Charisma (7 page)

I show Evie the message. She frowns. “That's it? No clue as to what?”

I roll my eyes. “She assumes if she tells folks to watch, they will.”

Evie opens a bottle of Scarlett Secrets nail polish, which she begins applying to her pinkie. “You going to check it out?”

“Nah.” I point to the polish. “Um, even I know that that shade of red is only for toenails, unless you live in Jersey.”

Before she can argue, my phone buzzes again. It's Chloe.
YOU WON'T BE SORRY!

I laugh and turn on my computer. “Okay, now I'm curious.”

Evie paints her nails while I find the site. Front and center beams a video of Chloe. I take the laptop to my bed so Evie can watch too. Chloe is the person-on-the-street interviewee for a local music festival. She delivers a breathless rundown. Afterward, the reporter asks her to come back tomorrow.

Evie blows on her nails. “How come you never told me Chloe was so photogenic?”

I examine the still-shot. “I never thought about it before.”

But now I do. If I'm more sparkly, Chloe's downright blinding. And she bloomed with something extra yesterday. It could be that things with her halfback have exploded into something bigger than she let on. Well, whatever it is, it's working for her. And things are working for me too. I have plans with Jack. Plans!

So let Chloe take on the planet with her new video fame. It's all good. In fact, there isn't a thing for me to complain about, except maybe that half of my wardrobe now lies in the donate pile. And I have to wait until tomorrow to see Jack. But a little anticipation isn't the end of the world. Not by a long shot.

Beloved Docent at Local Zoo Loses Battle with Unknown Illness

by Jenna Dawson,
The Gig Harbor Herald

Long-time resident Stephanie “Steffie” Wong, who headed up the primate labs at Nova Genetics, died Saturday after a brief illness. In her spare time, she volunteered at local zoos, teaching children about animal habitats and conservation efforts. She was considered a world expert on primate behavior and worked with Nova Genetics to test ground-breaking work in gene therapy in the most ethical manner possible. As she frequently
reminded students
at her tours, “We share over ninety-nine percent of our DNA with chimpanzees. Treating
other primates
‘humanely' means acting toward them with compassion and dignity, the way they treat each other.” As such, she was a vocal advocate in demanding that medical testing that utilizes
non-animal
methods always be the first choice.

Stephanie is survived by her parents and sister, and a memorial service is planned for later this week. In lieu of flowers, her family requests donations be made to the Sierra Leone Sanctuary for Chimpanzees.

At the pool the next morning, I greet my class of five-year-olds, which includes Molly, a chubby-cheeked girl with long black bangs, who refused to budge from the side of the pool yesterday. Her mother calls from the bench, “Get your whole body into the water, sweetie.” Molly shakes her head.

Patrick, my teaching partner, and I lead the other kids through bubble-blowing and blast-offs, while Molly stares balefully. When I invite her to join in, she stiffens. “Maybe next time,” I say.

I wade off to launch a game of Sharks vs. Minnows, reminding myself not to feel rejected when the kids beg to be on Patrick's team, the way they did yesterday. But a strange thing happens. One by one the kids announce they want to play on Team Aislyn. What? Even Patrick tries to hide his surprise.

We play for five minutes, and then, with two kids laughing and hanging off of my arms, I swim to Molly's side, keeping my gaze soft. “Wanna try a giant turtle ride?”

Biting her lip, she nods. Buoyed by more than the water, I coax Molly onto my back and away from the wall. It feels like she'll choke me with her death-grip.

I gasp. “Not so tight, kiddo.”

She releases her grasp, but my head suddenly feels light and a shaft of pain sears behind my eyes. I should slow down a bit. Taking steady steps, I stay close to the edge of the shallow end in case I need to unload Molly quickly. But by the end of the ride, Molly wears a huge smile and my head feels fine.

The next class flows as effortlessly as the first. Again, the kids choose to be on my team. I joke with Patrick that he must've eaten garlic for breakfast. But he insists the reason for my newfound popularity is that my teaching skills have improved overnight. He can't explain how exactly, only that I'm more present somehow.

More present. Could genes have anything to do with that?

As I shift from classes to lifeguard watch, my whole body pulsates with a weird kind of energy. Maybe it's presence; maybe it's my imagination.

Five minutes into my shift, Heath, who's usually linked to one cheerleader or another, saunters next to the chair. “Hey, Aislyn, ready for senior year?”

I adjust my visor. “I guess. Going to enjoy summer first.”

He slowly examines me. “You're different than I thought.”

I shrug. “Less mute or less hopeless? You posting any more public humiliation photos?”

