Of Jenny and the Aliens

by Ryan Gebhart

  My heart is pounding as if I’ve never met her before. This is the first time Señor has ever paired us up to salsa dance. It’s what he makes the class do whenever his lesson plans run short. How come he doesn’t know what happened over the weekend? Snow White. The hook-up in the shower.

  The alien encounter.

  I’m looking at her with a smile that probably comes across as creepy, but she’s staring at the ground, limply placing her hand atop my shoulder.

  My hands rest on her hips.

  Is this what it feels like to be on the verge of war?

  Festive trumpets blare out from the small stereo, and random percussion instruments tap away. Señor stands in front of his desk, and over the music he shouts, “Start with your left foot and go forward. One, two, three. Then back to neutral stance. Five, six, seven.” He demonstrates the move in front of the class with Ingrid. “Follow me. One, two, three. Back. Five, six, seven. Uno, dos, tres. Atrás. Cinco, seis, siete.”

  I’m forcing her along and my feet skid against the ground so I don’t step on her, because she’s barely moving.

  “Uno, dos, tres.”

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  She turns, her glazed eyes focused on the buckeye tree outside, but it’s like she’s looking at something else entirely.

  We do a side step, then come back to neutral, and she doesn’t accept my right hand. She stands there sadly, but I’m still moving around and barely touching her hip with my left hand.

  She says, “He didn’t die to start a war. He —”

  From the front of the classroom: “Jennifer, ¿por qué no estás bailando?”

  “— just wanted to serve.”

  “Jennifer . . . ”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll fucking bailar.” She snatches my hands and assumes the lead, jerking me around, not following the music’s rhythm. She spreads our arms out and pulls me real close, then real far away.

  I’m not going to say another word.

  With the salsa still playing, Jenny lets go of me and grabs a pack of cigarettes from her purse. She sits down beneath the sloth poster and fires one up.

  “Jennifer, put that out!” Señor says. “What on Earth would —?”

  She rubs the cherry on the heel of her Converse, slings her backpack over her shoulder, then marches out the door.

  I pick up the cigarette and throw it in the trash. My heart is racing and my pits are disgusting, sweaty crevasses.

  Jenny messages me while I’m in calculus.

  JENNY: Quieres mirar Wreck-It Ralph en mi casa?

  ME: A que hora?

  JENNY: Cuatro.

  JENNY: My parents are making Taiwanese. My mom wants to meet you.

  I restrain myself from asking why, but there are only two possible reasons: Jenny told her mom about what happened at Side Cut and she’s curious to know more about the alien, or she simply wants to meet her daughter’s new boyfriend. Has Jenny told her that’s what I am?

  I’ve never ditched school before, but when the bell rings, I walk out the front door to my truck. I need to do a load of wash because sweat is dripping down my sides and I want Jenny to rest her head on my shoulder while we watch the movie.

  I shower. I shave my face and a few other things.

  Joel keeps getting up to check on dinner while we watch the movie in the living room with Mrs. Novak, who tells me to please just call her Katherine. I’ve never tried Taiwanese — I don’t even know what their food is like — but it smells amazing. This must be a special occasion. I just wish I knew what it’s for.

  I wonder why they decided on Taiwanese. Maybe they have friends from Taiwan, or they vacationed there one time.

  Jenny is sitting on the reclining chair, her knees up to her chest. She hasn’t said anything about what happened in Hafemann’s class this morning or about the incident at Side Cut park, but something’s on her mind. If she’s not going to say anything, I’m not going to bring it up, because I’ll never forget the way she looked in the water as I fought myself free from her.

  “Come on, gang,” Joel says. “Dinner’s ready.”

  We pause the movie and file into the dining room, where a ton of food awaits. We each have a huge bowl of soup — steaming noodles and cabbage and random hunks of meat with the gristle still attached. In the middle of the table on a large serving platter are these doughy soft taco-looking things.

  I say, “What are those?”

