Heartsick (9 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I pull away from our hug, double check our locks and pull the curtains tight. “You can stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks,” Danny says. He twirls his ring some more. His eyebrows almost collide, his index finger pressed to his temple. “Shit,” he says. “I know what that saying means now. You know, ‘The Devil Marks His Followers.’ I just...” He ruffles his black hair in his hands and stares at the hardwood floor.

“You mean they didn’t just get crazy with some posters and bible school markers after having too many donuts at Sunday school?” I ask.

He doesn’t laugh. “It’s this book,
The Devil’s Followers.
I read it a few years back. It’s weird,” he says, shaking his body like he’s trying to shake out the weird. “But, anyway, in it, the people who follow the devil have purple eyes.”

“Well shit,” I say. I’m aware of the book. It was written by some thriller writer in conjunction with a minister. Conrad talked about it once. It sold a gazillion copies, probably because it’s so controversial. Apparently the authors weren’t shy about sprinkling in subtle homophobic rants, along with anti-Semitic and misogynistic remarks. And I think Conrad mentioned something about anti-Catholic stuff too. They sound like real charmers. Maybe that’s why Danny shivered a little.

Danny continues, “Yeah, but I don’t get why they would think our purple eyes are related to that. I mean, it’s fiction. And anyway, a bunch of other things don’t make sense even if you wanted to take it literally. In the book, only true followers of Christ can see the purple eyes. It’s a gift to them, you know, to warn them. And the people with the purple eyes, well...” He sort of twists and twirls around. “They’re really bad. They do all sorts of horrible things, I mean, like raping kids and slitting people’s throats in the shower and setting up altars to the devil. I know I’m a sinner, but I’m not a bad person.” He presses his fingers to his heart and looks at me with wide, pleading eyes.

“It’s just a book, Danny,” I say. A rather unsophisticated book from the sound of it. Beat me over the head with black-and-white religion and morality why don’t you? But I don’t add that on.

He nods. “I know that. It bothers me that
they
don’t.” He points to the curtains. We can still hear the vague hum of their chants.

“Look, let’s just forget about them for now.” I make peach tea, in honor of our new friend, and we sip it while I put on some distracting Spanish soaps. They’re a lot more useful than most people think. I learned more Spanish watching telenovelas with one of my Latina friends back home than I did in class. It also gives you perspective. Life is easier to handle when you consider you could have a long lost twin who’s pregnant with your husband’s baby and wants to poison your mint brownies at a holiday party where, just to pile it on, you wear identical dresses. The horror.

Danny and I only have purple eyes. Well, and maybe some funky stuff going on with our white blood cells. And maybe a contingent of students who think we’ve been marked by the devil coming after us. And some townies who think we’re ruining their community.

Nothing we can’t handle.

As I let the warm liquid coat my throat and stare at my chipped pedicure, I find myself thinking that over and over.
Nothing we can’t handle. Nothing we can’t handle.
“Nothing we can’t handle.”

“What?” Danny looks up. He sits across from me, cross-legged on the couch as he clutches the mug with both hands. Whoops, I mumbled the last bit out loud.

“This,” I say. “It’s nothing we can’t handle.”

He twists his neck around. “I don’t know, that Peachy guy didn’t exactly instill confidence.”

I love that he’s using my nickname for Mr. Jenkins. Love it. It makes me feel closer to him than I should. But maybe that’s what strange life events do. I feel like if I had a little brother, it could be Danny. And maybe I need a little brother. Maybe he needs a big sister.

I plant my feet on the ground and lean forward and decide it might be my mission in life to make sure Danny never looks so goddamn desolate again. He can’t stop messing with the high school ring and his knee bounces up and down.

“Well, we don’t need Peachy,” I say. “We can figure out what’s going on together.”

He leans forward, his hands shaking in excitement as he sets his mug down. “You mean like figure out the scientific cause of this disease so we can prove to all of them we aren’t marked by the devil?”

