Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula (4 page)

“Cassidy,” Dad spoke up.

I turned to look at him. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what DNA is?” he asked.

The question would have seemed out of the blue if I didn’t know where we were headed. Dad always attempted to build intrigue in us kids when we accompanied him on an interview. Today, my goal was only to stay awake, though I didn’t share my lack of enthusiasm with him. Instead, I gave the illusion of interest by imparting my DNA knowledge.

“Sure, Dad. It’s what all living things are made up of. The blueprint of how we are designed,” I said, quoting my biology teacher. “Our basic building blocks.”

“Great visual,” Dad complimented. “Now, have you heard of Professor Serena Phillips?”

I wasn’t up-to-speed on nerdy scientists. “Nope. Is that who you’re interviewing?”

He nodded. “Professor Phillips is a world-renowned geneticist. Wallingford recently announced that she’s developing a gene therapy that will reverse the effects of many disabilities and diseases people suffer from. For example, her therapy may give a blind person sight or a paralyzed person the ability to walk. What’s so cutting-edge about Professor Phillips’s research is that she’s using animal DNA to create a gene treatment for humans. If her treatment proves out, she will change the world as we know it.”

“Oh, cool, Dad.” My mind had started wandering at the word “geneticist.”

“Wait just a second,” Ben said, sticking an index finger in the air. “I know all about this gene therapy.”

Dad groaned.

“Seriously, I know about this,” Ben insisted. “Now don’t start judging, Drake—just hear me out, okay? Awhile back, I was talking with this guy at a coffee shop. He told me about his cousin—no, wait—his uncle. Yeah, uncle. Anyway, this uncle is CIA—”

“Not Area 51?” Dad said teasingly.

According to Ben, Area 51 was a secret military base outside Las Vegas where the government hid alien spacecraft.

“No, not 51. It’s the lab in North Dakota—Drake, now don’t laugh. It’s legit. Seriously, it’s the same stuff this professor is doing, but
with alien DNA—”

Dad’s smile shifted to alarm. “Ben, please do not say that to the professor.”

“Are you crazy, Drake? As far as I know, she’s part of the cover-up.”

The laugh I smothered slipped out.

Ben grinned at me. “Oh, come on, Cassy Girl, not you, too. Don’t be like your old man. Be open-minded.” Turning back to Dad, he continued, “Drake, think about all the crazy stuff going on all the time. Aliens make sense. Seriously, dig around a bit. I tell you, there
is
a story here—and an Emmy. If you’re willing, I’ll hook you up with the coffee shop guy.”

“I’ll tell you what, Ben. Give me evidence and legitimate sources, and I’ll do your alien DNA story.”

“Done.” Ben slapped his leg. “I’ll get you evidence. But,
you,
Drake, need to be open to the truth.”

“I’m open, but
none of your sources can be alien abductees or Roswell witnesses.”

My laughter burst.

Glancing at me, Ben smiled a big, toothy smile. “You’ll see, Cassy Girl.” He playfully shook a finger at me. “You’ll both see.”

Three

Once we had signed in at the front desk in the building’s lobby, the security guard admitting us to Professor Phillips’s lab directed us to a flight of stairs. Students and staff with badges rushing past us first noticed Ben’s bulky camera. Their eyes then moved to Dad. That shocked look of recognition crossed their faces, but everyone was in too much of a hurry or too intimidated to inquire what Drake Jones was up to at Wallingford.

Watching Dad and Ben ascend the stairs, I observed how much they looked like polar opposites. My dad, with his clean-shaven, timeless good looks and million-dollar smile, looked like the guy in front of the camera, while Ben, in a Hawaiian shirt with a couple of missing buttons, board shorts, flip-flops, and untamed hair, most definitely looked like the guy behind the camera—or a guy who worked at Game Stop. Even their size and complexions were mismatched. Dad had the typical fair Nordic complexion, while Ben’s skin was like a creamy café mocha. With a solid build, Dad stood at five-foot-ten, at least half a head shorter than Ben. Though athletic, Ben was lanky. He liked to joke that he had to run around the shower to get wet.

When we reached the third floor, a janitorial cart with a large trash bin hitched to it barreled into the hall from an open doorway, cutting us off. The custodian pushing the cart stared at us with some hostility, and then his lips turned up into a sneering smile, revealing a silver canine tooth.

“Pardon me,
por favor,
” he said in a thick accent, eyeing Ben’s camera and pulling the cart back.

As we walked away, I could feel his dark eyes burning a hole in my back.

At the end of the hall on the third floor, Dad tapped on the frosted glass of Professor Phillips’s lab door. There was no answer.

Moving his fist over to the door’s wood frame, he knocked firmly.

“Who is it?” a woman asked from inside the lab.

Relief washed over Dad’s face. “Professor Phillips, it’s Drake Jones from Channel Five News.”

There was no response.

“We have an interview scheduled for four-thirty. I realize I’m early. I would be happy to come back then if it’s more—”

“No, no. Now is fine,” the professor interrupted.

A deadbolt turned.

How strange that she locks the door during the day,
I thought.

