Charisma (4 page)

As he approaches, I'd swear he gives me a lightning-quick head-to-toe appraisal. Only fair, since I do the same to him, taking in his slightly damp blond hair, blue-blue eyes, and swimmer's build. He leads the guys' team in butterfly.

His features soften into a slow smile. “Aislyn, you came.”

“Yeah.” Deep breath, get words out of mouth. “Evie forced me to.”

“I hoped she would.”

“Um, yeah.” I swallow a beer burp. Why is this so hard? Jack and I have what pass for interesting conversations online, and we've e-mailed a zillion times about submissions for
The Drizzle
. But now, no matter how much I will my heart and lungs to slow down, my knees to hold up, and my brain to focus, my body resists on all counts.

I say, “Um, congrats on the science competition.”

“I thought for sure you'd win. Your stuff is always way beyond the rest of ours.” He pulls at his shirt. “This place is crazy hot.”

I resist the urge to tell him exactly what, or who, is crazy hot, and point toward the glass door like a robot.

“Good idea.” He opens it, letting in the evening breeze.

Ah, that's delicious against my burning face. A few minutes of this and I could cool down enough to avoid fainting or puking. With major luck.

He starts through the door. “You coming?”

Oh, no, he wants me to go outside with him. Actually make these feet move.

There's a hand at my back. Abby says, “Way to work fast,” and gives me a push.

I stumble outside behind Jack. About twenty kids hang around the yard, but Jack's able to find a couple of deck chairs. It's a relief to get off of my feet, which I don't trust to support me anyway. My belly is the next body part to fail me, turning all quivery with the thought that here I am with the object of all my—well, with Jack. I take a deep breath. God, I want to cry. Just break down and let all my anxiety out in a gushing torrent of tears. No one would ever expect me to do any kind of exposure therapy ever again.

He points to my cup. “What's in there?”

I peek inside as if I don't know. “Um, beer. There's a keg in the kitchen.” I'm slurring. Great, I've finally gotten out two complete sentences and I sound drunk.

He shrugs. “Maybe later.”

Guys like him don't need liquid bravery, which makes me feel more pitiful. Stop, stop, think of something to say, like a normal person would. I ask, “So you start at the radio station next week?” He scored an internship that would look great on his college app, along with dozens of other accomplishments.

“Yeah, Kids Eat Free is coming for an interview on my first day.”

I shake my head. “I can't imagine doing something so . . . so public.”

Jack shrugs those smoothly muscled shoulders that make a wide V down to his waist. “Goes with the territory.”

“Still, always having to be so
on
.” Oh no, a bead of sweat rolls down my face. Probably the first drop in the tsunami of misery I expect to melt into at any moment.

He laughs. “You make it sound like shoveling elephant dung.”

Oh, now he thinks I'm insulting the band. “No, no, they're great. Just like you. You're always great.” I blink rapidly and put a hand to my head, partly to steady my vision, partly to wipe away another drip along my temple.

He cocks his head and gives me that look he often does, which makes me feel so
seen
. Usually it causes a combination of thrill and terror, but tonight I'd rather be as unseen as possible. “Can I get you something?” he says.

“No, I'm okay. Just a little dizzy. Not used to so much beer.” I stand up and lean toward a bush to dump out the rest of my cup, but stumble and spill it on his foot instead.

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry!”

He jumps up. “I'll get you some water. That'll help.”

He rushes off toward the kitchen. At that moment, my belly lurches and I feel an overwhelming urge to escape from all the kids who suddenly glare my way. I remember seeing a bathroom off the entryway. Now, if I could just walk without falling over. I try. My legs are almost steady now that Jack isn't around. I make my way inside, and push through the crowd to the bathroom. But it's locked. No!

I chant under my breath,
Do not barf. Do not faint.
The seconds tick endlessly. Jack's probably back with my water. I should run and tell him I need to go home, that I'm sick, yeah, that wouldn't be hard to convince him of. My stomach cramps. Nope, not running anywhere.

Finally, the bathroom opens and out pop Jessica and Caleb. I scurry past them, slam the door, and pant as I lean on the sink to hold me up.

With shaky movements, I wipe my brow with a damp tissue. And then I make the mistake of looking in the mirror. My red-rimmed eyes glare in pain and my mouth opens and shuts repeatedly like a fish. I put a hand under my chin to stop my jaw, but it seems to fight against it. I clasp my mouth, trying to keep it shut, to avoid breathing in any more of this, this, whatever craziness this is. My eyes bulge with pressure. My head goes light. Is this when I'll completely snap with the inner turmoil that builds up every single day, from when my first conscious sensation is a bolt of fear straight through my chest? My existence is a constant struggle against the world. And now, here I am at a party, a
party,
with way too much alcohol flooding my system.

