Teen Frankenstein (7 page)

“Yes, Victoria.”

Owen and I turned. The clothes may have been a bit out of style, but at least if he was going to be a walking dead man, he wasn't a naked one.

The boy looked to me expectantly, holding his arms out from his sides.

Owen checked his watch. “School's started.”

I grimaced. Owen and I didn't skip school. In fact, we were never even late. For the past two years we'd won awards for perfect attendance. It wasn't so much that we thought we were learning anything as it was that people didn't get into Harvard without a pristine transcript.

“Then we better figure out a plan for tomorrow, Captain Obvious.”

I crossed the room and pushed the metal gurney next to the boy. The black pad on top of the stretcher was cracked, revealing the yellowing foam inside. I patted the surface. “Can we ask you a few more questions?”

He hoisted himself onto the gurney. His bare feet dangled off the side. Einstein came over to lick his toes. I tried to scoot her away but she was very persistent about certain things and toe-licking was one of them.

I took hold of one of his wrists and pressed my fingers into the tendons at the base. A steady pulse coursed against my fingertips. “The voltage must have triggered some sort of restart in the brain patterns.”

“But if there's no long-term memory, why has he retained his motor skills? How's he speaking to us?”

“Syringe and vial,” I said, and waited while Owen retrieved them from a sliding tray of surgical tools. I took the syringe from him and pushed back one of the boy's sleeves. “Could be retrograde amnesia. The memories most likely to be lost are the most recent. Working backward it can go decades depending on the severity of the brain trauma, and it doesn't affect motor skills.” I applied pressure above the boy's elbow. “This might sting.” I glanced up at him. He was following every movement I made with his eyes. I plunged the needle into the blue vein at the crux of his elbow. As I pulled back the stopper, the vial filled with deep red blood.

“He didn't even flinch,” Owen observed.

I slid the needle out of his arm. “Did you feel that?” I asked.

The boy stared down at the spot on his arm. “No.”

I poked his shoulder. “How about that?”

He shook his head.

At this revelation, I reached for the back of his hand and pinched it hard, like a kindergartner with a vendetta. No reaction.

“How…” I trailed off. “But there can't be just nothing … can there?”

Owen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don't know. I mean, twelve hours ago I might not have thought any of this was possible. We're kind of dealing with the definition of uncharted territory here. How do you feel right now?” he asked. The boy's brow lowered and his chin dimpled. “For instance, are you sad?”

The boy touched the back of his hand where I'd pinched it. “I don't know. I'm not sure.” His jaw changed shape, teeth grinding beneath the surface, but otherwise his features remained impassive.
Empty
.

“That could just as easily be the lack of memory, though,” I figured. “Without memories, what's there to be sad about, you know?”

“Amazing,” Owen whispered, and we both stood for a moment, he and I, basking in the secrets of the universe that the two of us had unlocked. “He's truly a blank slate. Like a newborn baby in a teenager's body.”

“For some reason I don't think we're going to be able to hire a babysitter for this one.”

“So then what?” Owen asked. “We can't exactly hide him here forever.”

“We don't. Hide him, I mean.” I held the vial and deposited the contents of the syringe into it, then capped it with a rubber plug. With a marker I labeled it
Day 1
. “You're about our age, right?” The boy looked from side to side as if he wasn't sure I was talking to him. “Right, stupid question. What I mean is, he comes to school with us.”

I stepped back and studied the two guys in the room. Compared with Owen, the strange boy was about four sizes bigger. His chest swelled where Owen's caved inward, but the boy, I thought, could pass for one of the athletes. Maybe.

I rubbed my temples. I was suffering from severe caffeine and sleep deprivation. If this ended up being a horrible plan, I could blame it on both.

Owen sighed. “He needs a name if we're going to make this work. I repeat,
if
.” As though we had another choice. “You want a name, don't you, buddy?”

The boy cracked his neck. The popping of bones sent shivers down my back. “What kind of name?” he asked.

“I don't know. Whatever kind of name you like,” I said, depositing the blood sample onto a test-tube rack.

“You can't use Owen,” Owen butted in. “That's taken.”

