Revived (Cat Patrick)

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.

Daisy: Our fans don’t know that.

Megan: All 372 of them

    I smile and type:
Daisy: I assume you’ll be refuting my claims in your post.

    Even when she agrees with me, Megan strives to be contrarian.
Megan: Natch

    Pause. Then she asks:
Megan: First day go okay?

Daisy: I think so. Do you ever wonder whether you’re making real friends if you have to lie to them about your life?

Megan: No. You made a FRIEND?

Daisy: Maybe

Megan: Not some geek in a study group, right? A real, living, breathing friend?

Daisy: The geeks were friends

Megan: You know what I mean.

Daisy: I do…. No, she’s cool. Her name is Audrey

Megan: Hey, D?

Daisy: Yeah?

Megan: Don’t question this to death, okay?

Daisy: I’ll try not to.

Megan: Okay good. Gotta go prove you wrong on the blog. Love you madly

Daisy: Love you more. Bye

six
    “You don’t have plans today, do you?” Mason asks when I creep into the kitchen after too little sleep. Last night, I made the mistake of picking up the latest book in a sci-fi series at eight thirty. By ten o’clock, I was way too absorbed to put it down. I finally went to bed at two AM .
    “No plans,” I grumble, easing into a chair. Mason flips over a pancake. “You’re cooking,” I observe. Mason’s actually a really good cook, but he rarely does it.
    “You need a solid breakfast,” he replies. “We’re doing your annual checkup today.”
    “Seriously?” I ask in protest. “No warning? And on Saturday?”
    “Sorry, Daisy,” Mason says sympathetically. “I think it’s better if you don’t have warning; you don’t have time to get worried about it this way.”
    “But why now?” I ask. “Testing doesn’t usually happen until closer to the anniversary.” The bus that went off the bridge into an icy lake and killed twenty-one people—seven for good—did so in early December. Testing usually happens at one-year intervals, as close to December 5 as possible.
    Mason has a funny look on his face. “God asked for them early this year,” he says.
    “That’s odd,” I say. “I don’t remember this ever happening before…. Has it?”
    “No,” Mason says.
    “Bizarre.”
    “I think so, too, but I’m sure he has his reasons.” Mason drops three pancakes onto my plate.
    “Can we do it next weekend?” I whine before taking a bite. “I’m tired,” I say, mouth full. After swallowing, I continue. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense to do the test so early.”
    Mason looks at me, frying pan and spatula in his hands. “Whatever our opinions are, it’s not optional,” he says, surprising me with his abrasive tone. Mason’s usually more chill. He turns toward the sink and, as he’s walking away, he adds loudly, “We’re doing the test today. End of discussion.”
    I read once about the extensive testing that astronauts go through before they get their ticket to space. In my humble opinion, the annual Revive exam is even more rigorous.
    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