Silken Scales

by Alex Hayes

  “Did your doctor call in an order?” God, and the woman’s got this smoky voice that’s to die for.

  Dad nods.

  “Name?” she asks.

  My shoulders hunch over. I really don’t want someone like her looking at my deformity.

  “Williams.” Dad leans an arm on the counter. “Idris.” His voice has dropped, low and authoritative, like when he gives one of his talks.

  Lab Lady’s eyes light up. “Are you Brandon Williams?”

  Dad freezes, for a nanosecond. “His cousin, actually.” He puts on a winning smile. “David.”

  What’s he talking about? Dad’s always been open with his fans. He loves them. And he doesn’t even have a cousin called David.

  Realization hits me like a smack to the jaw. He doesn’t want word getting out that Brandon Williams’ son has some weird-ass skin disease. The desire to melt and disappear into the blue tweed carpet under my feet is overwhelming.

  Lab Lady smiles. “Right this way, Idris.”

  I slink after her into a side room. The place is white, sterile.

  She points to a plastic chair, and pulls a tube and sealed cotton swab from a drawer. “Got something going on with your skin?” The question’s polite, friendly, and I cannot get enough of that voice.

  “Yeah,” I murmur, meeting her eyes for the first time.

  She smiles, again, and the icy fear around my heart begins to crack. “So, your doctor thinks it might be hereditary.” She slips on nitrile gloves and tears the wrapper. “Open wide.”

  I oblige and she swabs me.

  “Looks good.” She drops the Q-tip into the tube and stoppers it, then slaps on a specimen label. “And we’re all done.”

  Dad’s waiting outside, head tucked deep into the pages of News Week. Like he’s hiding. He’s on his feet the moment he sees me. “Ready to go?”

  I nod and we head out.

  “Why didn’t you tell her who you were?” I ask, once we’re inside the car and safe.

  His seatbelt clicks. “I didn’t think you’d want your face plastered all over the tabloids.” He starts the engine.

  Dad doesn’t think I want my face plastered all over the tabloids? Cue, eye roll.

  Yeah, I can see the headline now. Brandon Williams’ Mutant Son Mistaken for Puff the Magic Dragon.

  I sigh as the car rolls through the parking lot and out onto the main street, toward home.

  12

  Cadi

  I concentrate on cutting the vegetables for barley soup, my knife thwacking the chopping board angrily.

  Dean bursts in the back door. He spots Shri standing by the kitchen window reading her phone, a deep frown pressed into her features. “Where’s Cadi?”

  Shri casts expressionless eyes in my direction.

  Dean turns and reads my face. “It’s not what you think.”

  If I weren’t so furious, I’d dissolve into a weeping heap. But pain and hurt have been drowned by his betrayal, and only biting rage remains.

  He waves his phone in the air, frantically. “I just got this stupid text from Jake. He said he called a reporter.”

  “You told him.” Shri seethes. “How could you?”

  Dean crosses the room to face me at the kitchen island, his eyes pleading. “Yesterday, Cadi. I told him yesterday, before we talked. The whole situation freaked me out. I had to tell someone.”

  Shri strides to the center of the room. “So you chose the biggest mouth at Western High?”

  Dean turns to her. “I didn’t know he’d tell anyone. He’s my best friend. I thought I could trust him.”

  “Yeah, and now all his Facebook friends know that Cadi is… and I quote, A freaky bitch with superpowers.”

  “What?” Dean’s voice cracks. “He wouldn’t say that.”

  I put down the kitchen knife, in case the temptation to use it surges, and settle a cold stare on him. “You’re forgetting that Jake doesn’t know you ‘like’ me. I’m not Angie Gilbert or anyone he places an iota of value on. He probably doesn’t even know what I look like. I’m just a faceless name he can make fun of. How can you not see that?”

  Dean’s eyes widen. “Okay! Okay, he’s a jerk. He wasn’t thinking and he said something stupid.”

  Shri shakes her head. “No, Dean, you’ve got it wrong. Jake was thinking; he just doesn’t give a shit.”

