Hyper

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "I wish I spent more time in normal reality." Meredith sighed. "Though I don't think hanging out with Ragnar Norquist would qualify."

  "You might be surprised."

  "Maybe so." I heard her shift her phone. "I guess you and I are slated to do it all over again in a few weeks – this time on our home turf, for whatever that's worth."

  "Yeah."

  "You don't sound very enthusiastic."

  "It'll be cool seeing you again. It's just...I feel out of place, you know? Like I'm living a lie."

  "That might be the main prerequisite for being there," Meredith snorted. "No, Aiden, I understand. I was born into that world, and even I've spent much of my life feeling that way."

  "That might be why I like you so much," I said. "That and you're incredibly hot."

  "The feeling's mutual."

  "You think I'm hot?"

  "Down boy," she said with a rueful chuckle. "Yes, I believe I would agree with the majority of women on that score."

  "Not as hot as Ragnar."

  "No one's that hot." She laughed. "Let's face it – we're all beautiful people. But that's not the most important thing about us, is it?"

  "No."

  "Anyhow." She cleared her throat. "I should get going. I'll check back with you before that weekend. Call me if you need anything or just want to talk."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  Ragnar tossed me the ball when I'd returned my cell to its perch atop my wallet. I took one dribble and launched it from beyond half-court. It bounced high off the back rim. Ragnar rose like a Titan missile, catching the ball two feet above the rim and slamming it through.

  "Nice shot," he called to me when he landed.

  Chapter 19

  FALL ARRIVED, AND WITH it the Mondari Retreat held at the Mondari Wine Garden: a complex of adobe buildings and homes nestled in the California wine country amidst outdoor tennis courts, pools, and a golf course – a bright green swath of manicured grass and trees transplanted into the crusty, yellow-brown foothills. I recognized many of the people attending from the World Development Conference, but there were plenty of new faces as well. Yet even the unfamiliar faces seemed familiar somehow, as if they'd sprung from the same mold.

  Dr. Blumenthal was there, shining his perpetual smile on everyone, but while he cut a tall and imposing figure in his office, out in the sun among all the shiny, powerful people, he appeared almost drab. Other than an avuncular pat on the shoulder and a bland greeting, he hardly acknowledged me during the three days. I had the feeling he didn't want to interfere with whatever I was supposed to be doing, or maybe he was traveling in different circles.

  Elise and Chrissie weren't there, but Allison Bern, owner of Aphrodisia, was. Even among these beautiful people, her gorgeousness stood out. This time she kind of glommed on to me, introducing me around, partnering with me in mixed tennis doubles, and attempting to drag me into bed on multiple occasions. Unlike Elise and Chrissie, she laughed off my rejections – which were even harder this time around with Xandra apparently out of the picture – and continued hanging with me throughout the weekend. When she wasn't making me painfully frustrated, she was actually pretty fun to hang out with. She had a killer sense of humor, didn't seem to take herself too seriously, and as an added plus got along well with Meredith – taking turns cracking each other up when we were all together.

  Back home, Xandra made our parting formal when she declared after math class: "Aiden, you and I live in two completely different worlds, and your world isn't a place I'd be comfortable in." I thought I got where she was coming from, but of course I tried to argue her out of it, pointing out that I wasn't really comfortable in that world, either, and that it was only a temporary phase before I settled into a normal life as a research scientist (or something along those lines). But she wasn't buying it, and after a couple of stabs at convincing her otherwise I realized I was just banging my head against a brick wall. I resolved to back off for a while, and then maybe try again later, depending on how I felt. It seemed funny – and somehow predictable – that a whole world of women would happily throw themselves at me, while the one person I truly wanted wouldn't give me a chance.

  On a happier note, basketball tryouts began in November, and Coach Wexler seemed to like me, though he was pretty critical of my ball handling skills: "If you want to be a point guard, Aiden, you need to learn to hold your dribble under pressure." To illustrate his point, he called on my teammates to harass the hell out of me while I tried to dribble up and down the court. Coach Wexler also seemed happy to have Jim in camp, and when we teamed up as guard and forward in practice games he sometimes referred to us as the "dynamic duo."