He startles and then laughs nervously. “I post crap like that all the time. None of my friends take it seriously.”

“How about your enemies?”

He blinks a few times. “Wow. You don't pull your
punches, girl
.” His eyelids lower and he clears his throat. “So, are you with anyone?”

My butt slides toward the edge of my seat. “Huh?”

“You know. Do you have a boyfriend?” Along with his casual smile is a stitch of anxiety I've never noticed before.

I shift my eyes back and forth between him and the pool. “Uh, not really.” But my odds are better than they've ever been.

Heath tosses an upward gaze as well-honed as a samurai sword. “Then you wanna hang out tonight? Catch a movie?”

I almost fall off of the chair. He wants to see a movie with me? Someone he thinks of as “a waste”?

I scan the pool. “I've got plans.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

At that moment, I catch sight of a boy getting ready to hurtle down the waterslide with another kid on his shoulders. I whistle and give them a warning over the bullhorn. Instead of ignoring me, one of them salutes and the other yells “Sorry” before they go down the slide one at a time. Wow, even my lifeguard communications are improving.

Heath taps my ankle. “Aislyn? Tomorrow?”

“Um, no thanks.” This shouldn't feel as good as it does.

Disappointment in his eyes, he struts off.

I examine my torso as if that'll provide an explanation for his sudden interest. But my wardrobe makeover didn't include the pool employee orange one-piece. I put a hand to my long ponytail. Nothing special today, not even makeup, unless you count the attractive streak of zinc oxide on my nose. Have I led him on somehow? Nah, I barely glanced his way. Maybe I'm sending out anticipatory pheromones for tonight.

After my pool watch, it's time for snack-bar duty. I rub at the side of my head, which has begun to throb, and take a calming breath before sidling next to Camilla, my coworker. After a few moments, the headache subsides.

Normally, a gathering this chatty and numerous is grounds for hyperventilating, but instead I greet a boy from my swim class who'd asked if I was a mermaid. I smile as if selling Sour-Sliders and Cookie-Clusters is my land-based dream. He grins back. Soon I'm making jokes with him and
his sister
as well as the kids behind them. The effortless laughter continues throughout the line, taking on a comfortable rhythm, as if the give-and-take with the crowd feeds something within me.

Smiling big, I say hi to a guy named Alex from AP math. His barely whiskered jaw drops open, and for a change I'm not the one blushing.

As he hands me his money, he whispers, “Has anyone ever told you they'd like to calculate the area under your curves?”

I jolt back. Ewww, is he flirting with calculus jokes? “Uh, seriously? If you leave right now, I won't tell anyone what you just said. Here's your Praline Petticoat Parfait.”

He slinks off, leering over his shoulder. Guess I'm bringing out the best and worst in people today. Still, it's a worthwhile trade, given the rest of the customers stay away from geeky come-ons.

At four p.m., I step lightly to my car, praying the easy flow of the day will continue into the evening. It's hard not to speed home.

When I get there, Mom announces she's taking Sammy to the warehouse store for a shopping trip, which always includes a belly full of high-fat samples and pizza that she hopes will stick to his bones. I make a sandwich for dinner and click through my phone. Chloe has another video clip up. Wow, that makes three. But she doesn't limit them to her own news. Apparently, a guy named Sebastian, who she met at Nova Genetics, had a successful audition today for a local dance company and advanced to the next level of the admissions process. I play the video Chloe posted.

The footage is grainy, but those leaps and pirouettes are amazing. There's even a congratulatory comment under the video from that obnoxious guy Shane. Boy, it hasn't taken him long to connect to Chloe's universe.

Curious as to whether Shane's bad-boy talk was all for show with the teen group, with an extra performance for me, I check out his page. It blasts my eyes with a flurry of Shane photos over a banner that reads:
Guess what, ladies? I'm available and accepting applications for my next girlfriends. Satisfaction guaranteed. Send photos and numbers.

I squint. What the hell?

Even more surprising are the number of photos posted to his page as part of the “selection” process, which began the day before. He's received a dozen replies from
non-crazy
-looking, non-desperate-looking girls, who share shots of themselves in party dresses, bikinis, and everything in between. It's like that TV show where multiple women compete for one guy, and the winner gets to be in a failed relationship.

I shake my head in wonder and get ready to hang out with a guy way better than Shane or any TV stud.

Jack's old-school enough to pick me up, and his silver Ford arrives at six thirty exactly. Deep breaths. Charisma might make it possible for me to go on a date, but that doesn't mean it'll be easy. With wobbly knees, I open the front door.

