"You mean, about me being hyper?"
"About what you were doing with one of your neighbors."
"My mom told you about that?" My throat was so dry I couldn't swallow.
"Your mom is trying to protect you, Aiden."
"But aren't you legally obligated to tell the authorities?"
"No. What you tell me is confidential under most circumstances, including past criminal activity. I am legally obligated to break that confidentiality if I have good reason to believe you may criminally harm another or are harming someone now."
"Oh." Relief rolled through me. "That's good to know."
"I'm not planning to compel you to do anything, Aiden. I may try to persuade you to change your behavior, but the ultimate decision is up to you."
"Okay."
"Now we were talking about your sister." Dr. Stephanie smiled. "I believe you were saying she resembles a demented jack in the box."
"That's on a good day." I let myself relax a little. I knew the gorgeous doctor was on my side.
"Did you notice any difference in her behavior toward you when you stopped using the pheromone-blocker?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. This session was introducing some serious kinks into my body. I found myself looking forward to a long run and workout later.
My cell buzzed, and I slid it out of my front pocket long enough to see that it was mom. What did she want that couldn't wait fifteen more minutes? Probably checking up on me – making sure I'm actually at Stephanie's office rather than some girl's house. I returned the cell to my shirt pocket. At least her distraction gave me a few more moments to think of an answer about my sister.
"Remember, we're on the same side here, Aiden," Stephanie said. "I can't help you if you aren't completely honest with me."
"I know," I said. I breathed out in resignation. "Well, one morning, she walked into the bathroom when I was stepping out of the shower. I got kind of pissed off, and from then on she's been avoiding me. Except when I'm in trouble for something with my mom – then she's always there."
"So you mentioned." Stephanie's smile drifted away. "I think you know what I'm getting at. In an 'unprotected' state, you exert a not inconsiderable force over women – especially young, inexperienced women. Living with someone putting out that force twenty-four hours a day can create a lot of stress."
I let my head dip in heavy-hearted agreement.
"So you think I should start using that disgusting spray again?"
"Yes. Either that, or if there's somewhere better-suited to your circumstances where you could live...?"
"I probably could live at CellEvolve, if I wanted." That idea struck with sudden appeal. "They've reserved a studio apartment for me there."
"I was thinking of a place where there would be some parental guidance."
"My father?" I shook my head. "He wouldn't be interested. He's way too busy, and he always has a high-maintenance girlfriend. Last time I visited him, his girlfriend made this screaming scene about him not spending enough time with her. He sent me home a week early."
Dr. Stephanie nodded. "I'm sorry, Aiden."
A land phone on a nearby table buzzed. Stephanie leaned over to check the caller I.D.
"It's your mom," she said, frowning. "I suppose I should take it. We're just about done for today anyway."
She lifted the phone. Her frown got a lot deeper as she listened.
"Yes, of course. I'll send him home right away."
Oh crap, I thought as she hung up. Something bad has happened. My first chilling thought was Melanie.
"Aiden," said Stephanie, her eyes dark with worry. "It's the police. They're at your house. Apparently with an arrest warrant for you."
STEPHANIE OFFERED to drive me home, but I decided to run. For all I knew, these might be my last minutes of freedom for a while. Of course, that was paranoid thinking, but still...an arrest warrant?
I speculated feverishly as I ran. Had Gertie's parents changed their minds? Had one of the neighbors reported Alice Morgan? Mary's jealous boyfriend?
One police car waited at the curb in front of my house. I supposed I should be grateful they hadn't called in a SWAT team. By the time I reached the front door, I was almost more curious than afraid. I was only sixteen, after all. Even if someone had complained about me, really, how bad could it be?
It didn't look too bad when I walked in. A police officer was sipping coffee at the kitchen table, and Mom had set out a plate of doughnuts. I wasn't even aware my health-conscious mom had doughnuts. Maybe she kept them around for police emergencies.
The officer shuffled to his feet with a reluctant air as I entered.
"Hello, Aiden," he said. "I'm Officer Milton. I'm sorry, son, but a criminal complaint has been filed against you."
"Who filed it?" I demanded, ignoring my mom's warning look.
"Rick Killinger. I understand you two have met." The officer's expression lost some of its mellowness. "You both know Mary Adamson."
"Mary?" My voice had a gurgling sound.
"She was arrested this morning." Officer Milton slipped out his handcuffs as he approached. "I'm sorry, son, but I'll need to have you turn around and extend your wrists. It's a necessary formality."
I glimpsed my mom covering her eyes as I turned and held out my arms. I winced as the cool metal snapped shut around my wrists. He ratcheted them just short of cutting off circulation while reading me my Miranda rights.
"Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?"
I swiveled around – far enough to see my mom urgently shaking her head.
"No," I said.
My mom walked over to us. The way she was eyeing Officer Milton, I feared she might launch herself at him, claws flaying. Or maybe I just wanted to believe she would. Dad had once called her a "mother bear" when it came to me. I'd always found that weirdly reassuring.
"I assume he's being taken to the police station downtown," she said.
"Yes Ma'am. He'll be booked there, and should be available for release on a set bond or his own recognizance in an hour or two."
