Road to Eugenica (Eugenica Chronicles) Page 3

  “Is she going to be okay? Does she need to go to the hospital or something?” he asks.

  I’m wondering the same thing. My bones feel soft, my muscles hard and rigid. Everything is so wrong. And miserable.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. It’ll take some time for the medicine to kick in. Until then, she needs to rest.” Mom picks up her bag. “Just try to get some sleep. I’ll come back and check on you soon.” She pushes her shoulders back and walks toward the door.

  Dylan pulls the covers up and tucks me in, lifting my legs so the blanket gets all the way under. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He rests his hand on my cheek. It’s cool and the only thing that feels good right now. But it doesn’t last long enough.

  I want to grab his hand. Ask him to stay. My head throbs and I’m scared. I need him to curl up next to me, to hold me. Dylan isn’t just my best friend, he’s the one thing that makes me feel better no matter what’s going on.

  “Dylan, let her sleep,” Mom warns.

  His lips press against my forehead and send tingles to my toes. But that feeling ends too soon, and he closes the door, leaving me all alone. I stare at it, expecting the tears to come, but even they aren’t working right now.

  A tap sounds on my window. Green eyes stare in at me like yesterday in the woods. They rip through me and send terror down my spine.

  Shit.

  I open my mouth to scream, but my breath catches in my throat and I choke. Gag. Unable to take in any more air. He smirks, crinkling the crescent-shaped scar under his eye, and his lips form the word “soon.” I want to run screaming for the door, but I can’t. All I can do is roll over and stare at the pictures on my wall. But he’s there, too, staring back at me from the images. Green eyes so bright they paralyze me. I’m a prisoner trapped inside my own body. My eyelids turn to lead weights and close before I can get away.

  Chapter Three

  The next few days are a blur. Mom comes in every few hours to feed me more pills. They’re huge and leave this disgusting chalky feeling in my mouth. Sometimes I don’t swallow them right and they creep down my throat, digging in along the way. Then they sit in my stomach like pebbles. Mom doesn’t linger, either. As soon as they’re gone, so is she. She’s busy. Has work to do and other patients to see.

  When Dad comes in, I don’t feel as bad. He sits next to me, the bed sagging under his stocky frame. I have to stop myself from rolling right into him, pushing myself up to sit by his side. He chuckles each time, and it makes me laugh, too. Besides our TV binges, Dad and I haven’t hung out like this in forever. It’s nice to spend time with him. Better than nice. He coaxes me to eat some crackers. Not the dry wheat ones Mom brings, but plain old saltines. And he brings me a straw, so sipping the water is easier, and once he sneaks me a blue Gatorade, which I don’t mind drinking at all. Dad totally gets me. Sometimes he reads to me from an art book I keep on my shelf, until I fall asleep. When I’m not sleeping, everything hurts.

  It’s Friday before I really open my eyes.

  At least that’s what my phone says.

  Three days. I’ve missed three full days of school. Well, actually I wouldn’t exactly say I missed them, but the amount of work I’ll have to catch up on is enough to make my head throb again. It’d be one thing if I actually got good grades, but this is going to make things so much harder.

  I groan, roll over, and go through my texts. A few are from Mom. Letting me know she’s contacted my teachers to get my work. Oh, joy. Most, however, are from Dylan. As much as I try to stop it, I smile.

  Me:

  Feeling a little better.

  Maybe we can hang out this weekend

  It’s not my fault my heart flutters when he’s around. Maybe if he wasn’t so good to me it’d be easier not to like him. But he’s not a tool like most of the guys at school. Or a total meathead like most of the guys on his lacrosse team. He’s funny and smart and not in the showoff kind of way.

  Stop, Drea. Best friends. I take a few deep breaths and shake the thoughts away. The sickly deep scent of eucalyptus overpowers me, and the air is moist enough to drink. That’s enough of this. I reach over and flip off the humidifier next to the bed. Dad’s sweet for thinking this’ll help, but really it kind of makes me wanna barf. Too bad all the saltine crackers are gone.