I hold on to the frame for support when we're face-to-face. Another deep breath. “Um, c'mon in.” I take a step back. Okay, so far, so good. I haven't spilled anything on him or fainted.

He steps into the foyer and peeks inside. “Doesn't your mom want to meet me or anything?”

Wow, he really is old-school. How sweet. I scoop my bag from the end table and say, “She took my brother shopping. But I've left her a note with your description, social security number, and criminal background check.” Is this really me, speaking in full sentences and cracking a joke?

His eyes widen for a sec before he breaks into a grin. “Well, I hope the meth lab incident doesn't stop her from letting me take you out again.”

I smile, my face tingling at the notion of “again.”

On the car ride to my favorite ice-cream place, I maintain my side of the conversation without hyperventilating. Jack speaks more slowly and softly than usual, the way you'd do with a kitten, the way I had with Molly earlier. Maybe he'll offer me a giant turtle ride next. Now there's a yummy thought.

Once we've bought our cones, we find a wrought iron bench in front of a tiny fountain where kids dodge streams of water shooting from the mouths of bronze faeries. Jack licks his cone slowly, savoring it. Watching him, I understand why eating ice cream in public is banned in certain countries.

He says, “I like how you don't pretend to be on a diet the way other girls do.”

“Hmm. You're not implying anything, are you?”

He looks horrified. “No, of course not! You're, uh, perfect. Anyway, I'm not for hinting at stuff when I can just say what I mean.” That much seems true. His straightforward honesty is something I've always found refreshing, even when it's a critique of something I've edited for
The Drizzle
.

We perch on the bench, chatting while we enjoy the ice cream. When the cones are gone, we take advantage of the clear skies to stroll around the outdoor shopping area. Under a brightly striped awning, I point at a mannequin dressed in a safety-pinned-together jacket. “Okay, that doesn't make sense, no matter how many
Vogue
spreads Evie foists on me.”

Jack's eyes twinkle. “A girl who loves dessert and hates fashion that tries too hard. Where have you been all my life?”

My breath catches in my chest. Right here, I want to say, imagining us, like this. Even though I was convinced it would never be possible.

At a park on the end of the walkway, a band has set up for a free concert. They launch into summer-happy tunes with an edge. We sway to the music and applaud some toddlers who've gone into full-on dance mode.

With a happy sigh, I allow the music to float through my body, right down to my altered DNA. Ahh. My breathing and heartbeat flow in perfect harmony with the song. And then, for a brief moment, I have the strangest sensation, as if I've somehow merged with the crowd around me. It's a warm, powerful feeling, utterly connected to the world. My eyes flash open. What's going on? I thought Charisma would be more about sizzle and confidence than all this warm, fuzzy stuff.

Taking a sharp breath, I mentally retreat to my normal wariness, with my psyche hovering just outside the group. Even so, the people around us don't seem as distant and “other” as usual. Maybe Jack's presence, not gene therapy, is having an effect on me.

At the edge of the audience, a cameraman from a local news station, who must've lost a bet, shoots video of the crowd. His camera points my way, then seems to stall. My first instinct is to hide behind a woman with big hair, but for some reason I shrug off my self-consciousness and stare straight into the lens. After a few moments, the camera seems to nod before resuming its sweep of the audience.

Jack leans toward me. “The news-guy has the hots for you.”

“That's nuts.”

“Uh, no, it's completely logical.”

I feel my capillaries do their thing with my cheeks. Dr. Sternfield could earn a fortune if she fixed the gene for blushing. Oh well, one therapy at a time.

As the sun sets, we make our way toward Jack's car, with strains of music in the background and lingering warmth in the air. He glances my way and casually takes my hand. Every nerve ending in the skin that comes into contact with his sparks crazily. Palm to palm, elbows grazing, we stroll in unison. Me and Jack. Oh my God. It's the sweetest.

The drive home goes way too fast, and, before I know it, we're at my front porch, hands clasped and swinging between us like a rope bridge. I hate to say good-bye, yet I savor this moment. Knees shaking, I sway in front of him with a feathery quiver in my chest.

He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “I had a fantastic time.”

“The best.”

“It's like that essay you wrote for
The Drizzle
freshman year. About a perfect afternoon you remembered with your mom, dad, and brother at the beach. How everything lined up, just so, and you floated along, better than a dream.”

“You remember that?”

“Of course. It reminded me of camping in the rainforest with my family, before my parents split.”

I nod, knowing how it feels to have most of your best memories on the “before” side of some awful line that
started the
“after” in your life. But tonight I'm part of a shimmering now, one of those precious beads I'll add to my string of exceptional moments.