The She-Hulk Diaries (29 page)

CONS: No child has ever been infected, and it’s unknown whether she would survive. If survives, she may not ever grow up at normal human rate. Puberty as a hulk may endanger the planet.

PROS: Painless way to pass time.

CONS: Must overcome mother’s objections, religious or otherwise, and mother will age even as Mavis does not. Initial suspension process feels like a million ants are eating your body. No guarantee on when medical breakthrough will occur.

PROS: Most kids dream about interplanetary travel. She’ll be able to add cultural experience to her college applications. She may learn another language.

CONS: Mother may want to keep her on Earth and/or won’t be willing to accompany her. Unless she’s sent via a time/space fold, her body won’t survive the travel.

PROS: Android body will be very low-maintenance and can come in terrific models.

CONS: She will have to undergo routine transfers to age-appropriate bodies. Mother may object to android body.

PROS: Instant results, and she will be the same human girl but healthy.

CONS: Magic always has unintended consequences, usually deleterious. Mother may object due to religious and/or philosophical reasons.

All in all, magic seems like the best remedy despite the possible side effects. Sometimes I wish we had a truce with Dr. Doom, because he’s skilled at magic, although he prefers scientific solutions, which have more predictable outcomes. He’s also brilliant at creating androids, and they’re phenomenal until they mutiny against him. Well, I can’t say that I blame them.

As determined as I am to help Mavis, I’m not going to contemplate any deal with VvDoom, even if I knew how to find him. Really. There must be alternatives that don’t involve bargaining with a verbose, paranoid, everyone-hates-me-guess-I’ll-just-eat-worms-and-blow-up-a-planet villainous genius. I don’t need to rush to a solution, since Mavis’s condition seems stable.

COLLEAGUES-WITH-BENEFITS COUNTDOWN:
50 of the 60 days have passed already. How am I going to have an answer for Fritz when I’m in the whirlwind of the work, etc.?

The ReplaceMax lawsuit had all the things the media liked: cute sick kids, heartbreaking stories, corruption, a stunning plaintiff for the prosecution, and a powerful and gorgeous team seeking a legal remedy. Okay, so maybe Amber Hammerhead is more gorgeous than I am. Gorgeouser. Whatever. Regardless, I looked very sharp in news footage with my stylish suits.

Our story got knocked out of the headlines by the infestation of weirdly fluffy frolicsome daytime rats that appeared near the Chrysler Building and were immediately exterminated. I found that a little disturbing, and the director of tourism said, “They’re not only unhygienic, but they’re freaking everyone out. Rats are like cyborgs: the only good ones are dead ones.”

I called the mayor’s office immediately to state my objections re: cyborg bigotry, but my logical mind still can’t convince my girly mind that rats aren’t gross and skeevy.

Sven is the ideal client. He and his media handler made the rounds of the major networks. He looks more like an actor playing a noble scientist than a noble scientist. He presents his case eloquently and effortlessly pivots a conversation to avoid traps set by the reporters. He’s perfect in his somber suit. I’m so glad that I refrained from asking him to wear a white lab coat.

The ReplaceMax spokesperson’s “No comment at this time” might as well have been an admission that they drown puppies and laugh
bwaa-ha-ha
.

Even with the media attention, I was still surprised when, in an unprecedented act of expediency, our case manager scheduled a May 1 court date.

Holy moley! We have only one month to prepare. How am I supposed to find an apartment now? I am reassessing my priorities, and the apartment has dropped down the list. Called Holden and left a message saying, “In light of the expedited blah blah blah, my apartment hunt is on hold, blah blah blah, and I appreciate your understanding, etc.”

I called Mavis and told her I couldn’t come to story time. All she said was “Okay” and then her mother was on the line. “I’m sorry, Ms. Walters, she’s just disappointed. I’ll explain that you’re busy.”

“I’ll absolutely try to visit when I can.” I tried to think of a way to ask her about alternatives for Mavis, but I didn’t think saying “And what are your feelings about transferring human consciousness to a robotic body?” would be a good way to introduce the topic.

The only way I could prevent other children from being in Mavis’s situation was to focus on the case. I told Dahlia over a dinner, “I don’t know how I’m going to complete all the EBTs, interrogatories, and requests for admission in a month.”

“Refresh my memory. What’s an EBT?”

“It stands for examination before trial. It’s a New York thing. Everyone else says deposition.”

