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She accepted with surprising ease. Is it possible the girl is learning from experience, finally? Is it possible she’s realized how toxic her relationship with Maddox is?
Or is she feeling sorry for her pal, the mutant?
Either way. I’m good with either.
I don’t know how my mother got the money to Maddox. I told her his name and she said that’s all she would need. She has toadies who do nothing but run her errands and cater to her whims. Blue M&M’s? No problem. Bikini wax? Time and place. Run 9K to an inept drug dealer? Gotcha covered.
At 6:30 A.M., Maddox texted Aislin with: Got it. Yur the best.
I contacted the assistant principal at school to let him know Aislin had been in a minor accident. Some stitches, no big deal. I’m not sure he believed me, but this close to the end of school, the staff gets pretty laissez-faire unless there’s a felony involved.
Also, they just rebuilt the gym with a giant check from my mother.
Dr. Anderson and his staff have chosen not to comment on my bandage-free leg and arm. Yesterday evening, when my mother arranged to have Aislin and me moved to one of the guest suites, Dr. Anderson even helped carry over my vases full of drooping flowers.
He looked a little bereft. I think he kind of liked having an actual patient. Especially one he knew he could cure.
“Where’s Scruffy McMuscles?” Aislin asks, as we settle into my workstation. “You said he’s working the coffee cart, right? I could use some caffeine. Or some other kind of stimulation.” She attempts a leer, but it clearly hurts too much to pull off.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to make do with Adam.” Aislin scratches her nose. “These stitches are driving me nuts.”
“Yeah, I know how that goes.”
“How would you know, Bionic Woman?” Aislin asks.
She’s teasing, but I give her a sharp look.
“Too soon? Sorry.” She pats my shoulder. “Back to work. Let’s finish my fantasy man.”
Adam is now a handsome head full of dark hair that floats in the simulated liquid of his environment.
It turns out the software has an interesting feature I hadn’t noticed before. Not only can you age your creation up or down, you can adjust for lifestyle.
For the next hour, Aislin and I play with shoulders, chest, belly. We use slide bars to show the effects of our random choices. More or less appetite? More or less exercise? It’s a useful lesson in the limits of genetics.
Adam has the genes for a ripped chest and six-pack abs. But if we give him too much of a sweet tooth and too little restless energy, his stomach balloons.
“Let’s see what happens if he totally lets himself go,” I suggest.
I slide a bar, and suddenly Adam has man boobs.
“His are bigger than yours!” Aislin squeals.
I slide the bar back. Quickly.
I make a mental note: When I’m putting finishing tweaks on his brain, I need to remember that a little hyperactivity might not be a bad thing. Maybe some bundle of genes that will make him crave the outdoors.
He needs to mountain bike. Play tennis. Something aerobic.
Maybe he could be a runner, like I am.
Aislin ogles Adam as he floats in midair like a ghostly Adonis. In the corner of the room, two secretaries whisper and giggle. Someone provides a wolf whistle.
“I think it’s time to face facts,” Aislin says. “Boy parts are on the menu.”
“We haven’t done the legs yet.”
