“Well, this is already off to an interesting start,” Tessa says with a smile. She waves her badge over the sensor on the wall and the doors hiss open.
The isolation chamber is a tiny square room that looks like a futuristic jail cell. It’s completely bare except for two padded benches wedged against the walls, and a metal table with two large bottles of water and a stack of protein bars. We file inside, filling the space between the two benches. “Bathroom’s right there,” Tessa says, pointing at a room the size of an airplane lavatory. I make a mental note to go easy on the water. And the protein bars, for that matter.
Tessa and James go back outside to make room for a medical technician, who hooks me and Blythe up to sensors to track our heart rates and brain activity.
“I don’t want any of you to be shocked when you start reading my mind,” Blythe jokes as the technician places a sensor against her temple. “So you should know that there’s always a part of my brain writing Harry Potter slash.”
She doesn’t look like the type of girl I imagine staying home on Saturday nights to write Harry Potter erotica. She looks like she belongs on the dance floor of some underground club, dancing wildly to a band I’ve never heard of. I can imagine her hair flying, her hips swaying. Get it together, I tell myself as I feel my pulse begin to speed up at the thought. Thank God I’m not hooked up to the heart-rate monitor yet. I take a few deep breaths and regain my composure before it’s my turn to get wired up.
“You’re all set,” Tessa says a few minutes later, after the technician leaves. “If you need anything, you can press the red call button by the door. Otherwise, we’ll see you in twenty-four hours.”
“See ya,” Blythe calls cheerfully while I nod, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get through twenty-four hours without saying anything dumb.
The door slides closed, and all the lights go out except for a dim recessed bulb in the ceiling. Blythe flings herself onto one of the benches with a loud sigh, and I sit gingerly on the edge of the other, wishing there were a little more space between us.
“So how many times have you done this?” she asked, turning onto her back and stretching out her legs. There’s something strangely intimate about seeing a girl lie down like that.
“Done this?” I repeat. “Been in the isolation chamber?”
“Yeah. This is my third time.”
“Oh.” I pause. “This is my first time.” I wonder what that means. Whether she’s ahead of me in the rankings, or whether it’s just a scheduling issue. “Who were the others? The other people, I mean.”
“The first was a girl named Maddie. She was really nice. At least, I think she was nice. She didn’t talk very much.”
I wonder how Blythe is going to describe me after this. He seemed nice. At least, I think he was nice. He didn’t talk much except to make awkward jokes about drugs.
“The second time was with this guy Jordan. He thought the committee was listening and analyzing everything we said, so he refused to talk about anything but chemistry, physics, or astronomy. I’d be like, ‘Hey, Jordan, can you pass me a protein bar?’ and he’d be like, ‘Did you know that this protein bar would only weigh half an ounce on Mars? The gravitational force is only thirty-eight percent as strong as Earth’s.’”
“So they’re not listening to what we say?” I ask, wondering if perhaps this Jordan kid was onto something. I can’t afford to mess this up.
“They probably are. But I don’t think it’s to see how much Mars trivia we can drop in conversation. They want to see our interpersonal skills, how we deal with boredom and stress and stuff.” She jumps to her feet suddenly. “Do you want to have a dance contest?”
“What? No.” Just the thought of dancing in front of another person makes my heart race, which kind of sucks because now the committee is going to think I’m not comfortable in small places. Which is really unfair, because I’m not claustrophobic, and I doubt dance parties are going to be part of the Mars mission. Unless Blythe is also selected.
“Why not?” Blythe raises her arms over her head and sways her hips from side to side. It’s not quite as sexy as the move I’d imagined. But much cuter.
I suppress a smile. “Well, for one, there’s no music.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem.” She clears her throat, tosses her head back, and starts to sing loudly and off-key. “I’d stop the world and meeeeeelt with you.” She continues to shake her hips and wave her arms while she sings, and despite myself, I laugh.
“What is that?” I ask.
“It’s Modern English. What? Don’t you like eighties music?”
“No, not particularly.”
“That’s probably because you haven’t listened to enough,” she says, flopping back on the bench, slightly breathless.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an eighties music fan.”
“Why? What you have pegged me as?” Blythe asks eagerly, sitting up again.
I stiffen, realizing too late that I’ve sent us down a road with too many conversational landmines. “Nothing. I don’t know. Sorry, that was dumb.”
“No, tell me. I’m curious.”
“I don’t know . . . I guess I assumed you listened to cool indie stuff.”
“Like the Starfish Amputees?”
“Maybe. I’ve never heard of them.”
“Yes!” She reaches out to give me a high-five.
Confused, I tap my palm against hers. “What did I do?”
“The Starfish Amputees are a made-up band. It’s a game I play to see whether people are poseurs or not.”
“Isn’t that kind of mean?” I ask hesitantly.
“I don’t think so. I never call them out on it or anything. I’m not trying to embarrass anyone. I just like to know, for myself.”
“I guess that’s fair. So what are your favorite fake bands?”
“Oh . . . there are so many, it’s hard to choose.” She holds up her hand and begins counting off with her fingers. “There’s the Amphibious Gentlemen, the Hip Hip Hoorays, Baking Soda Stars, Toadstool, Third-Grade Talent Show.” She shakes her head. “They were so good until they sold out.”
