The Cat Gets Dizzy With It
DELILAH
W alking through the double doors to the phlebotomy wing, I wave at the receptionist, Arlene. She’s been here for the past thousand years—at least, that’s what it seems like. She smiles up at me with that pleasant-faced, crinkly, old lady smile that always makes me think of grandmothers. I don’t know why as Goddess knows that neither of mine were any kind of matronly icon—more like cranky old dragons with menthol breath.
“Hey, ‘Lene,” I say, drumming on the desk nervously. “Is Diz here?”
Goddess, I hope so.
The small lunchbox full of lettered swabs is burning a hole in my palm. I’m incredibly hyped up about finally taking steps on the project that sent me looking for my beloved bird. His reminder that we should still at least look into my transformation was the kick in the pants I needed. I’d started the work a little after I met with him, but I got side-tracked. It’s time to woman up and see what I’m made of.
She blinks up at me from behind her cheetah-print reading glasses and nods slowly. “That he is, child. Are you sick?”
In Arlene’s world, the only reason I’d ever go to Diz’s lab is to find out what kind of deadly disease I have. Shaking my head, I grin. “Nope, it’s business.”
“Is your daddy sending you down with the samples again? No matter how many times I tell that man, he never listens. Children should not be dropping off biologicals like it’s a run to the store…”
She’s still going when I take matters into my own hands and push through the double doors into the lab. Arlene always hated when my dad allowed me to help with his research when I was younger and she’s never let it go that neither of my parents ever treated me like an actual child. I could be there another hour before she’ll call Diz out front when she gets started ranting. It could be another hour after that before he drags himself away from his work to answer.
I weave through the long counters bursting with equipment and computers, carefully plopping my box in front of my friend with a grin. “Boo.”
Diz looks up, startled. Running his hand through the wild, curly locks on his head, he sighs. Mad scientist hair, I’ve always called it. When he pushes his goggles up into the mane, it’s even funnier. I haven’t seen him since I moved to the Rift, but he was eager to help when I called.
“My sistah,” he says, giving me the traditional faux-homeboy hand slap and snap.
His greetings have always given me a giggle. Diz is an Ivy League educated genius with multiple doctorates, yet he looks hip, even in his lab coat and protective goggles. Funnier still he includes me—the whitest chick on the planet—on his list of homies. Seriously, I’ve seen my name under that listing in his phone. It’s totally a riot.
I’m a homie; what were the chances?
“My brotha,” I reply, grinning broadly. “What’s up with you?”
He shrugs laconically. “Blood, disease, pestilence, death… You?”
“Diz, you don’t work in Syria, man. You have got to lighten up. No wonder you don’t date.”
“Oh, not the dating thing again. Girl, you don’t give up, do you?” he says, poking at the bag curiously.
“Quit being a hermit; you’re hot and should get some.” I notice his barely contained curiosity and smile. “I hope I did the collection right because you weren’t specific.”
He lifts the six tubes out of the bag, flicking each one to watch it resettle. “Looks pretty jive. Is it fresh?”
I shrug. “Sort of? I kept them in the fridge and used a preservative.”
“We’ll see then,” he murmurs, slipping them in the centrifuge. When he pulls them out, he makes six slides. Placing the slip covers carefully, he lines them up so he can see the labels. “Alright. You got these in some kinda order besides alphabetical?”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes intent on the computer program he’s booting up. The code on the screen is gibberish to me. I look up, realizing he’s waiting for me to give him an answer.
“And that is?” he asks, giving me an impatient look.
“Oh, well, D is obviously mine. It should differ from the other five. Two of them should be remarkably similar in places but different in others—kind of like familial DNA? Two should be exactly alike, ” I fib, knowing one of them might not match up with the other four.
He sets up the first slide, humming under his breath as he focuses the scope and the computer analyzes the data. “Uh,” he says, fiddling with the knobs here and there. “This is a mistake. This can’t be yours.”
I grin at him. “Oh, trust me, Diz; it is.”
“Something screwed up in there,” he taps the screen. “There’s a mutation here and.. see this? Another strain—it says feline, but obviously that can’t be right. Maybe it’s a mutation—sections of it match markers on yours. But…” he trails off, his brow furrowing.
“But what?” I lean over, staring at the screen as he overlays strains, looking for match percentages.
“First, there’s this feline thing,” he looks at me suspiciously. “Either you’ve joined an elite team of mutants led by a telepath in a wheelchair or you’re screwing with my head.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “Move to the next one. You should probably find strains of my DNA in the other samples.”
Giving me a weirded out look, Diz switches to the next slide, nodding his head in confirmation. I didn’t tell him how I collected the samples on purpose—drink from a clone, scratch myself, bleed into a tube, clean up the mess, and hope for the best. I couldn’t ask them to fill a cup; this is a top-secret project. So I cheated. When I come out of my musings, he’s moved to the last slide, murmuring under his breath.
I watch as he moves to another workstation, setting up my slide and typing furiously. Curiosity piqued, I tap his shoulder. “What’s in your ear?”
He shakes his head, brow furrowing more. “Not sure. I gotta theory. Why did you want me to look at this again?”
“You’ve seen my DNA and you have to ask?” I reply sarcastically.
“Obviously, you’re going through some changes.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter.
He looks up, raking his hand through his hair. “Things you’ve physically manifested?”
I chortle and he blinks. “Absolutely. Do you want to see?”
The struggle of a scientist wanting to gain knowledge and the wariness of a human war on his face before he shakes his head. “Nope. I think I’ll wait on the results before I venture forth.”
“You can’t tell me anything today?” I pout, feeling antsy about the whole thing.
“No way, sistah. I have to send this stuff to a colleague of mine that can do an expert analysis. She might even confirm the theory I’ve got buzzing ‘round in here.”
“Dizzzzzzzzz,” I whine. “You can’t say you know something and not tell me.”
“I sure as hell can. Hey, how fresh is your sample?”
“I’ve had them for a minute. Why?”
“I’m going to get a nurse. I want a new one,” he replies, turning to hit the intercom.
“No, wait.” I grab his arm and spin him around. “You don’t need a nurse. Do you have a sample cup? Like a fresh one?”
He nods, picking one up that looks suspiciously like something people normally pee in, and I give him a dirty look. Undoing the lid, I position it under my arm before pausing. “Don’t freak out, alright?”
Arching a brow, he scoots back instinctively. I flick a claw out, slicing my arm over the cup. Squeezing it enough that it flows in, I give Diz a lopsided smile. When I let go, the cut tingles, the edges burn, and it makes a distinct popping sound. There’s not a trace of trauma left on my skin when I hold up my arm.
“There.” I shrug nonchalantly as Diz goes through the Shemp routine that most people adopt when seeing me do that for the first time. “Oh, quit with the Three Stooges act.”
“But you!”
“Yes.”
“Well, it explains some things,” he muses, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“Like what?”
“Patience, sistah. Give me a couple of weeks and we’ll see what turns up. Should I call you when I find out?”
“Fuck, yes. You can also email or text. Will it really take that long?”
He rolls his eyes, giving me an exasperated look. “These things take time, woman. Chill.”
“Alright,” I sigh. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m out of here, dude. I have to get back before people start looking for me.” I blow a kiss at him and spin on my heel. Pushing my way through the doors, I head towards the parking lot. How in the hell am I going to survive the next couple of weeks?
Damned clichés. Curiosity may kill the kitty after all.