I tap my finger on the screen to read her message.
Megan: You didn’t post…. Everything okay?
Under the pseudonyms Flower Girl and Fabulous, Megan and I coauthor a blog called Anything Autopsy, where we dissect music, books, fashion, food, and whatever else we feel like. The format is she said/she said style—or she said/he-she said, since Megan is transgender—and if one of us doesn’t post, it’s not as cool.
I type back:
Daisy: Sorry, we had to move.
There’s a pause, and I imagine Megan’s black-lined eyes bugging out of her head. The thought makes me laugh out loud.
Megan: Again???!!!???
“Unfortunately,” I say aloud, even though she can’t hear me. Then I type:
Daisy: Again. Bees.
Megan: I’m going to start calling you Honey.
Daisy: Please don’t.
Megan: I guess daisies attract bees, too, don’t they?
Daisy: I promise to post twice this week. Setting up my new room. Chat later?
Megan: Love you madly
Daisy: Love you more
I set aside the phone and pick up the paint roller.
People might say it’s stupid to spend time decorating a space you’ll likely soon abandon, but to me, putting my stamp on each new bedroom is a crucial part of any move. I mean, seriously: I live with science-obsessed secret agents; my bedroom is my retreat. And more than that, it’s part of the cover. Assuming someday someone wants to see my room, it has to be in line with my personality. It has to look permanent.
For the first three days in Omaha, when Mason and Cassie are setting up the lab in the basement, I pretend I’m the designer on a home makeover show and create my perfect space. Since my sixteenth birthday’s not for another month, I have to get Mason to drive me to Target, a crazy place called Nebraska Furniture Mart, and the paint store, but after that, it’s all me and my vision.
In this house, I’m going for tranquil. I paint the walls a nice, mellow gray and cover as much of the wood floors, which are badly in need of refinishing, with a super-plush rug. On one full wall I install a new white open storage unit, then arrange my white nightstand and bed frame from Frozen Hills in the little nook part of the L-shaped room. I put the brown desk that I’ve had since I was ten under the largest window; when I find that it doesn’t look right, I paint it lavender.
Then I add the little details that make all the difference. I sort my books by the color of their spines and stack them horizontally in the little storage-unit cubbies: a librarian’s worst nightmare. I frame and hang only black-and-white prints and posters; I reroll all the others and store them under the bed. I thrift-shop on Etsy and craigslist to find an oversized D wall decal, a mirror to hang over my new black dresser from Target, sheer white window coverings, and a gray-and-white-striped beanbag chair.
“Where’s the electric staple gun?” I ask Mason on the morning of the day before I’ll start school at Omaha Victory High School. Mason’s in the office waving motion commands at a massive computer screen tethered to one of the three tiny computers in the house.
“What do you need it for?” he asks.
“I’m re-covering my desk chair,” I explain. I don’t mention that I’m covering the seat with the fabric from my old comforter. Although, to be fair, I’m upcycling, so he should be proud.
“Garage,” Mason says, rubbing his eye sockets. “Third drawer on the left. And be careful.”
“I can’t kill myself with a staple gun.”
“Probably not, but how do you feel about blindness?”
“I’ll wear goggles,” I say.
Mason shakes his head at me and goes back to his work.
I head downstairs in search of power tools.
When my room is finished, I sit and enjoy it for about five minutes; then I get antsy. I head down two flights of stairs to the lab in the basement to see how it’s coming along.
“Holy, bright!” I say, squinting under the megawatt fluorescent bulbs covering every square inch of the ceiling.
“We need to see what we’re doing,” Cassie replies.
“Mission accomplished, and then some,” I say.
Mason chuckles at me quietly.
I scan the large room, taking it all in. It’s nothing compared to the main lab in Virginia, but it’s impressive anyway. There are two workstations, both with the same mini computers and massive monitors as the one in the office upstairs. There’s the PCR machine, used to amplify DNA, which looks like a fax machine crossed with a mini-fridge. There are spinners and shakers and rotators and the Homogenizer, aka the tissue blender. There’s a hot plate, and dry ice; a water bath and a scale. And, of course, there are dozens of squeaking rats.
All of the Disciples have assignments, but not many of them need labs like ours in their homes. Duties range from monitoring other countries for breakthroughs similar to Revive to controlling the program’s technology to managing relocation and surveillance. Agents in the big lab focus on advancing Revive—testing new iterations—while agents like Mason and Cassie make sure those who got the original version are functioning normally. Inside the program, my guardians’ job is to conduct ongoing testing and analysis on the bus kids; to the rest of the world, Mason is a psychologist and Cassie is a stay-at-home mom.
As always, I’m impressed by the pop-up, state-of-the-art lab in an otherwise pedestrian basement.
“You guys are making good progress,” I say.
“Thanks,” Mason says, smiling. “The space is larger than the one in Michigan, so that’s helpful.”
“Yeah,” I say, giving it another look. Then my eyes fall back on Mason. “Well, my room’s done,” I say. “I feel like going out.”
Mason raises his eyebrows, surprised. “What do you need?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I want to get a library card. See if Omaha has any good shoe stores. Maybe catch a movie. I need to do something to get acclimated. I start school tomorrow, and I know nothing about this town.”
Mason tilts his head slightly, considering it. “Okay,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll take you.”
Cassie shoots him a look: Mason leaving means she’ll have to finish setting up the lab alone.
“Let’s all go,” Mason says to her. “Daisy’s right. It’ll be good for us to get to know Omaha, too.”
Cassie stares for a few seconds, then relents. Mason is, after all, her boss.
“At least let me change first,” she says.
An hour later, I’m standing in the middle of the desert wondering how it would feel to be stranded without water.
“Think Revive would work if I died of dehydration?” I ask Cassie quietly, staring up at the shell of the Desert Dome at the Omaha Zoo.
“I think so, yes,” Cassie says without taking her eyes off of a cactus. “We’ve done dehydration testing on the rats. Seventy-two percent success.”
“That’s better than asphyxiation,” I say.
“And drowning,” Mason adds.
Thinking of water reminds me of an exhibit I want to see.
“I’m going to the aquarium,” I say.
“Meet us at the front gate at three,” Mason says before turning and heading toward the bat exhibit. Cassie seems stuck to the cactus, so I walk toward the underwater experience alone.