Chameleon (The Ripple Series)

by Cidney Swanson

  But glimpsing the plans of these dreadful eugenicists on video? And knowing that some of them wanted me alive for some purpose of theirs? My mind recoiled.

  The wind gusted against my windows, the screens rattling like dancing bones. I thought of my grandmother’s home decorated for the Dia de Los Muertos.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Mickie said this wasn’t a time to panic. Plus, for now, Sir Walter had directed us to continue laying low.

  And that was hard, because, honestly, I thought we should turn the video over to the CIA or Sixty Minutes or something. But Sir Walter promised he had something better in mind. “A way to more thoroughly defeat this evil,” he’d written.

  But what if he didn’t? What if he couldn’t? What if this year, this month, brought an end to the world as we knew it? Did I want to survive the kind of apocalypse Helmann envisioned? Like a drowning man grasping at flotsam, I clung to one truth: I would fight this. I’d fight with everything I had, given the chance. And that meant waiting until we got to France and met up with Sir Walter.

  I twisted in my sheets, alert to a sudden tattoo of rain pelting dad’s pickup out front. Harsh, insistent, relentless, this storm—like our enemies. I listed the ones I knew by name: Helmann, Hans, Helga.

  My mind returned, as it often did, to a stack of black, leather–bound books. Nearly a month ago, I’d invisibly followed a man who’d come to town asking questions about me. Hans, the stranger, had turned out to be Helga Gottlieb’s brother. Not only had he been in the area to learn about me, he’d also stopped at his sister’s lab at UC Merced to deliver those black books into her keeping. He’d been upset with himself for leaving them outside in his car. Helga had handled them like they were explosives. Or holy relics.

  What was so significant about those black books? Were they as valuable as the one Sir Walter wanted from us? From what I’d seen, Pfeffer’s black book recorded experiments Helmann had inflicted upon children in World War II Germany. Did the other books record similar atrocities? Would Sir Walter find them useful as well?

  I hungered to hold those books within my hands.

  Frowning, I remembered the rainbow of sticky–notes that had been attached to some of the books in Hans’ car. They had my mother’s middle name “Elisabeth” written upon them, spelled the same unusual way she spelled it. Hans had referred to me as “the descendent of Elisabeth” when he warned Helga against harming me. What was so special about my mother? Or about me?

  Those books haunted me.

  ***

  When I’d turned sixteen last month, Dad had handed me the keys to his old Blazer. It ran loud, burned oil, and lacked a CD player. It was painted a hideous burnt orange. I loved it. California law forbids the newly–licensed teen to drive friends, but Will and I had found a work–around. Each morning before school, I drove to Will’s. Then we switched so that Will, who’d held his license over two years, could drive the two of us to school. Legally.

  I missed our mornings pounding the pavement, but running with a school bag wasn’t practical, and the sun rose later each morning so it was now pitch black during the time when Will and I had run last summer.

  The morning following the storm, the sun seemed to have missed the memo about dawn altogether. I drove to Will’s with my brights on, revving the ginormous engine in his driveway, my signal to Will each morning. He dashed out, slamming the cabin door. This was his signal to Mickie to get out of bed each day.

  As he drove, I told him about the stack of black books and how they’d ruined my night’s sleep.

  “And you say they looked just like the book Mickie got from Dr. Pfeffer?” he asked.

  “The same,” I confirmed.

  “I’d sure like to get a peek inside one of them,” said Will.

  “Me too.”

  “I wonder where Helga’s keeping them.”

  “Assuming she still has them,” I said.

  “It’s just, if Sir Walter thinks one black book could be useful, then maybe several black books would be even more useful.”

  I squirmed. Now that Will spoke it aloud, the idea of retrieving additional books sounded very, very bad.

  Distracted, Will hit the bad pothole on Main.

  “Hey, respect the ride,” I said.

  “Dude, I love the ride,” Will replied. “I want to marry the ride so it can have my children.”

  “Shut up,” I chortled.

