by Brenda Hiatt
"So you could ride with him?"
I stared at her. "Bri, what is up with you? Are you pissed about me riding with Rigel after all?"
Now it was her turn to blush. Red crept up her neck to her ears as she looked away from me. "Why would I be pissed? I think it's great that Rigel likes you."
"You're not acting like it."
"Sorry," she said again, though she didn't quite look at me. "I guess I'm just not in a great mood today."
"What's wrong?" I wanted to watch Rigel out on the field, but Bri was my friend and if she needed to talk, it was my duty to listen.
"It's just—nah, it's nothing. Just . . . PMS or something."
I frowned at her for a long moment, wondering if I should try harder to make her spill whatever it was, but she turned away to watch the players, so I gave up—for the moment. Besides, it meant I could turn my own attention to the field . . . and Rigel.
The pull I felt toward him was stronger than ever. In fact, it was nearly impossible for me not to stare at him. I knew, intellectually, that should bother me, but somehow it didn't. I just feasted my eyes on him with pure pleasure, enjoying the way he moved. A little sigh escaped me when the coach called them off the field before the start of the game. Unfortunately, Bri heard it.
"I'm starting to worry about you, Marsha," she said, again with that edge in her voice. "I mean, I know Rigel is your first boyfriend and all, but it's like he's got you hypnotized or something. You're not acting like yourself at all lately."
I had to stifle an urge to laugh. Not myself? If only she knew! But of course I couldn't tell her anything I'd learned. Probably ever. That thought suddenly sucked all the humor out of the situation. Would I ever be able to have close friends again? Non-Martian friends, anyway?
"Sorry," I said, after too long a pause. "I know I've been kind of wrapped up in him. It's, well . . ." I chose my words carefully. "This is all so new, so different." That was definitely true, in more ways than one.
"Yeah, I guess." She half turned her shoulder to me. "I wouldn't know."
So that was it. Bri was jealous. Maybe not about Rigel specifically, but that I had a boyfriend and she didn't. Not something I could fix, unfortunately.
Before I could think of anything to say that wouldn't sound patronizing, the whistle blew and the game started. I was relieved, then immediately felt guilty for that relief. Bri had been my best friend for most of my life. If I was somehow making her unhappy, I should want to do something about it, shouldn't I? Even if I didn't know what I could do.
That worry dimmed my pleasure in watching Rigel, for a few minutes, anyway. But soon I pretty much forgot everything except the amazingness of his playing. He'd been right, I realized. He really was having his best game ever. Even Bri couldn't hold onto her snit in her excitement over how well our team was doing with Rigel at the helm.
"What a pass!" she exclaimed at one point. "Did you see how he threaded it between those two defenders to land it right in Jaworski's hands? And he made it look so easy. He's playing even better than he did last week!"
I couldn't disagree. I wondered if that "good luck" kiss had made the difference. Was that cheating? And . . . should I feel used? But remembering his look, the tone of his voice, I couldn't believe he'd kissed me just to improve his game.
"Our receivers seem to be doing better, too," I said, mostly to take Bri's focus off Rigel.
"Yeah, they are," she agreed, "though I think it's mostly because Rigel's figured out how to compensate for them. He's not throwing as hard this game—though he's still throwing plenty long. I don't know quite how he does it, but it's definitely working."
At halftime, Jewel was ahead by ten points, something Bri claimed hadn't happened in years.
"I really think we might win tonight," she said excitedly when the whistle blew. "And if we do, we're bound to beat Alexandria next week. What a great party there'll be, if that happens! Oh, hey, can you swing an invite for me? And Deb, if she can get out of the house?"
I blinked at her in confusion. "Invite? To what?"
"The after party," she explained with a "duh" expression. "There's one after every home game, but when we lose, it's just the players and their girlfriends. Where will it be next week, do you know?"
I shook my head. "I didn't even know they had parties. Wouldn't your dad know?"