  I really should get up. There’s so much I have to do. But instead I roll again, my gaze focusing on the window. There’s no one there now. But those green eyes, his smirk, the way he mouthed “soon.” A chill races up my spine, and I pull my duvet to my chin. I hate being afraid as much as I am. Blankets were always my protector from the scary things lurking in my closet, but they don’t hold the same power they used to.

  Maybe it’s all me. For years, the Green-eyed man has plagued me. A flash of a camera at the edge of my vision that pops up in real life from time to time. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. And a fever can make you hallucinate. That’s probably what he is—some kind of hallucination because of those horrible dreams. Maybe even a deficiency in Omega-3, as Mom commented once, when I said I was having trouble sleeping. Whatever it is, I need the man to go away.

  I turn from the window, lay on my side, and follow the lines of the geometric wallpaper with my eyes, drawing pictures in my mind. One line loops down and back around, like the picture of wind turbines Dad has in his office. One he took himself, a long time ago. Somewhere between here and Northern California there are hills full of old wind turbines. A project of some sort that didn’t go anywhere. Too bad for the planet, Dad always says whenever he sees me staring at it. One day we’ll take a road trip out there, at least he says we will, so I can take my own picture. Soon my shoulders have relaxed, and the pebbles in my belly don’t hurt so much.

  Shouting echoes from downstairs. Their voices are muffled until Dad says my name, clear as dried Mod Podge. I sit up. What the heck? Mom and Dad don’t yell unless it’s report-card time, which it isn’t yet. Thank God. I ditch the phone, slip off my bed, open my door a crack, and sit on the floor with my knees to my chest.

  “And when were you planning on telling me all of this?” Dad yells. Oh, he’s pissed, which isn’t a level he gets to very often. Unless it’s with the radio hosts on his favorite talk show. But something tells me Mom and Dad aren’t discussing politics or the environment.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek and lean out a little farther.

  “Lower your voice. Alexandrea’s still healing.” Mom’s voice is stern.

  “With no thanks to you it seems. How could you do this?” Dad lowers his voice, but the anger is still there.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Her voice is exasperated. Emotionless. Except for the undertone of condescension.

  “Why don’t you try me?” he says a little softer. Dad’s so good at that. Getting calm fast to try and fix a problem.

  Mom’s shoes clack against the hardwood floor, and the kitchen door closes. I crane my neck into the hallway hoping to catch a whisper, but no luck. I let out a huff. What did or didn’t I do now?

  I run my fingers through the soft, thick carpet, but nothing comes to mind. I’ve been in bed for days, so I haven’t had much chance to get under her skin. Unless she’s mad that I’ve missed so much school. Whatever it is, I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything to me yet. Like the time she called me screaming when she found out I got a 72 on my English paper. Sometimes I wonder if she really looked at my pictures, if she’d see that I’m not a complete and total failure at everything in life.

  I abandon my spot by the door, grab my laptop, and flop back onto my bed. The pictures from my last photoshoot have been left untouched for long enough. I scroll through them, past my last trip to the zoo. Too bright. And they didn’t turn out the way I wanted. I need to go back and try again. After some decent pictures of the rhinos, I come across the ones I’m looking for. My last time out on the cliffs. It’s my favorite spot in Ocean Beach. A long staircase leads down to the water. Surfers carry their boards on th
eir heads to navigate the way down. When the tide is high enough, people dive from the cliffs.

  I click through and find the perfect shot. The fog had started to roll in, like a blanket tucking the sky in for the night, and the line of palm trees that stand along one edge, slowly faded one by one. I can still remember the damp air on my skin and thick smell of the ocean. Mom was pissed I came in so late that night. Grounded me for three days. But these pictures were worth it.

  When my camera’s in my hands I can forget about all the bullshit that’s bothering me, like a crappy grade. The camera becomes an extension of me. A way for me to let it all go.

  I send the picture to the printer next to my desk and hang it on my wall in my own private little gallery. One day I’ll have my own gallery for real, my canvas-size pictures hanging along crisp white walls. And people will stand in front of them for hours. Study the way the light hits the subject at just the right angle and ask themselves, Wow, how did she do that?

