the evidence I need to know heâs feeling crummy.
We wave our good-byes to the Nova Genetics staff and other families. I search the room for Dr. Sternfield. No sign of her. Probably recruiting others into her secret mini-study. I know enough about research trials, underground or not, to realize that a sample size of one wonât cut it.
We amble into a sunshiny afternoon, and protesters. They wave their signs, chanting, âDonât mess with nature!â
The extra guards ensure we can get through to our car. But Iâm annoyed Nova Genetics didnât let us use the VIP parking inside the gate. Itâs mostly empty, save for a dark sedan from which a man and woman in military uniforms emerge.
The protestors erupt into a frenzy of âsuper soldierâ accusations when they spot the military folks. Mom huddles an anxious-looking Sammy as we rush on. I stare at the picketers in disgust. With all the worldâs desperate problems, they waste their energy working against medical advances that could help so many.
Suddenly, a wild-eyed woman steps from their midst, and points at me. âI know that one. She was here Friday.â
All eyes flash my way. My shoulders tighten with a jolt of revulsion. I recognize the woman with Cleopatra hair and oniony breath. She points a phone my way.
I cringe. âWhat are you doing?â
She cackles and keeps the phone camera aimed at me. âGiving you a taste of your own medicine.â
I tuck my head, confused until I remember how Dr. Sternfield videoed the protesters. Who would the protesters show my image to? Me, who actually
has
been genetically enhanced. Well, hopefully.
We hurry into the car and drive off. At the first light, Mom sticks one of her Pearl Jam CDs into the player and tries to lighten the mood by encouraging Sammy to sing with her about a kid who goes ballistic. And either Iâm feeling a little ballistic myself or the gene therapy has already loosened a bolt in my brain, because without hesitating, I join in.
Sammyâs eyes go wide and Mom shoots puzzled glances my way. She has to swerve to avoid hitting a deer.
As I sing, I text Evie, pumping her for info on Jack. He really missed me at the party? What about him laughing with Alexandra? Evie writes: HEâS INTERESTED. GOT IT? SOME OF US FIND WACKY SHY GIRLS VERY AMUSING!
Not that she, or anyone else, did last night. I ache to tell her about Dr. Sternfieldâs experiment, but it would freak her out, even though it was way past time I took action. Besides, Iâm sworn to secrecy. Still, the desire to confide in someone pounds inside my chest. Such an overwhelming urge to spill seems new. Even though I usually tell Evie everything, itâs because I want to, not because I
have
to.
We get home, worn out but content. I tiptoe upstairs imagining the Charisma flowing through my body like the scent of gardenia wafting over a tropical island, caressing everything in its wake. All my little genes getting a much-needed overhaul. Ahhh. That night, for the first time I can remember, I go to sleep excited about what the next day will bring. Maybe the drug should be called âOptimism.â
Once Iâm on my feet the next morning, a stabbing pain shoots through my temple. I stumble to my desk, rubbing the side of my head. As quickly as it hit, the pain disappears, thank goodness. Dr. Sternfield didnât mention side effects, so it might be from all the excitement yesterday.
Online, I click a video Chloe posted of a rave last night, after she returned from Nova Genetics. I blink, and blink again, making sure I read correctly. Where had she found the energy? On a Sunday night?
A shaky camera follows her onstage in front of a college-age crowd. The pounding techno music stops while she gives a short speech on how the people of the Puget Sound canât survive without more bike lanes. Panned shots of the crowd capture rapt expressions and cheers. Huh? Chloeâs
We wave our good-byes to the Nova Genetics staff and other families. I search the room for Dr. Sternfield. No sign of her. Probably recruiting others into her secret mini-study. I know enough about research trials, underground or not, to realize that a sample size of one wonât cut it.
We amble into a sunshiny afternoon, and protesters. They wave their signs, chanting, âDonât mess with nature!â
The extra guards ensure we can get through to our car. But Iâm annoyed Nova Genetics didnât let us use the VIP parking inside the gate. Itâs mostly empty, save for a dark sedan from which a man and woman in military uniforms emerge.
The protestors erupt into a frenzy of âsuper soldierâ accusations when they spot the military folks. Mom huddles an anxious-looking Sammy as we rush on. I stare at the picketers in disgust. With all the worldâs desperate problems, they waste their energy working against medical advances that could help so many.
Suddenly, a wild-eyed woman steps from their midst, and points at me. âI know that one. She was here Friday.â
All eyes flash my way. My shoulders tighten with a jolt of revulsion. I recognize the woman with Cleopatra hair and oniony breath. She points a phone my way.
I cringe. âWhat are you doing?â
She cackles and keeps the phone camera aimed at me. âGiving you a taste of your own medicine.â
I tuck my head, confused until I remember how Dr. Sternfield videoed the protesters. Who would the protesters show my image to? Me, who actually
has
been genetically enhanced. Well, hopefully.
We hurry into the car and drive off. At the first light, Mom sticks one of her Pearl Jam CDs into the player and tries to lighten the mood by encouraging Sammy to sing with her about a kid who goes ballistic. And either Iâm feeling a little ballistic myself or the gene therapy has already loosened a bolt in my brain, because without hesitating, I join in.
Sammyâs eyes go wide and Mom shoots puzzled glances my way. She has to swerve to avoid hitting a deer.
As I sing, I text Evie, pumping her for info on Jack. He really missed me at the party? What about him laughing with Alexandra? Evie writes: HEâS INTERESTED. GOT IT? SOME OF US FIND WACKY SHY GIRLS VERY AMUSING!
Not that she, or anyone else, did last night. I ache to tell her about Dr. Sternfieldâs experiment, but it would freak her out, even though it was way past time I took action. Besides, Iâm sworn to secrecy. Still, the desire to confide in someone pounds inside my chest. Such an overwhelming urge to spill seems new. Even though I usually tell Evie everything, itâs because I want to, not because I
have
to.
We get home, worn out but content. I tiptoe upstairs imagining the Charisma flowing through my body like the scent of gardenia wafting over a tropical island, caressing everything in its wake. All my little genes getting a much-needed overhaul. Ahhh. That night, for the first time I can remember, I go to sleep excited about what the next day will bring. Maybe the drug should be called âOptimism.â
Once Iâm on my feet the next morning, a stabbing pain shoots through my temple. I stumble to my desk, rubbing the side of my head. As quickly as it hit, the pain disappears, thank goodness. Dr. Sternfield didnât mention side effects, so it might be from all the excitement yesterday.
Online, I click a video Chloe posted of a rave last night, after she returned from Nova Genetics. I blink, and blink again, making sure I read correctly. Where had she found the energy? On a Sunday night?
A shaky camera follows her onstage in front of a college-age crowd. The pounding techno music stops while she gives a short speech on how the people of the Puget Sound canât survive without more bike lanes. Panned shots of the crowd capture rapt expressions and cheers. Huh? Chloeâs
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