Starstruck

by Brenda Hiatt

CHAPTER 21: Stellar discoveries

  I was still feeling pretty good when I got to school Monday morning, even though I wasn't sure exactly what to expect.

  Rigel and his folks had come to church yesterday, and even though they didn't sit with us, they at least nodded a greeting afterward—and Rigel and I managed to exchange a look and a smile when they weren't watching. I didn't think my aunt and uncle noticed, either, though I half wished my aunt had, after the stuff she'd said.

  They definitely had no clue I'd snuck out Saturday night, and that was something I was completely fine with. Especially since I was hoping to do it again—soon and often. I was careful not to act too chipper on Sunday morning, even though I felt like singing. No point inviting questions I couldn't answer.

  I caught myself chewing the inside of my cheek as I got to Geometry class, the way I sometimes did when I was nervous. Rigel had said we should still pretend to ignore each other, but what if I couldn't pull it off? What if he couldn't? What if he could? Taking a deep breath, like I would before jumping into deep water, I entered the room.

  The pull I always felt toward Rigel was stronger than I could ever remember it being before—so strong, it took an actual physical effort to keep my feet from moving his way. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him sway just a little as I walked past and hoped it meant he was feeling the same unusual pull. I also hoped I'd get a chance to ask him later on.

  I was pretty proud of myself that I managed to take my seat without looking at him. Well, not right at him, though I was so aware of him it felt like cheating. Still, if no one noticed, it didn't count, right?

  Deb was watching me closely, though. "Bri was right. You look about two hundred percent better today than you did Friday," she said, referring to our conversation on the bus. "It's great that you've bounced back so well."

  I just smiled. I'd told them I'd gotten a lot of sleep over the weekend, but they both chose to see my improvement as proof that I was finally over Rigel. Which was the safest thing to let them assume, even if the truth was exactly the opposite.

  A couple of hours later, in English class, I made a point of trying to pick up that Martian vibe from Mr. Smith, after what Rigel had said Saturday night. Now, though, I wasn't sure I was feeling it—not that I'd ever felt it very strongly from anyone other than Rigel. It was like his vibe was so intense—to me, at least—that it drowned out anyone nearby. With him sitting right in front of me, it was especially hard for me to focus on anything else.

  Trina kept swiveling around—pretty much every time Mr. Smith's back was turned—to flirt with Rigel, but I noticed he wasn't responding nearly as much as he had last week. I hoped it was because he knew now that he could hurt me emotionally as much as physically and was trying not to do that.

  I thought Rigel seemed a little . . . twitchy during English, but it wasn't until Science that I understood why. Now he was sitting behind me, the way I'd sat behind him last period—and I could feel him back there, more strongly than usual. It was really, really hard not to turn around. So hard that about ten minutes into class, Will asked if I was sitting on a tack or something. I tried harder to sit still after that.

  But just a few minutes later, a delicious tap on my shoulder sent a wakeup call ricocheting through my body and I did turn.

  "Can I borrow a pen?" Rigel whispered. "Mine's out of ink." He kept his expression neutral but I could see amusement flickering deep in his eyes and knew it was just a ruse—an excuse to touch me. The thought made me giddy.

  "Oh! Um, sure." I rummaged in my bag and panicked for a second when I couldn't find a pen right away, but then I did and handed it to him, making sure my fingers touched his. "Here you go."

  "Thanks." This time he allowed himself just the smallest smile—enough to approximately double my heart rate.

  As I turned back around, I heard Trina hiss, "Couldn't you have borrowed one from someone else? Anyone else?"

  I was willing to bet she'd be carrying several extra pens tomorrow.

  At the end of class, Rigel returned my pen, which gave us another excuse to brush fingers. It was nowhere as good as a kiss, or even holding hands, but it was massively better than no touching at all. I headed for lunch with an extra bounce in my step.

  "So, M," Bri said as she and Deb and I sat down with our trays. "Now that you're past the meltdown-rebound stage, how about the three of us triple-date to the movies next week? Nate Groundwater told Matt Mullins to tell me to tell you that he's interested. Or there's Jimmy Franklin. I mean, I know he's just on the JV team, but you've liked him forever, and he's been telling everybody you guys are going out sometime soon."