  Gwyn emerged from Las ABC to my right. She glared at me, angry, and we both turned our heads quickly away from one another. But as Will slowed to turn into the school parking lot, I looked back one last time. Slowly, deliberately, Gwyn shook her head at me, frustrated that I seemed determined to remain with Will. It was so unfair, having to leave Gwyn’s friendship behind so that I could keep Will’s secrets. I turned away from my former friend, resting my head on the window.

  It took effort to bring myself back into the present, to walk away from my regrets.

  After a moment’s silence I spoke. “No way can we go back there and get the books.”

  Will shrugged.

  “Will, I mean it. Helga is dangerous. And crazy.”

  Will’s mouth pulled into a frown as he eased the Blazer into a parking spot. “I’ve already been there, you know. Nothing bad happened.”

  I nodded. Will and Mickie had almost left Las Abuelitas for good last month when I’d described my encounter with Helga at UC Merced. Mickie had been scared to stay after that. But on their way out of town, they’d crashed their car. While his sister got stitched up and rested under medication, Will had snuck off to Helga’s lab to see what he could learn.

  “I’ve thought about going back to UC Merced a couple times,” Will said.

  “It would be such a bad idea,” I said.

  “Really bad.”

  So why did I get the feeling he was already planning a second trip?

  I worried about it through Madame Evans’ description of the Parisian Métro subway system. I worried about it as Gwyn glared at us from across the lunchroom. I worried about it while scrawling answers to a biology quiz.

  Will met me at my Blazer after school. “So when do you think we should go?”

  He must have been thinking about this all day just like me.

  “Your sister will never let you do this,” I said, slamming the passenger door shut.

  “You’re one–hundred–percent about that,” said Will. “Which is why I’m thinking this Wednesday. She’s going to a concert in Fresno.”

  “Of course she is,” I said, resting my head on the window. Outside heavy clouds wafted across the wintry sky. “Let me guess: you just bought the tickets?”

  Will guffawed. “No, but that’s a great idea for the next time I want to do something she’d disapprove.” Will leaned over to fist–bump my shoulder, and the car swerved across the yellow line.

  “You!” I said, shoving him back. “Focus on steering straight.”

  Will placed his hands at 10:00 and 2:00.

  I groaned. “So what’s your plan?”

  Excerpted from the private journal of Helga Gottlieb, circa present day

  Within the pages of his journals, I seek the secrets my father still withholds from me. Why the repeated problems with the offspring I breed? I am certain Father has already discovered the answers I seek. He keeps these secrets to himself for what reason? Am I not the one scientist who could assist him in his Glorious Goals for the Improvement of Man?

  My brother Fritz is nothing compared to me. A dabbler. Has Fritz dared to create life upon the principles we follow? Bah. He is a coward. An amateur. Alone of Father’s children, I have parented a new generation. And with the dispassion required of a true follower of Science, I have eliminated those who proved inferior—so many failed attempts to bring into being the New Humanity. Yes, I denied the beating heart of the mother within me, rather than let inferior beings live.

  And yet Father will not tell me what I am sure he knows.

  Nor ca
n I find anything within these volumes that I did not learn long decades ago studying alone in my laboratories.

  I am determined. I will learn how to eliminate the flaws within my own offspring. I will create the New Humanity.

  Chapter Four

  HELGA’S LAB

  Wednesday night arrived. We’d decided to run to UCM since we didn’t want anyone recognizing and tracing my Blazer. And so, on a dark November night, less than three weeks from our trip to France, we met at Will’s cabin to execute our heist.

  I had come up with an idea that I thought slightly brilliant. “I’ll wear a double layer of black pantyhose over my face,” I said. “In case Helga has set up cameras or something.”

  “You’re making a big assumption,” said Will.

  “It just seemed like the kind of thing she might do.”

  “That’s not the assumption I mean,” said Will. “You’re assuming I’m going to let you show your face in her lab.”

