by Amy Plum
“I was told by a reliable source that you are Mr. Graves’s understudy—that he is your mentor. I was told that if I couldn’t find him, you may be able to give me the same information. I don’t know if Mr. Graves went directly to one of my competitors, but I certainly won’t lose both of you to another drug company.”
“How did you know I wasn’t with the rest of my clan?”
“A tip from the same credible source,” he says, and then sits silently again, waiting.
“Exactly what information are you trying to get?” I ask.
“As I mentioned before—the chemical makeup of the drug Amrit,” he says. “The formula for the drug.”
“See, that is what confuses me—what I haven’t understood since I overheard Miles talking to you. My clan doesn’t make drugs! We don’t use any kind of medicine besides first aid!” I say, trying to steady the anger in my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I think you do,” Mr. Blackwell shoots back. “Tell me something. Are there others in your clan with the same iris deformation you have?”
Through all the rage and frustration and betrayal, I am beginning to feel something new. A genuine interest as to what the hell is going on.
“All the children have the starburst,” I respond, raising my chin to show him that he can’t bully me into telling him anything I don’t want.
He nods, considering what I’ve said. “A drug as strong as Amrit is capable of producing this severe of a genetic abnormality . . . maybe ‘mutation’ is a nicer way to say it—in the offspring of those who take it. Mr. Graves was very vague with the details, but did mention the necessity to develop the drug further in order to avoid severe aftereffects. I see now what he means.”
“Our starbursts are from being close to—” I stop myself before I tell him anything about the Yara.
“Being close to what?” he prods. “A nuclear testing site? A water source containing biohazardous materials? There are other things capable of causing a genetic mutation like yours, but I don’t believe it for a second. I think your parents and their friends took Amrit as a part of a test, and now their children bear its mark.”
As I listen to him, something tugs deep inside me. I suddenly think of Tallie and of how she urged me to think of what I learned from my past and weigh it against what I feel is true. And though I don’t want to believe a word this man is telling me, something about his theory rings true.
And then everything falls together and then falls apart and I can’t think, can’t talk, can’t move, can’t breathe, as the fictional pieces of my past begin flashing before my eyes and re-form themselves into facts.
A loud buzzing rings in my ears, and my vision is gradually reduced until the blackness around me is as dark as a cave. I can’t move. I’m no longer here.
I hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice, as if from a long ways away. “Ms. Newhaven? Are you okay? Ms. Newhaven?” Someone is patting me—lightly slapping my face. I hear a voice say, “Quickly. Send a doctor to my suite. I have a visitor who is having some sort of attack. A teenage girl. Make it fast.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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59
MILES
I PULL INTO MY DRIVEWAY AT 7:00 A.M. DAD’S CAR is there, along with another I don’t recognize. I leave all my crap in the car and march through the front door yelling, “I’m home! Where is she?”
I gave up trying to call my dad after Vegas, and knew he wouldn’t answer in the middle of the night. But judging from the car outside, he’s home, and if he’s not awake, I’m ready to do the honors.
No one’s in the sitting room, so I stride on through the double doors into the open kitchen area. A wall of windows at the far side of the room overlooks Holmby Hills. My dad sits in a chair, gazing out as he sips a cup of coffee. This in itself should warn me that something’s wrong. Dad never relaxes. Never takes in the view. Normally he drinks his coffee while walking out the door and would be halfway to his office by now.
“Dad,” I say, and he turns around and looks at me, genuinely surprised.
“Miles. You came home.” He stands and moves toward me.
“Yeah, after your cronies snatched Juneau right from under me, I figured I should probably make my way back.” I take another step toward him so that we are an arm’s length away from each other, staring eye to eye since we’re practically the same height.
“What. Have. You. Done. With. Her?” I ask, each word a challenge.
“What does it matter to you?” Dad quips, and setting down his cup, puts his hands in his pockets.
“I care about her,” I say. Fuck explanations. Fuck Dad’s expression now that he looks like the cat that ate the canary. I’m done tiptoeing around him, hoping he’ll approve of me. Wanting him to act like a real dad for once instead of a CEO who happens to have a teenage boy living under his roof. Wishing he’d say something . . . anything . . . about Mom. It’s like she never existed. But all that is in the past, because there’s someone else I care about now, and he’s the only one who can tell me where she is.
“Juneau is in one of the guest bedrooms,” he says. “She’s being taken care of by a medical assistant.” He crosses his arms as if daring me to challenge him.
“What happened?” I yell, taking a step closer to him. “What did you do to her?”
He backs up and puts his hand on my shoulder to keep me from bulldozing into him. “All I did was have a little chat with her. Unfortunately, I seem to have brought up something that distressed her. Greatly. She has been receiving sedatives throughout the night, and a nurse has stayed on call in her room in case she tries to hurt herself.”
“Juneau would never hurt herself. All she wants is to save her family.”
“So after a few days with her, you think you know her?” he retorts.
“Better than you do, obviously,” I say. “When I talk to her, she doesn’t have a breakdown.”