I let go of my jaw and clutch the sink with both hands. That's when the tears, mucus, and muck I've been holding in decide to explode. It's also when someone knocks at the door.

“Just a minute,” I choke out.

I spend the next five minutes sobbing, trying to wipe myself up as best I can. When the knocking becomes too insistent, I splash my face, dry it off, and stagger out the door.

A girl I remember from freshman gym class pushes past me. “Bitch.”

Her hostility threatens to start me crying again. Holding back tears, I make my way toward the patio.

But Jack isn't there. Or anywhere in the backyard. I
slowly spin
around, peering into the dark. Suddenly, a flurry of raindrops begins hitting like missiles, sending everyone rushing for the house. I join the herd. Inside, I hunt through the crammed living room, but Jack isn't there either. I hold my hands over my ears against sharp techno music that's turned up so loud the walls echo. It isn't until I reach the kitchen, where the crowd is densest, that I spot him in
the far
corner, laughing as if he's never heard anything so funny. At his side giggles Alexandra, editor of the school paper. Her magazine-worthy face sparkles as they engage in a
high-octane
tête-à-tête.

My heart does a free fall. Of course he's with Alexandra. Why has it taken my straight-A brain so long to figure it out? She and Jack are perfect for each other. Both of them seriously into writing, both naturally gorgeous, and, as much as I hate to admit it, both really sweet. I might be jealous of Alexandra's easy confidence, but she isn't one of the mean girls, not by a long shot. Which only makes me feel worse.

In that moment, the noise and motion swirl around as if I'm at the center of a vortex, being sucked into a black hole. My breathing quickens and I feel sick to my stomach.
Don't run, don't run, don't run.
I don't have to shine, but I can't let myself flee. That's the promise to myself I have to keep.

The ghost of my tantrum in the bathroom tugs at my brain, begging to be let out again after its taste of wailing and gnashing. Trembling, I back into the living room until I spot Evie on the sofa next to Rafe, in deep conversation. Well, she is. He stares intently at her chest.

My legs seem to move of their own accord in Evie's direction. I know I should stop. Look how happy she is. But it's a choice between yielding to my legs or to the harrowing need in my chest to scream at the world. Maybe a few minutes in Evie's company will calm me down.

I sidle next to her, hating myself when she forces a smile at my miserable self. Her whole body, her whole spirit is aimed at Rafe, and I'm in the way. I should go back to the swim team girls, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. No, not the kitchen. But also not here, ruining Evie's chance. Yet my brain and body feel as if they'll lose all control at any moment.

My mouth blurts, “Cap'n Crunch.” Those two small words unleash a rush of guilt and self-loathing. I want desperately to unsay them. But I can't stay in this house a second longer without imploding, or exploding, whichever is messier.

Evie's sagging shoulders make me feel like I've kicked over a baby carriage. With a hesitant blink, she asks, “Are you sure?”

Oh hell, how can I do this? Just because I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff doesn't mean I need to destroy her night too. Barely able to meet her eye, I mumble, “If you give me your keys, I'll wait in the car until you're ready to leave. No hurry. Really.”

She nods and hands me the keys. I rush out the door and into the rain. Why didn't I bring a jacket? Because I'm hopeless. My head pounding, I jog and then run down the block with my arms wrapped around myself. The rain pelts me, but I no longer care.

A sob wracks my chest and I moan into the night. This is it. I've let myself flee. Finally. There's a certain liberty in giving up that last shred of defiance against my affliction. Yet there's also a choking despair.

I keep running, past Evie's car, onto the next block, vaguely in the direction of home. The rain soaks through my clothes and runs down my scalp, mixing with my tears. When I can't run any longer, I march, shoulders hunched forward, chest heaving. There's no telling how long I've been crying when a car slows down beside me. My first thought is that this
horrible night
will be capped by a serial killer yanking me into his van.

But Evie leans out the window and screams, “Aislyn! Are you nuts?”

I halt, speechless. She's never, ever implied I was crazy. And now she's done so in front of Rafe, who's in the driver's seat and keeps his head pointed forward.

I wipe a hand across my face. “I said you didn't have to go.”

“I wasn't going to leave my best friend sulking in my car. But when I got there, you were gone. Now get inside and we'll take you home.”

What else can I do? I get inside and hand Evie her keys over the seat. “Sorry.”

“We can still go back. No big deal.”

