Teen Frankenstein

by Chandler Baker

  “I swear, for how smart you are…” She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she pinched her nose so that I didn’t know if she was about to sneeze or yell at me. All I knew was that on mornings after she drank, she was in a rotten mood. Lucky me. “Who’s going to pay for this, Tor? The tooth fairy?” At that, I felt a surge of righteous indignation. When it came to how parents were supposed to act, I wasn’t the resident expert, but still, wasn’t my mother supposed to thank God I was okay or something? Since my father died, she was always thanking God for everything else. “Can Bert still drive?” she asked instead.

  And I thought about the two of us and how different we’d become from each other. Looking back, I found it nearly impossible to remember whether we’d started this way before my dad’s death or whether it was his passing that had turned us both into creatures with our own thirsty addictions—hers to forget, mine to know more.

  Seconds felt sticky and slow as I waited for them to tick by, and I succumbed to the familiar, twitchy-fingered jitteriness of impatience I got when my mom took too long to understand something or forgot to set the oven timer. “It’s only the windshield and maybe the fender,” I said.

  Goose bumps erupted on my arms as the weather vane let out another creaky howl.

  “This is going to cost us your dad’s Social Security check, you know that?” Her words rubbed at my nerves. Every time she mentioned my father, it was as if she put a special tone around it just to show that she thought it was his fault for dying. She glanced up at the roof again. “And haven’t I talked to you about fixing that thing?” My arms prickled again.

  I hated that. Mom didn’t get anything. She didn’t get why Dad chased storms and she didn’t get science and she didn’t get me. But that was all going to change now that my first big discovery was already here, just beneath our feet.

  Eureka.

  EIGHT

  Conclusion: First human subject—reanimation a success! Submersion in conductor; higher voltage capacity; placement of incised wires on cranium and trunk stimulated all vital organs; possible injury to the hippocampus or reset resulting from localized charge to that area of the brain causing loss of memory; signs of electrocution present on torso.

  * * *

  I watched my mom’s beat-up station wagon trundle out of the drive, leaving muddy tracks in the bogged-down dirt, when I noticed something. Or at least I thought I had noticed something. The soles of my shoes squelched onto the unpaved road as I moved closer to study the thing that I believed I’d seen—tire marks. Three sets of fresh tire marks to be exact.

  The stench of rain tilled up notes of cow manure. Brown sludge oozed up the sides of my sneakers as I stepped closer, dodging the puddles left over from the night’s storm. First, there was a set of tracks leading straight from the fence opening to where my car was now parked. I could see the small curve that my car took before stopping, and as I traced the path with my eyes, I remembered sitting behind the steering wheel with Owen beside me. Our argument. The enormity of what followed.

  I bent down and studied the pattern, touching my finger to the imprints that were left over like fossils in the damp earth. Next, I sidestepped over to where Mom’s car had been parked, a stone’s throw to the right of my driver’s side door. Four craters were left where her wheels had sunk into the mud during the rains. I’d watched her leave and could now retrace the path. The tire marks bowed out from my own before converging again at the fence. I could recognize her tires by the three lines, crossed through by horizontal markings that looked like sketches of barbed wire.

  My skin tingled as I slowly turned to the final set of tread marks. I brushed the dirt from my knees and scanned the yard. There were only these three sets of tire marks on the road. This was significant because the rain had started last night, leaving behind a fresh canvas, and now there were three where there should have been only two. Each set must have been left behind after the rain had died down. I swallowed.

  The final set of tire marks veered sharply to the left, disappearing into a patch of grass. My heart pounded. I let my knee sink into the dirt. The third set of tire marks matched neither Mom’s station wagon nor my Bert. The grooves in the dirt were thick and chunky, like rows of molars had taken bites out of the road. The pattern reminded me of my dad’s old truck, the one my mom had sold, and a cold sliver of fear passed through me. Because there was only one explanation: Somebody must have been here.