  "What?" My attention had strayed to Rigel—surrounded by cheerleaders as usual—but that snapped me back. "I never told him that."

  "But he asked?" Deb demanded. "Tell me he asked!"

  I nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, actually, he asked me to Homecoming but I said no. I guess I might have said something like, 'maybe some other time.'"

  "Well, there you go." Bri made it sound like everything was settled or something.

  "But I—" I stopped. I couldn't very well say I didn't want to go out with Jimmy because Rigel and I were back together, since that was a huge secret. "I don't think I'm really ready for that," I ended lamely.

  Bri and Deb launched into a lengthy tag-team lecture on why I needed to move on, not only for my sake but for the sake of all dumped girls everywhere, but now my attention was diverted by the sight of our new English teacher patrolling the lunchroom. Because he was most definitely patrolling.

  As I always did when he was in the room, I tried to make myself more inconspicuous. I knew I gave off enough of a vibe for other Martians to pick up, and I absolutely didn't want Mr. Smith noticing. He hadn't seemed to yet, though I'd been careful not to speak up in his class, remembering how Rigel's voice had affected me the first day of school—and pretty much every day since.

  He wandered the cafeteria, seemingly aimlessly, though I could tell it was anything but aimless. His gaze kept coming back to Rigel and whoever was talking to him.

  Like I'd done in English class, I tried to focus on Smith, to see if I could get that Martian vibe off of him, but I couldn't, not really. What I did get from him, though, as strongly as I had his first day here, was a gut feeling that said the guy couldn't be trusted.

  Shim had told me to trust my instincts, and my instincts said that Smith was bad news— though I really, really hoped I was wrong. Because I was pretty sure that if Shim and his high-ranking cronies believed Smith was a real threat, I wouldn't be able to talk them out of whisking me away to Montana or some other remote place. Without Rigel. Which made it super tempting to just assume the Stuarts were right, and Mr. Smith was no threat at all.

  But even if I wanted to gamble my life on that assumption—which I didn't—not knowing meant Rigel would never be willing for us to be a real couple again. And that meant I needed to find out for sure what Smith was up to, whether he was a danger or not. But how?

  By the next day I had a plan. A risky plan, probably a stupid plan, but better than nothing. Maybe.

  I told my aunt I'd be staying after school that day—partly in case Rigel could get out of football practice early, like he'd hinted he might, but mainly so I could snoop around in Smith's classroom. I knew the odds were low I'd actually find anything, but it was a place to start.

  During English class and at lunch, I watched him every chance I got, which meant whenever I didn't think he'd notice. I'm not sure what I hoped to see—certainly he didn't do anything overtly sinister. But he did check his cell phone almost constantly, even during class, though he was very discreet about it. I probably hadn't noticed before because I'd been trying so hard to be invisible.

  At least six times during our fifty minute class, he slipped it out of his desk drawer—I carefully noted which drawer—glanced at it, then quickly put it away again. Interesting. At lunch he checked it even more often, like every five minutes, as he prowled aro
und the cafeteria. Definitely interesting.

  Obviously he was expecting an important call or text. It might just be about getting his cable hooked up or his car in the shop. Or it might be about something related to his real business here in Jewel.

  If I could somehow get my hands on that cell phone, I could check his call history, his texts, anything he hadn't erased. And even if I couldn't, maybe I could get lucky and overhear him or something—if I had the guts to get that close.

  Common sense said I should play it safe and stay as invisible—and as far from him—as possible. But more and more, I wanted to know what I was really up against, or if I was up against anything at all. I was sure those important Martian muckety-mucks hadn't told Rigel and me everything, either because it was too secret or because they only saw us as kids. Sometimes I even wondered if Shim might have exaggerated the possible danger just to keep me quiet and away from Rigel, that maybe there wasn't really any threat at all. If so, I definitely had a right to know.

  As soon as the last bell rang, I headed straight for Mr. Smith's classroom. But when I reached it, he was still there, talking to a couple of senior girls who were pretty blatantly flirting with him in the guise of asking questions about some assignment. I wished I could tell them he was probably at least fifty years old instead of the twenty-five he looked.

