Eve and Adam Page 4

So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?

  Worse yet… no, maybe it’s better yet… I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll probably tell him so. Within five minutes of knowing him. And if he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wannabe, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.

  When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms. Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean, or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many left.

  It’s not that I think I’m some kind of prize.

  No, wait, that’s not true. I do think I’m some kind of prize. I’m smart and occasionally funny and I’m pretty. I don’t see why I should spend long dates with some guy who expresses himself in single syllables and wants to go to slasher movies.

  Which does not answer the question: male or female?

  I also don’t understand why I should let some guy fondle me when I know the relationship has no future. I don’t need to be groped that badly.

  So I’ve been on exactly three dates. The first when I was fourteen. The most recent two years ago.

  A guy tried to kiss me once. I didn’t let him.

  I live that part of my life vicariously through Aislin.

  I hear her stories. And I admit I’m fascinated most of the time. Sometimes kind of appalled. And then fascinated again.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be her. To be that… experimental. To be that “what the hell?”. To actually have detailed, well-informed opinions on questions having to do with kissing. Or whatever.

  I have no opinion on chest hair versus no chest hair. Aislin could write a treatise on that alone.

  So. Who do I want to create with my new simulated godlike powers?

  Male or female?

  I sigh. I squirm in my wheelchair.

  Who am I kidding?

  Male.

  – 11 –

  SOLO

  I can’t get into Eve’s file on Project 88715 yet. It’s encrypted.

  She just finished up a half hour ago, but I’ve already checked out the surveillance video. I can watch her face as she stares intently at the screen. I can even see myself, staring intently at… her. And Terra, being her predictably insane self, raving on about world domination.

  I’ve been able to access—and edit—this kind of file for a couple of years now. I don’t edit out the merely embarrassing, I make the minimal edits to conceal the degree to which I have penetrated security.

  It bugs me that I can’t get into Eve’s working file. It’s that new security protocol. A lot of the newer stuff is beyond my reach. But I have enough to bring the Food and Drug Administration down like a hurricane on this place.

  Soon I may have enough to bring the FBI.

  Do I want Terra Spiker to go to prison? The question makes me a little uncomfortable. She has sure as hell broken the law. Many laws.

  It’s time for school. It’s Saturday, but I slacked off all week and I need to catch up. It won’t take long; it never does. I click on the window for the online high school. I replaced the generic logo of the school with a picture of a guy sleeping. Which I guess says what I feel about it.

  On my screen I get a video feed of a lecture on the Manhattan Project. Ancient history about the first atomic bomb.

  The reading for this unit is on the right side of the screen in a window. There are numerous links in the text that open audio or video or text.

  The lecturer drones into my headphones. I click on a link that shows a loop of an atomic bomb exploding.

  A request for chat pops up. It’s a kid I know online. He, she, or it goes by the name FerryRat7734.

  FerryRat7734: What’s vertical?

  SnakePlissken: You could just say, “What’s up?”

  I don’t know if FerryRat actually meant to write FurryRat. I don’t ask questions of people I meet online. I figure they have a right to be whoever or whatever they want to be.

  My online name is SnakePlissken. There’s a reason for that. It’s the only character I’ve ever come across who shares my last name. Plissken. Google just the word “Plissken” and that’s who you come up with. I don’t appear in Google. I am invisible. That’s deliberate.

  FerryRat7734: Is it just me or are they teaching us how to make an atomic bomb?

  SnakePlissken: The science is easy enough. The engineering’s a bitch.

  FerryRat7734: So can you do me a favor? Send me your notes on the next week’s lectures?

  SnakePlissken: You going on vacay?

  FerryRat7734: I wish. I have a procedure.

  I sit back. The teacher is droning on. A second dialog box opens up with someone saying “How do you spell Openhimer?” I should answer that question, not ask FerryRat one of my own. I can sense I’m opening a can of worms. But how do you not follow up on something like that?

  SnakePlissken: What procedure?

  FerryRat7734: You don’t want to know. Trust me.

  I say that’s not true, although it is. And I repeat the question.

  Lung transplant. FerryRat has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease. Lung transplant is the final, desperation move.

  SnakePlissken: Damn.

  FerryRat7734: Exactly. So take notes, okay? I’m not dead yet.

  SnakePlissken: Will do.

  What else am I going to say? Someone tells you they’re dying, what do you say? You say yes, I’ll take notes.

  It dawns on me for the first time that a lot of these online students that I know only by their handles, only from pop-up chat boxes, may be sick in one way or another.

  It embarrasses me that I’ve never even considered this before.

  “Slightly self-absorbed are you, Solo?” I mutter.

  I sit through the rest of the lecture and then the natural history lesson after that.

  Then I have work. Today I’m helping to prep visitors’ suites for a conference. We have those about once a month. A bunch of Big Brains and Even Bigger Bucks fly in and we wine and dine and lecture them about the wonders of biotech and what a great investment Spiker is.

