Teen Frankenstein Page 7

  Adam’s eyes flitted around, taking in the hundreds of students who swarmed around us. His chest shrank inward and I cringed as he plugged his ears. He rocked back on his heels and then forward, back and then forward.

  Owen was still busy outlining his day. “Okay, so you’re on your own for history, but we all have English 2 together, lunch, and, hey, we all have PE together, right?”

  I nodded but kept watching Adam. His eyes didn’t stop moving from one side to the other, and from here, it looked as though he was trembling. I tapped Owen on the shoulder. “Um, nine o’clock,” I said.

  Owen looked up and dropped the hand holding the schedule to his side. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This guy is scared of … of what? Of high school now? He’s gargantuan.”

  “He’s overwhelmed.”

  “By what? By people? You’re a person. I’m a person. He seemed cool five minutes ago. He was a regular charmer. A James Dean–type. Stoic. He was going to charm the pants off the ladies with all three sentences that he knows.”

  My shoulders dropped. I stepped in front of Adam and picked up his hand to hold between both of mine.

  “Oh no, not you, too,” Owen groaned. “If I knew all I had to do to get the ladies’ sympathies was rewind evolution a few thousand years, then I would have limited my vocabulary to that of a fifth grader a long time ago.”

  I snapped my eyes at Owen and he shrank back. When Adam noticed me standing there, he stopped shivering. I had a flash of the boy in the middle of the road, scared and soaked through, our fingers braided together. I felt a surge of responsibility for him. I’d heard of soldiers coming back from war with a disease of the mind called PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder, which was caused by witnessing a violent event. And I’d known that in a town not too far away that’s what was blamed when a young veteran shot twenty-one people including himself.

  “It’s very loud, Victoria.” He stared down at his shoes.

  I waited for him to look at me. “Adam,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m right here. We’re going to be fine, you hear me? Fine.” I squeezed his hand even though we’d already established that he couldn’t feel it. It just seemed like the human thing to do. “Everything is going to go perfectly smoothly. I promise.” I scanned the room. Yes, Adam had a bit of a sallow, haunted effect going on, but underneath it he was actually quite attractive. In an obvious, traditional way, too, with long lashes and nice teeth. In the halls of Hollow Pines High, good looks alone were powerful currency.

  He let me hold his hand. “Victoria.” He said my name with such devotion and with no purpose other than he seemed to like the sound of it. A piece of my heart chipped off and clattered down until it caught somewhere between my rib cage and belly button.

  “Adam,” I said back. The first bell rang. Students piled in on top of one another, but I stared into Adam’s eyes for another moment longer. “Adam,” I repeated, and I felt his hand relax under my palm.

  When the moment broke, Owen and I led the way to a long row of orange lockers. I searched the numbers emblazoned at the top for his until I found it.

  “Here it is,” I said, pounding my fist on number 42. “Your locker. If you ever need either me or Owen and you can’t get ahold of us, meet us here, okay? We’ll come find you.”

  Adam surveyed the hall. I retrieved the combination lock Mrs. Van Lullen had given him and read the combo off a slip of paper. “60-28-63. Can you remember that?” Considering I was dealing with a boy with no memory, my hopes weren’t high. “You can keep this sheet for a while,” I said.

  Adam peered at the dial. “60-28-63,” he repeated.

  Owen and I shared a look.

  “60-28-63,” Adam said again.

  “Okay,” Owen said. “Well, at least we know his neurons aren’t totally fried.”

  I noted the marked improvement, then opened Adam’s new locker and started putting some of his paperwork inside. “We can decorate your locker if you want,” I said. “You know, if it’ll make you feel more at home.”

  “Hi there.” I twitched at the sound of another familiar voice. “Adam, right?” She extended a hand. “I’m Cassidy Hyde. I was at the table over there.” She pointed over her shoulder. “My friend Paisley gave you that calendar.” Cassidy laughed at this and shook her head, continuing to ignore Owen and me as if we were a pair of misplaced furniture. “Anyway, I’m number 41. Looks like we’re neighbors.”

  “I don’t live here,” Adam said.