  Otherwise, life at home and in school was cool. Gertie, Keith, Jim, and I were now a tight little band. Gertie and Keith had become an item, holding hands in the halls, nestling together during lunch, and doing whatever on their own time. Jim had a crush on a girl – a cute little sophomore named Mimi Keys of all things – but she hadn't officially been inducted into our tribe yet.

  At home, I continued to use Andrydox topped off with strategic doses of Melatin to keep the peace. Melanie, thank God, had found another boyfriend – a shy, nerdish dude whose name I couldn't remember – and Mom was spending a little time with a new researcher at work, though she claimed "It's not serious, and probably never will be."

  Ragnar had called Meredith, but rather than getting together right away, they'd been conducting a sort of long-distance virtual relationship by phone and email. Both of them gave the same basic reason – they wanted to "take things slow and get to know each other" – but differed somewhat in their particular takes on why. While Meredith said she wanted to get to know someone without the usual distracting romps in bed, Ragnar proclaimed "the poor girl would never be able to keep her hands off me," adding that he wanted someone to like him for who he was and "not for my pheromones."

  Predictably, something had to go wrong, and when my mom came home from work one evening looking all glum, and poured herself what I'd learned to recognize in my newfound worldliness as a double martini, I figured this was it.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask," I said.

  "I'm almost afraid to answer." She dropped down on the couch and took a long sip from her drink before facing me. "It's Aleesha." When I stared at her, she added unnecessarily, "Dr. Bloom."

  "Yes, I vaguely remember her." My sarcasm wilted as our gazes met. I shoved aside my laptop. "What? Crap, did something happen to her?"

  "She died," said my mom, taking another drink.

  "Huh?" I swallowed a big gulp of air. "No – no way!" I steadied my breathing with an effort. "How?"

  "Suicide, apparently. An overdose of Melatin."

  "That's nuts! I don't believe she'd do that."

  "She left a note," my mom said in a monotone. "I don't know what it said, but the rumor is that she fell into a depression after leaving CE."

  I stood up and started pacing, hoping to shake off a terrible surge of guilt and other emotions I wasn't so sure about.

  "Bullshit," I said. "She was so smart, so full of life. Everything was ahead of her. Why would she do that?"

  Mom squared her shoulders as if they bore a heavy weight. "Who knows what she was thinking, other than maybe her family and closest friends?"

  "Maybe someone should talk to them?"

  "If that's what you need to do, go ahead. I know you were rather, um, close at one time."

  "She was a really neat person. She was bothered by some stuff at CE, but not unhappy."

  "I'm sorry, Aid. I don't know what else to tell you."

  "Could I have some of your drink?"

  "Not a chance." She ventured a smile. "But maybe we could order in some of that tri-meat pizza you like so much."

  Right, I thought. What goes better with suicide than pizza?

  "Or maybe you want to go out and see a movie or something? Your sister's out doing God knows what with Todd, so we're on our own."

  "Why 'God knows what'?"
<
br />   "He's in rut."

  "You could detect that? Or did Mel tell you?"

  "I could detect it – because of his age, I guess."

  "Is it like me? I mean, when I'm not wearing 'protection'?"

  "Oh God, no. Normal guys' pheromones barely qualify as a footnote to what you put out."

  I nodded, suddenly grateful that I was wearing Andrydox.

  "Yeah, I guess we could see a movie," I said. "As long as it's nothing romance-related."

  "Not a problem. I'm in the mood for something where someone gets shot – preferably a man. Preferably more than once."

  "Wow, that sounds great." I frowned at her. "Did something go wrong with the research dude? Mark, wasn't it?"

  "Martin. Turns out he was just looking for a 'rut mate'."

  "Sorry, Mom."

  From what I'd read, there was an epidemic of men who just wanted that. What Chrissie said about putting up with men's moods in return for sex cut both ways, I thought.