My heart spasms in the second it takes to realize the “we” she's referring to includes Rafe, not me. I'm relieved not to go back to the party, but her sudden shift in allegiance jars me. Thankfully, she doesn't press for details. There's that much loyalty at least.

At my house, she insists everything'll be okay in the way you'd assure a terminal patient. I make my way to the front porch. The tipsiness from earlier has morphed into full-on exhaustion. I run a hand through my hair and blot my face with the inside of my shirt. Quietly, I open the door.

But Mom's fast asleep on the sofa, her blond hair a few shades darker than mine flapped over her cheek, computer on her lap. I stifle a groan when I see she's been checking out part-time job listings. To make up for my lost prize money, of course. There aren't any more hours in the day for her to work. Would Dad have taken the chance at his stupid free-diving if he'd known what an impossible life he'd leave her with?

Shivering, I gently lay an afghan over Mom's bony shoulders. Somehow I'll find a way to pay for college. I have to. But the heavy knowledge that I succumbed to the urge to flee tonight has me doubting whether I can follow through on anything ever again.

Upstairs, Sammy's cough has a hard edge to it that's different from his normal cough. Like bird watchers who learn to identify every warble, Mom and I are always alert for signs of lung infection. We'll need to take his temp in the morning. For now, it's best he gets all the sleep he can manage. Me too.

Once I'm tucked under my blankets, my quiet room feels safe, as if I've escaped a hurricane. But it also feels isolated, like I'm missing out on something.

I fall asleep with a deep sadness. Now that I've let myself escape once, what's to stop me from escaping everything? I sense a foreboding that my fear of the world is spiraling faster downward, past a point of no return.

Major Pharmaceutical Seeks to Block New Drug

by Harrison Makitani,
Pharma Today

VidaLexor, one of the world's leading drug developers, is seeking to block the patent pending by Nova Genetics for a new gene therapy to treat muscular dystrophy. Dr. Geoff Gordon, owner and director of Nova Genetics, claims, “Tragically, opponents of our breakthrough drugs are motivated by profit rather than patients. There's a massive paradigm shift occurring in medicine. One that asks why we'd subject patients to a lifetime of medication when a one-time fix will do. Gene therapy's time has come.”

Dr. Linda Galleon, CEO of VidaLexor, counters, “Those who are truly concerned with patient safety will demand extensive testing for drugs that could prove more lethal than the diseases they're trying to cure.”

On Sunday morning, my phone buzzes me awake with a text from Evie:
OFF SAILING. GOTTA TALK THE SECOND I GET BACK!

She probably wants to rehash last night and figure out a way to “fix” things. Fix
me,
if that were possible. Well, no need to discuss that in agonizing detail right away. Her family would be on their boat all day. Head throbbing, I wobble to Sammy's room, where Mom's doing his morning back-pounding.

I slump into a chair. “His cough was sharper last night.”

Sammy's voice vibrates from the thumps. “My temp's normal, so we're all systems go for today, unless you find an excuse to get out of this.”

I shake my head. “Give me a break, Sammy. You know I want us to go.” And I do. Kind of. Since people with CF are advised to keep their distance from each other to avoid cross-infection, Sammy's only slated for a Nova Genetics Family Fest a couple of times a year. Even then, the CF kids in attendance will be assigned to different groups.

Mom has the last word, and, after taking his temperature three times and watching him closely over breakfast, she declares he's okay for heading out. Sammy's face flushes with relief.

On the way to Nova Genetics, he sings along with Mom to an old grunge song, and motions to me. “Sing with us!”

Disappointment fills his eyes even before I shake my head. I never join the singing, which usually causes Sammy and Mom to howl all the louder and me to feel like the odd one out.

We park at Nova Genetics, where thankfully the protesters are off to the side, supervised by extra security brought in for the event. Once we're on foot, a guard checks our credentials and lets us through to the immaculate campus. Flocks of seagulls fly overhead and dozens of lookout points offer views of the water. It should feel serene, but something about the place strikes me as too quiet, like being in school after hours.

We've barely entered the grounds when Sammy's friend Bailey limps up, her family surrounding her. She has muscular dystrophy, and even though hugging isn't encouraged here, she puts her thin arms around Sammy and squeezes.

I take a breath, readying myself for the day ahead, which will probably include sharing-your-feelings exercises that'll leave me more exhausted than hours spent rolling boulders. Unless I run away. That's what I do now, after all.

Bailey's sister, Chloe, a curvy girl with long brown hair, who's a year older than me and the person Nova assigned as my “support buddy” years ago, says “Hey, Aislyn” as she applies lip gloss. Something about her strikes me as brighter, making the full, glossy lips seem like too much glitz. She's probably fallen in love with Mr. Right 3.0.