  Her forehead wrinkled and she cocked her head, then laughed. “Funny.” She turned her own combination lock. “And athletic. Rare combination.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my scowl. I wanted to unhook her manicured nails from Adam and toss her across the room. Because even though Adam’s brain had been busted, his eyes seemed to be working just fine.

  So did Owen’s for that matter. Cassidy Hyde watched her carbs. She did cardio outside of gym class. She carried a compact mirror and had a signature scent and signed her name in bubbly letters. Her aspirations consisted of being elected to Homecoming court and becoming Miss Texas. Not that I cared, but it seemed ridiculous for her to get so much attention for correctly applying eyeliner while I was slaving for a Nobel Prize. That was the thing about high school. They gave away prizes for who could be the least interesting.

  The funny thing, though, was that Cassidy actually used to be kind of fat. When her family moved to Hollow Pines in seventh grade, she had these chunky moon pie cheeks and sausage fingers. Kids used to call her Princess Butterball when she wasn’t listening. I didn’t know if Paisley took a Xanax that day or if she just wanted someone to look better than, but Cassidy eventually worked her way into the in crowd and shed a few pounds until she fit right in with the popular kids. Secretly, I thought this pissed off Paisley. Not that she could say so now. When it came to the popular kids, I fancied myself a sort of behavioral zoologist that looked for patterns and natural hierarchy. Like just last year, the senior boys voted Cassidy hottest ass in the sophomore class. Personally, I’d rather be shot than receive an honor for the two bulbs of fat located on my backside, but I guess for girls like Cassidy that kind of thing was a big deal.

  “Can I see your schedule?” She held out her hand.

  Adam tentatively handed it to her. “I have English and PE with Victoria.”

  She peered up at me through her eyelashes. “How nice.”

  I cleared my throat as Cassidy was circling the classes she shared with Adam. “Adam, we really need to show you to your class,” I said.

  “Oh, I can take him.” So now I existed. “We’re in history together.”

  I offered a tight smile. A vision of Adam co-opted by Paisley, Cassidy, and their circle of bobble heads flashed before my eyes. My Adam. I created him. “It’s okay. I promised his mother.”

  Cassidy shrugged, glossed lips pushing out into a pout. “Whatever.”

  “Come on, Adam.” I patted my leg.

  “He’s not a dog.” Owen leaned in and said this into my ear. I blushed and dropped my hand, but not before Cassidy rolled her eyes.

  It only took a single second, but it felt like slow motion. Adam, with his jerky, unnatural movements, turned to follow me. His forehead slammed into the edge of the open locker door. Thwack! Followed by a clang of reverberating metal.

  All three of us took in one collective gasp. The only one who appeared unfazed was Adam. He took a step back and then redirected his path so that the locker door was no longer blocking it.

  “Oh my god, are you all right?” Cassidy cupped both hands to her mouth. Adam blinked. “You’re bleeding!”

  A thin trickle of blood ran from a small gash on his forehead, and Adam had exhibited absolutely zero reflex.

  “Dammit.” I rushed over to him.

  “A blockhead and a klutz,” Owen said flatly. “I guess that means we don’t have a superhero on our hands?”

  I stood on my tippy-toes and peered up at the cut, not able to stop myself from feeling like this
was all Cassidy’s fault. The cut was shallow, but head wounds had a way of bleeding more than they ought to. I felt my cheeks burn with annoyance. Two minutes ago Adam had outwardly been a perfect specimen. I poked at the skin around the gash.

  “Pity, too.” Owen clucked his tongue. “Because I was already coming up with names and everything.”

  My glare cut to Owen. “Would you like to know my names for you right now or would you like to help?”

  “You should take him to the nurse’s office.” Cassidy buzzed around me.

  “He needs space,” I snapped.

  Adam touched the injury. His fingers came away with a spot of bright red blood. “I’m sorry, Victoria.” Then to Cassidy he said, “She had just gotten me cleaned up.” His pale complexion and hollowed cheeks made him look doubly remorseful.

  Cassidy did a double take.

  “Inside joke.” I pinched the gouge closed and applied pressure. “You wouldn’t get it.”