  Dean turns to me, eyes desperate. “I’m sorry, Cadi. I’ll do anything to make this right.”

  My anger drains away and despair rushes in to fill the void. “There’s nothing you can do.” My voice is lifeless as reality sinks in. “I’m gonna have to move on. Again.”

  The landline phone rings.

  Shri hisses through her teeth. “I’ll get it.” She picks up, listens a moment, and shouts, “Stop calling!” then bangs the receiver into place and yanks the phone cable from the wall.

  Dean draws in a shuddery breath, his eyes stuck on mine. “You can’t leave, Cadi. I promise I’ll make this right.”

  Energy seeps out of me in a deep sigh. “Please don’t. It’ll only be another promise you don’t keep.”

  Dean’s jaw twitches. Then he nods. “Yeah, I get it. I’m just another prick like my best friend.” He turns and strides out the back door.

  I lean against the counter and close my eyes. I’d always known my life here was too good to last.

  A few hours later, Shri drops onto the couch next to me, scrolling on her phone. “God, this stuff is awful.”

  The sun disappears behind the horizon, just visible through the same window Dean had stared out of so pensively the night before.

  “What is?” I ask, not sure I want to know.

  “Tess has joined the slur fest.” Shri sits up straight and leans forward. “Says you attacked her sister.”

  I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. “Great. How’s she suggesting I did that?”

  Shri’s lower lip twists. “Using your superpowers. How else? Cornered her in the locker room—”

  “She cornered me,” I correct.

  Shri laughs. “So something really happened? Says you slugged her in the gut.”

  Affronted, I say, “That’s total crap.”

  “So what really happened?”

  I give her a thirty-second short, including giving Angie a cramp. “Seemed like the safest way to get her to back off. She was onto me blocking her punches.”

  “I can’t believe she punched you in gym.” Shri twists to look at me, shaking her head.

  “And Heidi and Melissa sat there, watching, and did nothing,” I add.

  Shri snorts with disgust. “What did I tell you about those two?”

  “I know. You were right. Wish you’d given me the same warning about Dean.”

  She collapses into the cushions and drops her phone onto her lap. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

  Now, I’m curious. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs. “He doesn’t fit.”

  I shake my head, none the wiser.

  “He doesn’t fit with Jake. He’s too smart for starters, even though he tries to pull off the just-working-hard-enough-to-get-a-football-scholarship act to fit in with Jake’s crowd. He got a better grade than me on our physics midterm and churns out A+ essays in English.”

  Who would’ve guessed? “So what do you think the deal is with him?”

  “No idea. But I’m thinking of making it my mission next semester to find out.” She smiles. “In the meantime, what are you going to do? School will be three steps beyond total shit, and that’s if Dean goes to bat for you.”

  I sigh. “I’d rather he didn’t.”

  Shri cocks her head. “I thought you liked him.”

  Another sigh. “I did…do. Oh, I don’t know anymore. You’re right. He doesn’t fit in with Jake’s crowd, but he tries to. Why, I can’t figure out.”

  “We all need friends, Cadi. You and me, included. Much as it pains me to admit.”

  “So why’d he choose Jake?”

/>   “The opportunity presented itself?” she suggests.

  “Fourth grade,” I fill in, remembering what he said last night. “Dean’s been friends with Jake since fourth grade.”

  “There you go then. Jake must not have been a jerk before his testosterone level hit the upper atmosphere. Well, not as much of one.” Shri throws me a grin.

  “Doesn’t help, though, does it? Dean’s only going to make his own life difficult if he pushes back.”

  Shri lifts an index finger. “But it would make him a better person if he did.”

  My phone dings.

  A text from Mama. Cracked ribs. They confirmed no internal injuries. Dr says he’ll be OK.

  I blow out a relieved sigh and show Shri the message.

  She leans over and squeezes my forearm. “Some good news at least.”

  Another text chimes.

  I read it, and relay, “She wants to be picked up from the hospital. Says she needs to sleep in her own bed tonight.”