"So I might need to post bail? He's a sixteen year old boy, for God's sake."
"My captain or a judge will have to rule on that."
"Fascist."
The officer turned toward the hallway, where my sister, as was her wont when I was in trouble, materialized.
"Excuse me?" he said.
"You heard me."
Our mom rushed over and shoved Melanie out of sight down the hall. Officer Milton raised an eyebrow at me.
"We should go," he said.
IF EINTSEIN had spent time in jail his relativity thought experiments might've taken a darker course. The hands on the wall clock facing my cell turned slower and slower the more feverishly I worried. Surely, that implied something profound about the nature of time?
Cops, I decided, were not people you turned to for reassurance when you've been arrested. I soon learned that asking "How much longer?" or "What's going to happen next?" elicited little more than shrugging grunts or "Hold your horses, kid."
I heard my mom arguing loudly down the hall by the front desk, and then an unearthly silence as I clutched the cell bars. Then an officer showed up and unlocked my cage.
In the outer room I signed some papers and walked out into the lobby where my mom and a strange man waited. My mom rushed over and threw her arms around me. Her perfume awakened me like smelling salts.
"Aiden," said my mom, stepping aside, "this is Malcolm Coldwell. He's an attorney who works with CellEvolve."
My right hand was already shaking before we shook hands. He was tall and stately and made me think of Mark Twain with his long white hair and thick color-matching mustache.
"Let's step outside and talk there," said the lawyer.
We exited the police department and headed over to my mom's white Prius. She wrapped a consoling arm around me as we faced the Mark T
wainish lawyer. Usually, I would've dislodged her arm, but today I felt it was keeping me upright.
"How are you holding up?" she asked.
"Okay, I guess. I'm glad you're here."
I turned hopeful eyes to the tall, Twainish attorney. His smile would've been more reassuring if it hadn't been so grave.
"The law concerning underage hypersexuals is rather, shall we say, idiosyncratic," he said. "Hypersexual contact below the age of eighteen is prohibited under Statute 144 of the Human Reproductive Safety Act. The RSA's Regional Safety Enforcement Board will issue a recommendation to a local, state, or federal court. A district judge will usually issue a summary judgment after reviewing the case, unless a jury trial is requested."
"What would you recommend, Malcolm?"
"I'd wait to see what the RSA director recommends and what plea deal the court offers. Jury trials for hypers..." He made a frowning face. "They can be problematic. Many people aren't favorably disposed toward hypersexual individuals."
"Dr. Jenkins is on the Safety Board, isn't he?" my mom asked.
"Regrettably," said the lawyer, "Dr. Jenkins is a member of the Regional Safety Enforcement Board and has been Aiden's doctor, and thus will play an important role in the Board's recommendation." Mr. Coldwell paused. "I have spoken with Dr. Jenkins and he's unwilling to downgrade the charges."
"What...what does that mean?" I was mortified to hear tears in my voice but I couldn't seem to stop them. "Are you saying I'll be sent to a juvenile detention center?"
"If Dr. Jenkins has his way, yes," said our attorney. "His recommendation is that you be held at the Woodvale Juvenile Detention Facility until your eighteenth birthday."
My mom's arm tightened around me. The room began to rotate like some crazed carnival ride. I felt last night's prison paper mache food congealing in my stomach.
"Stay with me, Aiden," my mom said. "Let Malcolm finish."
"I've worked with the Safety Enforcement Board and the RSA on a few occasions as an attorney for CellEvolve," said Mr. Coldwell. "I know several of its members personally. There are no guarantees, but I believe I have a reasonable chance to persuade them to ignore or amend Dr. Jenkins' recommendation."
"He's such a hard-ass," my mom said. "I can't believe anyone would take him seriously."
"Most of his colleagues would dispense with the 'hard,'" Coldwell chuckled. "That, I hope, will work in our favor. But even if the Safety Enforcement Board recommends punishment it still falls on the judge to make the final determination."
"Do you know him?" I asked, hopeful. "Is he a nice person?"
"She's a person with a history of strongly enforcing RSA statutes and following the SEB's recommendations, I'm afraid."
Oh crap. My mom hugged me closer.
"It's going to be all right, honey," she said. But saying that, of course, logically implied the opposite.
"I want to be clear on two points, Aiden," said Coldwell. "First, I cannot guarantee that you will not serve some time in a juvenile facility. What I can guarantee is that my employer is highly motivated to see that you are freed as soon as possible, and in these circles CellEvolve's clout is considerable."
I thought that was probably the least reassuring reassurance I'd ever heard. The good news was that a multi-billion dollar corporation was on my side. The bad news was that even someone representing a multi-billion dollar corporation couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't spend time in a teenager prison.
"When will we know?"
"By Monday, with any luck," said Mr. Coldwell. "But for the moment, your time behind bars is over. The police are preparing your discharge papers as we speak."
Chapter 10
THE WOODVALE JUVENILE DETENTION Facility looked more like a gymnasium or sports center than a prison, except for the twelve-foot fence surrounding its backyard. It was a new building, fresh and vibrant, with a sweeping roof and colorful stone façade.