  I lingered over the strange trail even as the sun was baking the remnants into a hard mold. I tried to shake the crawling sensation out from under my scalp and, instead, headed straight for the house and into my mom’s bedroom.

  It smelled like cigarette smoke and the pages of old magazines. The room stayed dim, even when the sun was pointed straight at the rest of the house. The carpet was squishy beneath my feet. I tugged at the closet doors, and they opened like accordion pleats to a shallow two-rack wardrobe. My mom’s clothes hung dull and lifeless near the center, an array of muted colors, sloppy cardigans, and ill-fitting pants. I pushed those to the side to clear a path to the far right-hand corner, where, hanging untouched, were my dad’s clothes. Once, when Mom didn’t know I’d come in, I caught her smelling the sleeves of one of his shirts, just sitting there with her nose pressed into the fabric. I yanked down on the collar of a button-down, and it slid from the hanger. My father liked plaid, and by the time I left, I was cradling three shirts in that pattern along with a couple pairs of jeans.

  I carried my stash to the cellar, no intention at all of going to school. I pried open the hatch door and descended the stairs at last. “It’s me,” I called, my voice muffled by the pile of clothes. I stopped at the bottom and dropped the garments on a clear square of countertop. From where he was squatting behind the lab table, Owen pulled a tarp he’d draped over himself and stood.

  “What took you so long?” He swatted the blue plastic down toward his feet.

  I hesitated, weighing whether to tell him about the unexplained tire marks that I’d found in the front lawn, until I made a conscious decision that Owen, who was already more prone to worry and paranoia than I was, didn’t need to know unless and until there was actually something to know.

  Right now, there wasn’t. So I pivoted and spotted the boy, standing directly behind the model skeleton against the far wall. This time I raised an eyebrow at Owen.

  “What?” he said, kicking the now crumpled tarp beneath the table. “You told us to hide.”

  The boy’s form was in full view between each of the bones. “You can come out now.…” The boy had no name with which to finish the sentence. He didn’t move. I came closer. “It’s all right. My mother’s gone.” The boy stayed very still but was peering at me over the model skull. “No one’s going to find you here,” I said. “It’s just Owen and me.” I stretched my hand out toward him.

  Cautiously, he put his palm in mine and allowed me to lead him away from the worst hiding spot ever. “I don’t like it when you leave, Victoria.”

  The corner of my mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll try not to from now on.”

  His stillness seemed to suck the movement right out of his surroundings, like the air had turned stale along with him.

  “First thing’s first,” I said. “Let’s get you dressed.” I reached over and tossed him a pair of jeans, boxers, and a shirt from my dad’s closet. He immediately began sliding off his boxers. “Wait!” My hand flew over my eyes and I spun around, pinching Owen to follow suit. “Okay, proceed.” I listened to the rustling of fabric and soft grunts for several moments. “Are you clothed?” I asked.

  “Yes, Victoria.”

  Owen and I turned. The clothes may have been a bit out of style, but at least if he was going to be a walking dead man, he wasn’t a naked one.

  The boy looked to me expectantly, holding his arms out from his sides.

  Owen checked his watch. “School’s started.”

  I grimaced. Owen and
I didn’t skip school. In fact, we were never even late. For the past two years we’d won awards for perfect attendance. It wasn’t so much that we thought we were learning anything as it was that people didn’t get into Harvard without a pristine transcript.

  “Then we better figure out a plan for tomorrow, Captain Obvious.”

  I crossed the room and pushed the metal gurney next to the boy. The black pad on top of the stretcher was cracked, revealing the yellowing foam inside. I patted the surface. “Can we ask you a few more questions?”

  He hoisted himself onto the gurney. His bare feet dangled off the side. Einstein came over to lick his toes. I tried to scoot her away but she was very persistent about certain things and toe-licking was one of them.

  I took hold of one of his wrists and pressed my fingers into the tendons at the base. A steady pulse coursed against my fingertips. “The voltage must have triggered some sort of restart in the brain patterns.”