“Sometimes stating the facts as directly as possible is the best way to make someone respond,” he says. “To shake their answer loose.”
“Looks like that worked real well for you,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
My dad gets a supremely pissed look on his face, and then exhales deeply and shades his eyes with his hand. “Why don’t you go talk to her then, Miles? She won’t speak to me anymore. She won’t even look at me. I have no doubt she has the formula for Amrit stored somewhere in her head. Somewhere she doesn’t even know, because she didn’t realize what it was. We need to get her comfortable with us. We need her to trust us, so that she will talk.”
I hate my dad in this instant. This is the business side of him, willing to negotiate anything to get what he wants. His human side gets turned off until his bid is successful, and then—maybe—he acts like a real, caring person again. Well, you know what? I can do the same.
“What’ll you give her back if she talks? Will you pour all your resources into helping her find her family?” I ask.
“Every resource I have,” he promises, and looks so sincere that I have to look hard to see that twitch at the corner of his eye that says he’s lying.
I pause for a second, thinking about what to do. I have to make him think I believe him. “Thank you. That’s the only thing she wants. I’ll see if I can get her to share any information, Dad. I’m sure she’ll talk to me.”
“Good boy,” Dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Any details. Anything at all could be valuable, even if she doesn’t realize it. Just . . . well, be careful, son. You can’t even imagine how much she is worth to us.”
Loathing rolls off me in black waves, but Dad keeps his positive-outlook face on until I leave the room. There are so many things I would like to say to him. To hurt him. But I bite my tongue and walk to the “guest room” to see what, if anything, I can do.
Nothing has changed in my mother’s room since s
he left. She and Dad shared a room until she was hospitalized the first time. He moved out. And then she left. My heart is in my throat. I have avoided coming in here for the past few years.
But there, lying in a tiny lump under the covers, crowned with her black spiky hair and a sickly pale face, is Juneau. The nurse is reading a paperback in a chair on the far side of the room, but when she sees me, she stands.
“My father wants me to talk to her,” I whisper to the woman. She nods and lets herself out, leaving the door open. I close it and carefully sit down next to Juneau on the bed. I want to touch her but don’t know how she’ll react. “Juneau,” I say, and her eyes flutter open. “It’s me, Miles,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head no.
“What happened?” I ask. “What was it that my dad said to upset you?”
She closes her eyes and lets out an exhausted sigh. “Your father basically suggested that my starburst—and those of the other children in my clan—is a genetic anomaly. A mutation caused by our parents taking some sort of strong drug. The drug he’s looking for. ‘Amrit,’ he calls it.”
“And what do you think about that?” I ask carefully. Her eyes are brimming with tears. She wipes them away with her knuckle and sighs again.
“It makes a lot of sense,” she says finally. “Which means it’s just more proof of the web of deceit that’s been spun around us since we were born. I am the product of deception. My whole life has been a carefully formulated and maintained lie. Your dad inferred that I and the rest of the clan were part of a ‘field study’ that Whit was running for the drug.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take her hand and hold it between mine. It’s cold, and I rub it between my palms as she continues.
“I had begun figuring out what from my past I thought was true,” Juneau says. “But after what your father said yesterday, I don’t know what to think. It put me back at square one. I’m totally lost again. Worse than before.”
She closes her eyes.
“How are you feeling, physically? Think you’re strong enough to walk?”
Juneau’s eyes pop open. “Why?”
“Because I have a promise I need to keep,” I say. “Something about getting you to the Wild West so you can find your family, if I recall correctly. Even if your dad and the others lied to you, they’re still your family. They still need to be found.”
A light goes back on behind Juneau’s empty eyes, and a smile blooms on her lips. She leans toward me, and I take her in my arms for a hug while she nestles her head against my neck. After a long moment, she pushes back a little so she can look at my face, and traces it with her fingertips, running her fingers lightly over my eyes, nose, and lips.
We’re so close that I can feel her warm breath on my face, and then she lifts her head slightly so that our lips meet. And she kisses me. Her skin is so soft, it’s like brushing my mouth against flower petals. I taste her and she tastes like the lemon drops that the nurse has set by the bed in a bowl.
This kiss isn’t urgent and needy like the last one. It’s a slow kiss that promises more to come. Which is exactly what I want: more Juneau. More time.
“We need to get you out of here,” I say finally, forcing myself to pull away from her embrace.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says.
“I am going to tell my father that you were too tired to talk,” I say. “That I can try again in a few hours.”
I start to get up, and she squeezes my hand to stop me. “Miles?”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting. Keeping a totally straight face, she says, “Even though you make a crappy fire and wouldn’t survive more than ten minutes in the wilderness, there isn’t anyone I’d rather be with at a time like this. You’re my desert island friend.” And she grins.
I laugh. “Even though you could probably kill me in fifteen different ways with a table fork, and even though you barbecue bunnies, I like you, too, Juneau. So let’s get out of here and get our butts to New Mexico.”
