by Sherry Soule
Now if I can just find a Zeta dating manual, I’d be peachy.
I close the browser. The urge to confide in Viola strikes hard. I totally trust her, and we practically tell each other everything. But Hayden’s secret is like a deadly virus—it needs to be contained, or someone might get hurt. Hayden might get hurt.
My stomach grumbles, and I glance at the clock. It’s past dinnertime. Powering off the laptop, I go downstairs to start dinner.
As I pass Jonah’s bedroom, the rapid sounds of gunfire pierce the wood of his closed door. “You’re going down, sucker!” he yells.
Since my mom is working in her studio, I put tater tots in the oven for Jonah and make myself a grilled cheese sandwich. I eat at the circular kitchen table and wait for the timer to buzz, letting me know the tots are done.
My mom emerges from her studio just as the dial buzzes. “I’ll get it.” She shoves on an oven mitt and takes out the tray, putting it on the stove to cool. “Where’s Jonah?”
“In his room playing video games—where else?” I get up, open the freezer door, and take out a tub of cookie dough ice cream. I scoop a huge glop into a bowl, get a spoon, and sit down. But I don’t eat it. Only stare at the cold mound of dessert.
My mom leans against the counter. “You okay, honey? You’re chewing your hair again. Stop it.”
I pull the strands out of my mouth. I really need to break this stupid habit. “Just burned out, Mom. Long day.”
Digging into my ice cream, the sweet flavor hits my tongue. So yum.
“We’ve talked about this,” the Food Police begins in her patronizing you-need-to-eat-healthy tone. As if being chubby is somehow a crime. “I bought some fresh fruit the other day. You should be snacking on that instead of—”
“Dad still in Los Angeles?” I ask to change the subject.
My mom nods. “He’ll be there until next week.” A shadow flashes over her pretty features, darkening her eyes. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You seem...” she pauses and flicks paint off her arm. “Worried about something. Is that why you’re eating that crap?”
No! Yes!
“Well?” she asks.
I shove another big spoonful of sugary goodness into my mouth just to irritate her. Gee, Mom, where do I start? The guy I’m crushing on is a hybrid. His alien status has to remain a secret. And no, I don’t mean he needs a green card. And let’s not forget, some creeper in dark sunglasses is spying on me.
But sharing this info might get me fitted for a straitjacket. And they don’t even come in black!
“Nope. I’m good.” I fiddle with my napkin. “I just have a calculus test that I need to study for.”
She turns to the stove. “Then you go do that while I finish up Jonah’s dinner.”
I stand and put my dishes in the dishwasher. “I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, honey,” she says over her shoulder.
Back in my room, I don’t study, although I should. Instead, I turn on my TV and put in a newly released scary movie that the blogosphere has been raving about. I get comfy on my bed beside Jinx to watch the supernatural flick. A two-hour distraction with murderous ghosts seems in order. But my mind keeps wandering, unable to focus.
While watching the movie, I can’t help but think of Hayden. We’re like ill-fated lovers. Even though I will never admit it aloud, maybe Hayden and I are like all those romantic sentimental films—except none of them reveals what happens when you start falling for someone of a different species. I pause the movie. Hayden’s true origins keep penetrating both my consciousness and my heart. Mostly stuff like…
Super intelligent hybrids.
Government conspiracies.
And alien scientists.
My mind is a whirling mass of jumbled thoughts and confused emotions, but the ever-present image of Hayden’s stormy gaze stays at the forefront.
I settle in and hit play on the remote. The movie isn’t fantastic. Not like a yummy four-course meal, but more like a tasty snack, so I only give it three stars in my review.
The only thing I love more than a good meal is a good movie, one I can devour without remorse. Of course, some films are better than others. As a foodie, the terms “feasting” and “insatiable” best describe how much I enjoy movies. My favorites are the ones that have a sharp witty flavor, while the not-so-great ones can leave a bad taste in my mouth.
Yup, I’m weird.