The verdict was in. This would be my home for the next month. My release was scheduled one day before my senior year started.
"It's not a bad outcome," Attorney Coldwell had informed us.
Dr. Jenkins, it seemed, had been very thorough – interviewing my neighbors and friends, and then presenting his findings to the RSA Safety Board.
"It could've been a lot worse," Coldwell assured me. "Think of it as a growing experience."
I hated to think what might be growing inside that building.
"It will only be a month, Aiden." My mom was working very hard not to burst into tears – something she'd failed at repeatedly after Coldwell had called Monday afternoon. "Then it will be behind you. You have an incredible life ahead of you. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Just four weeks." She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. "We'll have a nice celebration when you get home."
I hugged my mom in the admissions office, feeling lightheaded and chilled. I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
A middle-aged woman behind the counter looked over my records with a bored air. She handed me a brochure listing the rules. I'd finished reading it just before a heavyset dude with a shaved head showed up. He led me through a steel door down a short hall toward an open area.
"Will the other, ah, inmates know why I'm in here?" I asked my bald escort.
"We didn't tell anyone," he said. "That isn't to say they won't know. Word has a way of getting around in here."
"What if they do know? What if they don't like it?"
"You get into trouble we can put you in isolation. All you have to do is ask. This ain't no concentration camp." He smiled at me. "Though some in here might say otherwise."
Noise was building in volume as we entered the open area. Boys of various ages – some looked more like men – slouched around on tables and chairs, talking, arguing, one pair playing chess.
Every head turned to me. A few of the boys smiled at me, but not in what I'd call a friendly way. We continued down another hall.
"Here's your pad." The detention officer shoved open a heavy door, revealing a cubicle composed of cement and brick. On the far end was a bunk bed; a metal sink and toilet combination squatted by the door. "Be it ever so humble."
It looked like a cattle stall to me. Made for a humble cow.
"Just follow the rules, and you won't have any problems," he said. "The daily schedule's posted on the recreation room wall. Your counselor will be showing up in the next day or two to discuss classes and other stuff."
"Uh, thanks."
"Hang in there, kid. Anyone gives you trouble, let us know. Violence isn't tolerated in here."
The burly detention officer departed. I crossed the ten-foot space to the bunk beds. I sat down on the lower one. I quickly determined it to be a clone of the police cell mattress that had nearly destroyed my back.
"The lower bunk's mine."
I looked up to see a dude who looked to be about twenty years old. I guessed he was about six-two and maybe two hundred pounds. Many of those pounds appeared to have been born and bred in a weight room.
"Hi," I said.
"What's your name?"
"Aiden."
"That sounds like a faggot name."
"I can assure you that I'm not gay."
"You can 'assure me'? Now you sound like a snooty gay."
I had the feeling there was no winning with this guy. I decided to stop arguing with him.
"What's your name?"
"Bend Over."
I smiled at him in disbelief. He grinned.
"Take it easy, dude," he laughed. "I was just shittin' you. The name is Jackson. Jim Jackson."
He strode toward me, holding out his hand. I grasped it. He tightened his grip.
"Hey," I said.
I tried to pull my hand back, but he held fast, continuing to exert more pressure. To hell with it. I started squeezing back. He cocked an eyebrow. We both jostled for position. My hand was throbbing, but I thought I'd stemmed the tide.
He jerked his hand free with a laugh. "Not bad, dude," he said. "I can tell you work out. I could use a good spotter. What we got here is mostly psychos and pussies."
I felt myself relax a cautious half-notch. Anyone who watched Chevy Chase movies couldn't be all-bad.
"What are people really like in here?"
Jim dropped down on the bunk with a shrug. "This is Yolano County, man. There aren't a lot of hardened criminals here. Some of the Mexicans are gang banger wannabes – better to stay clear of them. Other than that, stay cool and mind your own business, and you'll be okay."
"Thanks."
"What are you in for?"
The dreaded question. "I stole some stuff."
"What – some dude's Nintendo?" He snickered.
I looked like someone who would steal a Nintendo? "I'd rather not get into it, if you don't mind. What about you?"
"I was selling dope at school. If you ask me, that's a public service."
I smiled. I'd probably been on "dope" that was a lot stronger than he'd been selling.
"At Jefferson High? I don't think I've seen you there."
He shook his head. "Woodvale."
"How long have you been in here?"
"Six months. I'm due out before school starts."
"Me, too."
"Dude, you'll barely get your feet wet. I'm going to have to repeat my senior year. And they won't let me on the football or basketball teams. Fucking bummer."
"But you were selling marijuana at school?"
"I sold to a few of my friends – one of 'em turned out to be a narc. It's complete bullshit, man." He stared at me hard as if daring me to disagree.
"Yeah." I had no interest in pissing off my new friend. "So you're into sports?"
"Yup. I even had some colleges interested me, with possible scholarships. Not anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I stood up as he dropped down on the bunk and stretched his legs out.
"What year are you in?" he asked.
"I'll be a senior next year."
"You into sports, or just working out?"
"Working out, I guess."
"Funny. You talk like a nerd but you work out."
Hyper Page 10
