But considering the less-than-desirable chili, Father’s microwaved chicken-fried steak was almost appealing.
Gram frowned at her bowl. “It pains me that my daughter never learned to cook.”
Mother smiled tightly. “Well, Mom, I guess I was busy working.”
“I worked too and still managed to put dinner on the table.”
“You ran a poker game. That’s not the same as running a business.”
Gram snorted. “Business? You call that pyramid scheme a business?”
Maggie interrupted, and whether she was trying to put a stop to the conflict or just being rude, I didn’t know. “I’m never learning to cook.”
“What a practical life choice,” I said.
“It is practical. Why spend time cooking when you can find people to do it for you?”
I looked at my sister for a long moment. Did she mean she’d only eat in restaurants or that she planned to have…minions?
I waited for someone to scold Maggie for her cavalier attitude, but the table was silent.
“So, Gideon,” Gram said, changing the subject. “I heard you’re finally learning to drive.”
“Finally? It’s not like I’m thirty.”
“Being afraid to drive is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s wrong not to own it, though. Stop making excuses and let yourself be afraid.”
“Wow, you’re like a sentient self-help book,” I muttered.
“Don’t get sassy with me.” Gram pulled a cigarette from her purse and moved to light it.
Father came to life. “Miriam, I’ve asked you not to smoke in the house.”
“This was my house from the day I was born until the day I let you two take it over. I’ll do as I please.”
“I respect the time you lived here,” Father said, “but when you transferred the house out of your name, you lost your right to make the rules.”
Gram looked at Father for a long moment. “It’s always such a conundrum. I hate when you stand your ground, but I wouldn’t respect you if you didn’t.” She sighed and hoisted herself to her feet. “I’ll go outside.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking anyway,” Mother called after her.
With Gram gone, my family lapsed into awkward silence.
“So…” Mother said, clearly searching her mind, “homecoming is soon, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” Ishmael replied. “It’s going to be awesome. The theme was originally some boring Enchanted Forest thing, but now they changed it to be, like, space themed.”
“That should make you happy, Gideon,” Mother said.
“I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
“When has a dance ever made my list of fun things to do?”
Mother reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. “Maybe you’d feel differently if you had a date.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
Maggie hid a smirk behind her napkin, and even Father began paying attention. How wonderful that my family could become reunified over my social preferences.
“Gideon,” Mother said, “you need to experience life.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I replied, tension forming in my jaw.
“But nothing changes. We want to know you’re ready to deal with the world when the time comes for you to leave here, and socializing is part of that. Maybe…” From the way Mother hesitated, I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “Maybe you’d be open to seeing a therapist?”
I was not at all open to it. (While I found psychology to be an important field, I was 90 percent sure I’d collapse from embarrassment if I had to discuss my feelings with a stranger.)
“Is there anything I can say to make you feel like I don’t need a therapist?” I asked, keeping my voice even so I didn’t betray my panic.
Mother and Father glanced at each other.
Before they came to a telepathic decision, I blurted, “What if I attempted to be more…social? I’ll go on that date you wanted me to.”
Mother’s face lit up. “I think that would be lovely.”
“Can we drop the therapist conversation then?”
She hesitated. “Maybe we could put it on hold—if I saw you were truly making an effort.”
Why should I have to make an effort? Why couldn’t I be an introvert without being treated like I was broken? Why was Mother so set on turning me into something I wasn’t?
I couldn’t bring myself to voice my thoughts, though. Instead, I said, “Fine. Set up the date.”
Article
The following article first appeared in the October 10 issue of the national tabloid Weird World News.
JFK RETURNS!
The town of Lansburg, Pennsylvania, is on the fast track to becoming the paranormal capital of America. Recently the site of multiple alien abductions, Lansburg has now become home to another phenomenon—former president John F. Kennedy has been spotted roaming the streets.
Is he an apparition, risen from his grave to share a final message with us? Was his assassination a hoax, and he’s lived out the remainder of his life in small-town Pennsylvania? Or could it be that the barrier between dimensions runs thin in Lansburg, and Mr. Kennedy crossed over from a universe where he was never killed?
Most important: How is this new phenomenon related to the current extraterrestrial invasion?
It’s been theorized that the sixty-three-foot lava lamp at Lansburg’s town center acts as a lightning rod for paranormal activity. If that proves true, we might soon see these lava lamps spreading across the country like wildfire.
Event: A Plea for Help
Date: Oct. 11 (Wed.)
With the influx of Seekers, media, and myTality™ groupies in Lansburg, Super Scoop was busier than ever. Meaning my job had become considerably more annoying. Did the people flocking to town have an affinity for ice cream, or was Ye Olde Ice Cream Parlor simply located in a convenient spot? I considered collecting data in an attempt to answer that question, but decided I had enough on my plate.