I write another quick article for my column “Fright Night Babble” about movie clichés and respond to comments from my last post, needing the comfort of my online column to remind me what normal feels like. But it doesn’t really help. My life has been forever changed by Hayden’s crazyass confession.
A warm breeze plays with my hair and I get up to shut the window. The street outside appears dark and rather quiet. Somewhere a cat in heat yowls miserably. Across the road, a streetlight flickers, casting just enough illumination to shine on a tall figure.
I jerk away from the window and my dinner threatens to come back up. Should I tell my mom? Scream? Throw something at the guy? Dial 911?
Apprehensively, I peek out again, hiding behind the velvet drapes. The man stands about thirty feet away, where he can easily look up into my third-floor window. He’s leaning against a withered oak in the neighbor’s yard, smoking a cigarette as though he’s got all the time in the world. As I watch him, watching me, an icy sensation glides over my skin.
I’m just being paranoid. He’s waiting for someone to pick him up. Or…
Could it actually be someone from the government? Like Sector Thirteen? My throat goes dry. Maybe I should tell Hayden.
I shake my head. Nah. There’s no reason why they would stalk me. Hayden and I are just friends and there’s no hybrid law against that.
When I look again, the night cloaks him so well that all I can tell is that he’s wearing dark clothing and sunglasses. At night.
He stands there for a moment, barely discernible, and then flicks the butt into the gutter. The man shrinks back into the shadows until he completely blends with the darkness.
FOURTEEN
Mondays suck, and what makes today suck even more is that Hayden isn’t at school. And to top it off, I catch glimpses of Zach between classes, giving me the stink eye, and wrinkling his nose like he can’t stand the sight of me.
Sheesh. Am I wearing some type of smelly alien repellent?
I don’t bother asking him where Hayden is or why he’s not returning my calls or text messages. Because every time Zach looks at me, I can tell he wants to tear me limb from limb. Not in a big hurry sort of way, either, but in a slow process of meticulous dismemberment. He wouldn’t tell me where Hayden is, anyway. I assume Alien Boy’s still recovering from his wounds.
All day, the whispering and comments surrounding me seem very obvious. Emma and Kaitlyn sneak weird looks at me all during class, like they’re dying to ask me something, but can’t get up the nerve. Someone must’ve seen Hayden and me having dinner together and now the gossip is on high alert. But not a word of Hayden’s accident. Lucky for him, whoever saw us eating didn’t catch the after dinner show.
Usually, Hayden stands out in a crowd—tall and lean, with his shaggy fauxhawk, and the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen, but on Tuesday, there’s still no sign of him.
By Wednesday, I anxiously wait in the parking lot for Hayden’s Range Rover to claim its usual spot. When the warning bell rings—a nasally buzzing jangle—and he doesn’t show up, my heart sinks lower in my chest. I’m ready to fill out a missing person’s report, either that, or stomp over to his uncle’s house and make Hayden talk to me.
The last couple of days feel like a horrible B movie that’s been edited and reduced to a mind-numbing documentary. My morning passes in a blur with me being all pouty and grumpy. I try to pay attention in class, but my mind is on Hayden.
When the lunch bell chimes, I trudge to the cafeteria to sit with my friends. Long lines of hungry students hold trays while
waiting to get their grub. Scrawny girls that look like scarecrows line up at the salad bar. And I so want to stuff their faces with something hearty, like meatloaf to fill out those gaunt cheeks. The floors are dull gray linoleum, the walls a boring beige, and the lame posters advertising the upcoming Spring Formal are mockingly plastered everywhere. It’s noisy and crowded and I just want to go home, and bury my face in a gallon of Rocky Road with crushed Oreos.
Comfort food will have to wait until after school. Sigh.
“Whatcha been up to lately, Sloane?” Tanisha asks.
“Not much.”
Raymond picks off the pickles from his hamburger. “You’ve been hanging out with Lancaster a lot lately. What’s that about?”
I shrug. “I was interviewing him for the school paper. He’s actually pretty nice once you get to know him.”
“That’s cool, I guess,” Tanisha says.