  Since I couldn't do any snooping with him there, I continued past the classroom and on to the media center. I'd do a little homework and try back after a while.

  Half an hour later, I wandered oh-so-casually back down the hallway and saw that the room was dark and the door open. After a quick check up and down the hall to make sure no one was watching, I whisked into the classroom and pushed the door partway closed.

  I set to work methodically searching his desk. No cell phone (of course) and nothing else that looked even a little bit incriminating or even personal. Just lesson plans and books and stacks of papers written by students, stuff like that. Next I looked through the shelves behind his desk and the table along the side of the room, but I knew it was pointless. Finally I gave it up, wondering why I'd thought there was any chance at all he'd have left anything important in an unlocked classroom anyway. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Worse, by the time I came to that obvious conclusion, I had to run to catch the late bus, so all I saw of Rigel was his profile through the window of his bus. A wasted afternoon altogether.

  I didn't abandon my plan, though. For the rest of the week, I kept a close eye on Mr. Smith whenever I could, even detouring past his classroom between as many of my classes as possible. He kept checking his phone a lot, but otherwise I didn't catch him doing anything suspicious. Maybe my instincts were wrong—which would be great.

  During lunch Friday, I happened to be watching Mr. Smith over Bri's shoulder when he checked his phone yet again and suddenly stiffened, then hurried out of the cafeteria.

  "So anyway," Bri was saying, "if you guys tell your folks you're spending the night at my house after the game and I tell my mom I'm staying at Deb's—"

  "Um, I gotta go," I said, shoving to my feet without taking my eyes off of Mr. Smith's retreating back.

  Bri gaped at my rudeness. "But I was just—"

  "I know. Sorry. Bathroom," I mumbled over my shoulder, already on my way. I didn't know if I'd be able to overhear anything important, but it was the best shot I'd had all week and I wasn't going to miss it.

  I practically sprinted across the cafeteria, not much caring what anybody else thought, except maybe Rigel. I could feel his eyes on my back, but no way was I stopping to explain, even if doing so wouldn't violate his whole pretend-not-to-notice-each-other policy. If I found out anything, I'd tell him later.

  By the time I got to the lunchroom door, Mr. Smith was halfway down the hall, his phone already to his ear. I just had to hear what he was saying! I couldn't very well run after him without him noticing, but even as I thought that, he ducked into a classroom.

  Now I was willing to hurry. Grateful I'd worn sneakers today, I ran as lightly as I could, stopping just short of the doorway he'd gone into. Leaning against the wall, I pulled an emery board out and pretended to file my nails—not actually touching them, since that would have made noise—while I strained my ears.

  If my own hearing hadn't become nearly as good as Rigel's by now, I wouldn't have been able to make out any words at all. But Rigel and I had been doing a lot of secret touching these days, managing to brush fingertips or shoulders at least a couple of times a day. I could hear Mr. Smith like he was just a couple feet away, even though I was pretty sure he was at the far end of the room.

  "Yes, I'm almost certain," he was saying. "I've watched the Stuart kid's every move for two weeks now."

  There was a pause, during which I could barely hear the voice on the other end of the line, enough to tell it was male and impatient, but not actual words.

  "No, that's just it. He's pretty thick with this one girl, a cheerleader—Trina Squires—but I've checked her records and even talked with her, and there's no evidence she's . . . who we're looking for. None. It's a dead end, like I've said all along. The Stuart kid probably made those internet searches himself." Another pause. "Who knows? Simple curiosity, maybe. We don't know how much he's been told."

  Now there was another, longer pause. The voice on the other end sounded a little less upset, I thought.

  "Yes," Smith finally replied. "I think it's safe to go ahead with the plan. I know he doesn't want to risk her somehow popping up in the middle of things, but if she's not here, she's probably not anywhere—this was our strongest lead yet. I've doubted all along she's alive at all. What? (pause) No, the Stuart kid hasn't said anything to me, so the device must be working. I think you should tell him we're good to go. These Duchas will never even know what hit them." He chuckled—nastily, I thought.

  One more quick question that I couldn't hear.

  "No, I can't think of anything else to do here, but I should probably finish out the semester to avoid speculation, unless he decides to put the plan in motion sooner. And you probably shouldn't ask me to call again during the day—it's too risky, even if no one suspects."