  She gave me a you’re crazy look before shaking it away. “He didn’t even flinch,” she said. “Christ, he’s tough. He should try out for the team.” Her breath was minty next to me. I wished people would stop saying that.

  Just as we’d hypothesized, Adam didn’t feel a thing. He was as impermeable to pain as a tank. This wasn’t normal. Or good. Pain was an important evolutionary development that made normal human beings withdraw from damaging situations. Without pain, there was basically nothing standing between Adam and sticking his hand down a garbage disposal.

  “I mean…” Adam wrinkled his forehead. “Ouch.” His voice carried the same monotone, but he looked to me and Cassidy for approval. “Sorry.”

  I frowned. “It’s not your fault.” I released the skin and it started bleeding fresh.

  “That might leave a scar, you know. But—” Cassidy leaned over to examine the sides of his face, where there were the remnants of Adam’s incisions and other cuts and scrapes that already appeared older than they actually were. “Looks like you’ve already got a bit of a collection started. My mom can recommend a plastic surgeon. She got a face-lift last year.”

  The second bell rang. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

  “Sort of.” She glanced at her watch and bit her lip. “I’ll tell Mrs. Landers that he’ll be late. See you around, Adam.” She waved her fingers, spun on the spot, and headed back down the hallway, which was already being drained of students quicker than a flushed toilet.

  “You should go, too,” I told Owen. “There’s no use in both of us getting in trouble. Make up something for me.” The final bell was ringing. We were both already late. I grabbed Adam by the wrist and began towing him toward the girls’ bathroom.

  “Tor,” Owen called after me. “Come on, Tor. You know I’m a terrible liar. People will see right through me. I have a very honest face.”

  But I just told Owen to stop being such a pansy and, after checking in both directions, pushed my head into the bathroom.

  “Hello?” I asked. “Anyone in here?” When no one answered, I glanced both ways and pulled Adam inside. I stashed him in the large handicapped stall at the end and balanced on top of the toilet, between the feminine hygiene waste bin and the unraveling roll of toilet paper, so I could stand eye level with his cut. I leaned closer. It was a shallow wound, but enough to leave a goose egg. “You seriously couldn’t feel that?” My voice dropped to a whisper.

  “No.” He stared up at the ceiling like he might catch a glimpse of the gash. “Is it broken?”

  “Broken?” I smiled. “No, it’s not broken. Just a cut. Although…” I leaned in. “Most people would have thought that hurt. If it had happened to Owen, he probably would have cried.”

  I hopped off the toilet and dug around my backpack until I found a bandage and a spool of surgical tape I’d used on Mr. Bubbles.

  “You don’t like Cassidy.” He wasn’t asking a question.

  I remounted the toilet seat I was using as a stepping stool and paused. “I—who said that?” One of my shoes slipped on the seat, and I grabbed Adam’s shoulder to right myself, knees wobbling for balance. “We’re not in the same group,” I explained, blowing a strand of hair from between my eyes.

  “What group are you in?”

  “Me? I don’t know. I prefer to think of myself as an individualist.” When Adam looked confused, I continued. “Fine, I guess you could say I’m a nerd, a geek, first stop on the train to Dork City. That’s what you get for not wanting to peak by the twelfth grade.”

  “And what group am I in?”

  I smiled. “You, my friend, are Dork City’s newest resident. You’re one of—” But a knock at the bathroom door interrupted us. I froze, remembering where I was and who I was with. Girls’ bathroom with a definite nongirl. Not an ideal scenario.

  I held my breath. The hinges creaked open and a man’s rusty voice ventured a hello.

  “Hell—” Adam responded loudly before I jammed my hand across his mouth, muffling the rest of the word.

  Shuffling. “Who’s in there?” From outside the stalls there came the sound of wheels rattling across the grout and then the thwack of a wet mop. The sopping yarn of the mop head dragged closer with each of his footsteps. “Who’s there? This is a ladies’ room.”

  I peered down at the dusty workman’s boots of Old Man McCardle, the school’s janitor, now pointed directly underneath our stall. He rattled the door. “Open up.” He pounded his fist. “Who’s in there?”

  Seeing no way out, I piped up. “It’s me,” I tried.