“I don’t know. I really like that Christmas album they did. The one with the guitarist from Dead Poseur’s Society.”
“Good one.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dim light enough that I can see her smile, and the sight turns my stomach from a solid into a liquid, just for a moment.
“That’s one thing I’m going to miss,” she says wistfully. “Going to shows. That moment when the band you’ve been waiting for all night comes onto the stage, and their opening chords release something inside of you.” She sighs. “I don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world. When the bass kicks in, and you can’t tell if it’s coming from the speakers or your own heart. And you know everyone else feels the same way, and you’re all connected by the music.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve never been to a concert, so I don’t know that moment she’s talking about. And if I’m chosen for the mission, I probably never will. But that’s okay. There’s a lot I’m going to miss out on, but plenty more terrible things I’m going to avoid.
“Are you okay?” Blythe asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say quickly. “So why do you want to leave, then? I hear the music scene on Mars is pretty quiet.”
She shrugs, but there’s something forced about the gesture. “Some things are worth sacrificing for.” She lets out a long breath. “Okay, instead of talking about the things we’re going to miss, I think we should list the things we’re happy to leave behind. I’ll start . . . Let’s see . . . mosquitos.”
“Really?” I say. “That’s the best you can come up with? Mosquitos?”
“It’s the first thing I thought of! I have more. But now it’s your turn.”
“All right . . . um . . . okay, the typing dots.”
“Like when you’re texting?” Blythe asks.
“Yeah. I’m not going to miss seei
ng those dots, and that knot you get in your stomach when they go on for too long, and you know the person you’re texting keeps deleting their message and starting over.”
“I hadn’t really thought about that. But yeah, I guess we won’t be texting anymore.”
“Just good old face-to-face contact.”
“Or helmet-to-helmet contact,” Blythe says, “if we’re outside. Okay, it’s my turn. I’m not going to miss . . . unloading the dishwasher.”
“Shopping.”
“Hay fever.”
“Dancing.”
Blythe laughs. “No way I’m giving up dancing.”
“You can do whatever you want. But no one’s going to make me feel guilty about not dancing. No more bar mitzvahs, quinceañeras, sweet sixteens, weddings . . .”
“Sounds like you’ve had quite the busy social life.”
“I’ve been very busy awkwardly standing on the edge of the dance floor, pretending to check my phone,” I say.
“We’re definitely not leaving awkwardness behind. What could be more awkward than living on top of six strangers?”
“Lots of things. Trust me.”
In the dim light, I see Blythe’s expression change. “Like what?” she asks softly.
My heart starts pounding a warning. Don’t tell her. This is my best chance at a fresh start. I can’t ruin it now. Not this early. I force a smile. “Nothing. I was just making a joke. A stupid one, I guess.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?” she asks. I nod. “Who are you most worried about leaving behind?”
“My parents,” I say as something deep inside my chest cramps. “What about you?”
“My grandmother. But she’s really old, so I’m not sure how much time we would have together anyway. I know she’d be proud of me if I’m chosen, but I can’t imagine saying good-bye to her.”
“What about your parents?”
“They both died when I was little.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
She gives another one of her practiced shrugs. “Two fewer people I’ll make cry if I leave.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. I’ve never seen my parents cry, but when I told them I’d made it to the final round, there was a look in their eyes I never want to see again. Something worse than tears. Like I’d yanked on the threads holding their hearts together and broken them somehow. “That’s one thing I’m ready to leave behind.”
“What? Crying?” Blythe asks.
“Letting people down, I guess.”
We’re both lying down on our benches now. There’s only about two feet of space between us. I don’t think I’ve even lain this close to a girl before.
A shrill, piercing wail rips apart the silence. I gasp and jump to my feet, heart racing. Blythe lets out a yelp and also jumps up, but she loses her footing and crashes into me. I put my arm around her to steady her. “What the hell is that?” I mutter.
“It’s a fire alarm,” Blythe says, lurching toward the door. There’s no handle on this side, so she bangs on it a few times. “We have to get out of here.”
I hurry to stand next to her. “It’s okay. Just relax. It’s probably just a false alarm. And if it’s a real fire, they’ll come get us. No one’s going to forget about us.”
She keeps banging on the door and pressing the call button, as if she hasn’t heard me. “Let us out. Let us out!”
“Blythe,” I say, speaking her name aloud for the first time. “It’s all right. You need to calm down. There’s no smoke. The door isn’t hot. Everything’s okay. It’s probably just a drill.”
“There is. There is.” She spins around again and resumes banging on the door with one hand and pressing the call button with the other. “Why isn’t anyone answering?”
I take a breath, and I can smell it now. Smoke. Slowly, so as not to panic Blythe, I stand up and walk around the tiny room, sniffing. It’s not coming through the door, and I don’t see any vents.
“You smell it now, don’t you?” There’s no accusation in her voice. Only fear.
“Yeah. I smell it. But there’s no reason to freak out. This is a brand-new building. It’ll have state-of-the-art sprinklers and fire doors. We’re going to be fine.”