“Okay, what are requests for admission?”

“We send a document that basically says, ‘Admit that you’re a lying douchebag.’ ”

“Does anyone ever admit it?”

“No, either because they’re
not
lying douchebags or because they are.”

“Then why do you send them out?”

“Dahlia, do you ever ask clients if they’ve colored their own hair, and they deny it, but you can tell they’re lying?”

“All the time. I ask so I won’t be held responsible if their hair falls out like Rodney’s the time he molted.”

“Dogs aren’t supposed to molt. And you wonder why I hate him.”

“I thought you hated him because of his personality.”

“That, too, as well as his frequent noxious emissions.”

D plucked an orange slice off her plate and ate the entire thing, even the peel, before saying, “Rodney can be charming when he chooses to be charming,” which made me laugh so hard that I choked on a mouthful of rigatoni.

After gulping down a glass of water, I said, “I’m deposing Maxwell Kirsch, who’s the Max of ReplaceMax, aka Xam the Man.”

“Xam the Man from Fringe Theory?” When I nodded, she said, “No shit! I heard he’d spontaneously combusted.”

“A lot of drummers do, but not him. He finished his postgraduate work, went to Iceland for a few years to study Arctic biodiversity, and came back to the States and founded ReplaceMax.”

She asked me if Max knew that I was the inspiration for the Gin Cycle, which I am not, and I said, “God, I hope not,” and she told me to stop biting my fingernails.

Valentine’s Day Resolution efforts are on hold, which is fine since I’m way ahead on points and goals.

We deposed Maxwell Kirsch today. We were in the conference room where I’d been interviewed, which seems like a long time ago. I’d placed his seat so that the glare from the windows would be in his eyes. His water glass was slightly out of reach. His chair was uncomfortable and had a squeak. The idea was to throw him off his game.

As I sat staring at him, a reel ran though my brain of his younger self, Xam the Man. I’d seen him at the concert with his kit set up at the back of the stage, wearing a DO NOT OPERATE WHILE SLEEPING T-shirt, cargo shorts, and huge black-framed glasses. He’d been so skinny, I could practically count every rib through his thin T-shirt. Ellis had told me that I’d like Xam, that he was smart and funny.

He’d since filled out to fit his frame, and his olive skin had a sun-deprived sallowness. His hair was short and sparse across his scalp. He fidgeted uncomfortably in a tweed jacket, and he often referred to a spiral-bound pocket notebook. He seemed like a nice guy, but Shulky awoke inside me because she sensed the fury simmering behind his businesslike veneer.

Max answered our questions succinctly and with “yes” and “no” when he could. It’s always astonishing when people actually follow their attorneys’ instructions. They always say they will, but when it comes time to face opposing counsel, they pull out a freeze grenade or other weapon. Or, more typical with superhumans, they give
looong
, self-congratulatory
speeches with way too much backstory, while I’m waving frantically for them to STFU.

I thought Max might know that I’d
dated
hooked up with Ellis, which made me feel ooky. Attorneys are used to knowing all the dirt about witnesses, not vice versa. But I couldn’t ask, “Exactly what do you know about my missing pink panties, and when did you know it?” Nevertheless, I tried to maintain my composure as I went through my questions:

Max looked at one of his attorneys, who drew his eyebrows down as a signal.

Max’s attorney placed his hand on Max’s arm and said, “I’d like to take a five-minute break.” I used the opportunity to run to the ladies’ room for a pre-emptive pee so I could be composed through the next several hours.

I kept my tone even and my face impassive the entire time. I’d had to practice that in the mirror for weeks, but now I can make my face completely inexpressive in my sleep. After a few hours, the questions began to wear Max down. He leaned from side to side in the uncomfortable chair, and he looked frequently at the out-of-reach water glass as his voice grew hoarse. He had to half-stand awkwardly to get the glass.

Finally, his brow furrowed and I knew that he was doubting himself. I was pleased that I’d been successful, but it wasn’t a happy pleased. It was more of an
I’ve filed my tax returns
sense of completion. When the questioning was concluded, we stood and exchanged chilly good-byes. As we left the conference room, Max met my eyes, leaned close, and whispered, “So this is what became of Gin.”

It sounded like something on a tombstone. I glanced around, but no one had noticed him speaking to me. He walked into the hallway before I had a chance to respond.