  I heard the faint beep of his phone disconnecting, but by then I was already walking softly back in the direction of the cafeteria, my heart hammering like crazy. The bell rang just as I reached the doors and I suddenly remembered that I hadn't had time to eat anything before escaping for my little stint of espionage. Glancing at my table, I saw Bri, her back still to the door, stacking my tray on top of hers to take to the drop. She still looked pissed.

  Not that any of that mattered now.

  Even though I had no idea what "plan" Mr. Smith had been referring to, I'd definitely heard enough to verify that he was exactly what Rigel and I had first feared. Now we had to decide what to do about it.

  It was all I could do to sit still during my last three classes. I was dying to tell Rigel what I'd heard, but it was way too much to put into a note. Besides, we'd agreed to meet after school today, though we hadn't worked out any of the details.

  At the end of History I managed to get close enough to him to brush hands and I tried to catch his eye to get some kind of confirmation that was were still meeting, but though his fingers briefly closed over mine, he didn't quite look at me. We were really getting good at this. Maybe too good, at least for my purposes right now.

  But when I opened my locker at the end of the day, there was a scrap of folded paper at the bottom. I snatched it up, not even waiting to make sure no one was watching, almost afraid to hope. It had one word written on it: cornfield.

  Yes! It was all I could do not to pump my fist in the air. I threw my homework for the weekend into my backpack, slung it over my shoulder and headed for the side door we'd used before, opposite the stadium.

  Rigel was nowhere in sight. I thought I remembered where we'd entered before, give or take a couple of rows, but once I was well within the towering, now-yellowing stalks, I couldn't help feeling a little
nervous. It would be fatally easy to get lost in here, with visibility limited to maybe three feet in any direction. The big leaves crackled as I moved through them as quickly as I reasonably could, hoping I hadn't misjudged by more than a couple of rows. If I had, I might miss the clearing completely—and maybe the late bus as well.

  I'd been walking, all but blind, for nearly ten minutes and was just starting to feel the first twinges of panic when I heard a whispered, "Over here!"

  Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I angled two rows to the right and a moment later reached the clearing. I stepped out under the brilliantly blue early October sky to see Rigel waiting for me on "our" rock. Even with bits of dried corn detritus sprinkled in his dark hair, he looked as gorgeous as I'd ever seen him. He stood as I approached and then we were embracing. Then kissing. I decided talking could wait.

  "Y'know," I murmured when I finally could, "I'm glad this stuff is seed corn instead of sweet corn."

  He blinked at me. "Huh?"

  "Sweet corn would have been cut down by mid-August. This place wouldn't even exist. I'm so glad it does."

  Now he laughed. "You really are an Indiana girl, no matter where you were born. But I'm glad, too." He kissed me again, and for another delicious minute I forgot anything else.

  Finally, though, the need to tell him what I'd learned outweighed—barely—my need for more kissing. I nudged him back to the rock and we sat there together, still touching from hip to shoulder, his arm around me. I took a deep breath, as much to refocus my thoughts as because I needed the air.

  "I heard something today I need to tell you about," I began. "I—we—were definitely right about Smith."

  He frowned at me in concern. "So you really were following him when you left the cafeteria in such a hurry? That was way risky. I'd have stopped you except I was afraid that would be even riskier."

  "He didn't see me. And you'll be glad you didn't stop me when I tell you what I heard. I could tell he was leaving to make a phone call—he's been, like, obsessive about checking his phone all week—and I wanted to listen in if I could."

  Rigel looked appalled. "Oh, man, M! What if he'd—"

  "No, just listen. It was obviously a call from his Martian boss." I told him exactly what I'd heard, as close to verbatim as I could remember. "So," I concluded, "not only were we right, but your plan turned out to be a good one, much as I hate to admit it. He's pretty much given up trying to find me here."

  "Yeah." Rigel looked thoughtful. "But since he's not leaving yet, it means we still can't risk being seen together, not while he's around. And what's that 'plan' he mentioned?"

  I shrugged. "I was kind of hoping you might know. It's definitely not good, whatever it is, though I can't imagine how they'd think I could interfere with it. Your folks haven't said anything?"

