Ragnar chuckled. He raised his beer to her and drained the bottle.
"I respect your protective instincts, Alyssa, but let me ask you this. Aiden's a good boy, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is."
"He obeys the rules?"
"For the most part."
"Okay. But Aiden's really smart, isn't he?"
"Yes. May I ask where you're going with this?"
"It's more about where Aiden's going. You're going to have to convince the dude that there are good, solid reasons why he should remain celibate for the next two or so years despite every cell in his body crying out for sex – despite the obvious fact that all this 'protect society' is a crock of shit."
"Getting someone pregnant is a crock of shit?"
"You know that the probability of a hyper getting someone pregnant is something like one tenth of one percent, which beats out using condoms or the pill. And hypers rarely carry sexual diseases because of their supercharged immune systems. So, Dr. Stevens, what is it that they and society are really being protected from?"
Ragnar's smile was more hard than amused. I could tell he wasn't joking about this subject – that it meant a lot to him. I was starting to think it meant a lot to me, too. My mom's face had gone as flat as polished stone.
"It's true that some studies have suggested those percentages, but because of their size, the findings are little more than suggestive," she said. "More to the point: Have you ever taught in a classroom when a hyper was present? I'm not saying that hypers pose some grave threat to humanity – I think the RSA has gone too far with its rules and regulations – but the disruption a hyper can cause in a classroom and other social situations is very real."
"Oh, I wouldn't argue that it's not disruptive," laughed Ragnar. Melanie giggled and made puppy-dog eyes at him on cue. "But what isn't? A beautiful girl in a classroom can be disruptive, especially if she's wearing the right clothes. So can a handsome dude. So can someone who says something that isn't officially approved by our rulers." He laughed again. "My teachers thought I was disruptive long before I turned."
My mom regarded him with stern eyes, though the line of perspiration over her brow and the slight flush in her cheeks gave her away. I wanted to reach across the table and dry her forehead with my napkin. It was embarrassing. My sister was dabbing her forehead with a napkin, too.
"I can see basketball isn't the only thing you're passionate about," my mom said.
"Score one for you." Ragnar smiled.
"According to what I've read, scoring outside of basketball is your most passionate thing," Melanie sniggered. She scowled defiantly under our mom's hard stare. "Well, that's what everyone writes about him."
"And that's the one thing you can completely trust the news media to accurately document," Ragnar laughed. "Celebrities' love lives."
I laughed, while my mom and Melanie made grudging smiles. I took a moment to take this surreal scene in. Yesterday, the idea that I'd be shooting baskets and discussing politics with Ragnar Norquist seemed about as likely as being struck by a meteorite while solving the Goldbach Conjecture.
"Did you use Andrydox spray?" I asked him.
"I did for a while. When I got off it, I went to home-schooling."
"I don't think I'd like that," I said.
"I didn't like my skin breaking out in the burning rashes that started after the first six months." He turned to me. "How long have you been on it?"
"Maybe a month." I resisted an urge to scratch my forearms. "I've been noticing my skin's been kind of red and burning after I put it on in the morning. It used to fade during the day, but now it's hanging on."
"That's how it starts. Our skin isn't designed to have strong chemicals sprayed on it every day."
My mom started clearing the table. Melanie reluctantly joined in.
"Could I have a word with you in private for a moment, um, Ragnar?" my mom asked.
That didn't sound good. I had no idea if this "evening with Ragnar" was a one-time deal or if we might stay in touch – it had happened too fast to think about that – but my mom taking him aside made me doubt we'd have any future connection with my favorite basketball player. I was surprised by the alarm I felt as I thought that.
My mom led Ragnar out through the sliding glass door into the backyard. They moved out of sight on the patio. I longed to move to the sliding glass door and try to hear them.
"Looks like she's gonna give the basketball Lothario the boot," Melanie sighed. "Why does she have to be so uptight?"
I didn't say anything. The food in my stomach seemed to be curdling.
