Chapter 6

As you can guess, the discovery that I could become another person simply by touching them pretty much exploded my mind. In the past seven years, I have been on the internet just about every day googling every possible combination of words that would give me the answers my aunt couldn’t.

“Shift” by itself has given me links to all sorts of werewolf legends. Adding “” gave me a thousand scientific research papers about werewolves.

Nothing. I found nothing. There is no information out there about my condition.

There are scores of other genetic anomalies around the globe: I found a group of Indians living on the outskirts of who can dislocate their hands from their arms so they dangle at their wrists. Not sure when that might be useful but okay.

I discovered another family on an archipelago in the Pacific who has passed down extraordinary eyesight through the males. Nearly all of the men have 20/20 vision at night and underwater. That’s kind of a neat thing too.

Lots of families are exceptionally tall. Or large. Or skilled as athletes or actors or mathematicians. And then there are all the studies conducted on twins. Scientists love twins. They study their so-called psychic abilities, specially-developed languages, even telekinesis.

But no one has found the Bellflower family. Even if Beatrix is right about the trait being handed down from my grandmother, I have uncovered no evidence that anyone anywhere knows anything about it.

We are alone.

And since there’s really only me now, well, I am alone.

I love my Aunt Beatrix but I suspect she knows much more than she’s telling me about the shift and about what my mother could do with it. Whenever I ask a question, she half-turns from me, her dark eyes dancing and unwilling to meet mine.

Does it hurt her to talk about Evangeline?

For years, I’ve done exactly as my aunt has asked. I’ve followed her guidelines as best I can. Sometimes you simply can’t avoid touching. Some people have to shake your hand. Some bump into you in the hallway as they run to class. Some touch your face as they clean your teeth or cut your hair or examine your eyes. Some touch just can’t be helped.

Thankfully, we live in a cold climate where gloves and turtlenecks and long sleeved sweaters are acceptable for much of the school year so that helps. Plus, as my choppy shag demonstrates, I’ve learned to cut my own hair. I’ve offered to give up dentist visits but that’s one area where Beatrix refuses to compromise. Oh well. I tried.

Then there are the little blue pills, nothing more than a powerful sedative, kind of like a super Valium. As soon as I begin to experience the aura – the flashing lights that signal the shift – I take two of the blue pills and sequester myself until I’m in the clear.

The beds certainly do their job: they knock me out for almost an entire day. And when I do get up, my head is foggy and I feel like I’m moving through marshmallow. I don’t begin to normalize until I’ve had a strong cup of coffee or three.

I exercise and eat right, get plenty of sleep and keep up with my studies so there’s never a need for undue panic, which can result in some unwanted attention.

And I’ve never dated. Not even once.

Yes, I’ve done what Beatrix has wanted me to do for most of my life. And I’m tired of it. I want to have a regular life and do regular things.

Life on drugs sucks.

***

Tonight is the Kick-Off Mixer, Darby Prep’s annual party to welcome new students and boost school pride. The Senior Council sponsors it, providing soft drinks and snacks to the underclassmen, offering words of wisdom to the newbies. Although I’m curious, I know I should stay in and get a jump start on my studies. Yesterday, Beatrix bought my books with her faculty discount and pointed me in the pop-quiz direction for her class (Edna St. Vincent Millay, in case you are wondering).

“Of course you have to attend, Callie,” Julia tells me the afternoon of the mixer, plopping herself down on the end of my bed. She wraps her arms around a red woolen blanket I had folded over the edge, hugging it into a roll. “Everyone will be there.”

Outside, rain slams against the side of the building, sideways, so if you were in it, you’d get soaked no matter how you held your umbrella. This is warm, angular rain, a late September storm.

“Huh?” I say, feigning distraction with my iPod.

Julia pulls the buds out of my ears and grins at me. “We are going to the mixer. Now come over to the closet and pick something out.”

Julia’s attention is flattering. She makes it easy to get caught up in the swirling sunshine that is her life; it reduces the rain beating against the windowpanes to a mere background hum.

“I have nothing to wear that isn’t black or flannel or pants.” Still, I allow myself to be dragged to a standing position in front of my own wardrobe. Julia peers over my shoulder; I can feel her head shake back and forth.

“You’ll have to wear something of mine.”

“Yours? Uh, Julia—”

“How about this?” She holds up a floral mini with a light blue tank – perfect for her. “It’s totally your size.”

“Yeah, um, no thanks.”

“Okay, then this?” Next she pulls out a cap-sleeved summery sheath in lemon yellow. Again, perfect for her.

“Julia…” I take the dress and return it to her closet. “I’m a background kind of gal. I don’t really like to, you know, stand out.”

Julia blinks slowly. “But why not?”

“I just…I prefer to be on the sidelines,” I say.

Her perpetual smile slips a bit and I can tell she’s disappointed by my answer. Would she prefer to hear me say, I can’t get too excited or weirded out or upset by anything or else I will turn into someone else? And by the way, if it’s really crowded and I run into other people, I’ll absorb their DNA?

Probably not.

I reach into my wardrobe and find the lightest colored turtleneck I own. It’s taupe. “How about this?”

Julia brightens. “Better.”

As I search the closet for a sweater that isn’t ripped and a pair of jeans that aren’t blue, Julia grins at me.

“I really think you’ll get a lot out of this party, Callie.”