  “Will, I’m being completely logical. She’s never seen you. She doesn’t know you exist. It’s important that we keep it that way.” I paused before playing my ace. “Your sister’s safety is hanging in the balance, too.”

  He scowled at me. “Fine. You get to be the one who grabs the books. But I don’t like it. And I’m wearing the pantyhose hat, too,” he said. “Just in case.”

  I examined his expression, dark and determined. “Fair enough. But you have to find your own pair.” I grinned, certain this was something his sister wouldn’t have lying around.

  “Mick got some once for an interview,” said Will, undaunted. “Hope they’re still in her drawer.” He rippled and I heard him rummaging in his sister’s room, opening a drawer and slamming it shut.

  He reappeared a moment later, nylons in hand, a silly grin on his face.

  “How do you know what’s in your sister’s underwear drawer?” I blurted out before thinking.

  Will flushed dark red and mumbled that they traded off doing laundry depending on who was busier.

  “Oh,” I said. Sylvia did all my laundry except cross country clothes; I was too mortified by eau–de–Sam to let anyone else near those. Will and his sister didn’t have the luxury of being self–conscious.

  I felt awful for embarrassing him, but he shook it off.

  “I thought of something else,” he said, rippling away again. When he solidified beside me a minute later, he revealed a pair of headlamps: the kind that strap around your head to light your way in the dark.

  “Hands–free,” he said, smiling. “Plus, in case you’re right about cameras, I figure a light above your face would mess up any pictures.”

  “Genius,” I said, nodding in admiration.

  We adjusted the face–smooshing nylons and strapped the headlamps on. Will leaned in to flick mine on. I felt his breath warm against my polyestered face.

  “The disguise really works—you’re hideous,” I said. “How do I look?”

  Misshapen lips formed a lumpy smile on Will’s face. “I would never pass judgment on a woman’s appearance.”

  I shook my head, but it was true that I’d never heard him say anything about how a girl looked. “Your sister trained you well.”

  “We ready?” asked Will.

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking we should hold hands,” Will murmured. “So we don’t lose track of each other.”

  Now it was my turn for a scarlet face. I hoped the dark nylons concealed this from Will. “Good thinking,” I said.

  “I’m pretty sure holding hands’ll work,” he said. “I mean, when you hold something while you’re invisible, it stays in your hand unless you decide to drop it.”

  “Right,” I agreed. Will’s hand felt warm, callused, and like it belonged there, folded around mine. I felt my heart pounding faster. How could this boy go from a friend I joked with to someone who changed the rhythm of my pulse?

  What if we could read one another’s minds like before? Crap! This was not the kind of thing I needed to be thinking if we were about to turn invisible. Of course, it hadn’t been “mind–reading” per–se, more like sharing images. This sounded more manageable. I just needed to avoid forming images of Will holding my hand or kissing me or … Stop! I told myself.

  “We can totally do this, Sam,” said Will, noticing my hesitation. “The running together part, it’ll be just like cross country again, right? Except a lot faster. And without bodies.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze and with that he vanished.

  Will’s hand in mine felt like ice now that he’d rippled. I tried not to see it as a metaphor for our relationship. But his heart simply didn’t warm to mine.

  Will came solid beside me again. “You sure you’re ready?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “As long as you stop interrupting my process here.” I reached out an arm to push him aside, but he rippled and was gone. I grunted out a single guffaw.

  Besides my aching heart, my mind circled around one other thing: fear of Helga Gottlieb. Not helpful. I needed to be thinking calm thoughts. Coach drilled us about visualizing success when we raced. So I imagined Will and myself succeeding in our lab break–in. I pictured us together in Helga’s laboratory full of beakers, DNA strand drawings on the whiteboard …stacks of black books which we would steal. I felt a temperature change which meant I’d slipped out of my skin.

  Together, Will and I took off running into the night, a cloudy sky pressing heavily upon the town. Las Abuelitas lay in the clutches of a winter’s night: dead and brown and icy–still. Strange to run so silently, so swiftly alongside the empty road.