"I wonder how his parents handled his problem when he was your age," Melanie mused. "Sounds like he got plenty."
I had that feeling, too, but I wasn't going there with my sister. "Who knows," I said. "It's none of our business."
"I bet he'd tell you if you asked." She sighed again. "Too bad he probably won't ever come here again."
The door slid open, and Ragnar followed my mom inside. She was wearing her forcibly neutral business-scientist face. Ragnar's smile was affable but reflective.
"I should get going," he said. "It was great to meet you guys."
After we shook hands, he donned his sunglasses and cap.
"Thank you for dinner," my mom said.
"My pleasure, Dr. Stevens. It was good to sit down with an actual family. That doesn't happen very often."
With a tip of his cap, he headed for the door. When the door closed behind him I suddenly knew I couldn't just let him leave like that. I jumped up and ran after him.
"Aiden..."
My mom's plaintive voice followed me out the door. Ragnar paused by his car, smiling as if he weren't at all surprised.
"I just..." I made a helpless gesture. "I wondered what my mom told you."
"To quote: 'Thank you for your interest, but I don't think you would be the best influence in my son's life right now.'"
"Shit," I said under my breath.
Ragnar clasped my shoulder. "Don't sweat it, dude. Your mom is cool. Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous..." He chuckled apologetically as I glared at him. "Anyway, she might be right. My mom used to call me a 'minotaur in a china shop'."
I smiled at that image. It seemed to fit.
"Don't worry, Aiden." He released my shoulder. "It'll all work out."
Chapter 6
SCHOOL ENDED AND SUMMER arrived.
I woke up one morning and thought: I don't have to get up and shower and spray myself with Andrydox! As Ragnar predicted, my skin had turned rough and itchy and was evolving into lizard scales by the last day of school.
I rolled out of bed, eager to embrace the new school-less day, and remembered how ho-hum I'd been about summer in the past. Hanging out with Keith or Gert, working on a pet project, or taking some quick trip somewhere – all my mom seemed willing to do since the divorce – got old quickly. By the end of summer, I found myself longing for school.
The sad truth was that I enjoyed the structure of school. I was one of those freaks who actually liked studying and learning.
This summer, I had the feeling, was going to be different. I had a whole exercise schedule worked out in my head, with the goal of dunking the basketball and generally buffing up my wimpy body. The only negative was no more weekly meetings with Dr. Stephanie Landon – who'd been grudgingly approved by the officious Dr. Jenkins – until school started in September. In a way that was a relief: those hour sessions were more torture than fun. But what a beautiful torment to listen to her velvet voice, gaze into her soulful grey-blue eyes, and watch her round little butt when she stood up and turned away to do something!
Whatever, I sighed. In a few short months I'd be seeing her again every week for the whole school year, for whatever good that would do.
I plowed into my clothes. Mom was already at work. Melanie was still sleeping in her room. I had some fuzzy plans about hanging with Gertie and Keith later, since her parents were off for a long weekend, but for the moment I was free in the Ein
steinian beckoning liberation sense.
I grabbed my basketball and jogged over to the nearest park. The basketball court was empty, happily. A middle-aged couple was knocking balls back and forth on the adjacent tennis courts; a young woman was walking a dog. A very pretty young woman, I couldn't help thinking. I shook off the thought and focused on the task before me.
I ran end to end on the basketball court, practicing lay-ups and various shots, pretending I was different players in some epic contest.
In the three months since meeting Ragnar, I'd grown almost two inches and added some muscle. I looked leaner, more grownup, I thought. Girls were noticing me, even with my supercharged pheromones blocked. I could run faster and longer, and could curl my fingers around the hoop on a running jump. A dunk was tantalizingly within reach.
I wondered what Ragnar was doing, now that the season was over. The Kings had made it into the second playoff round, where they'd lost to the Denver Nuggets, despite a highlight reel of heroics by Ragnar. Somehow I doubted he was crying in his beer about it. He was probably lying on a private beach somewhere with a harem of beautiful women attending his every need.