“Please, come in, Mr. Jones,” she said.

As Dad opened the door, the first thing that caught my eye was a clothesline stretched across the room with actual articles of clothing clipped to it.

Four long, white, laminate-top chemistry tables filled most of the small room’s floor space. The tables piled high with stuff gave the feeling of a rummage sale rather than a famous geneticist’s laboratory. Every table was heaped high with folders, notebooks, lab equipment, and open cardboard boxes with more stuff poking out the top. Between the clothesline and the boxes, I wondered if the professor had taken up residence in her lab.

A built-in cabinet, with its long, stainless-steel sink and counter space displaying lab equipment set up for use, suggested that something other than laundry was being done here. The burgundy-colored coffeemaker at one end of the counter, with dirty coffee mugs scattered in front of it, threw off the seriousness of the operation. But the five lit Bunsen burners with glass beakers simmering away on the counter gave the impression that maybe something science-oriented took place here—nothing too lethal, though, with a half-eaten bagel lying on a crinkly napkin next to the burners.

After soaking in the environment, I took in the petite woman responsible for the chaos. She didn’t differ too much from her surroundings. Straight brown hair hung limply around her heart-shaped face. Her skin, creamy and smooth, gave her a childlike appearance, though she had to be at least forty. The crumpled lab coat she wore probably had been line-dried. It definitely had never made it into a dryer, considering how wrinkled it was. Most disturbing—or perhaps stunning, I’m not sure which—were the professor’s brown eyes. Round and dewy, like a doe’s, at this moment they looked shocked, as if she had just been caught in headlights.

Dad and Ben looked similarly taken aback by the room and the professor. Dad hid it a little better than Ben did. Slack-jawed, Ben stared, his eyes bouncing around the room.

Quickly stepping forward, Dad extended his hand. “Professor Phillips, I’m Drake Jones. Thank you for agreeing to this interview. I know how busy you are, and I do appreciate the time you’ve given us today.”

With a dazed expression, she took his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.”

“Please, call me Drake. Professor Phillips, I would like to introduce you to my cameraman, Ben Johnson.”

The professor stared distractedly at Ben’s hair, though I don’t think his hair diverted her attention. I had the feeling it was something other than us.

Not deterred, Ben picked up her small hand, vigorously shaking it. “Good to meet you.”

“You,  too,  Mr.  Johnson,”  she  responded mechanically.

“And this is my daughter, Cassidy,” said Dad.

Her gaze moved to me, making me blush, for some reason.

“Nice to meet you, Professor Phillips,” I said awkwardly, painfully aware of my burning cheeks. How embarrassing to be so embarrassed.

Losing the dazed look, her expression became kind. “It is very nice to meet you, Cassidy.” Fully engaged now, she turned to Dad and smiled. “Forgive me, Drake, if I appeared reluctant. I admit I have been so caught up in my work that I neglected to observe the time. I am prepared for this interview, and I know you, too, are busy. I do appreciate your interest in my research and your desire to better inform the public about it. Now, where would you like to conduct the interview?”

Dad’s professional eye scanned the room, settling on a desk area in one corner. “Would your desk be all right?”

“Perfectly.”

As she turned to lead the way, I was startled to see the back of her head. From the front, her hair had been flat and smooth, but the hair in the back was a knotted, tangled mess.
Maybe she only brushes what she can see,
I thought.

Moving quickly, she weaved through the narrow path between the tables and clutter. We followed single-file, ducking the clothesline. As Ben crouched under the thin cord, his camera snagged a pair of pantyhose, of all things. Rapidly untangling the nylons, he threw them back over the line.

With a dinged metal file cabinet and a disorganized bookshelf behind it, her wood desk didn’t make an impressive platform for an interview. At least the thick books on the shelves, with titles I couldn’t pronounce, looked scientific. Dad and Ben staged the area as best they could, gingerly asking permission to clear files from the desk and stack the clutter of books. Dad found a single folding chair from which to conduct the interview, while Ben stared at the clothesline. With a furrowed brow, he was likely mentally debating whether to ask if he could take it down. Finally shrugging, he tried different camera angles to keep the low line out of the frame, instead of risking a blunder.

As they prepared for the interview, the professor silently observed me, while I pretended not to notice. After a few minutes of this, she asked, “Cassidy, are you fourteen?”

“Yes, I am, Professor Phillips.”

She smiled. “My son, Emery, turned fifteen this last August.”

Not knowing what else to say, I disclosed, “I’ll be fifteen in February.”

She scrutinized my face, making me feel like I was in a petri dish. “You’re quite lovely. Your hair is an extraordinary color.”

The remark flabbergasted me. After saying this, she curiously watched my cheeks turn crimson.

Though I hated receiving compliments, I attempted to handle this one graciously. “Thank you. All of us kids have the same color hair. We got it from our mom.” Patting my cheeks, I attempted to calm them down. She seemed to find this interesting, too.

Dad broke the spell. “We’re ready, Professor Phillips.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I watched her move to the desk and sit in the chair Dad pulled out for her. Then he looked at me. “Cass, why don’t you take a seat?”