Page 20 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

The Cat Gets Dizzy With It

DELILAH

Walking 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.

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