Sally Sims, Nova Genetics' perky, petite outreach coordinator, welcomes us with an excited laugh. “Hey, you guys!” She nudges Chloe. “That was sweet of you to bring in Bailey's paperwork the other week.”

Chloe shrugs. “No big deal. There's always something fun going on here.”

Sally says to Chloe and me, “You girls need to meet our newest sibs group member, Shane.” She points toward a tall guy with curly black hair to his chin, who yawns next to a girl in her late teens with a wide smile and elfin features. Williams Syndrome, I'd bet.

Sally puts her arm around Chloe's shoulder and leans in toward us. “You guys get to head off with Joe Firelli for some clam digging.”

Chloe's mouth twists. “Why isn't Steffie going with us?”

Steffie Wong is in charge of lab animals at Nova Genetics, and therefore viewed as the perfect staff member to hang with the teens for the “party” events.

Sally sighs. “Steffie's out sick. But it should be a lovely day on the spit.”

Well, at least it should be way better than gathering in a circle in one of the conference rooms and opening up about our families' challenges.

I shuffle next to Chloe and a girl named Rosa with huge brown eyes and thick shiny hair, who always seems as shy as me at the meetings. Or maybe it's because English is her second language. We smile at each other, which pretty much completes our interaction for the day.

After Sally Sims passes out BPA-free water bottles, twenty teens hike toward a beach just beyond Nova Genetics' grounds. As we haul our buckets of clam-digging gear, Joe Firelli, who normally works as a therapist, provides a mini-lecture on geoducks, which sounds like something he memorized off of Wikipedia. Every Puget Sounder could tell you that geoducks are clams, not waterfowl. And thanks to honors biology, I can map the species from family to phylum.

The siblings group spreads out to hunt for the geoducks' distinctive siphons, which look like leathery infinity signs. Although I'm afraid Chloe will go off with the guys, she ends up hunting with me. That's a relief. We've seen enough of each other over the years for me to be myself around her, such as myself is.

“Over here,” I call, and press a thirty-inch-diameter section of tubing into the sand before digging within the plastic barrier.

She brushes back her dark curls. “Take your time; the poor little guy isn't going anywhere. May as well let it enjoy its last minutes.”

I sigh. “I thought you gave up the vegan thing.” Chloe takes on causes the way other girls collect shoes.

“I still respect the clam's existence.”

My shovel halts. “You want to go wading instead?”

Chloe sniffs. “Nah. Circle of life and all that.”

We take turns with the shovel and chat. Even though Chloe and I keep in touch online, we go through a recap of life since the last NG event. She's acquired a new jock boyfriend named Jesse, which explains her glow, and I got over 2200 on my SAT. Same-old, same-old. And yet it's not. After last night's fiasco, my life has sunk another notch, maybe the notch that places me too low to climb back up.

I switch from the shovel to a trowel and slowly uncover most of the clam's creamy-beige neck, which resembles an elephant's trunk.

Chloe wipes her tanned forehead with the back of her arm. “Looks like a dildo.”

I scoop up some sand. “Okay, my knowledge of the male anatomy is more theoretical than actual, but this is over a foot long.”

She smiles as if privy to some secret.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at m
y sand-encrusted
hands.

Chloe says, “You can survive without a status report from your friends.” Her expression is haughty, as if now that she's graduated from high school, she's eons more sophisticated than me in every way—which, okay, doesn't take much.

I stab at the rocky sand. “Yeah, well, if we hear Mr. Quarterback's ringtone, I bet you'll find a way to answer.”

“He's a halfback, and I told him not to call again until tonight.”

“Is that why you keep checking out the new guy, Shane?”

She laughs. “He's totally hot, but I'm not a cheater. Is he making Aizzie all sweaty?”

“I'm kind of interested in someone else.” Then I remember last night and sigh.

I catch a look from Shane nearby. Did he hear what we were talking about? I shovel faster.

Chloe slaps at my arm. “Watch what you're doing.”

I look down to find that I've hit the geoduck's shell. Leaning into the hole, I dig by hand. Chloe wrinkles her nose as if I'm clubbing seals.

When we've harvested our prey, I wipe my hands on a rag and pull out my phone. The text is from Evie:
CAN'T WAIT ANY LONGER TO TELL YOU--RAFE AND I HOOKED UP! LOTS MORE TO TALK ABOUT!

I'm happy for her, but also, I hate to admit, a little sad. The whole odd-man-out thing again. I take a swig of water, shuddering as the events of the party replay themselves in my brain.