Viola silently watches me open my lunchbox and remove a plastic container filled with tortellini salad topped with pepperoni and mozzarella cheese. My mom’s idea of a healthy lunch. Today, I’d kill for a cheeseburger and fries.
Raymond and Tanisha sit at the far end of the table and go back to studying for a Trig test. Devin plops onto a chair and dumps his sack lunch on the table, the contents spilling out. I stop a rolling apple and push it back toward him.
I dully watch Devin stuff his face with BBQ potato chips. If he licks his fingers, I’m gonna hurl. A cute sophomore girl, whose name I can never remember, comes over and sits down beside him. They discuss possible new articles for the school paper with him, and she brushes her arm against his while they talk, but Mr. Eagle Eyes Devin pays her little attention. He keeps stealing glances at my chest.
For heaven’s sake, they’re just boobs!
Devin must have sensed my glare boring holes into his head, because he looks up and catches my stare.
At-a-boy. My eyes are up here.
“Where are you with that Lancaster hacker report?” He glances down to ask my double D-cups.
I squirm and turn in my seat so my huge bazoongas are facing away from him, but it doesn’t do much good. “Turns out there isn’t a story,” I say smoothly. “Just a stupid rumor.”
He frowns. “I’d still like to check your notes. Maybe you missed something—”
“Can you guys discuss this later? She’s trying to eat her lunch.” Viola tucks a wisp of black hair behind her ear.
Whew. Crisis averted. For now.
“You want anything, Sloane?” Devin asks, gesturing to the snack machine. “Viola?”
“No thanks.”
“Bring me back something salty,” Viola says.
Devin gets up and meanders over to the vending machines lining the far wall. Good.
“What’s with you today? You’re not eating, which is unusual, and you’ve been in a funk all week,” Viola says, leaning closer.
“Nothing. I’m just not that hungry today.”
Viola picks up a slice of pepperoni and plops it into her mouth. She’s the lovable lunch vulture, always picking at everyone’s food. “What did you do with the rest of your weekend?”
I turn my back to our other friends and lower my voice, “I hung out with Hayden, actually. At the beach.”
Viola’s eyes widen. “All day? Doing what?”
I stir my salad with a plastic fork. “Kicking back and talking mostly.”
“About?”
I sigh. “Nothing much. Lots of different stuff.”
“Are you two going out again?”
“He did...ask me to go with him to Diego Velazquez’s party.”
She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “Did he now? Like a real date?”
“Well, kind of, but only as friends. I think. Although, we did hang out Saturday night, too.” I tell her about going to dinner, but leave out the part where Hayden got creamed by that compact car.
“Such schmoopiness!” She elbows me in the ribs. “I can’t believe my bestie is dating the unobtainable Hayden Lancaster.”
Only I haven’t seen or talked to him since.
“Lower your voice,” I whisper harshly. “We’re not actually dating or whatever. Just hanging out.”
She puckers her lips. “Is that why you dropped the hacker story? Because you you’ve been crushing on him forever?”
“Partly,” I admit. “There’s just something about him.”
“Agreed.” She plucks another pepperoni off my salad. “Any vigorous tongue contact yet?”
I rapidly shake my head. “No.”
“The kiss will make or break the relationship.” She nods wisely. “If he can’t kiss, there’s no future.”
Viola’s the expert. Not that she’s a ho-bag or anything, she’s just hooked up with more guys than me. Although, we’ve both had a lot of fictional boyfriends, I’ve only had sex with one guy, a hot transfer student from Sweden my junior year, who broke my heart. Guess now I can say that I’ve done it. Check. We dated for six months before the international hottie flew back home and I never heard from him again. The sex was okay, but I remember his lips felt slick from too much medicated lip-balm and reeked of menthol. Not quite the Hollywood-romance-fireworks-soaring-music I’d been expecting for my first time, but not terrible.
I take a sip of my grape juice box, then ask, “How do I know if he’s a good kisser?”