That wasn’t precisely what I meant, but the smile on Danny’s face makes me say, “Yeah, that.” Plus, if we can figure out that the root of this
isn’t
tied to the college at least that will show Natalie and them that, you know, shit happens. We can’t be their scapegoat for everything.

Danny beams. “My mom sometimes jokingly equates me to those mothers in made-for-TV movies. You know, the ones who hover around at the police station and somehow make their way into stakeouts to catch their kid’s murderer.”

I laugh, remembering more than a handful of nights curled up with my mom and caramel popcorn as we half-laughed at and half-devoured a sappy movie. “I know exactly what you mean. And yeah, let’s do that. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes,” Danny says, the fear in his voice pushed away by determination. “Look, I know I’m just a freshman, but I’m going to major in biology.”

I flinch ever so slightly. “Biology? I thought you wanted to be an art major, hence wanting an art mentor? Meaning me?” I point to my heart.

He tilts his head. “Yeah, I’m going to double major.”

“In art and biology?”

“Yeah,” he says, frowning at my confusion before rushing on. “Anyway, I know a lot about biology and we’re at a university. There are loads of experts here. On drugs, diseases, mutations caused by pollution. And we can talk to them.”

He lifts his mug up in triumph and I play along, clinking it with mine in a celebratory cheers. Then I hold the mug closer to my lap and twist and turn the little paper tab and stringy part of the tea bag. I roll my lips together thinking about the drug Zachary said causes this. “Danny,” I say softly, “before we get into all that...be honest, have you tried any strange drugs lately?”

Danny’s eyes furrow, and he looks into his tea. “I smoke pot, like I told you.”

I flick my wrist. “No, not pot. I mean have you snorted anything or swallowed anything? Serious stuff.”

He shakes his head. “Oh no, nothing like that. But, I mean, I know that pot is illegal and—”

“Smoking pot might not be the best extracurricular activity, but it didn’t cause this, okay?”

And neither did Zachary’s mystery drug.

It has to be something else.

And, with Danny’s help, maybe I can figure out what that something else is. “Now, what else do we know?”

Danny grips his chin. “We know about the Solo cup. We know Mandy was the first person to show symptoms. And we know there may be something off with our white blood counts.

“Yeah,” I jump in. “I overheard some doctors saying Mandy—well, I’m pretty sure they were talking about Mandy—has like 100 white blood cells per...um...”

“Mcl.” Danny runs his hands over his hair. “100 white blood cells per Mcl, that’s insane, that’s just—”

“What does it mean?”

“Well, your white blood cells are constantly fighting off outside viruses and bacteria. With that few, well, we should all be in bed with colds and infections and...that is way too low.”

“Maybe I misheard,” I say. “Or maybe there was a lab error or something.”

“Maybe,” he says. He doesn’t say the
maybe
very convincingly. He’s up and pacing now, scruffing his hair as he shakes his head. Seeing him like this makes something hurt in my stomach. I need to veer this train back onto the we-can-do-it tracks.

“Look,” I say. “I have a friend who studies diseases. I’ll talk to him. Maybe he can help.”

Danny stops pacing. “What kind of diseases? Bacterial or viral?”

“Um.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I didn’t think I’d ever need to get into the different kinds of diseases, but here I am. “I’m pretty sure bacteria. Yeah, he’s studying this one kind of bacteria in rats.”

“Okay, you talk to him,” he says, and breathes. “You know, I overheard my TA talking to someone just a few days ago. He was talking about how he just got a paper accepted in the
Journal of Virus Research.
So I know who can help us there.”

“The
Journal of Virus Research,
” I say. “I guess scientists don’t like creative names for journals.”

His muscles ease and his smile returns. “No, they like to be pretty straightforward. Anyway, one of my professors is researching the side effects of some pharmaceutical products, so I can see if she’s ever heard of a drug that can change eye color.”

“I know a professor who studies the local environment,” I say. Rashid had asked me to come with him to a special lecture given by Professor Klip last spring. I don’t know why I went, the topic was how fish in a nearby river are developing both boy and girl parts. But it was sort of interesting. “I’ll talk to her.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Danny says to the air.