  I’m distributing cut flowers to the rooms, checking the minibars, that kind of thing. Then I’ve got to fill in for the coffee cart guy for a few hours while he attends a wedding in Monterey.

  I don’t have to do this kind of work. Terra would let me stay here, keep a low profile, whatever. But the grunt work gives me access, and access is what I’m after.

  When I’m done, I get into the system, mask my identity, and start looking around for cystic fibrosis. Because as full of crap as Terra might be, and as much of a criminal as she might be, Spiker does do some amazing work.

  There are lots of hits for CF. The company has done some research on it. But all files have been moved. They’ve all been transferred to Project 88715.

  I Google “genetic diseases” and get a list.

  Back to the Spiker database. I search for hemophilia. Many files. It seems we may be close to a gene-based cure. Transferred to Project 88715.

  Neurofibromatosis. Ditto.

  Sickle cell disease. Ditto.

  Tay-Sachs disease. Ditto.

  Not every genetic disease, but a lot. Too many for it to be some kind of fluke. Half a dozen major genetic diseases that Spiker has worked on have been suddenly transferred to Project 88715.

  Why transfer all this info about genetic diseases to some ridiculous classroom software project?

  I know the budget for all of Project 88715 is twelve million dollars. That’s a lot of money, but it’s not a lot of money at Spiker. At Spiker, anything under a billion is loose change.

  I pull up the log entries—the brief descriptions—for CF and hemophilia and the rest. Rough addition in my head: The total budget is over twenty-eight billion dollars.

  Billion. With a “B.”

  Twenty-eigh
t billion dollars’ worth is suddenly under the aegis of a twelve-million-dollar project?

  That’s like saying your local grocery store chain will be managed by the kids selling lemonade on the street corner.

  Terra Spiker’s up to something. I don’t know exactly what yet.

  But I will find out.

  – 12 –

  “Mmmmm. Caviar,” Aislin says.

  It’s one of her phrases.

  It’s late afternoon, and Solo has just entered my room. He’s holding Aislin’s shoulder bag.

  Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.

  “I’m sorry?” Solo says.

  “It’s expensive. It’s… delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.

  Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.

  God, I’ve missed her.

  “Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.

  What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.

  “Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have… the leftovers?”

  Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.

  And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.

  I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.

  She knows no fear, Aislin.

  No, that’s not true. She shows no fear.

  “Your bag,” Solo says, leaning back with his eyes wide and voice a little trembly. “It’s uh… security… you know.” He shoots a panicky look at me.

  I shrug. I’m not rescuing you, dude. I look down to conceal an anticipatory grin because I know what’s coming.

  Aislin takes the bag from Solo, but before he can escape, she clamps a hand on his wrist. She opens the bag and examines its contents. “So I guess they took my flask.”

  “They said something about your personal property being returned when you leave.”

  Good boy, Solo: a complete sentence.

  “Wait!” Aislin says. She reaches into the bag and then, yes, draws out a long string of condoms. “At least,” she says, “they didn’t take anything I really… need.”

  A strange whinnying sound comes from Solo. He flees the room.

  Aislin laughs, delighted. She perches on the edge of my bed and I say, “You are such a bitch.”

  “I know, aren’t I?”

  “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” I sigh. “I miss everything. I miss homework. I miss the very special stench that is the girls’ locker room.”

  “Nerd. School’s over in a few days, anyway. They’ll let you make it all up in the fall.” Aislin pats The Leg. “Oh, crap, sorry! Did I hurt you?”

  “No, actually. The pain pills work really well.”

  “Don’t suppose you have any extra you feel like sharing?”

  I breathe in deeply. “How’s Maddox?”

  “Who?” she asks. “I’m sorry, that name slipped right out of my brain when I saw Mr. Scruffy McMuscles.”

  “His name is Solo.”

  She grins a huge, lascivious grin. “Why, of course it is. But he could be in a duo without too much trouble.” She switches on her serious face. “Maddox is out on bail. If he doesn’t screw up again they’ll probably let him go with community service.”

  “If,” I say.

  I know it’s wrong, but Aislin’s troubles are almost reassuring to me, they’re such a regular feature of our lives.

  I first met Aislin in sixth grade. My dad had died over the summer, and she provided much-needed distraction. Even then, she was the glamorous fashionista, and at a point where I was still four years away from noticing that boys existed as something different and apart and interesting, Aislin was already charming them like a cobra mesmerizing prey.

  She was also the only one who could make me laugh that horrible year.

  “You know Maddox,” Aislin said. She looks down and away, her patented move to ensure I don’t know how much something is bothering her.

  When he goes off to prison—and he will, someday—Aislin will probably wait for him. Her loyalty is fierce.

  I love her.

  “So what are you doing in here for fun?” she asks.