  “But if there’s no long-term memory, why has he retained his motor skills? How’s he speaking to us?”

  “Syringe and vial,” I said, and waited while Owen retrieved them from a sliding tray of surgical tools. I took the syringe from him and pushed back one of the boy’s sleeves. “Could be retrograde amnesia. The memories most likely to be lost are the most recent. Working backward it can go decades depending on the severity of the brain trauma, and it doesn’t affect motor skills.” I applied pressure above the boy’s elbow. “This might sting.” I glanced up at him. He was following every movement I made with his eyes. I plunged the needle into the blue vein at the crux of his elbow. As I pulled back the stopper, the vial filled with deep red blood.

  “He didn’t even flinch,” Owen observed.

  I slid the needle out of his arm. “Did you feel that?” I asked.

  The boy stared down at the spot on his arm. “No.”

  I poked his shoulder. “How about that?”

  He shook his head.

  At this revelation, I reached for the back of his hand and pinched it hard, like a kindergartner with a vendetta. No reaction.

  “How…” I trailed off. “But there can’t be just nothing … can there?”

  Owen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I mean, twelve hours ago I might not have thought any of this was possible. We’re kind of dealing with the definition of uncharted territory here. How do you feel right now?” he asked. The boy’s brow lowered and his chin dimpled. “For instance, are you sad?”

  The boy touched the back of his hand where I’d pinched it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” His jaw changed shape, teeth grinding beneath the surface, but otherwise his features remained impassive. Empty.

  “That could just as easily be the lack of memory, though,” I figured. “Without memories, what’s there to be sad about, you know?”

  “Amazing,” Owen whispered, and we both stood for a moment, he and I, basking in the secrets of the universe that the two of us had unlocked. “He’s truly a blank slate. Like a newborn baby in a teenager’s body.”

  “For some reason I don’t think we’re going to be able to hire a babysitter for this one.”

  “So then what?” Owen asked. “We can’t exactly hide him here forever.”

  “We don’t. Hide him, I mean.” I held the vial and deposited the contents of the syringe into it, then capped it with a rubber plug. With a marker I labeled it Day 1. “You’re about our age, right?” The boy looked from side to side as if he wasn’t sure I was talking to him. “Right, stupid question. What I mean is, he comes to school with us.”

  I stepped back and studied the two guys in the room. Compared with Owen, the strange boy was about four sizes bigger. His chest swelled where Owen’s caved inward, but the boy, I thought, could pass for one of the athletes. Maybe.

  I rubbed my temples. I was suffering from severe caffeine and sleep deprivation. If this ended up being a horrible plan, I could blame it on both.

  Owen sighed. “He needs a name if we’re going to make this work. I repeat, if.” As though we had another choice. “You want a name, don’t you, buddy?”

  The boy cracked his neck. The popping of bones sent shivers down my back. “What kind of name?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Whatever kind of name you like,” I said, depositing the blood sample onto a test-tube rack.

  “You can’t use Owen,” Owen butted in. “That’s taken.”

  “Like anyone would want it.” I rolled my eyes. “Open your mouth wide.” He obeyed and I swabbed his mouth with a Q-tip, which I deposited into another vial for later testing.

  The boy smacked his lips when I had finished, and I could practically see the cogs turning. Finally, once I’d shifted my weight several times over, he spoke. “Victoria, could you please choose?”

  A pocket of air bubbled inside my chest. I couldn’t swallow, and just when I thought I’d refuse the honor, it came to me like a vision. It was inspired. It was biblical. It was hard proof that I hadn’t quite slept through all my Sunday school classes and that, occasionally, I listened to my mom.

  “I’ve got it,” I said, breaking into a broad smile. “Your name, I think, is Adam.”

  NINE

  Preliminary test results taken within first 24 hours for processing: red blood cells uniform in size representative of 40% of total blood consistency; white blood cell count normal; blood serum—colorless, clear, without parasites or other bacteria; saliva pH—6.5

  Conclusion: Safe for general population; will proceed with next stage of the experiment

  * * *

  Adam had now been alive—or dead, depending on how you looked at things—for over twenty-four hours. The previous day had passed with preparations and another near-sleepless night as I fretted over the details of my plan to take a corpse to Hollow Pines High School.