“Believe me, you’ll know. You’ll get major butterflies and feel it everywhere. If it’s sloppy and wet—like you’re going through an automatic carwash—it’s bad.” She fakes a shudder.
“Gross! And you know this from experience?”
“Unfortunately,” she says. “So, you really like him?”
“Unfortunately,” I repeat. “He’s just so infuriatingly guarded, and okay, gorgeous. But underneath his crunchy exterior I can tell he’s a good guy.”
She shakes her head. “You’re headed down Heartbreak Road, you know that, right?”
I nod. My throat dry. “Yeah...more like an unavoidable crash collision.”
With a heavy sigh, I share my cold lunch with Viola and we talk about other things after that. Devin keeps stealing glances at the twins, so I rearrange my leather coat over my chest.
My afternoon classes zoom by like movie trailers. And then the theater goes dark right before the film starts, and mercifully the last bell rings. I’m finally free.
It’s sprinkling and overcast, which matches my mood. I trudge to the Jetta, shielding my books from the rain, to wait for Viola.
“Sloane Masterson?”
I turn curiously, and a young woman in a crimson dress and heels approaches me, dashing rain from her unbuttoned trench with a gloved hand. She has flaxen curls pushed off her face with a headband, a glowing tan, and seriously long legs.
My brows draw inward. “Yes?”
She stops two feet away, and just...stares.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Her features remain static, yet she almost has this determined dog-with-a-bone expression. “Why, yes. There is something wrong.” Her voice is disconcertingly quiet. “I just had to see you in person.”
A slight warning tingle inches up my spine. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The young woman snickers, a peculiar, unnatural sound. The rain continues to fall, slow and ceaseless. The girl’s dress hugs her perfect body and blonde hair sticks to her cheeks.
“You’re nothing special,” she says dejectedly.
“Excuse me?” I frown. “You must have me mixed up with someone—”
“Oh, no. I know who you are...you’re the girl who ruined my life.” She drags a hand through her shoulder-length curls.
“What? I don’t even know you!” I cast a glance around the parking lot. This girl is obviously one fry short of a Happy Meal.
“Relative term. Now you see me—now you don’t,” she sings.
Oh, yeah. Completely freaky-deaky.
Whirling, she begins skipping toward a car parked in a far corner of th
e lot.
What the heck was that all about? A case of mistaken identity? That must be it.
A girl in all black snags my attention. Viola is sashaying her way over to me.
“Thanks for waiting. I needed to get those notes from Tanisha for a big test tomorrow.” Viola stops beside me. “Ready?”
“Are there any mental hospitals around here?” I ask.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Because I think I just met an asylum escapee.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?”
“Guess not.”
After dropping Viola off at home, I go straight to my room and drag out my emergency stash from under the bed. I open the shoebox crammed with candy bars and other tasty snacks. I rip open a package of twin yellow cupcakes, and then grab a fruit rollup. Munching on various goodies while doing my homework, I text Hayden four times over the next two hours.
No response. My mood takes a nosedive into Depresso Land and I feel like throwing my phone at the wall.
I’m too sulky and bloated from my junk food binge to eat dinner with my mom and brother, so instead I watch a horror flick in my room.
I should forget all about Hayden. Just walk away. End things now before they get out of control and someone gets hurt. Namely, me.
But I’m struck with the oddest sensation of falling through the clouds, plummeting hard and fast, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
Sometimes being reckless is thrilling.
Sometimes being stupid-crazy with your heart feels too good to resist.
FIFTEEN
The alarm shrieks and I bang it with a fist. I don’t feel like going to school. I haven’t skipped in forever and I’m due for a mental health day. After I shower and get dressed—pretending to go to school for my mom’s benefit—I drive past Hayden’s uncle’s house looking for his Range Rover. Nada. The house appears dark and quiet.
Hayden had better have lost his cell phone or he’s going to get an ear-full from me when I do finally see him!
With a heavy heart, I keep driving and park at Shadowland Memorial Cemetery. My refuge. Before getting out of the car, I text Viola.