  I could feel Will beside me, his presence far more real than I’d expected. At first, I seemed to catch nothing from his mind. But then I noticed I could see the road as he saw it, super–imposed upon what my own vision registered. The doubled vision should have baffled and disoriented me. But it didn’t. My mind accepted both images.

  Something from Will’s mind flashed into mine; he’d spotted a pair of raccoons shambling alongside the road, their eyes fixed upon his invisible form as he passed. Animals sensed us, somehow. I wanted to communicate to him I’d seen what he showed me. Only I had no idea how to do this.

  And now a thought flashed through me, white–hot like lightning: we had no way to talk to each other in Helga’s lab.

  Our inability to talk gnawed its way along my stomach. We should have thought about this. Would it endanger us in Dr. Gottlieb’s lab, the silence that lay between us? I wanted to ask Will’s opinion. Slipping my hand from his, I came solid.

  Will rippled in front of me, sensing my absence. “What’s wrong?” he asked, walking back to me.

  “We won’t be able to talk in the lab. Not while we’re invisible. What if we need to say something to each other?”

  Will frowned. “Hmmm. Let’s get off the road.”

  We stepped into straggling grass that lined the highway and stopped beside the up–tilted slates, so like tomb–markers, scattered across the land in this area. In the dark, I couldn’t make out the red lichen which had reminded me of bloodstains last October. Maybe the red lichen died back in winter. Will sat, slumping against one of the stone slabs. I squatted, avoiding the eerie standing slates.

  “Man, it’s cold.” He looked at me funny. “Sit closer? For warmth?”

  Self–consciously, I scooted closer. A small heat hummed between our bodies.

  “Much better!” Will said, grinning.

  He viewed me as a heat–source. Nothing more.

  I shook back disappointment, let it float off on the cold night wind.

  “I don’t know if we’ll need to talk. It’s just, once I realized that we wouldn’t be able to, I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” I said.

  “Like a piece of popcorn–skin stuck between your teeth,” he said.

  I grunted out a small laugh.

  “We both know what we’re going in for, right?” Will asked.

  “Duh.”

  “So, as long as not
hing goes wrong, I don’t know that we’d need to talk.”

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to imagine what we might need to say to one another, picturing the lab again. “Omigosh! Will, I have an idea!”

  He turned toward me, brown eyes curious.

  “What if we imagined blackboards and visualized writing things on them?”

  “Ni–ice,” said Will, elongating the word into two syllables. “You’re a genius!”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  Will shrugged and stood. “Let’s find out. It’s too damn cold to sit here any longer.” He reached for my hand, pulling me up. He started to let go once I’d arisen, then grasped again, mumbling, “Guess we need to hold hands.”

  He slipped into cool nothingness, and I turned my thoughts to the creek at Illilouette, the beauty of the clear water as it glided over multi–colored rocks. I rippled.

  Immediately, in my mind’s eye, I saw writing upon a chalkboard: So this moose walks into a bar …

  I wrote on the board, I see what you’re writing!

  Letters formed like magic below mine, in Will’s familiar writing. So I think this works, huh?

  This is, like, a major scientific breakthrough! I wrote.

  Which makes you a scientific genius, Will wrote back.

  I smiled. We could tell Mickie it was your idea, and she’d have to treat you with a little more respect, huh?

  Ha! Like that would ever happen, wrote Will. But, seriously, Sam, no way are we ever telling her about tonight, okay?

  Will had a point. If we told Mickie about our discovery, it had to be minus the part where we visited Dr. Evil’s laboratory.

  I promise, I wrote.

  Will wrote, Pinky–swear?

  Guys don’t pinky–swear, I wrote. That’s a girl thing.

  I was raised by a girl. Ish.

  Fine. I pinky–swear, I wrote. Now are we going to do this thing or what?

  Let’s go!

  Will and I tore off through the grass, back to the highway, gliding along at a speed that should have been terrifying but wasn’t.

  Birds must feel this way when they soar, I wrote.