  “Help me get into my wheelchair and I’ll show you,” I say.

  It takes a while, but we manage to haul my giant leg and bruised body into my wheelchair.

  Except, now that I think about it, am I bruised anymore?

  “Push me over to the mirror,” I say.

  It’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, gilt-framed.

  I brace for the worst. I saw myself early on, a reflection in a piece of shiny equipment: It was not good. I had huge raccoon eyes, my nose was red, and there were two visible bumps on my forehead, one of which was about the size of an egg yolk.

  Since then, I’ve been avoiding mirrors.

  I stare at my reflected image in disbelief.

  I’m me.

  “Huh,” I say. Where are my bruises? My egg yolk? “Push me closer.”

  “It’s kind of hard to believe you almost died,” Aislin says. “It’s only been, like, a few days.”

  “It’s nuts,” I say. “I mean, my eyes were all…” I wave my hand around my face. “I looked like I’d been hit by a train. With good reason. I shouldn’t be this…”

  Aislin shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t a regular hospital, right?”

  “No, you’re right, it isn’t,” I say. “My mother was completely freaked about getting me out of San Fran and into this place. I guess she was onto something.”

  While I contemplate my reflection, Aislin pokes around the room. “Giant flat-screen, nice sound system. Maybe I should get run over.”

  “I had stitches here,” I murmur, peeling back a strip of surgical tape. “Right here on my cheek. Now there’s nothing.”

  “Lucky,” Aislin says. “Would’ve been hard to cover with makeup.” She slides open my closet doors. “Whoa. Primo robes. Can I steal one?”

  I glance at the closet. My sketchbook is on the top shelf, barely visible. “Hey, can you get that down for me? My mother probably had someone stash it there.”

  “Have I mentioned that your mother’s an ice-cold bitch?”

  “I believe you may have mentioned that in passing, yes.” I hold up my cell phone. “At least she finally let me have my phone back. Charged and everything.”

  Aislin stands on tiptoe and retrieves the sketchbook. She browses through the pages, holds one up for me to see.

  “I love this guy. You’ve been working on him forever.”

  “He’s a cartoon. He has no depth. No soul.”

  “Screw depth.”

  “I can’t get the eyes right.”

  “Hmm. Maybe. But he’s got great lips.” She taps her chin with her index finger. “You know, he reminds me a little of what’s-his-name. So-hot.”

  “Solo.”

  “Needs a body, though. Your drawing, I mean. So-hot’s doing just fine in that department.” She smirks. “If you need suggestions, I can help you finish him. If you know what I mean.”

  I ignore her. “Must be genetic. My dad never could do faces, either.”

  “But he was a sculptor.”

  “Sculpting, drawing. Same problems.” I stare out the window at the undulating hills wreathed in fog. “I remember once he tried to draw my mother. He was using oil pastels, I think. He gave up after a
couple tries.”

  “Must’ve been tough, capturing Satan on canvas.” Aislin places the sketchbook on my bedside table. “Hey, can you draw, anyway? With your arm all mummied up like that?”

  “Nah.” I consider my crushed hand. “Although the way things are going, who knows?”

  “So where’s the minibar?”

  “There’s a fridge in that cabinet with sodas in it.”

  Aislin pulls a flask from the back waistband of her shorts. Naturally, security only found the one in her purse: who carries more than one?

  She takes a swig and holds the flask out to me. “Cough syrup?”

  “You mean vodka?” I ask. I don’t want to show disapproval, I really don’t, because it bothers her when I do and it creates a barrier between us.

  “Lemon vodka, cough syrup, who can tell the difference, really?” Aislin asks.

  “I’m actually tempted,” I say. “But, no.”

  “You’re on meds.”

  “Plus I don’t really drink.”

  “You’ve had beer.”

  “Don’t get caught or my mother will ban you. And listen to me, Aislin: I’m all alone in here. I need you.”

  She acts tough. But she gets tears in her eyes and gives me a hug. “Don’t worry, no one will keep me away from you,” she says. “Now, let’s go find Mr. Bashful. I’ll tell him you like him.”

  “I will kill you if you say any such thing!”

  “Yeah, right: You’re in a wheelchair. You’re not that scary.”

  “There’s something else I want to show you first.”

  Aislin steers me toward the door. “What is it?”

  “I’m making my own male.”

  She frowns. “Mail, like e-mail?”

  “Male, like m-a-l-e.”

  “You have my full attention, girl.”

  – 13 –

  SOLO

  So. She has a friend. Not at all the kind of friend I would have expected.

  Interesting.

  I watch from the end of the hallway as Eve and Aislin head toward the elevator. Aislin’s pushing the wheelchair at full throttle. Eve is cracking up.

  Man, she has a great laugh.

  How to do this without being obvious? She’s not dumb, Eve, she’ll know I’m trying to get to know her if I just keep accidentally running into her.