“Like anyone would want it.” I rolled my eyes. “Open your mouth wide.” He obeyed and I swabbed his mouth with a Q-tip, which I deposited into another vial for later testing.

The boy smacked his lips when I had finished, and I could practically see the cogs turning. Finally, once I'd shifted my weight several times over, he spoke. “Victoria, could you please choose?”

A pocket of air bubbled inside my chest. I couldn't swallow, and just when I thought I'd refuse the honor, it came to me like a vision. It was inspired. It was biblical. It was hard proof that I hadn't quite slept through
all
my Sunday school classes and that, occasionally, I listened to my mom.

“I've got it,” I said, breaking into a broad smile. “Your name, I think, is Adam.”

 

NINE

Preliminary test results taken within first 24 hours for processing: red blood cells uniform in size representative of 40% of total blood consistency; white blood cell count normal; blood serum—colorless, clear, without parasites or other bacteria; saliva pH—6.5

Conclusion: Safe for general population; will proceed with next stage of the experiment

*   *   *

Adam had now been alive—or dead, depending on how you looked at things—for over twenty-four hours. The previous day had passed with preparations and another near-sleepless night as I fretted over the details of my plan to take a corpse to Hollow Pines High School.

“One last time, Adam. What are you going to say to Mrs. Van Lullen when you see her?” My eyes flitted up to Adam's reflection in the rearview mirror. He was perched at the edge of Bert's backseat with his knees tucked up to his chest so that he could lean forward to hear Owen and me. I felt as if Owen and I were driving our child to his first day of school.

Owen twisted in the passenger seat to watch the recital.

“I am Adam Smith. I come from Elgin, Illinois. I am sixteen years old. I am a junior. Victoria is my family friend. I am staying with her while my parents wrap up our move to the Lone Star State. Please, I would like to enroll in Hollow Pines High School.” He finished his speech with a beaming smile.

Owen pushed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “That's it. We're screwed.”

“We're not screwed.” I took my eyes from the road long enough to glare at Owen. The rain had left behind muddy craters in the asphalt. The patchy tumbleweed grass that lined the side of it shimmered and looked slightly less cotton-mouthed than it had a couple days earlier.

We'd taken pains to make sure Adam's assumed persona would stand out as little as possible. We'd chosen “Smith” because it was the most common last name in the United States, and a hometown of Elgin, Illinois, because nobody in their right mind would make up the fact that they were from some Podunk, middle-of-nowhere town like Elgin.

Or Hollow Pines for that matter.

“Adam, it sounds a little rehearsed. Do you think you could do it again only try
not
to sound like you're reading from a cue card. Here, like this: ‘Hi, I'm Victoria, but since that name sucks I prefer Tor. I'm from Hollow Pines. Turned seventeen in July.'” I raised and lowered my inflection to illustrate. “See the difference?”

Owen's jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Look at him. He's like a baby freaking bird when you talk.”

I blushed. Adam had clearly developed an instant attachment to me. When I moved, he shadowed. When I spoke, you could literally see his chest puff up in anticipation. I had to continue to remind myself it wasn't adorable, it was dead.

Adam cleared his throat. “I'm Adam Smith.
I'm
from Elgin, Illinois.” He stopped. “How was that, Victoria?”

Owen slapped his forehead. “You've created an imbecile.”

“I have not.” I gave Owen an extra slap on the head. The car careened across the dividing line, and I hurried to correct my course. “Be nice. He's relearning, that's all.” In the mirror, I could see Adam's lips working through his lines. “Adam, that was much better. Excellent.”

“I'm sorry,” Owen muttered, and stared out the window. “I'm nice. I'm just trying to calculate the maximum sentence for aiding and abetting.” He twisted the nob on the stereo and flipped through stations until he found talk radio.

“Really. You think Mrs. Van Lullen is going to take one look at him and guess that”—I lowered my voice and turned up the radio—“that he's a walking, talking corpse. Be rational, Owen. For god's sake, we had a breakthrough.”

“I am being rational, Tor. News flash: Our science fair project wasn't some well-guarded secret for which you needed national security clearance. We worked on it in the
biology
lab. At our school. You know, the one we're trying to enroll Mr. Stitchy McStitcherson in.”