  My eyes scan across the ones I have hung up now. I think there’s something I’m supposed to look for, but I can’t remember what it is. Nothing seems to be missing. Every one looks to be in the right place. Mostly they’re landscapes, Dylan’s lacrosse games, and the people-watching Dylan and I do on our mini-adventures. None of them are canvas size. Or even eight by tens. They’re standard three by fives stuck to the wall with double-sided tape, not even in frames. The ink is pricy, so I have to be super selective on which ones I print. Mom doesn’t exactly love spending money on it.

  My phone buzzes. I slide across my bed and grab it.

  Dylan:

  Sounds good

  Glad you’re feeling better :)

  Friends, just friends. Best friends, but friends all the same.

  …

  I wake up the next morning still sitting at my desk with my head on my arms, and the sunlight filtering through my window, casting shadows on the far wall. A small canvas and a mixture of paint sit in front of me, along with the photograph I’d been trying to copy. Luckily, I didn’t fall asleep with my face and hair in the paint this time. That was a pain to get out. And the hideous mixture of blue and red stained on my skin took a full week to fade away.

  My stomach growls, and I wander into the bathroom and then downstairs in search of food. The cold tiles shock my bare feet. If I wasn’t awake before, I am now.

  Dad sits at the kitchen island, newspaper in his hands, steam rising from his favorite R2D2 coffee cup. “Good morning, sport. You feeling better?”

  I take a mental survey of my body as I wipe something crusty from my eye. I forgot to wash my face. “Yeah.” I head to the cabinet and grab a mug of my own. It’s one of Mom’s that says: “Don’t confuse your Google search with my medical degree.” Some patient of hers bought it, but I think I’m the only one who ever uses it.

  “Great,” he says. “But I still think we should skip our routine this week.”

  I pour myself half a cup, leaving plenty of room for cream and sugar. Saturday mornings are reserved for running, sweating, and lifting heavy objects. Unlike Mom, he doesn’t mind all the time I spend in my room on my laptop or working on whatever as long as I’m willing to sweat my ass off once in a while with him. Like the week I took a break from photography and stayed locked up in my room trying to learn to crochet. That was a mistake. But Dad likes the scarf-blanket-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-hat I made and uses it on the couch in the winter. So I don’t complain. Not that I’d tell him, but it’s kind of fun most of the time. “Sounds good. I’m really hungry, though.”

  He folds the paper and sets it down. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” The dark circles under his eyes tell me the fight with Mom has taken its toll. But it’s not like he’d talk to me about it anyway, so I pretend not to notice. “I could make pancakes.”

  I wrinkle my nose. Pancakes in this house are buckwheat, gluten free, and disgusting. “I’m like, I-could-eat-a-huge-burger-and-a-side-of-fries hungry. I don’t think pancakes are gonna cut it.”

  He scratches his beard, glances at the pantry, then back at me. “Maybe we should…” He shakes his head. “No. Never mind.”

  “Maybe we should what?” I sit down across from him, leaning forward, elbows propped on the island.

  “I was thinking we could get huevos con chorizo. But you haven’t eaten for a while. I don’t want it to upset your stomach. It might be best to start with a piece of toast or something?”

  Toast sounds as appealing as the kale and dandelion smoothies Mom insists we drink. Barf. Our favorite Mexican breakfast from El Indio sounds incredible. Better than incredible. It sounds like the perfect idea. “Exactly. I haven’t eaten. So I. Am. Starving. A girl can’t live on bread alone. She needs eggs and deliciousness wrapped in a tortilla and covered in salsa.” And those jalapeño carrots are good enough to kill for. My mouth waters. “Mom’s not here to complain. I know my stomach can handle it.” I give him my best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

  His dimples make an appearance. Bam, I got him. “Well, if you’re sure. It does sound better than that hippie cereal your mom bought.”

  “I’ll go get dressed.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and run upstairs before he can change his mind. Not that he would. Dad is short and stocky and knows how to put away some serious food, so bread and hippie cereal don’t cut it for him, either. Work hard, eat hard is his motto. One I fully stand behind. Especially today.

  I guess being in bed for a few days gives a person some crazy energy. I bound up the stairs, two at a time, take the quickest shower of my life, and pull on some jeans and a T-shirt of my favorite band, New Language. The same band Dylan and I are planning to see in a few weeks. I glance at the poster hanging on my bathroom door. Holy hell, those guys are amazing.