I took a break from basketball to do some pull-ups on the monkey bars. I could now rattle off ten to twelve without too much effort. Then it was on to my latest workout routine: holding a large rock from the nearby garden, I practiced trying to touch the rim with it with both hands. So far, I couldn't come closer than eight or nine inches, but I hoped to reach my goal by the end of summer.
The pretty young woman with the dog stopped by the court as I jumped toward the rim with my rock one last time. Feeling her eyes on me added some zing to my jump.
"Wow," she said. "I couldn't help noticing how hard you were working out."
I lowered the rock to the ground. I faced her, acutely aware of my sweat-soaked T-shirt and unruly hair.
"Are you planning to try out for the basketball team – I assume you're in high school – in the fall?"
I opened my mouth, but the idea of me trying out for the high school basketball team caused a kind of brain freeze. It wasn't actually impossible that I could try out. What a strange thought.
"Uh, no," I stammered.
"Maybe you should. You look like you have some hops."
"Uh, thanks."
"Well, have fun." The young woman – I guessed she was maybe early twenties – smiled at me and started away. Then she stopped. "Say, you look thirsty. I live right off the greenbelt, if you'd like some water or a bottle of sports drink?"
I opened my mouth to say no, that I lived nearby, too, but for the second time a strange possibility froze my brain.
"Anyway," she said, "just a thought."
As she turned to go, I found my voice.
"No, uh..." I coughed into my hand. I sounded as if I were gargling. "Something to drink sounds good."
She peered at me, her smile narrowing. "Can I ask how old you are?"
"Eighteen."
She laughed. "No, you aren't. But you're old enough for water, anyway."
I started toward her, and she pointed out my basketball, which I jogged back with a chagrined smile to retrieve. I kept my eyes mostly on the grass as we crossed the park. Her dog, a Doberman, snuffled at me suspiciously. Dobermans made me nervous, but not half as nervous as this girl...or woman. Of course, she was just being polite offering me water – I probably reminded her of a younger brother or something – but a guy could dream, couldn't he?
"I'm Mary, by the way," she said. "Mary Engle."
"Aiden Stevens."
"Nice name."
We left the park through a gate on the far side, and rounded a house onto a sidewalk paralleling one of the neighborhood's main streets. I wondered what my friends would think – what anyone would think – seeing me walking with this woman who was obviously much older than me. She was too young to be my mother, too old to be my girlfriend. Maybe an older sister?
"You're going to Jefferson High, Aiden?"
"Yes."
"I went there myself a few years ago. What year?
"Junior."
"Ah." She gave a sad laugh. "Those were the days. Now I'm a responsible college girl."
"UC Jefferson?"
"Yep. Sports science, if you can believe it."
"I actually thought sports were for dummies until fairly recently."
"Oh, I still wouldn't look for brilliant intellects in athletes. Why, what's your main interest?"
"Science and math." I shrugged.
"There's a lot of science and math in understanding how the human body works and how to train it for its peak performance. You were doing some advanced training yourself when you jumped with that rock. Was that your idea?"
"Sort of. Actually, someone told me about jumping with weighted basketballs, so I thought I'd try the rock."
"Same principle." She laughed. "I just hope you don't drop it on your feet or something."
We arrived at her house. Her dog issued a low growl as I joined Mary on the front step.
"Shut up, Rupert," she chuckled.
Inside, she shooed her nasty-looking dog into the backyard.
"Now," she said, "your drink. Water or sports drink?"
"Sports drink?"
"You got it."
She pulled two bottles of purple juice from her refrigerator. We stood in her kitchen facing each other, drinking. She sniffed.
"Sorry," I said, taking a step back from her. "All that running around...I probably stink."
"I was just thinking you smell really good." Her smile contracted. "Oh, shit, that came out wrong. I meant, it's just, you know, the aroma of good hard exercise."
