First, there’s a physical, but it’s not exactly “routine.” Sure, they check my eyes, ears, reflexes, and heart, but then there’s a complete neurological assessment and balance and coordination exam. They take tissue and hair samples to review in the lab; even when my throat is fine, they do a culture. There’s a full-body skin scan, where all moles and other markings are carefully recorded. There’s a review of my Health and Diet Diary, a body-fat assessment, and a challenging fitness test.
Not exactly what you’d get at your standard doctor’s office.
Then comes the memory test. It’s fun because it usually ends in a contest between Mason and me, and I always win. Last year, we argued for an hour about whether my school in Palmdale, Florida, was on Connecticut Avenue or Connecticut Street.
“Avenue,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he replied.
“I’m not.”
“You were only five. You can’t possibly remember.”
“I can and I do. The bus picked up on the corner of Connecticut Avenue and First Street.”
“How do you retain these things?”
“I just do.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I remembered because of him, that I used to stare up at that street sign wishing I was in the real Connecticut instead of on Connecticut Avenue—that’s how badly I didn’t want to ride the bus to school. Not until I broke down crying one morning did Mason realize that I had been totally traumatized by the whole bus incident.
He drove me to school after that.
The memory test is followed by the psych evaluation, which is slightly awkward because it’s administered by my father figure, but so far it’s been okay. Then there’s an IQ test, followed by age-appropriate math, science, reading comprehension, and language exams.
While the testing is grueling, even brutal, I appreciate it for all that it gives the program, data-wise, about the bus kids. But there’s one part I hate: the blood draw. Tissue samples are one thing—a quick pinch from numbed skin—but having fifteen vials of blood drawn at once is like having the life slowly sucked out of you. It starts with a poke and ends with wooziness.
>“I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.
“The Hawkeye State,” I say.
“Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.
“You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”
“Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.
“Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”
“My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”
“Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”
“Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.
We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.
Like we go way back.
Not until that night, after I’ve posted on the blog an analysis of Pearl Jam’s record Ten—which is super old but still rocks—do I step back and consider the day.
I accepted the metaphorical birthday party invitation with Audrey: I went all in. And ultimately, I have to admit that it was fun. But being raised undercover, I can’t help but question my own motives. Did I make a true friend today, or was Daisy West only pretending?
My text alert chimes: it’s Megan.
Megan: What’s with the post? I’m the one who lives in Grunge Capitol, USA.