Besides having to deal with increased social interaction, there was another issue with the constant stream of people in Super Scoop—I previously used my downtime at work to do homework. Without those free hours, I was falling behind. Especially in English.
I hated English class. I despised it. It was bearable when we worked on grammar or learned how to write proper citations. But I struggled with English literature. The work became subjective. Subjective!
It was schoolwork. There should’ve been a right answer and a wrong answer. We should’ve read a passage and drawn conclusions from it, actual conclusions, not just a sense of how it made us feel.
Books were filled with symbolism. (Why not just say what needed to be said?) Entire lessons were devoted to the inner workings of a character’s mind. (How could anyone guess what was in someone’s mind—especially a fictional character?) There were meandering conversations about why an author wrote a particular work, and what it meant. (Why not just ask them?)
Worst of all was poetry. The bane of my existence.
During a lull between customers, I attempted to analyze “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.” (A poem by Randall Jarrell, published in 1945.)
“It’s amazing how complicated a five-line poem can be,” I complained to Owen.
Owen grinned. “Come on. It’s not that bad.”
“Mr. Fiore tried to interest us in poetry by talking about music,” I said. “Because all music is poetry with melodies attached.”
“I remember that,” Owen said. He’d been in Mr. Fiore’s class the year before. “Did you do the project where you brought in your favorite song lyrics?”
“Yes,” I grimaced.
I didn’t have a favorite song, hence no favorite lyrics. I did an internet search and chose a random Beatl
es song. I got an okay grade because Mr. Fiore said I technically did the assignment. But he “questioned the passion I put into it” and felt I’d “missed the point.”
“I loved that assignment,” Owen said. “It made me see poetry in a whole different way.”
“I hated it.”
Owen laughed. Not meanly, but in an oh, Gideon way, the way that said he knew me well. It gave me a warm, contented feeling, and I laughed too.
We continued serving ice cream to people, most of them Seekers. You could tell by their T-shirts proclaiming I want to believe or showing pictures of the American flag on the moon with the words It never happened.
When the bell on the door chimed again, I glanced over, expecting another conspiracy theorist. Instead, I almost dropped my ice cream scoop.
It was J. Quincy Oswald. In my workplace. Infiltrating yet another aspect of my life.
“Oh, wonderful,” I mumbled.
Oswald scanned Super Scoop wildly, as if something might jump out at him. Finally, his eyes locked on me. He pointed. “You.”
Without missing a beat, Owen said, “Can we help you, sir?”
“Perhaps an ice cream cone on this lovely fall day?” I deadpanned. “I’ll throw in sprinkles for free.”
“I don’t eat food with synthetic additives,” Oswald replied, eyeing the ice cream contemptuously. His gaze moved to me. “We gotta chat.”
My heart rate kicked into high gear. Did he know Ishmael and I had been at his camp? Did he know we saw him with the girl?
“All right,” I replied, sounding more confident than I felt. I attempted to inconspicuously wipe away the sweat that had broken out on my forehead.
“Somewhere private,” Oswald said, glancing around furtively.
Aside from a mother wrangling two toddlers, Super Scoop had emptied. Who did he think was listening?
“We can use the staff room.”
“Gideon…” Owen said apprehensively.
“It’s okay,” I replied, hoping it was true. “We’ll just be a minute.”
Oswald followed me into the closet-sized staff room, his gaze jumping from the ancient time clock to the unused cubbies to the bulletin board pinned with fliers for a band Laser “worked” for. (She apparently operated the sound system, but to me it sounded more like she was a glorified groupie.)
“How can I help you?” I asked Oswald.
“Are there cameras in here?”
“No. Why?”
He looked at me gravely. “There are people in this town who wish me harm.”
Yeah. And he was standing in a cramped room with one of them.
“What people?” I asked.
“People from branches of the government you haven’t even heard of.”
“I see. That sounds…” I trailed off.
Implausible? Ludicrous?
“Stressful,” I finished.
Abruptly, Oswald leaned forward and took my face in both of his hands. For a horrified moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he peered deeply into my eyes.
Have I mentioned that I found maintained eye contact immensely uncomfortable? Especially when said eye contact was with a maniacal health-supplement guru who claimed aliens gave him the fountain of youth?
“Yes,” Oswald said finally, nodding as if confirming something. He released my face and stepped back. “I knew I could trust you.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened and his easygoing smile reappeared. I, meanwhile, was more apprehensive than ever.
“You and I, Gideon, we’re connected.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Last night I received a message,” he went on.
“From?”
“The Visitors.”
“Aliens, you mean?”
Oswald plowed ahead without responding. “I was told to seek you out. You have a role to play in this story.”
In this story? He meant in his story. He was trying to turn me into a minor character in his alien melodrama. But this was my alien melodrama.