Actually, I don’t think we will. But it feels better to have a plan than to not have a plan.

Chapter Sixteen

The religious group sticks around for an hour. We kneel on my couch by the window, peeking through the blinds, our breaths hot against the glass, for twenty more minutes to make sure they don’t come back. Danny puts his jacket on and looks at me over the haphazardly popped collar. “Thanks, Quinn, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

I sort of, just a little bit, want to start poring over research now. It’s a strange desire. But I’ve got to stretch and mentally prepare for my senior solo. As I organize my outfit for the recital, Mandy comes home and walks past my room. She hasn’t texted me all day.

“Thanks for texting me back, bitch!” I say with my palm curved around my hip and my neck bent in an exaggerated angry posture.

She backtracks to my room, slugs her bag off and puts it to the side. “Sorry Quinn, I was caught up.” She swallows, hard. “And now you have purple eyes too and—”

“And so does Danny,” I say.

“Danny?” Her voice is scratchy, her face tense.

“Danny, my mentee in the art department. He has purple eyes now too. We had a whole purple powwow without you.” My hands flap furiously. But Mandy’s lips tremble, and she looks like she’s about to crack.

I take a few steps. I hug her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have been there for you, really. And especially today.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I bite my lip to keep from saying more.

She rubs my back and smiles. She notices my dance outfits sprawled across my comforter.

“Oh, this is going to look awesome.” She picks up the short, flowy red dress I selected for my senior solo. She already knows the moves because I practice at home sometimes. I have performed all of the routines—or at least a living-room-safe version of them—a couple times for her.

Her left cheek slides up mischievously. “Rashid is going to have trouble standing up once he sees you in this.” She tosses the admittedly skimpy dress back at me. “You are cruel.”

“No way. If he was coming, he could just think about cold showers and his grandma. But he’s not coming, so it’s fine.” I hate when my voice cracks.

Mandy bows her head, concerned. “And what about Luke?”

“He has to work.”

“I thought he was unemployed.”

“Well, it’s complicated,” I say as I concentrate on folding the skimpy dress along with three other outfits for the sets I’m in.

Mandy sits on my bed. “You don’t think you deserve Rashid, but you do.”

God, I hate her sometimes. Love-hate.

“You know he’s liked you forever,” she continues. “Well, since we all met last year. He just thought you were out of his league.”

“He thought
I
was out of his league?” I stop packing.

“Yeah, Zachary says Rashid gushes about you sometimes. He says it’s kind of annoying.” Mandy lets out a snort. “Anyway, he thought he’d never have a chance with you. So when, you know, a couple of weeks ago...” Her eyebrows wiggle and she grins.

“I just don’t get it,” I say. “What would he want to do with some artsy fartsy dumbass like me?”

She shrugs. “Don’t sell your ass short, it’s pretty hot.”

“Well, obvi,” I say, turning and doing a shake for her. She emits a funny catlike noise and does this little claw thing with her fingers.

I smile and turn back to my packing. “But, seriously, I’m not even within range of a guy that smart.”

“Why do you always think everyone is so much smarter than you? You got in here just like everyone else,” she says.

It’s true. But unlike Mandy, who was in the 99th percentile of SATs and can bang out essays on political science like it’s nobody’s business, I got in because several highfalutin artists took an interest in my work. Oh, and because my dad is my dad, though he claims to have made no calls on my behalf.

My mom, the art professor, wanted me to go to an art school. My dad, the practical man, wanted me to get a liberal arts degree. But, you know, one where I could also paint. He’s not draconian. So I went to Poe, one of the best colleges in Virginia. One that allows students to study and think and ponder (and paint!) away from the distractions of the rest of the world.

I know how to paint. I know how to dance. And I do both damn well. But do I know how to think?

* * *

When I approach the auditorium, hums and shouts spurt through the air. I catch a glimpse of fluorescent green and yellow poster board. Just like this afternoon.