  “One last time, Adam. What are you going to say to Mrs. Van Lullen when you see her?” My eyes flitted up to Adam’s reflection in the rearview mirror. He was perched at the edge of Bert’s backseat with his knees tucked up to his chest so that he could lean forward to hear Owen and me. I felt as if Owen and I were driving our child to his first day of school.

  Owen twisted in the passenger seat to watch the recital.

  “I am Adam Smith. I come from Elgin, Illinois. I am sixteen years old. I am a junior. Victoria is my family friend. I am staying with her while my parents wrap up our move to the Lone Star State. Please, I would like to enroll in Hollow Pines High School.” He finished his speech with a beaming smile.

  Owen pushed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “That’s it. We’re screwed.”

  “We’re not screwed.” I took my eyes from the road long enough to glare at Owen. The rain had left behind muddy craters in the asphalt. The patchy tumbleweed grass that lined the side of it shimmered and looked slightly less cotton-mouthed than it had a couple days earlier.

  We’d taken pains to make sure Adam’s assumed persona would stand out as little as possible. We’d chosen “Smith” because it was the most common last name in the United States, and a hometown of Elgin, Illinois, because nobody in their right mind would make up the fact that they were from some Podunk, middle-of-nowhere town like Elgin.

  Or Hollow Pines for that matter.

  “Adam, it sounds a little rehearsed. Do you think you could do it again only try not to sound like you’re reading from a cue card. Here, like this: ‘Hi, I’m Victoria, but since that name sucks I prefer Tor. I’m from Hollow Pines. Turned seventeen in July.’” I raised and lowered my inflection to illustrate. “See the difference?”

  Owen’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Look at him. He’s like a baby freaking bird when you talk.”

  I blushed. Adam had clearly developed an instant attachment to me. When I moved, he shadowed. When I spoke, you could literally see his chest puff up in anticipation. I had to continue to remind myself it wasn’t adorable, it was dead.

  Adam cleared his throat. “I’m Adam Smith. I’m from Elgin, Illinois.” He stopped. �
�How was that, Victoria?”

  Owen slapped his forehead. “You’ve created an imbecile.”

  “I have not.” I gave Owen an extra slap on the head. The car careened across the dividing line, and I hurried to correct my course. “Be nice. He’s relearning, that’s all.” In the mirror, I could see Adam’s lips working through his lines. “Adam, that was much better. Excellent.”

  “I’m sorry,” Owen muttered, and stared out the window. “I’m nice. I’m just trying to calculate the maximum sentence for aiding and abetting.” He twisted the nob on the stereo and flipped through stations until he found talk radio.

  “Really. You think Mrs. Van Lullen is going to take one look at him and guess that”—I lowered my voice and turned up the radio—“that he’s a walking, talking corpse. Be rational, Owen. For god’s sake, we had a breakthrough.”

  “I am being rational, Tor. News flash: Our science fair project wasn’t some well-guarded secret for which you needed national security clearance. We worked on it in the biology lab. At our school. You know, the one we’re trying to enroll Mr. Stitchy McStitcherson in.”

  “Keep your voice down.” I wrapped my hands tighter around the steering wheel. My stomach was already working itself over with worry well enough. “Do you have the paperwork ready?”

  He pulled out a folder. In it, the forms we’d e-mailed to request from the school yesterday were printed. The imaginary Ms. Smith had a new e-mail address and Owen’s cell phone number. “It’s all here. I e-mailed it to the school last night, but we have it just in case.”

  “And your voice mail?”

  He punched a number on his phone. It played a muffled recording of my voice, donning my best midwestern accent. “You’ve reached Marjorie Smith. Due to recent family events, I am tending to personal matters. I will return your call as soon as I’m able.” Beep.