“Keep your voice down.” I wrapped my hands tighter around the steering wheel. My stomach was already working itself over with worry well enough. “Do you have the paperwork ready?”

He pulled out a folder. In it, the forms we'd e-mailed to request from the school yesterday were printed. The imaginary Ms. Smith had a new e-mail address and Owen's cell phone number. “It's all here. I e-mailed it to the school last night, but we have it just in case.”

“And your voice mail?”

He punched a number on his phone. It played a muffled recording of my voice, donning my best midwestern accent. “You've reached Marjorie Smith. Due to recent family events, I am tending to personal matters. I will return your call as soon as I'm able.”
Beep.

He nodded. “What's it called when a plan's a step below bulletproof?”

“Shot to hell,” I said.

He grimaced. “Right, that.”

As we got closer to the school, my legs began sticking to the fake leather seats, and it felt like ripping off tape every time I pressed the brakes. My armpits were Slip 'N Slides, and I knew my cotton socks were doing their fair share of sopping up my nerves.

My head was ringing louder than a bell tower as we neared the school. Buildings started popping out of the cotton fields. We passed the sprawling expanse of the Beverly-Tate plant, where the lion's share of this country's feminine pads and toilet paper was proudly produced.

We then took a right and my heart began hammering harder. The stadium loomed in the distance. “Adam?” I said as we pulled into the parking lot, the brick and mortar of Hollow Pines High sprouting out of the ground in front of us. “Just act normal.”

We unclicked our seat belts. Car doors slammed. I ducked my head into the backseat. “Are you coming?”

“I am coming. Wait for me.” Adam didn't notice when the top of his head rammed against the roof of the car. Each large foot clomped into the gravel and, once standing, he dwarfed me.

“This,” Owen gestured, “is Hollow Pines High.” Adam grunted and backed up against Bert. Owen thumped him on the back. “I agree, buddy. It's frightening. But you get used to it. Shall we give you the tour?”

The school was crawling with its morning bustle. Hollow Pines High School was a biosphere in which all species were forced to mix. A pickup truck sped past us, kicking up gravel and dust. We paused to cough and swat it away. Adam stuck close to my side.

“Those kids,” said Owen, looking over to where the pickup was squeezing itself in among a line of other gas-guzzlers, “are called the Wranglers.”

“As in the jeans,” I explained.

“You thought that Wrangler jeans went out of style in the 1980s and you'd be right,” Owen continued. “But the Wranglers believe it's their God-given duty to wear starched denim twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five. Check out the ironed-in creases on those babies.” We shuffled past three guys sitting in the bed of a pickup, sharing dip from a tin can of Skoal tobacco. They passed around a Styrofoam cup and took turns spitting into it. I shuddered and looked away. “Rumor has it, they even sleep in them.”

Adam's face cracked open with what I believed was supposed to be a smile. He raised his hand in the air and waved furiously. “Hello, Wranglers,” he shouted.

The kids in the truck glanced up and shook their heads before stuffing in another wad of chewing tobacco.

I grabbed Adam's arm and forced it to his side, shuffling him off past the line of trucks. My face flushed with heat. I made a quick wave and muttered an apology to the confused wannabe cowboys.

“Aren't those your friends, Victoria?” He pointed back to the Wranglers.

“Definitely not. Come on. We're headed that way.” I gestured toward the mouth of the main building, where a stream of students was already pouring in. Owen and I had the worst parking spots. It was a hike.

“On your left, you'll see that we're entering the Bible Belt.” A collection of kids wearing matching shirts busied themselves unloading posters from the trunk of a car. “They're harmless mostly, but if you so much as hint that you're having a less-than-perfect day, they
will
pray for you. You've been warned.” I laughed when Adam sidestepped farther from them. “Over there, those are the Billys.” Owen directed our attention to five husky guys tossing around a ball. “Redneck football players. They have a shocking amount of dudes named Bill. That's Billy. Then there's Billy Ray, and William. Those fine fellows”—we paused to watch Billy Ray crush a can between his palms, then use it to peg William in the backside—“those are God's gift to Hollow Pines.”