  "No, but I doubt they would—to me, anyway. Assuming they know anything about it."

  "Hm. I'll bet Shim does, even if they don't. I don't think there's much that gets past him—though I guess this Smith guy did. Though from what Smith said, it sounds like he does have some kind of device that keeps other Martians from picking up on his brath. So . . . what do you think your folks will do if you tell them about this?"

  Rigel shook his head slowly. "To be honest, I'm kind of afraid to find out. I'm pretty sure the minute my grandfather knows for sure that someone connected to Faxon is here in Jewel, he—that whole Council—will insist on getting you away from here—making you disappear."

  "That's what I was afraid of." Then, afraid I wouldn't like the answer, I asked, "Would you have to . . . disappear too?"

  "Probably not. I do know they absolutely won't let me go wherever you go, not after the way that Allister guy ragged on Grandfather about how I could screw up your destiny or whatever. It's . . . it's one reason I didn't try harder to convince them Smith was a bad guy," he admitted. "I didn't want to risk them doing something drastic before we were sure."

  "And I don't want to risk it even now!" I felt the same panic welling up in me that I'd felt when Shim had talked about moving me to some compound. "I . . . I don't think we should tell them anything about this. Not yet."

  Rigel looked uncomfortable. "Your safety should be the only thing that matters, but—" He ran a hand up my arm, leaving a delicious tingle in its wake— "the idea of them taking you away somewhere I can't follow, can't protect you . . ."

  He thought for a moment. "Maybe . . . maybe we should try to find out more before we tell them? I know there's stuff going on, political stuff, that my parents aren't talking about. And not just back on Mars. At least, that's what it sounds like from the bits I've heard when they didn't know I was listening."

  I nodded. I'd gotten the same impression that evening when all the dignitaries were there at Rigel's house. "Any ideas on how we're going to do that?"

  "I think you've done your part already," he said with that crooked grin I loved. "Now it's my turn to do some snooping—at home. I'll let you know what I find out."

  I didn't like leaving it all to him, but since I couldn't think of anything I could do along those lines, I reluctantly agreed. "Okay. And I'll, um, see if I can find out anything else about my adoption. I mean, why did everyone just assume I died along with my parents? And how did I end up getting adopted? I'm sure there's stuff my aunt hasn't told me, and who knows? Maybe it'll turn up some kind of clue to this . . . plan, whatever it is. Or why I'm a threat to it."

  "Just don't do anything else risky," he said, holding both of my hands and looking earnestly into my face. "Promise?"

  "I promise not to risk anything worse than my aunt getting pissed at me. And it's not like I can avoid that, anyway."

  That forced a chuckle from him. "Good enough. How about we try to meet in the arboretum again tomorrow night, to compare notes."

  I nodded eagerly. "Midnight?"

  "Yeah. So, um . . . " He hesitated for a moment. "Are you coming to the game tonight?"

  "Do you want me to?" I watched his expression closely.

  "Absolutely. Though we'll still have to stay away from each other. But if you don't mind, I'd really like you to be there."

  "Because it'll help you play better?" I couldn't quite keep the cynicism out of my voice.

  "No!" He sounded like he meant it. But then he added, "Well, not just that, anyway. I always like having you nearby. Game or no game. And if Trina throws herself at me again, I promise to miss."

  "Good enough," I said with a grin. And then he was kissing me again.

  All too soon, it was time to head back to catch our buses. This time we were much more careful not to be spotted together. We stopped just a few cornstalks shy of the edge of the field, where we were still well screened.

  "Think we can make this a regular Friday afternoon date?" Rigel asked, trailing a reluctant finger down my cheek.

  My heart turned over at the look in his eyes. "I'd like that. Except . . . I expect they'll be harvesting in a few weeks."

  "Then we'll find another spot. If I have this to look forward to, maybe it won't be so hard having you sit right in front or right behind me without being able to touch you or talk to you."

  I just smiled, elated to know that he was bothered by that as much as I was. Somehow, that would make it a little easier to endure.

  "Okay," he said, "I'll go right and you go left, and I'll wait until you're in the school before I come out. With luck, no one will see either of us."