  CELLEVOLVE HOSTED a memorial celebration for Aleesha Bloom two weeks later. Mom and I attended, along with every other person who worked in the research department. Aleesha's parents had been invited, but I wasn't surprised that they didn't show. Judging from the happy faces and light small talk, I guessed not many knew her well or gave a damn about her.

  Dr. Blumenthal gave a short speech, to the effect that Aleesha had been a "brilliant researcher" who had been much-valued by the company and would be deeply missed,

  "Yada, yada," my mom muttered under her breath.

  Dr. Blumenthal came up to us. "How are you two doing tonight?"

  "Wonderful," said my mom.

  Dr. Blumenthal's ever-present smile showed no response to her sarcasm. "Then perhaps you'll allow me to add to your joy. If you'll walk with me to my office, I have something for both of you."

  I wasn't sure whether to be excited or worried as we followed his tall figure into his office. He motioned for us to sit. He removed some envelopes from a drawer and placed them on the eight-foot redwood desk before us. Two envelopes – one large, one small – bore my name, while a letter-sized envelope was addressed to my mom. He slid them over to us.

  My mom and I exchanged looks, and she opened hers first. She held up a large green check, her eyebrows arching upward.

  "An early bonus?"

  "In addition to your usual yearly bonus," said Dr. Blumenthal. "Your good services are greatly appreciated."

  "Let's see," I said. She handed it to me. It was for $250,000. "Oh, shi –" I cut myself off.

  "Maybe you should open yours," said Dr. Blumenthal.

  I didn't need to be asked twice. I started with the smaller envelope, feeling as if I was on a game show. My check read $100,000. I showed it to my mom, which earned a somewhat pained smile.

  Next, the large envelope. I had no clue what it contained. I hoped it wasn't one of those honorary plaques or something. I slid out a large, beautifully watercolored paper. The top read in bold red: LIFEEVOLVE. Below that my name, followed by ONE HUNDRED SHARES, were written in smaller golden letters.

  "It's like a stock certificate?" I asked.

  "Exactly like," said Dr. Blumenthal.

  "LifeEvolve already exists?" my mom asked. "I thought you were in the early investment phase?"

  "The first round sold out." He spread his hands, and his smile expanded with them. "LifeEvolve is now a reality, thanks in part to your son's stellar efforts. This is your commission."

  "I played tennis and talked to people," I said.

  "You communicated the fantasy. What better way to sell it?"

  "How much are those shares worth?" Mom asked.

  "Their current valuing is $10,000 a share."

  "But" – my mom paused for a breath – "that would make one million dollars."

  "For now. We anticipate 20,000 per share for our next private offering. And later, I have every confidence that when LE goes public there'll be worth far more."

  My mom folded her check into her wallet, shaking her head. I just stared at my certificate. It looked like a work of art. A million dollar-plus work of art. It struck me then that I was getting this huge reward while Aleesha was lying cold and alone in her grave somewhere. I closed my eyes, shutting out the thought.

  "It seems strange," said my mom, "getting this at the memorial for a co-worker."

  "Indeed." Dr. Blumenthal's smile contracted a small fraction. "A terrible tragedy. So much potential. If only she'd sought some help."

  "Do you know anything more about it?" I asked. "Like what her note said."

  "No details. But off the record, according to a friend in the Sacramento Police Department, there was some regret about leaving our company and a belief that she would never find a comparable position elsewhere."

  "Not much of a reason to kill yourself," my mom remarked.

  "True. I'm sure other mental issues were involved."

  A few seconds of silence passed. I wanted to believe in silent tribute to a valuable life that had been unnecessarily lost.

  "Any new word on the FDA review?" Mom asked.

  "Some." He made a steeple of his hands. "Because of safety concerns, it's looking more that Revive won't be available as a general MES treatment. Too many undesirable side effects, I'm told. However, the FDA is opening the door to other more limited therapies for life-threatening illnesses where Revive has demonstrated potential, including dementia, Parkinson's Disease, and cardiovascular problems. It's turning out to be quite the wonder drug, but it will likely be available only to those with special needs who've been carefully screened."