And it’s the same delightful group from this afternoon: Jared and friends. The ones who baptized me with spit. I skirt around to the back door. It requires some rather furtive slinking behind bushes.

When I get to the dressing room, Rachel is already there. She’s red-faced as she talks on her cell. “So they’re just allowed to rant and scare people?” She sighs and puts her hand on a nearby table, leaning into it. The veins in her hand puff out with the pressure she’s putting on them.

I approach her and touch her back, tilting my head. She jerks at my touch, but then smiles and waves a hand as if to say it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

After two more minutes of sighs and anger and a dash here and there of her opening her mouth before closing it sharply, she’s off the phone.

“Well, I’m sure you saw them out front?” she says, looking blankly ahead.

“Yeah,” I say.

“They’re protesting the dance. They think you’re the devil’s offspring. Apparently there’s some story about how the devil’s followers will be marked with purple...” She twists her face in incredulity.

“Yeah, well, they’re idiots,” I say.

She shakes her head. “It’s not just them. A group of Allan citizens has complained to the president. They don’t think that you should be in a public space with your...condition.” She stares at me with sharp green eyes, eyes that remind me of Luke.

Shit. I haven’t told Luke yet.

“Sorry,” I say to Rachel. “I should have told you, I should have told Luke, I was just...”

“Luke knows,” she says.

My stomach twists. How does he know? He must think...Shit, I don’t know what he thinks. I let my bag fall off me. My heart sinks. “I don’t want this to color the other dancers’ experience. If it’s that big a problem, I just won’t dance.”

“No,” Rachel says, and it’s reverberated behind me. Dancers are spilling in, their faces open and bright, ready to perform.

But I’m not really looking at them. I’m just looking at Lei and Rick, two of the dancers approaching me. They both have purple eyes too. Oh no. Maybe Danny did give it to Lei. And it’s not a leap to think Lei and Rick shared a drink. He’s dating her roommate and practically lives with them.

“We just went to the hospital and talked to someone from the department of health,” Lei says. “He didn’t tell us to stay away from public places. I mean, this isn’t an outbreak. We aren’t sick.”

“Well, no...” I say, but Lei’s and Rick’s luminescent lavender irises have me even more thinking Peachy may not really have a good handle on things. Who knows what this condition could morph into?

“If it was so contagious, I would have it,” says Tia, another one of Lei’s roommates. “So, they’re just a bunch of idiots. We shouldn’t let them stop us.”

Rachel smiles. “I want you to dance. But I worry about your safety,” she says. “The campus is going to up security. The Allan police department may even get involved.”

She looks at me, squinting, when she talks about the police. She must be trying to impress on me the significance of the situation. Then she asks, as though challenging me, “Quinn, what do you think?”

Lei and Rick look at me like I am wise. Tia continues, “Look, I’m pre-vet, I know about this stuff, and if all you had to do was sneeze or breathe to get this, we’d all have it. But only a handful of people have it now and we don’t even know if it’s because it’s contagious or something else is going on. It shouldn’t keep us from dancing. They—” she says, pointing toward the front of the building where the protesters are, “—shouldn’t keep us from dancing.”

More of our dancers have come in the room and they’re fist bumping and raising hands and cheering.
They won’t stop us from dancing.

I look at Lei’s wide eyes and steadily growing smile. Rick’s face is bright red, but hopeful.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I say. Cheers erupt. I hold my hands out, palms to the ground, lowering the volume. “Wait,” I say. “If we’re going to do this, we need to change the program. We need to put my senior solo first.”

Rachel frowns, others tilt their heads.

“Look,” I say. “I love you all, more than anything. I’m not going to let you out there ’til I test the waters first. And that’s final.”

There are a few murmurs of protest but they’re shut off with elbows knocking into ribs and, in one case, a hand clamping over a mouth. “Yeah, mama bear,” someone shouts from the back. And that’s all that needs to be said.

I’m the mama bear.