a little."

  I drove away, not feeling bad at all considering a two hundred and twenty pound UCJ running back had been beating on me for almost an hour. In fact – maybe it was the adrenaline or my hyper healing abilities or the image of erasing that taunting sneer off Joe Vance's face – but I felt strangely good.

  Or maybe it's because I'm driving to Ackland Park to see what might be the sexiest girl in the world?

  I smiled at my silliness. My neighbor, Alice Morgan, had once been the sexiest. So had my therapist, Stephanie Landon – gorgeous, soulful Stephanie! – followed by Xandra. Aleesha Bloom had been a contender. And the night Georgia Selby had rescued me she had definitely competed for the title. Jeez, I was such an idiot. But such trivial truths couldn't wipe the crazy grin off my face.

  I was running about an hour early due to my premature exit from the recreation center, so I had plenty of time to clean up, change, and apply a fresh layer of Andrydox at the Ackland parking lot restroom.

  The parking lot was filled by Saturday afternoon cars and the bathrooms were much busier than I would've liked, but I'd just have to make it work.

  I got a lot of strange looks from the two men and half-dozen boys occupying the men's bathroom. The boys were wearing what I took to be soccer uniforms. The bathroom stalls were taken, so I found an unattended sink and mirror and started washing my face. On closer inspection, I was pretty sure my nose was bent slightly sideways, which logically implied that it was broken. Crap.

  "How's the other guy look?" the man standing next to me asked with a grin.

  "Not that great," I said. "But then he was kind of ugly to begin with."

  The man snorted out an uncertain laugh and headed for the paper towels. A stall opened up and I snatched my change of clothes and Andrydox and hastened to occupy it. Since the toilet top was covered with some undefinable grunge, I draped my change of clothes over the stall wall.

  I didn't have any good option for washing my gym-soiled body before applying the Andrydox, so I wiped myself down with toilet paper and then held my breath and closed my eyes as I started to dose myself with Andrydox.

  An ominous rustling and dropping sound caused me to open my eyes. I saw my boxer shorts and T-shirt lying on the soiled floor, but the rest of my clothes – including the jeans which held my wallet, cell, and car keys – were missing.

  "Hey!"

  My lunge for the stall door was halted by my realization that I was naked. I heard retreating footfalls and laughter and the restroom door clunking shut.

  No. This can't be happening.

  I yanked on my t-shirt and boxers and scrambled out the door, grateful I still was wearing my basketball shoes. The bathroom was empty except for one older guy standing at the urinal. He gave me a dry smile as I raced past him out of the door.

  Outside, there were roughly a thousand people in view, most of them young and noisy kids. A few nearby boys stared at me and snickered. The guilty ones or just fans of my minimalist attire?

  "Someone just stole my clothes," I called to them. "Did you see anyone run out of here and where they went?"

  "Yeah," one of them called back. "They ran toward that soccer field over there."

  "Thanks."

  I eyed them for a moment, looking for telltale signs of pilferage, but they appeared clean. I jogged over toward the indicated soccer field, getting a ton of disbelieving and scornful stares along the way. A few parents pulled their kids fearfully out of my path. I was tempted to point out that someone had stolen my clothes, but figured that would just make me seem even dorkier.

  The soccer field I'd been directed to was flooded with young girls. That was my first clue that I'd been misdirected. The second was all of them covering their mouths and giggling and pointing at where my boxer shorts fly had parted ominously. A gaggle of stern-faced parents moved in my direction.

  "What do you think you're doing, walking around like that?" one irate man demanded.

  "Some kids stole my clothes out of the restroom when I was changing!"

  "Do you think any of these girls did that?" The man gestured to the field of females.

  "No. Someone said they saw the boys running in this direction."

  "I'd check back with the boys who told you that."

  No kidding. I jogged back to the parking lot. Of course the boys were gone. And I couldn't get into my car.
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  One lucky break: my Beamer sat at the periphery of the parking lot, which offered a little privacy. I didn't know the time, but I estimated Jenny would be arriving in fifteen to twenty minutes. She'd probably be reduced to parking out in the boonies with me, but I'd check out our bench meeting place after a bit.

  At my car, I couldn't think of anything better than to catch some sun on the hood of my car. Even in California, late-March wasn't that warm. I removed my shirt to better sunbathe – and to spare my nose the smells it had acquired from the urine-spattered stall floor – and stretched out on the hood. It was more comfortable than I'd expected, and after closing my eyes for a minute or two I could feel myself drifting off despite my humiliation and my grumbling empty stomach.

  Approaching footsteps roused me. I opened my eyes hoping it was Jenny, but instead two cops stood frowning at me from behind dark sunglasses.

  "Is this your car?" one of them asked.

  "Uh..." I sat up. "Yes, sir."

  "Do you have any I.D.?"

  "Only in the Bob Dylanish sense."

  "Excuse me?"

  "When Bob Dylan was asked to identify himself he famous dropped his drawers." They continued to stare at me, their frowns solidifying. "Sorry, officers, it was just a lame joke."

  "We had reports of possible indecent exposure regarding a young man parading around in his underwear. Have you been walking around the park like this?"

  "Well, I was, ah, trying to find the kids who stole my clothes. I was changing clothes in the men's bathroom and some kids stole them off the stall wall – taking my wallet, cell, and car keys with them. My driver's license is in my wallet."

  "When did this happen?"

  "I don't know. Maybe a half-hour or so ago."

  "Were you in an altercation?"

  "What? No – oh, you mean my face? I was playing basketball earlier and it got kind of rough."

  "And now you're just taking a nap on your car?"

  The narrative wasn't sounding all that logical even to my ears. "I'm, uh, waiting for my girlfriend. We're supposed to meet here soon."