  “Gua bao,” Katherine says while bringing out the salad bowl, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of fancy Taiwanese salad. “Steamed buns with braised pork belly.”

  She pours herself a glass of pink wine from a box and hands both Jenny and me a can of Dr Pepper.

  Joel turns on a little Bose stereo in the corner and the Beatles are playing.

  As Jenny takes her seat catty-corner from me, I can see bags beneath her eyes, like she didn’t sleep well last night. In certain lights, she can look like she’s barely fifteen. Right now I’d peg her closer to twenty-two.

  I use a ladle-like spoon to try the soup, and I’ve never tasted anything fresher. Then I go for a gua bao. It’s soft and warm, and there are just so many flavors. I can’t make out what they are other than amazing.

  Do they cook like this every day? I’m used to eating mostly frozen pizzas, hot dogs, and ramen. It’s like I’m visiting a different world, even though Jenny’s house is just on the other side of town.

  I know this is going to come across as ass-kissy, but I say to Joel, “Are you a chef?”

  He shrugs. “Just a hobby of ours.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Dammit, I didn’t mean to ask that. It just slipped out.

  He smiles like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “No occasion.”

  I look at Jenny’s mom, who’s putting some sriracha in her soup. She wanted me over, but it appears she doesn’t have much to say to me. This isn’t how I pictured the first meeting with the parents would go. I thought this was going to be a grilling like in movies, but it’s just dinner.

  Hmm. Okay, then.

  Joel sits across from me between two dining-room windows, and right above him is Alex’s senior portrait. He’s standing with his back against a brick wall with a smug smile, wearing the Lacoste shirt that’s currently getting funked up in a plastic bag next to my Lord of the Rings LEGO sets. His short, muddy brown hair is styled, and he’s got the same chipmunk nose as Jenny, which works against his tough-guy image.

  Joel follows my eyes to the portrait, his arm resting on the back of his chair. “Good-looking guy, isn’t he?”

  I nod but don’t say anything. I should give condolences, but that doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.

  He says, “Smart as a whip too. He wanted to go to film school when he got out of the military.”

  Katherine says, “He and Jennifer were writing a movie together.”

  “It was a TV pilot,” Jenny says, then sips from her ladle.

  “What did you name your show again?” Joel says.

  “Alex named it.”

  “Was it Monkey Business?” I say.

  “That’s it!” he says. “It starred an actual monkey, right?”

  “We wanted to get a chimpanzee, but we just thought the name Monkey Business was funnier.” She looks at me with a slight smile. “It was about this chimp who plays the saxophone and . . . yeah, it’s dumb.”

  I say, “So, like, how were you going to film it? Were you going to get someone to dress up in a little chimp suit?”

  “Well, I wanted to get an actual chimp.”

  “But it’s not like they have stores that rent out chimps.”

  “I know,” she says sharply, but with good humor. She looks at her mom, then her dad, then settles on me. “It was something Alex and I used to do. We wrote these stupid scripts or came up with ideas for T-shirts. He was pretty funny.”

  “And so are you,” Joel says, giving Jenny a sympathetic nod. “You would have liked him, Derek. He could have offered this world
so much, as a husband, a father”— he blinks, twice, in rapid succession —“and a son. He was a hero.”

  Katherine says, “We would rather have him not be a hero and home with us instead.” She puts her hand atop Joel’s and gently squeezes. To me, she says, “I know everyone has their opinions about Raya, but I think our government has forgotten that those troops we’re about to deploy are actual people. To them two hundred thousand is just a number. But each one of them has their own story to tell.”

  I have another ladle full of noodles and meat, and I nod. I don’t know enough to give back my own opinion.

  I say, “Can I read your script?”

  I don’t think Jenny was expecting me to say this by the way she’s looking at her plate and picking at her salad with her fork with a goofy, embarrassed grin. “It isn’t finished. But okay.”