  "In other words," said my mom, distaste edging into her voice, "a very expensive prescription drug available to only those who can afford it."

  Dr. Blumenthal raised his hands. "Sadly, we need to place the public's safety first, Alyssa."

  I chewed on that for a few moments.

  "Then we won't be curing MES," I said.

  "Perhaps not tomorrow. But we'll certainly keep working on it."

  "Speaking of work," I said, "I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing now. More of these retreats?"

  "Perhaps. But don't concern yourself about that. Rest assured we'll find something important for you to do. We're planning on a long and profitable future together, young man."

  Later, my mom and I walked out to her Prius.

  "So my son's a millionaire," she said. I heard pride in her voice, but also a note of regret.

  "A million isn't what it once was." My smile faded into a frown. "It seems that you might have to be a millionaire to afford Revive."

  "I think that's the idea, Aid."

  "But if people found out that something which might work for MES exists, even with side effects..."

  We stopped at the car, and my mom faced me. Maybe it was the shadowy light, but I thought I saw fear in her eyes.

  "If people do find out," she said, "make damn sure it wasn't you who told them, Aiden. I'm serious about that."

  "Sheesh, Mom, I'm not going to blab about that. I know it's proprietary or whatever. I don't want to get you fired or anything."

  She shot me one final, hard look, and unlocked the car. As we drove out of the parking lot, I suddenly remembered Aleesha's promise to break that proprietary promise if for some reason CellEvolve didn't make Revive available to the general public. I opened my mouth to mention that to Mom, and then shut it. No need to make her all paranoid.

  I had a feeling I was going to handle that task just fine by myself.

  Part 2

  Chapter 20

  I WAS AN ACNE-spotted wonder performing before the Jefferson student body in what might be my final basketball game of the season. My skin itched from the layers of Andrydox like I'd been sleeping with a colony of rabid bed bugs. Still, that only went skin-deep – as did the insults and jeers from the opposing players and spectators ("Hey, he's got hyper pimples!") – and I was on fire on the court. I hoped it wasn't just a histamine reaction.

  The game was coming down
to the wire – the visitors ahead by four points with 38 seconds left. A few more plays to destiny. Jim, my teammates, our coach, and most of Jefferson High, were freaking out and kind of pissed off. I was angry at myself for missing my last shot and allowing myself to get peeled off from my opponent in a pick (a moving pick, which the referee didn't realize was illegal, despite me pointing it out). Still, I'd contributed 17 points, three rebounds, four assists, and two blocked shots. Not too shabby for a dude who, according to Coach Wexler, could barely dribble a basketball at the start of the season.

  But none of that would matter if we didn't win the game and advance to the Sacramento Valley Division 3 basketball tournament.

  We had to take out the ball, and Marysville High was full court pressing. Our six-six center, Cal Cartwright – our go-to in-bounder in this situation – had the ball under our basket, the ball raised high in his long, stork-thin arms. We were all scrambling around like headless chickens trying to get free, no time outs remaining, when I thought screw it and sprinted all-out for the opposite basket.

  Cal tossed the ball. It sailed high over the court toward our opponents' rim. Too damn high, I thought, launching myself into a running leap about halfway into the free throw box, feeling more like a wide receiver than a point guard. Rashid, Marysville's star point guard, jumped high with me, one arm stretched overhead. The ball skimmed over his outstretched fingers and into my right hand – and I sort of shoved over the rim into the basket in one motion.

  The crowd blew up. When I hit the floor, so stunned I wasn't sure if I'd landed in some alternative dimension, the sound in the auditorium was a sonic boom mixed with a nearby lightning strike.

  "A.S.! A.S.! A.S.!"

  Maybe it was my low self-esteem, but I kept hearing it as a drawled-out "Ass! Ass! Ass!" The high point of my life. Something to go down in the Aiden Stevens' personal history book with a Donald Trump-sized signature. Problem was we were still two points down. You'd think my dunk – which was more a case of me shoving the ball toward the basket because what else would I do with it? – counted for four points.