  One more quick kiss, then we headed off in opposite directions. I made sure no one was on this side of the school before I stepped out of the corn, then did my best to brush all traces of the cornfield off of my clothes and hair before hurrying through the school to my bus. I didn't dare dawdle and make Rigel late for his.

  Even though I knew I wouldn't be able to get close to Rigel at tonight's game, I was still eager to get there, just to watch him from a distance. I spent the time before dinner making a list of questions I planned to ask Aunt Theresa tomorrow. I considered starting now, but was worri
ed she might get irritated enough to keep me from going to the game, and I didn't want to risk that.

  As it was, I had a suspicion it had been her idea for Uncle Louie to drive me there tonight, though he seemed okay with it. I was sure she hadn't guessed I'd snuck out Saturday night, but she was still watching me extra closely. If anything, my being happy this week had her more on edge than my misery the week before. I really couldn't win with her.

  Like he had at the first game of the season, Uncle Louie linked up with some friends as soon as we reached the stadium, leaving me free to go sit with Deb and Bri and their new semi-cool crowd. Now that I was myself again—well, my new, improved self, as opposed to the sickly mess I'd been lately—I was able to properly appreciate our newly elevated social status. Several people greeted me when I joined them, and Dawna Higgs, who was a sweetheart even if she was a JV cheerleader, told me I looked great.

  "Thanks. I’m feeling lots better this week," I said, smiling around at everyone. Then I noticed that "everyone" included Jimmy Franklin, who hadn’t been part of the crowd before. At least, I didn't think he had.

  He noticed me noticing and came over to sit next to me. "Hey, M, lookin’ good."

  "Thanks, Jimmy," I said, but not at all in a flirty way. I definitely didn’t have room in my heart or head for anyone but Rigel now. On that thought, I turned to watch as the players quit warming up and ran to the sidelines for final instructions before kickoff. Rigel was the fastest, of course, looking as good, as strong, as he ever had.

  Just as I was relaxing into appreciation mode, Trina sidled up to him through the gathering crowd, looking like she was angling to give him another good luck kiss. I held my breath, watching for Rigel’s reaction.

  It wasn’t quite what I’d hoped. Even though he didn’t kiss her back, he didn’t exactly push her away. Instead, he threw his arm around her shoulders for a quick hug-and-release. I could see she was disappointed, but she still looked smug when she returned to the other cheerleaders, her claim reestablished.

  As I watched, Rigel looked up into the stands, spotted me and gave a muted smile and nod, general enough that no one watching could be sure who he was looking at. I smiled and nodded back, then turned to laugh at something Jimmy had just said to Bri about the Frankfort Hot Dogs (yeah, that really is their team name). Peeking sideways at the field, I saw Rigel frowning.

  Good. Let him see what it feels like.

  The game started then, and I was careful not to do anything else to encourage Jimmy, since that wouldn’t be fair to him. Besides, in a moment I was way too caught up in watching Rigel play to think about anything else.

  Though the rest of our team was still mediocre, Rigel was definitely back at the top of his form, running the ball and making impossible passes. Jewel won handily, 24-3.

  At the final whistle, I was dying to go down to the field to congratulate Rigel, like I’d always done before our fake breakup, but of course I couldn’t. Even if Smith weren't still in the stadium, word would get around instantly if it looked like Rigel and I were getting back together.

  "You sure you don’t want to come to the party?" Bri asked as I stood up to leave. She’d forgiven me for my rudeness at lunch when I’d pleaded a serious bathroom emergency.

  "I told you, I can’t." I added a touch of pitifulness and a longing glance Rigel’s way and she backed off immediately. With an only slightly exaggerated sigh, I went to find Uncle Louie.

  The next day I waited until after I’d mowed the lawn—hopefully for the last time this year—and retaken and passed my taekwondo belt test (no problems at all this time!) before tackling Aunt Theresa with my list of questions. I spent the walk back from taekwondo and my shower afterward screwing up my courage, since I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Luckily, she was outside pruning her roses when I came down, which always tended to put her in as nice a mood as she ever had. I took it as a good omen.

  I went out into the garden with a plastic grocery bag and, without being asked, started carefully gathering up the clippings and bagging them, a task she occasionally delegated to me. I remembered the hard-learned trick of picking them up by the leaves so I wouldn’t get pricked.