  “Jennifer, it can wait until after dinner,” Joel says.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” I say.

  “I’ll eat the rest later. Come on, Derek.”

  I feel rude, being a guest and getting up like this in the middle of dinner that must’ve taken so much effort, but I’ll go wherever Jenny wants to take me.

  “Thanks,” I say to her parents. “It’s really delicious.”

  I follow her downstairs, and she hands me the script that she must’ve used as a coaster, because there was an empty bottle of Nesquik on top of it. Her sofa has been converted into its bed form. I sit on the corner of the mattress and turn the title page.

  INT. LAW OFFICE — DAY

  BORIS, a large, unkempt Eastern European woman, enters the leprechaun MR. POOTIES’s upscale NYC office, furrowing her unibrow angrily, her sagging boobs swinging around angrily.

  BORIS

  Mr. Pooties, I have a case for you.

  Pooties takes a puff from his pipe and shuffles the papers on his desk.

  MR. POOTIES (Irish accent)

  How did you find my office?

  BORIS

  I followed the trail of deflated blow-up dolls.

  MR. POOTIES

  I see you have discovered my calling card. Well, then, what be the case, lass?

  BORIS

  My ex-boyfriend, Monkey Business, has stolen my beautiful panties.

  MR. POOTIES (deep and aroused baritone)

  Ooh yeah. Tell me more, baby.

  BORIS

  They are big. And they are beautiful. Some of them also have brown streaks. They are precious to me.

  The lights in the office go dim, the shutters close, and a disco ball lowers from the ceiling. Seventies porno music starts playing.

  MR. POOTIES

  Yeah, that’s what I’m talking ’bout.

  I laugh. “This is so random. I can imagine this as a cartoon.”

  She sits so close, her right leg is up against my left leg. She takes the script and says enthusiastically, “We wanted it to be filmed documentary style. It’s basically like any other celebrity story, but with a chimp. It starts off with his humble beginnings — he’s in love with Boris, you know, stealing her undies and stalking her twitterfeed.”

  “What does she tweet about? Her undies?”

  “Mostly, yeah.” She’s smiling so big and she’s completely lost in the memory. “He’s trying to get gigs to get her attention, then finally catches his big break when he performs at a talent show on the White House lawn. We watch his meteoric rise to the top, and he becomes this huge celebrity. If we ever got renewed for a second season, he meets Jack Cracker, this homeless guy who takes him under his wing, and a lot more stuff happens. We only got the pilot written, but we also have a bunch of outlines and various scenes.”

  “Alex was a Navy SEAL and you two wrote a script about a monkey? That’s pretty incredible.”

  “We built the tree house in the backyard, and we also planned to start our own clothing line.”

  It feels weird being allowed to read Monkey Business and to hear about her brother. This is only the third day we’ve been hanging out, and she’s opened up to me so much. She must really like me.

  I’ve never been that close with Avery. Maybe it’s because we’re just half-brothers or because he lives in Texas and I only see him on special occasions.

  I want to tell Jenny all the things about myself that I don’t tell anyone. But I can’t. She’s not gonna like me if she finds out who I really am. It’s too stupid. I mean, my real first name isn’t even Derek.

  And then I bring it up, because I know she won’t. “You want to hear something wild? That alien on Blue Grass Island? He’s a Cleveland Browns fan.”

  I look at her face to try to gauge a reaction. But her expression hasn’t changed in the slightest. The only thing that’s different in this world is that Jenny’s leg is no longer touching mine. “What did he do to you?”

  “He was scared. He thought I went out there to hurt him. He smoked some space weed and told me how much he wanted to play beer pong with us.”

  “It’s not a joke, Derek.”

  “I’m not joking. I think I got a contact high. He told me to call him Karo.”

  “Do you know what an apex predator is?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I was watching this special on Nat Geo last night . . .” She looks up and to the right, thinking of her next words. “And they were talking about lions of the Serengeti. They called them the apex predator of their environment. Basically, an apex predator is the highest species on a food chain. No one eats a lion.”