  The door stopped rattling. “I heard a boy’s voice. There’s someone else in there with you. Don’t play me for stupid, young lady. I’ll call the principal if you don’t open this door right now.”

  My thoughts switched quickly to Adam’s tenuous acceptance into Hollow Pines High, and my mind formed a snapshot of the walkie-talkie strapped to Old Man McCardle’s uniform. I stifled a curse word and hopped off the toilet seat. Holding my breath, I slid the lock free. I was met with a view of the janitor’s dingy brown uniform. Kids liked to say that Old Man McCardle was crazy because he yelled Bible verses at students who drew male genitalia on the lockers and didn’t bother to make sure their empty bottles wound up in the trash cans, but really, it was just the fact that he was a janitor and smelled vaguely of gasoline and pickled eggs. My eyes traveled up to his cragged face. He blinked and took a step back when our eyes met.

  “It’s fine, really,” I said, opening the door wider. “My friend here just bumped his head, and I was helping to clean him up. I’m sorry. It was just the easiest place to do it and, if we’re being honest, aren’t fixed gender identifications becoming a little passé anyhow?” McCardle looked from me to Adam, back to me again, then to Adam. His gaze lingered. I rolled my eyes. “Look, I promise, if I want to engage in any funny business, I will keep it to normal teenage locales. Back of cars. Movie theaters. Under the bleachers. That sort of thing.”

  Then, like a windup toy, Adam started his monologue. “Hello. I’m Adam Smith from Elgin, Illinois. I am sixteen years old.”

  McCardle’s gummy lips worked without forming any words. He backed up several paces, and before I could say another word, he had turned with only one last swift glance over his shoulder and was gone.

  I grabbed my bag from the floor. “I would say that was weird, but, well, he’s weird. We should go, though,” I said. “He could be heading for reinforcements.” I rummaged around the front pocket of my bag until I found a Band-Aid. When I pulled it out, I saw that the pattern on the bandage was of tiny green Yodas, which I recognized from a pack that Owen had received from his mom as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. “This will have to do.” I motioned for him to bend down and then flattened the sticky parts to his forehead. I stood back to admire. Adam Smith was now tall, dead, and held together by a Star Wars–themed Band-Aid. And it was only 8:00 AM.

  ELEVEN

  A congenital insensitivity to pain may be caused by increased production of endorphins in t
he brain, a problem in the voltage-gated sodium channel SCN9A, or lack of certain neuropathies. Children with insensitivity to pain experience various problems, such as biting off the tip of their tongue, untreated fractures, and damage to the eyes. While the subject's pain insensitivity is likely not congenital, I’ve marked the causes for further study.

  * * *

  “You’re late, Ms. Frankenstein.” Dr. Lamb’s hand hovered over the whiteboard, gripping a green dry erase marker. Turning, she peered over her glasses at me.

  Twenty heads swiveled in my direction. I found Owen seated on the far side of the classroom in a middle row. Our eyes met, and he shrugged, mouthed an apology, and scratched the back of his neck with his pencil before staring down at the notebook in front of him.

  I dropped into an empty seat in the front row. “Am I really, though?” I asked. Dr. Lamb was too New Age for seating arrangements, and the back of the classroom always filled up first like the students were literally allergic to the possibility of learning. “I mean, according to Albert Einstein, isn’t all time relative, anyway?”

  Dr. Lamb quirked an eyebrow. With her hair pulled tightly into a bun, her needle-thin frame gave my physics teacher an uncanny resemblance to a pin. “Time,” she said, returning her attention to the whiteboard, “can be relative another day. Today we’re looking at the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.” She underlined each of the three capitalized words where she’d scribbled them in green marker.

  “Who can tell me what that means?” Dr. Lamb glanced around the room, stashing the marker in the pocket of her white lab coat. As usual, she was met with crickets. I rested my chin in one palm and raised my other hand.

  “Ms. Frankenstein?” Dr. Lamb crossed her arms and waited.

  “According to Heisenberg’s theory,” I began, “there’s a limit to the amount of precision that can be achieved when measuring the state of a system. The more precisely you measure the motion of a particle, the less precise your measurement of its position, for instance.”

  An exaggerated groan came from the back of the classroom.