  Because I haven’t learned to drive yet, Shri offers to take me in the Suburban.

  The car is filled with conversation the entire thirty minute journey home, most of it from Mama. More details than I can follow, but the bottom line is Papa’s going to be laid up for months and somehow the farm’s got to keep running without him.

  Now isn’t the time to pile my problems onto this already overloaded dump truck. Mama has enough to deal with.

  We reach home and Shri takes off in her own car.

  After a silent meal of soup and bread, Mama leans back in her chair and looks at me. “Tell me what’s troubling you, dear.”

  How does she know?

  There’s little point in subterfuge. Papa says my face is easy to read. Something I have in common with Shri, I guess. And Mama is super intuitive. I haven’t a hope.

  I explain how Dean let slip to Jake what happened, trying to say, in a kind way, what type of person Jake is and that he’d gone public.

  Despite the tiredness around them, Mama’s eyes remain focused and clear as she listens. Once I’ve spread everything — minus the kiss-a-thon — out on the table, she reaches across and drops a hand over mine.

  I swallow so hard it hurts. “I can’t go back to school. It’ll be worse than a Salem witch trial. Maybe…” I think hard. “Maybe I should test for a GED and get a job. Start saving.” Higher education isn’t an option right now, but one day it might be. I’m not stupid or lazy, but with all the moving around I’ve done, my grades aren’t stellar.

  “Oh, Cadi. You have to finish high school. You’ve come so far and your grades last semester were perfect.”

  Yeah, straight A’s for what it’s worth.

  Mama’s eyes take on a curious look. “Besides, why would the kids at school believe the word of one boy on Facebook?”

  I look down at the table top. “Because he’s not the only one who said stuff.” I don’t want to tell her, but her expectant look demands full disclosure. Voice thickening, I tell her what happened with Angie. Tears come full force. “You said you knew I wouldn’t use my abilities to hurt someone, but I did.”

  She shakes her head. “In self-defense. That’s different. This Angie sounds like a horrible girl. I hope Dean doesn’t waste his time with her.”

  “I-I don’t think he will,” I admit, with a sniff. “Are there any other high schools close by?” All hope piles high into the question.

  Mama shakes her head. “Thirty miles. You’d need a car.”

  “And to learn how to drive.” I can’t expect the Jacobsens to buy another vehicle and pay for the gas. Mama uses the Suburban all the time and Papa only has his old truck, which he’s forever tinkering with.

  “Well,” Mama says with a thoughtful expression. “Property taxes pay for our schools, and I’ve been paying those for thirty years without much benefit. Maybe it’s time I collected.”

  A frown puckers my face as a smile gathers on hers.

  “I’ve a cabin in New York State that my father left me. I thought about selling the place a few times over the years, but never quite could. The property’s about ten miles from a quaint little ski town up in the Adirondack Mountains. Has its own high school. Why not go there?”

  I stare at her. “But New York’s like miles away.”

  Mama shrugs. “A two-hour drive; about four hours by bus. Not so far. You could finish your last semester there and come back.”

  “But I’d have to get permission, right?”

  “True enough, and I’d have to make a few arrangements. There’s a real estate agent who keeps an eye on things for me and a couple who lives on site and manages the place. The Smiths. Sam and Jessie. Good friends I’ve known for years, and they’ve got grandkids your age.”

  My heart shudders. “But I can’t go live there by myself.”

  “Of course not, dear. I’ll call Sam in the morning and see what we can sort out. School starts back on the second, so we’ve a couple of days to get you there. And as soon as Tom’s out of the woods, I’ll visit and make sure you have everything you need.”

  I bite my lip, not sure I want this adventure, but the thought of going back to school in three days time is way worse than a four-hour bus ride and whatever’s waiting at the other end. Unknowns, yes, but I know Mama wouldn’t send me somewhere she didn’t think I’d be safe. “What about Social Services?”

  Mama pats my hand. “I’ll call that nice social worker, Mr. Scrim, and see what we can arrange.”