She gave me a pained, patient look. "Like he'd tell me, even if he did? The coaches don't go—it's not official or anything. But Deb and I were thinking you could get us in—and maybe set us up with a couple of the players?"
"My aunt would never let me go to a party that late," I reminded her. "And . . . I haven't gotten to know any of the other players."
"But you've been going to practices and stuff. You have to be talking to them."
"Two practices. And no, I really haven't." Unwillingly, I remembered Bryce Farmer. "Just Rigel."
"So I guess it's true. You really are out of our league now that you're dating the hot quarterback." Now she wasn't even trying to hide her sour tone. "Lunches in the courtyard, riding his bus home. Now you're all that, you're embarrassed to introduce his teammates to your best friends. Or maybe I should say ex best friends."
I gaped at her, but before I could think of anything to say, she stood up.
"I'm getting a Coke." She stalked off to the concession stand. And she didn't come back. Instead, she went down and stood behind the Jaguar bench, near her dad.
I stared at her back, tears prickling behind my eyelids, trying to figure out what I'd done to make her so mad. All I'd done was tell the truth—but it obviously wasn't what she wanted to hear. Should I have fudged and made some kind of half promise that I'd try to get her a date with one of the football players? Maybe. But then she'd have expected me to follow through, and I had no clue how to do that.
"Fine," I muttered. If she didn't want to be my friend unless I could get her a football player for a boyfriend, then she wasn't really much of a friend anyway. At least, that's what I told myself.
I was glad when the game started again a couple minutes later. When I could watch Rigel, I could block everything else out.
Almost everything.
I couldn't help noticing when Trina broke away from the other cheerleaders between cheers to go say something to Bri, down on the sidelines. They both turned to look up at me and then Trina laughed and said something else before skipping back to the squad. I didn't know what it was, but it made Bri glare at me for several long seconds before she went back to watching the game.
Whatever it was, I'd fix it later, I promised myself as my eyes automatically snapped back to Rigel—just in time to see him run the ball down the field for another touchdown.
Bri's prediction was right—we did win the game, and by a resounding 33-17. The visitor stands went wild, of course, since it was our first win in almost two years. I saw Bri jumping up and down on the sidelines and thought this might be a good time to go talk to her, while she was in such a good mood. It took some effort to squeeze past the students and parents celebrating in the stands, but I made my way through the happy crowd and down to the field.
Then I saw Rigel coming toward me with a huge grin and all thoughts of Bri went right out of my head. I sped up, almost against my will, like a scrap of metal drawn to a powerful magnet.
"You did it!" I cried as we met on the track. "You won!"
Before I had time to think, he grabbed me and swung me around in a tight bear hug. "I couldn't have done it without you," he murmured in my ear as he set me back down.
I wasn't sure I believed that, but it was still wonderful to hear. Almost as wonderful as that unexpected hug had been. Belatedly, I became aware of the crowd around us, all eager to congratulate Rigel on the amazing game he'd played.
And then I remembered Bri.
Reluctantly, I let some of the other Jewel fans have their chance to talk to Rigel and turned to look for her—only to see her staring at me from several yards away. I smiled and waved as I st
arted toward her, but before I'd taken three steps, she suddenly whirled around and headed for the parking lot.
I stopped, hurt all over again. She'd definitely seen me, and just as clearly didn't want to talk to me. It looked like I was going to have to chase her down and force her to listen, even though I didn't know what I'd say.
"Where are you going?" Rigel asked from behind me. "Mom and Dad are over here." He draped an arm over my shoulders as he gestured to where they stood with the coaches and some other parents.
At his touch, nearly every other thought left my head—as always. But I managed to focus long enough to say, "It's Bri. She's mad at me and I thought I should try—"
"What's she mad about?"
I shrugged, since there was no way I was telling him the truth. "Just girl stuff."
He gave my shoulders a little squeeze. "You can call her tomorrow. Come on." He led me back to his admiring throng.