A few minutes later, I'm ready to resume the hunt, but a few guys from the group have glommed onto Chloe. She usually gets her share of male attention, but today it's cranked up a few notches. Something about a girl who's “taken” must send out major pheromones. Evie will enjoy that phenomenon now.

Well, I can dig alone. Alone is what I do best, after all. Me and my pheromoneless self.

I slog to where I think I see movement in the sand. But by the time I reach it, the ground's only dimpled.

“There's one,” a voice behind me says.

I spin around to find Shane, in all his tall dark hotness, pointing to a spot a few feet to my left. Having a cute guy nearby, hell,
any
guy nearby, is all the cue my circulatory system needs to betray me. Crap. Maybe I'll get a break and he'll interpret my pink cheeks for sunburn.

I choke out, “You found it; it's yours.”

“I've already got my limit of fresh meat.” He grins expectantly.

“Well, um, thanks.” I call to Chloe, but she ignores me. Is she actually going to leave me here alone with a guy I don't know? A familiar queasiness builds in my gut.

“I'll help you.” Shane jogs to where Chloe left the tube. If only he'd stay there.

I take deep breaths, doing what I can to calm the panic.

When he returns, he says, “Want to shovel first? You look like you want to attack something.”

I stare at him, searching for signs of mockery. Did Chloe bribe him to hang out with me? No way am I digging for geoducks with him while her dildo comment lingers fresh in my brain.

I clear my throat. “Actually, uh, I'm going to cool off for a bit. Thanks, anyway.” Without waiting for him to answer or for myself to debate whether this counts as running away, I slip out of my sandals and jog along the rocky sand to the water's edge. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Finally, I reach the water. Whew. Breathe. Calm down. He's not Jack. And not somebody I'll see often, maybe never if I'm lucky. Not that I should count on luck.

The tide's coming back in and provides a soothing cushion against my feet, cold enough to numb them. If only I could eliminate every other feeling from my body too. My eyes track an eagle soaring overhead before it disappears into the surrounding trees. I wade in up to my knees and close my eyes. The waves lap against my legs without a sound, and my stomach begins to settle. I could almost forget—

“So, how long did it take to perfect the bitchy blow-off?”

I jump a few inches and turn to see that Shane's followed me. When I catch my breath, I say, “Look, I'm sorry. I'm just not feeling that great.”

“Oh, so excuse B is fake cramps?”

Why is he hounding me? I blink at him, unsure of what to say, tears welling in my eyes, which he'll probably claim is another excuse or bitchy drama.

Instead he shifts gears. “Chloe says you practically live here. What a pain.”

I swallow. “It's for my brother.”

He runs a hand through his thick hair. “I don't think my sister cares. But my mom said she'd spring for a week of gas money if I came today.”

I wrap my arms around my torso. “So it's win-win.”

“Win-win, eh? Even with the digging for weird clams?”

I dip my hands in the water. A tendril of seaweed slips through my fingers. “The digging's not so bad, just a little sandy.”

He licks his lips. “I like a girl who's not afraid to get dirty.”

I eye him. Is that some kind of sexual crack? I should walk away again. That seems rude, but so is following someone around when she clearly isn't comfortable with it.

But I say, “Yeah, well.” My thoughts stop there. Argh. I'm so bad at this, whatever
this
is.

He motions toward the beach. “So, you feel like digging before they haul us back inside?”

I glance around. Chloe and her followers have disappeared around the bluff. “Not really.” Can't he leave me to my socially dysfunctional self?

He examines me in a way that feels hostile. “You know, girls who think they're worth extra effort usually aren't.” Without waiting for my reply, not that I have one, he hikes off, kicking sand in front of himself.

What an ass. How dare he assume anything about me? I turn back toward the sound and wade up to my thighs. But even the water can't soothe the knot in my throat or the hammering in my chest.

By the time Joe Firelli rounds us up, my legs are stiff from the cold. I limp across the beach. Chloe appears out of nowhere, flushed and smiling, three guys in her wake. Shane sneers my way and says something under his breath to the guy next to him.

Joe bounces from bucket to bucket, examining our catch and clapping. “Wonderful work! Let's get these back to the cafeteria for our chefs to prepare.” Maybe they don't let him out of the counseling suite often enough.

We hike back toward Nova Genetics, and Joe leads us into an entrance near the kitchen to deposit the clams and wash up. “After lunch, we'll meet in the conference room for a quick session.”

My heart sinks to my belly. Those sessions, where everyone's expected to contribute, slay me. Would anyone notice if I hid behind the tie-dye booth and took a nap until the “fun” day was over?

Chloe sidles up to me, all dimply. “You and Shane looked cute together.”