  Tears form in my eyes at the thought of leaving. Six months of school left. But then what? “Can I come back here when school’s finished?” I’ll be eighteen. Technically, an adult.

  “Of course, child. You’re welcome to stay with Tom and me as long as you like. You’ve truly become a daughter to us over the past year.” She chuckles softly. “We’re not going to let you go that easily.”

  I push a smile onto my face, but my heart feels as heavy as lead at the thought of leaving. Six months. That’s all. I can do this.

  13

  Idris

  A smart knock at my bedroom door.

  I’m barely awake, but grunt back an incoherent, “Yeah.”

  The door opens and Dad’s standing there. “I just spoke to Doctor Baker. He’s gone through your results and has referred you to Doctor Everett, a dermatologist in the city who specializes in genetic disorders. We leave in an hour.”

  I avoid my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I shower and dress. The weird thing is, I feel fine, which doesn’t really make sense. Maybe whatever I’ve got is on its way out of my system and I’ll be normal again in a few days.

  Dad’s Beemer sits in the driveway, engine running. Mom pulls on her coat and grabs her purse off the side table. As we head out the front door, I text Marek to tell him where I’m going.

  Feel better, bro, he responds. Let me know when you’re back in action.

  Wish I was already there. I slouch down in the dove-gray leather of the back seat, headphones on, close my eyes and listen to a mix of jazz and classical piano. Music heals the soul, and by the time we reach NYC, I’m feeling pretty optimistic.

  Doctor Everett’s office is spacious for Manhattan and has a wall of glass with a view of the Empire State Building. I don’t want to think how much this consultation is costing Dad.

  I’m seated between my parents in a crescent of plush royal blue chairs across from Doctor Everett’s mahogany desk as she sits in silence pondering my results.

  My eyes stray to the high rises beyond the glass window. The sky is a perfect blue, sprinkled with puffy clouds. All that’s missing is a double-rainbow and a couple of flying unicorns.

  Do unicorns fly?

  Doctor Everett closes her laptop and crosses her arms over the top. “How are you feeling, Idris?”

  “Good,” I admit, even though Dad’s Well, you don’t look it, echoes through my mind.

  The doctor’s not as old as I expected. Her eyes are a tranquil shade of blue and her skin is unblemished with a ro
sy tint. Perfectly normal. Perfectly perfect. Just what you’d expect in the face of a dermatologist.

  She nods. “That’s what I’d imagine because there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with you.”

  Dad stiffens.

  “Other than the transmutation of your skin,” she adds before Dad can say anything.

  I brace the chair arms and lean forward. “Transmutation? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “That your epidermis is changing. Metamorphosing.”

  “And what’s the cause?” Dad’s voice is strained.

  “Well, Idris has some interesting genetic signatures, so this could well be a genetic anomaly.

  Mom straightens. “Caused by what? I mean, he’s never had anything like this before.”

  Doctor Everett tilts her head. “His blood work doesn’t show high levels of any toxins. As in heavy metals, like lead, mercury or cadmium. And there are no signs of bacterial, viral or parasitic infections, nor cancer. So given his age, I’d suspect hormones are the trigger.”

  Dad rubs a hand across his face, and mutters, “Glad they’re not my genes he’s got.”

  My heart freezes.

  The doctor carries on as if Dad didn’t say anything.

  Except he did. He just said he’s glad I’m not his real son.

  Mom’s fingers close around mine on the chair arm and squeeze, but I can’t look at her because I don’t want her to know how much Dad’s comment hurts.

  “So how do we treat it?” Dad asks, with desperation in his voice.

  The doctor’s eyes are steady as they meet his. “We can’t.”

  Hearing this decree, my heart shrinks, transmutes into a lump of coal and ignites, then metamorphoses into ash and scatters across the mottled gray carpet.

  We can’t, I repeat in my head. Do. Nothing.

  Doctor Everett’s blue eyes soften, mirroring the perfect azure outside her wall of windows. “All we can do is wait and see what happens. Let the process complete. You never know, it could reverse itself.”

  “Reverse itself,” Dad echoes.