  No time to fantasize now. Sorry, New Language, but a girl’s got to eat. I get back on task. The leftover effects from my fall are barely noticeable. A little red mark and the bruise under my eye are just about gone. Good. I quickly apply some mascara, my only makeup staple. But the tornado of tangles on top of my head refuses to be tamed, so I throw it up in a messy bun.

  I stop and stare at my camera for a moment. Should I? Nah. I have enough pictures of Dad eating chips. My hand slides over my phone in my back pocket; if something awesome happens I can use it as backup. So I close my bedroom door and head downstairs.

  Dad’s waiting by the kitchen door, keys in his hand, grin across his face. As soon as we reach the last step down onto the concrete path leading to the driveway, we both sprint off at top speed.

  I get to the car a step ahead of him and slap my hand against the hood. “I win.” It’s about time.

  He pats me on my back, then we both climb in, trying to catch our breaths. “Okay, Ms. DJ, what’ll it be?”

  I flip through the presets and finally find something acceptable. The music is a nice change from the usual talk radio. With the windows down, I belt out the lyrics of each song that plays. Dad laughs and bobs his head along, beating his hands against the steering wheel like a drum. Bass pushes through the speakers at the start of one of my favorite songs.

  “Isn’t this that band you’re going to see soon?” Dad asks. “Turn it up. I like this one.”

  I smile. The New Language concert is coming up fast; I’m surprised Dad remembers. “You know this?”

  “You left your old iPod plugged in last time you drove my car. I might’ve listened to it.”

  “I’m impressed.” I reach across and crank up the music.

  The next song picks up right as the last one ends. No commercials is the only way to listen to the radio. When the song gets to a particularly raunchy part—they’re singing about a blow job—Dad stops and looks at me. “Wait. What? What are they saying?”

  The light ahead of us is green as I open the sunroof and reach my hands up, pressing them against the rushing wind, and laugh. “I’m not saying. You need to—” My heart slams to a stop. Because that’s when I notice the truck. It’s huge and barr
eling down on us, and going impossibly fast.

  “Dad!” I grab his arm, my body seizing in panic. I want to scream, Brake…swerve! But I can’t get the words out. And it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s far too late.

  Suddenly, it’s like an explosion. My whole world shakes. Horns blare. Metal crunches. Glass shatters. Dad is thrown into me, his body crushing mine. I scream as I’m ripped in a hundred different directions at once. Airbags burst open. A metallic copper scent fills the air. All I see is red, and then everything goes black.

  Chapter Four

  A steady rhythm of beeps cuts through the silence. Cold, sterile air fills my lungs. A gentle tug on my arm tells me someone’s here, but no matter how hard I try, my eyes are locked shut.

  “I thought you said she was pulled from the wreck,” a woman’s voice whispers.

  “She was,” a voice I recognize as Pamela, Mom’s dedicated assistant, responds back, just as soft.

  “I don’t understand. No broken bones, barely a scratch on her. How’s that even possible?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Pamela whispers urgently. “Dr. Smith doesn’t want anyone talking about her daughter.” Something clicks, a pen maybe, and Pamela sighs. “Poor child. I hear the car was completely totaled and her dad didn’t make it.”

  Dad?

  What do they mean, Dad didn’t make it?

  The air in the room thins. Someone grabs my wrist to take my pulse. Their fingers are so cold, but that’s not what sends shivers racing up my spine.

  Dad didn’t make it. No. That’s not possible. I would’ve known.

  “B-P-M 55,” the nurse says. “No, wait.”

  I don’t understand. Dad. What happened? My heart shatters. The world stops. Icy fingers stay gripped to my arm. My feet slide against an itchy blanket. The taste of copper fills my mouth, and the memory of that smell fills my nose. I need to know he’s okay. I need him.

  My eyes shoot open. “Daddy!” I sit straight up and scream for him like I did when I was little, my voice high and shrill. The nurses jump back, sending a metal tray to the floor with a loud clang. Their eyes are wide. Panicked. Pamela clutches a clipboard to her chest. The other nurse is swallowed by the gray hospital curtain. The dull white room constricts, retracts, and then spins around me. A blur of machines and wires and nothingness.