Normally I would have felt hugely out of place surrounded by cheerleaders and football players and other super-cool types, but with Rigel's arm still around me, I felt only the tiniest bit awkward. Everyone was raving about him, patting him on the back, saying it was the best quarterbacking they'd ever seen. A couple of the players smiled at me, but none of the cheerleaders did. Not that that surprised me.
"C'mon, Rige, you gotta ride the bus home," David Jaworski yelled over to him. "It's gonna be a party all the way!"
"Yeah," said Michael Best, another sophomore player. "It won't be half as fun without our star QB. We need our miracle man to help us celebrate."
Heather, the head cheerleader—a gorgeous brunette senior—joined in. "He's right, Rigel. We'll be on the bus, too, and you know cheerleaders know how to party."
There was a shrill chorus of agreement from the rest of the squad. Trina gave me a mean smile, then whispered something to Bryce Farmer, making him laugh. It made me wonder again what she'd said to Bri earlier.
But Rigel shook his head. "Sorry, guys, can't, but you all have fun. You all did a great job out there. And so did you," he added to the cheerleaders. "You kept us motivated."
There was a flurry of protests, but he just smiled and steered me back toward his parents.
"You can take the bus if you want to," I told him with what I thought was admirable selflessness. "You deserve to celebrate with the team after that game."
He grinned down at me. "You really wouldn't mind me partying with the cheerleaders all the way back to Jewel?"
"Okay, I might mind a little," I admitted. "But it's not like I have any right to—"
"Hey." He stopped me with a little squeeze. "You do have a right. I hereby give you the right to mind. But I really don't want to go with them, anyway. All that—" He tilted his head in the direction of the hilarity still going on behind us— "is a little too over the top for me. Not my style. Anyway, I'd much rather be with you."
My heart turned over at the look in his eyes. I still didn't get—at all—how I could matter so much to somebody like Rigel, but I loved that I did.
"Thanks," I managed, just as we reached his parents.
"Ready to go?" his mom asked. "I thought we'd stop for ice cream on the way back, and I know Marsha's aunt and uncle won't want her out too late."
"That was a great game, son," his dad said as we all headed toward the parking lot. "You're an even better player than I realized. We won't have to worry about college tuition, if you keep this up."
Rigel squeezed my shoulders again and I knew it was his way of giving me part of the credit.
"We're very proud of you," his mother added. "We noticed that you've figured out how to pull back a little so you don't overwhelm your receivers."
"Yeah, I, uh, worked on that at practice all this week." Rigel gave me a little half-wink.
I kept my smile mostly to myself, not sure if he wanted his parents to know about the role I was apparently playing in his improvement.
When we reached the car, Rigel threw his helmet, jersey and pads into the trunk, toweled off, then slipped on a fresh t-shirt before sliding into the back seat next to me. Even more than last week, I was hyper aware of him. Of course, he was sweaty, making him harder to ignore, but I didn't think that was the main reason. My heart kept doing little dances every time I relived that wonderful kiss before the game.
But I was determined to find out more about the whole Martian thing—about myself—before we reached home. I didn't know when I'd have another chance to ask questions that maybe only the Stuarts knew the answers to. They were still discussing the game as we left Springdale and turned onto the state road that would take us back to Jewel. I didn't participate much, trying to screw up my courage to ask the question that mattered most to me.
About fifteen minutes out, Mr. Stuart pulled into a custard stand just off the main road and we all went up to the counter to order. We sat at one of the little stone tables to eat our ice cream, the three of them still talking football.
I had just taken the first bite of my hot fudge sundae with mint-chip ice cream when there was a lull in the conversation. No one else was nearby, so I grabbed the opportunity and blurted out, "What do you know about . . . my parents? My real parents?"
Before answering, Rigel's parents looked at each other—for so long that I was sure they were reading each other's thoughts again. Finally, his mother turned to me, her expression so kind, so concerned, that I braced myself for yet another shock, though I had no clue what it might be.
"We weren't sure we should tell you this yet, Marsha—we were going to wait until Shim—Rigel's grandfather—got here. You've already had so much to absorb today."