  “I’m sure someone’s eaten lion before.”

  “Yeah, and that’s us. We’re above the lions. Without even breaking a sweat, we can get a rifle and take down the most fearsome beast of the Serengeti. I got to thinking that the lions aren’t an apex predator at all. Look at what humans do. We live everywhere. We eat anything. No other species can say no to us. Why can’t they say no to us?”

  “I’m . . . not really sure where you’re going with this.”

  “They’re not smart enough. I mean, imagine a poacher in the Serengeti. He can be the dumbest, most obnoxious person ever, but he can still kill a lion.”

  “But that’s illegal.”

  She huffs and shakes her head in an annoyed way. “That’s not the point.”

  “Okay, so what? Humans are the apex predator?”

  “No,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”

  “What? Come on. That guy . . . he didn’t want to eat me.”

  “He’s a monster.”

  “No. I think, you know, I think it’s all about perspective. I mean, what if our physical features are terrifying to them? Maybe on their world, they describe monsters as having hair and noses.”

  “I took a picture of him, you know.”

  There’s an electric shock that starts in my head and ends in my chest. My breathing gets faster, but I don’t show it.

  She hands me her phone, and on the screen there’s a picture of the scenic Maumee River in dying autumnal colors. In the center is Karo dragging me by my ankles with a full-toothed grimace, and he does kinda look like a shark that got its faced smashed in. My face is planted in the mud and my arms are extended out in front of me. I mean, maybe someone with some really awesome Photoshop skills could pull this off, but, my God, if that doesn’t look convincing.

  I say, “So I was getting beaten senseless, and you were fucking around on Instagram?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” she says with an edge. “Swim out there and get attacked by that thing too?”

  “You haven’t shown this to anyone, have you?”

  “Why?”

  “Jenny!” I bark, and she flinches with an eyebrow raised. I wasn’t expecting to yell at her. She wasn’t either. “What would happen to me if the cops found it?”

  “I didn’t show it to anyone. I haven’t told anyone. God.”

  “You have to delete it.” I reach for her phone, and she pulls away.

  “We might need it.”

  “For what?”

  “T
his is evidence that they’re here. If we get this out to the news channels, then everyone will know to get ready before it’s too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Yeah. The Centaurians are waiting for the right moment — or when they’re really, really hungry — and then they’ll begin cultivating us. We’re going to be like cattle led into the slaughterhouse.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Jenny. Where are you getting this stuff ?”

  “Didn’t you ever hear what Stephen Hawking said?”

  “No.”

  “He said something along the lines of, ‘If aliens ever visit us, it’ll be like when Columbus came to America, which didn’t turn out too great for the Native Americans.’ Stephen Hawking is a genius. He knows what he’s talking about.”

  “Maybe they come in peace.”

  “Oh, please. Look around you. Look at hurricanes and earthquakes. Look at war and, like, black holes. Entire galaxies get swallowed up for no reason.”

  “I don’t think that’s how black holes wor —”

  “Do you really think that peace exists? There’s no such thing. Peace, just like hope and love, is a concept backed by nothing. This whole planet — hell, this entire universe — it’s all one big joke. We’re going to invade Raya, and someday the Centaurians are going to invade Earth.” She pulls her hair back behind her ear. It doesn’t stay in place. There’s a redness around the rims of her eyes. She says, “The only thing we’re promised when we’re born is that we die.”

  “I’m sure we’re promised more —”

  “That’s it. Some babies die minutes after they’re born. Alex wanted us to move to Los Angeles together. He’s dead.”

  I want to say I’m sorry. I want to hold her and tell her that everything is going to be okay. But that would be such a douche thing to do. What do I know? I’ve never had anyone close to me die. My sad story doesn’t compare. Yeah, my parents are divorced, but Dad still sends Mom a fat child-support check each month, way more than the judge asked for.