I smiled at her. She gave a nervous laugh, and pulled a blond strand behind her ears. I swigged the rest of my drink. For the first time in my life, I was face-to-face with a pretty girl – woman – and she was the one averting her eyes. She was the one laughing nervously and playing with her hair. A calm confidence I'd never felt before surged through me. Why shouldn't I be confident? I was the one with killer pheromones and a body filled with raging hormones – beyond even that of the cliché normal teenage boy – while probably every guy she encountered was basically a eunuch. How desperate would that make her or every girl like her?
"Are you in rut, by any chance?" Mary asked, cocking her head at me
I almost blurted "I'm hyper!"– but wondered if that might put her on guard.
"Yeah," I said.
"It's tough at your age. The male urges are stronger then."
You have no idea, I thought.
"I have a boyfriend," she said. "We've been together for years. When I graduate, we might make it permanent."
"That's, uh, good."
"Is it? That remains to be seen." She eyed me. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Not really." I affected a casual shrug. "A girl who's a friend."
"It must be frustrating. Of course, frustration is my middle name" – her grimace was rueful – "along with a few billion other women. Maybe I should count myself lucky that I was born post-Outbreak. The women born before that – the ones who know what it's like to be with normal men – know the true meaning of frustration."
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound sympathetic. "At least most guys don't feel the pain very often."
"But you're feeling it now."
Mary Engle was now meeting my stare without blinking. The skin under her eyes was red. She was pursing and unpursing her lips, as if trying to relieve some tension in her mouth.
That was when I knew. What I'd longed for and dreaded was standing right in front of me. I could escape my endless porn loops and enter reality. And what a great entry that might be!
"So how old are you really?" Mary asked.
"Sixteen."
I said it with authority. Mary nodded. She rubbed her wrists, staring at the kitchen floor, her lips now clamped together. Watching her, I was filled with an unprecedented, alien confidence.
I'd always been confident in academics, but
girls were a whole other thing. Even a look from a pretty girl could make me dizzy and fainthearted. They were all beauty and mystery and shining with the promise of secret pleasures and brutal rejection.
The balance of that power had shifted somewhat with the virus: adult women didn't hold quite the power they once did, or so I'd read and been told. But they still seemed to wield it in junior high and high school, when boys had their "periods" longer and more often. I'd always felt like a klutz around girls.
But right now, the shoe was definitely on the other foot. I wasn't the fumbling, weak-kneed adolescent fawning over a girl; I was the powerful one. She was the fawner, and I the fawnee. It was mind-blowing.
"Would you like something more to drink?" Mary asked.
"No thanks. I...probably should go."
"Of course," she said hoarsely.
We moved to leave the kitchen at the same time, and had to pause to avoid bumping into each other. The idea of bumping into her – repeatedly – burned in my brain.
At the front door, she offered her hand. "Nice to meet you, Aiden. Good luck with, well, everything."
I shook her hand. Her skin tingled, as if we were completing a weak electric current. She must've felt it, too, because her eyes widened. I released my grip, but she clung to my hand.
"There's something I should tell you," I said through my clenched teeth. "I, uh, haven't been completely honest."
"You're younger?"
"Well, I'm almost sixteen. You know, in six weeks." I gave her a lame smile. "No, it's just that I'm, uh, hyper."
Mary's mouth flapped open. "Get out." When I started through the door, she tugged me back. "I didn't mean that literally."
I felt my face burning as she stared into my eyes. "Sorry, I should've told you."
"That's okay. It's good to know I'm not some crazy letch."
She smiled, and her body relaxed with a happy-sounding sigh. But she didn't loosen her grip on my hand.
"I didn't even know there were any in Jefferson," she said. "You hear rumors, but the RSA keeps a tight lid on that. How long have you been?"
"For about four months."
"Must've been quite a shock."
"To put it mildly."
Mary's grip relaxed just enough so that her fingers could caress my hand. "God, your skin feels amazing. I can only imagine how it would feel inside – " She stopped herself, blushing furiously.
Hyper Page 5