“A very good plan,” she says. I stand and lean over the bed and kiss her forehead. She gives me her crooked mouth-closed smile, and I feel a rush of relief. She’s going to be okay.
My dad is waiting in the den, wearing his “caring father” expression. “Did she tell you anything?” he asks expectantly.
He probably thinks I can’t see through his act. Well, I learned my lying skills from the very best. I rearrange my face to show concern and disappointment. “She was too tired to really talk,” I say, and his face falls. “But she did mention that you said something about her eye being a genetic mutation?” Dad nods and, leading me into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge. He pours us both a glass and takes a swig from his.
“The girl’s eye is a mutation, and if all the children in her clan have the same one, as she claims, it means that their parents all did something that would produce that dramatic of an effect in their offspring.”
“And you think this has something to do with a drug.”
“What I was told, Miles, is that a group of greenie scientists were working on a drug to solve the problem of endangered animals. To help species that were dying out resist disease and extinction. They tried it on themselves and found that they were immune to every illness they tested. It would have been at least a year—nine months, of course—before they could find out that it had an effect on a developing fetus. And when they knew what they had, they escaped America for somewhere they could live undetected, in seclusion.”
“Just to hide their kids’ eyes?” I ask doubtfully.
My father sets his glass down on the counter and looks at me intently. “I’m guessing that they didn’t initially know what they had. But they stayed when they discovered they had stopped aging.”
“So that’s what Amrit is,” I say, confirming my theory from before—from when I saw Whit with my own eyes. “It’s a drug that stops aging.”
“If you want to get technical about it, Amrit doesn’t completely stop aging. But it slows it down to an imperceptible rate—at least that’s what Dr. Graves claims. It’s the holy grail, Miles. The fountain of youth. They have figured out how to cheat death.”
I just stare at Dad, at the greed on his face, and feel sick. “Not only do I think you’re all crazy,” I say, “but I think you’ve been duped.”
Dad holds a finger up, like he’s scolding me. “Believe it or not, it’s true. I’ve seen the test results. I’ve seen Mr. Graves himself. I know what’s possible with this drug, Miles. And Blackwell Pharmaceutical will own its patent.” He turns and leaves the room.
I’m not going to let this happen. When I hear his office door close, I sneak away to the carport and start cleaning out my car, leaving all the camping gear in the back. We’re going to need it. Hopefully soon.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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60
JUNEAU
THE BUZZING IN MY EARS HAS FINALLY STOPPED. My vision is normal, but I feel shaky. And the last time I went to the bathroom, the nurse had to come over and help me walk. My legs feel like rubber bands.
No one knows what happened to me. The paramedic said I could have just fainted or had a panic attack. It could have been the stress of the last few days. All I know is that when Mr. Blackwell said what he did about the elders taking a drug and having mutant babies, something snapped in me. Maybe because it made sense. Maybe because I didn’t want it to be true. My clan’s lies are never-ending. We kids are experiments. The whole thought of it made me sick.
I am left alone with my thoughts and for once don’t want to be by myself. It’s just me and the realization that what Mr. Blackwell said about a drug is true. I didn’t make the connection before, didn’t realize that what I thought was a complicated ceremony to unite a person to the Yara could actually be broken down to one essential component. Th
at the singing and dancing and arrangement of the body was just a farce. That the tying of elements to the hands and feet, the nine sips of pure water, the furs and feathers and candles and crystals were all symbols. Like Whit’s totems. They were all a sham.
Only a second of the eight-hour ceremony counted for anything, and that was when the concoction of plants and minerals was poured down the initiate’s throat. It was a drug. And it had a name: Amrit.
I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but this has made me numb with shock. United with the Yara? What a joke. I have a bitter taste in my mouth, and if I weren’t sitting in someone’s nice bedroom, I would spit.
I hear the sound of a door slamming, and a minute later the roar of a car engine starting up and driving off. Miles bursts into the room. “Dad just got called into the office for something urgent. We’ve got to get you out of here before he gets back. The closer Dad thinks he’s getting to the truth, the more pressure he’s going to put on you. You’re never going to be able to get away until he gets what he wants, and maybe not even after that.”
Miles grabs my shoes from beside the door and hands them to me. “The nurse is watching TV. If we go out the back, she won’t see us leave the house, but she can see my car out of the window. And if she sees you outside, she’ll definitely phone my dad to let him know. Do you think you could do your disappearing act for the length of time it takes you to walk from the side of the house until you get into the car?”
I nod, although I’m not really sure. I lace up my second shoe and rise unsteadily to my feet. Miles puts an arm around me, and we tiptoe out of the bedroom and down a corridor to a glass door leading out to a flagstone patio. Miles turns the key in the lock and opens the door, careful not to make a noise.
We slip out onto the patio, and I follow Miles around the side of the house. He looks at the car, and then points to the front window. The nurse is sitting facing the window, watching an enormous flat-screen TV that is to one side of it, but with a clear view down the drive.