“We’re going to die in here,” she says, her voice breaking.
Without thinking, I pull her toward me and wrap my arms around her. “No, we’re not. I promise,” I whisper into her ear. She’s trembling, so I tighten my hold. But I can’t ignore the fact that the smoke is growing stronger. I look around the dark room, desperately scanning it for something to use to break the door. But there’s nothing. That’s the point of the isolation chamber.
That’s when it hits me. This is part of the test. It has to be. That’s the only explanation for why they’ve left us in here with the alarm blaring. The smoke isn’t from a real fire. They just want to see how we’ll cope.
“This is part of the test,” I say. I try to take a step back so I can look, but she holds on tighter. “We just need to relax, to show them that we don’t panic in emergencies. It’s all going to be okay.”
“But the smoke . . . The fire’s coming closer.” She’s right about the smoke. It’s not just the smell anymore. Real smoke is filling the room, burning my throat every time I inhale. But I know it’s all being carefully monitored. There are people watching our vital signs. They’re not going to let anything happen to us.
I lead Blythe over to the bench and lower her onto it. “They’re just trying to scare us,” I say.
“Are you sure?” she asks, trembling against me.
“I’m sure. All we have to do is stay calm.” I run my hand up and down her arm, and after a few moments, she stops shaking.
The alarm stops suddenly, leaving a ringing in my ears. Slowly, the smoke starts to dissipate. “You were right,” Blythe says, letting out a long sigh. “Thank God.”
I realize my hand is still on her arm. “Sorry,” I say, jerking it away.
“Sorry for what?” She tilts her head back to look up at me.
“For . . . I don’t know . . . sorry, just forget it.”
Blythe sits up, and tucks her legs underneath her, but doesn’t move away. Her knees are touching my thigh. “Philip, are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, totally fine.”
“Why did touching me make you freak out?”
“What? I didn’t. I mean, it didn’t.” My heart thuds frantically, and I try to turn away, but she puts her hand on my face and gently brings it back around.
“Tell me.” I feel the warmth from her fingers seep through my skin, melting something inside me. She traces my cheek with her hand. “You can tell me.”
And to my surprise, I do.
At first, I can’t make it through a whole sentence without stammering or stumbling. It’s like my body is clinging to the words, and I have to drag them up through my throat one at a time. But after a few minutes, the words start to pour out of their own accord.
I tell Blythe about the girl I’d liked since middle school, Ava. How I somehow worked up the nerve to ask to her prom. I explain that I was so nervous, my palms were too sweaty to hold my phone, which dropped and broke in front of Ava before I’d even had a chance to say a word. I tell her how I managed to stammer my question. Kind of. How it took three tries for Ava to understand what I was saying. The pained look that crossed her face when she said no, like I’d just asked her to do something revolting. How, to my horror, a wave of nausea crashed over me, and I end up throwing up in the trash can. Right next to Ava’s locker.
Blythe doesn’t say anything. She just takes my hand and squeezes it as I speak.
“Of course, someone filmed the whole thing and put it on VidHub. I’m sure you saw it,” I say, then continue before she has a chance to respond. “Everyone’s seen it.”
I remember exactly where I was when I realized what had happened. I was sitting in the kitchen, having a snack, when my friend Alex sent me the link to the video. It was jus
t a few hours old, but it already had more than twenty thousand views. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare as the view count skyrocketed. It hit fifty thousand before I got up from the table. And the comments . . . thousands of people calling me a loser, telling me I was going to be a virgin for the rest of my life.
But that wasn’t the worst part. It was the memes. My face was everywhere. I couldn’t go online without seeing a photo of myself throwing up into that trash can. By the next week, there were over ten million views and it was all anyone at school could talk about. Even some of the teachers.
I drew in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even get out of bed. Eventually, I stopped going to school. My parents tried everything. Bribes. Threats. Promises. Then, about two weeks after the . . . incident, I heard about the Mars mission.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says, tightening her grip on my hand. “People will move on eventually. They always do.”
I shake my head. “Not soon enough. Not before I go to college. Can you imagine trying to make it through freshman orientation? I heard there’s a mural of me somewhere at Princeton.”
“So don’t go to Princeton. They’re all dicks anyway.”
“You know what I mean. Besides, it’s . . . it’s not just because it went viral. I’ve always known there was something wrong with me . . . I just didn’t expect the entire world to find out all at once.” As the words leave my mouth, something in my chest cracks, releasing a wave of pain.
“No, Philip, no,” Blythe says, her voice soft. She wraps her arm around me, and I lean into her. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” Her face brightens. “You know what I think you should do? You should make a response video!”
Just the thought of making a video makes me feel clammy and nauseous all at once. “I know you’re some kind of genius, but that’s actually the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”
“I’m serious! It’d be really powerful. You can make a statement about not living in fear, how it’s better to fail than never try at all.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it,” I say, to get her off the subject. But I know there’s no chance in hell of me ever doing something like that. “What about you? Why would a girl with every opportunity on earth leave it all behind? I saw you on all those talk shows when you were younger. Everyone who meets you loves you.”
Meet Cute Page 20