  "Pretty day, huh?" It was a lame opening, but better than launching right into questions.

  "Yes, yes it is," she agreed. "Thank you for helping, Marsha."

  "I didn’t want to stay inside when it’s so nice out," I said, then worked beside her in silence for about five minutes, gathering my courage again. Now or never, I told myself. "Aunt Theresa, how did I come to be adopted? I mean, I know you don’t know who my real parents were, but was it through an orphanage, or an agency, or what?"

  I half expected her to snap at me to leave it alone, like she used to do when I was younger, but she didn’t. Instead, she gave a long-suffering sigh and nodded.

  "I suppose it’s only natural that you're curious. I’ve never quite forgiven my sister-in-law for what she did, taking you in when she and her husband were such irresponsible gadabouts, but I suppose it’s not your fault."

  Hardly daring to breathe for fear I’d somehow irk her back into her usual taciturnity, I waited for her to go on. After a moment, she did.

  "Mind you, I know no more about your birth parents than I’ve ever told you—not their names or where they were from. But because of the, ah, circumstances of your adoption, I’ve always suspected something wasn’t quite right there. It’s one reason I didn’t want to talk to you about it until you were older. But then you . . . stopped asking."

  I managed not to say, Yeah, because you always bit my head off when I did. "What do you mean, something wasn’t quite right?" I asked instead.

  "You weren’t adopted through an agency or an orphanage. From what Linda told me, she and Jim were approached by an individual who had heard they were looking to adopt. Everything was handled privately—under the table, so to speak. I wondered at the time whether your real parents were on the run—criminals, maybe—or if you were stolen and sold. But I never knew the truth and I don’t think Linda or Jim did, either. They were so happy not to have to deal with the usual red tape, they didn’t question much. I doubt they’d have been approved through the proper channels, which they surely knew full well."

  Since I’d heard way too many times about my adoptive parents’ "hippie" lifestyle as wilderness guides and mountain climbers—something that had always sounded wonderfully exciting to me as a child—I let that particular thread drop and picked up another.

  "So . . . they never saw my real parents? Did you ever meet the person who arranged my adoption with them?"

  She shook her head, starting to look impatient. "They were out west somewhere at the time—Colorado, I believe, though it might have been Wyoming. One of the square states. Louie and I never heard a word about it until it was too late—that is, until it was finalized."

  "And you don't have any records, any paperwork or anything?" I was starting to clutch at straws, worried she'd shut me down any moment, as she always had in the past.

  "Only your birth certificate, showing a sealed adoption. As far as I know, even your birth date was an educated guess."

  It gave me a weird feeling to think that my birthday might not be my real birthday. Then I realized the Stuarts would know. I'd have to ask them—or ask Rigel to ask them. Maybe it was a minor thing, but it was important to me.

  "What about my name?" I asked then. "Did . . . did I tell them that? I mean, I was almost two when they adopted me, right?"

  My aunt snipped off a stem shorter than she'd intended and made a "tch" noise before answering. "Twenty-two months, or so they estimated. And yes, you did tell them . . . in a way. Apparently, for the first weeks or months after they got you, all you would say was . . . was—" She paused as though this was difficult for her, which seemed out of character.

  "What?" I finally prompted, suddenly even more curious.

  "You kept saying . . . 'Stay safe my Marsha Prentiss.' Another reason I suspected you
r parents were running from the law—or something worse. Your real mother must have said that to you repeatedly before abandoning you."

  I stared at her, but barely noticed when she surreptitiously wiped an eye.

  Stay safe my Marsha Prentiss. Except that had never been my name. My real name, according to the Stuarts, was Emileia. Stay safe . . . my Martian Princess?

  I had a sudden, vivid vision—or memory?—of a brown-haired woman bending over me and saying those exact words. She looked frightened—so frightened that I was terrified, too.

  If that was a real memory and not my imagination, my Martian parents almost certainly hadn't died in an accident, as the Stuarts—and Shim?—believed. They'd known ahead of time that they were in danger, and they'd known I was in danger too. And they'd managed to hide me away somehow.

  Before they were killed.