I felt my heart, my breathing, speed up. They did know! "Tell me. Please!"
She nodded slowly. "Since you've asked us directly, I think we must. You'll need to know before long, anyway."
"I think she'll be fine with this," Rigel said, putting a hand on my arm, calming me.
I put my hand over his and squeezed it in gratitude. "Please?" I said to his mother.
"Your parents were . . . very important people on Mars," she told me. "In fact—"
"In fact," his father interrupted, "they were two of the most important people on Mars, before they came to Earth."
I looked from one of them to the other. "I don't understand."
"Earlier today, I mentioned the political situation on Mars," Mr. Stuart said. "To give you a bit of background, ours has been a remarkably peaceful society, by human standards. Part of the reason is that an aversion to violence—and specifically to killing—was genetically programmed into us by our alien, ah, abductors, all those centuries ago."
"But things have changed now?" I ventured.
"More than I believe most Martians realize," he replied. "Though it may sound odd to someone raised in the United States, we've had a functional monarchy for our entire recorded history. One reason it was successful was that the, ah, royal class was originally chosen from the most intelligent, most talented leaders among us, and those characteristics have persisted through countless generations."
He was right. It did sound strange that such an advanced people would have something as backward-seeming as a monarchy.
"And?"
"Your ice cream is melting, dear," Dr. Stuart gently reminded me.
I took a few quick bites, barely tasting it even though it was my favorite. "And?" I asked again.
Mr. Stuart smiled at my eagerness, but it was a sad smile. "A few decades ago, a particularly charismatic man named Faxon began fomenting unrest, bringing charges of elitism—among other things—against the Royal class. Over the years, discontent grew, carefully nurtured by Faxon and his agitators, until there was an active uprising and, finally, a coup. The monarchy was overthrown."
Though I still didn't see what this could possibly have to do with me, I was caught up in the story. "What did the deposed king—was he called a king?—do?"
"The nearest English translation is 'Sovereign.' He called for a referendum of the people to dec
ide the matter, as was our custom when any general disputes arose. But that wasn't good enough for Faxon. He and his followers stormed the Royal Palace and took our Sovereign and his wife captive, then assumed the powers of government, claiming popular acclamation."
He paused and I noticed that both of Rigel's parents looked unhappy. Clearly, their sympathies had been with the Sovereign.
"But . . . you were already here on Earth when all this happened, weren't you?"
Rigel's mother nodded. "We're able to get fairly regular news from Mars, though we've had to take more precautions to mask our communications in recent decades."
I supposed that made sense, given their advanced technology.
"I still don't understand," I said when neither of them continued the story. "What does all of this have to do with my . . . my parents?"
Dr. Stuart sighed, her expression troubled. "Your grandfather, Leontine, was our last Sovereign before the uprising," she said. "Your father, Mikal, was his heir. On the advice of the Council, he left for Earth when things started to get ugly—with his wife and their infant daughter. You."
"Wait." My mind hadn't quite caught up with what she was saying. "You mean—?"
"Yes, Marsha." She put a hand over mine on the stone tabletop. "You are the direct heir to the Martian throne."
13
Stress-energy tensor
MY WORLD HAD been knocked askew several times over the past couple of days, but now it tilted even further on its axis. Surely there must be hidden cameras somewhere? Though I'd nearly managed to accept that I was Martian in origin, the idea that I might really, truly be a Martian princess was just too outlandish.
"But . . . didn't you just say there isn't a throne anymore? I mean, if the monarchy was overthrown, that means I'm just—" Just a regular person after all. Well, a regular person from Mars, but still.
"You're not 'just' anything, Marsha." Mr. Stuart's voice was unexpectedly stern. "For countless generations, we've looked to the royal family, and particularly the Sovereigns, for leadership. The respect, the reverence, our people have for that office and the person holding it is deeply ingrained. A mere dozen or so years under an upstart despot hasn't changed that."