“What role would that be?”
Oswald leaned forward. “Last night I was taken to the ship. There were seven Visitors waitin’ for me—I’ve never seen so many at once. They spoke of the danger I’m in. They said I have to finish the elixir and get it to the masses as quickly as I can. And they said there’s only one person who can help make that happen. You.”
“I’m flattered they’ve heard of me,” I said dryly.
Oswald didn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “They’ve heard of everyone and everything.”
I glanced around the staff room, as if something in there could save me from what was surely the most absurd conversation of my life. Unless I wanted to clobber Oswald with a mop, I was out of luck.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I finally said. “What do the Visitors claim my role is?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Convenient.”
“They’ll tell me when the time is right,” Oswald said. Again, he looked deeply into my eyes, and very briefly I experienced the power of persuasion he had over most people. I felt almost…drawn in. I felt like I was being seen. “I need you to swear something to me, Gideon.”
“What’s that?”
“Swear that when the Visitors reveal your role, you’ll be ready to fulfill it.”
“I can’t possibly promise you that,” I said.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “You have to. There’s no one else who can do this.”
I stepped back and swung the staff room door open. “Okay, fine.” I’d tell him what he wanted to hear if it meant getting rid of him. “I’ll do my best.”
“Your best is all I ask for,” Oswald said, flashing his movie star smile. “I’ll be seein’ you.”
He sauntered out of the staff room and through Super Scoop, pausing only to smile at the mother with the toddlers. She smiled back at him, utterly charmed.
I watched him go, my annoyance growing by the second. How dare Oswald come into my place of business with his alien elixir nonsense? How dare he assume I’d be willing to help him at a moment’s notice? And how dare I let myself, for even the briefest, most fleeting moment, feel pride at being singled out by him?
Event: Social Blunders
Date: Oct. 11 (Wed.)
Dusk was approaching when Owen and I left work. Soon the faux gaslights lining Main Street would flicker to life. A group of Seekers gathered around the lava lamp, their attention fixed on Arnie Hodges, the ufologist, who stood on a step stool, preaching.
Owen stopped to watch.
Snatches of Hodges’s speech drifted to us. More of the same things I’d read in countless blog posts. The time has come. The aliens have revealed themselves. The secrets of the universe are about to be unveiled.
I wondered how the Seekers would react when the alien activity stopped—because it would have to stop. Soon, maybe. Ishmael and I hadn’t chosen an end date for the hoax, but we couldn’t keep it going indefinitely. What would happen when we weren’t manipulating events? How long until claims of abductions and mysterious lights would begin to decline? How long until people got bored and drifted away from Lansburg?
“You ever wish we could see that thing in action?” Owen asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?”
He nodded toward the town square. It took me a moment to realize he was looking at the lava lamp, not Hodges or the Seekers.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” I said with a shrug. “I know what a lava lamp looks like. It wouldn’t be different, just bigger.”
“Knowing how something will look and actually seeing it aren’t the same.”
“Let’s agree to disagree,” I said. But I smiled and nudged Owen with my elbow. I loved how his perspective of the world was so much different than mine.<
br />
We began walking down the street together, leaving the lava lamp behind.
“Need a ride home?” Owen asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
As we wandered the cobblestone street, past quaint tourist shops, something occurred to me.
“Oh, just so you know, my mother roped me into doing this thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“She wants me to hang out with this person. The son of someone on her downline.”
Owen stopped walking. “Hang out?”
“Right.”
“Like…your mom arranged a playdate?”
“Ah, well, more like an actual date.”
Owen stared at me for an endless moment. “What the fuck?”
“What?”
“You’re going on a date with someone?”
“Not because I want to,” I said. I was confused. I thought Owen and I would laugh about the situation. “It’s important to my mother.”
“Could you maybe have told your mom, ‘Hey, I’m actually in a relationship, so I’m not interested in dates right now?’”
“I suppose I could have…”
Owen shook his head, and it wasn’t the same way he’d done it earlier. There wasn’t any bemused exasperation. “You get mad because I have to kiss a girl onstage, but it’s totally cool for you to go on dates with other guys? You don’t even go on dates with me.”
“One, it’s not any girl you’re kissing. Two, we do go on dates—”
“You mean stargazing and fooling around in your field where no one might accidentally see us? That’s not a date, Gideon.”
Wasn’t it? But those moments were…well, some of the best I’d ever had. They were the moments I looked forward to the most. They were everything to me.
“You know what?” Owen said. But he seemed at a loss for words. After a long time he sighed and said, “Maybe you should find your own ride home.”
Interviews
Subject #5, Owen Campbell: Look, I know where Gideon was coming from. Now I know. But at the time… I mean, how are you supposed to handle your boyfriend casually dropping that he’s going on a date? What was I supposed to do, give him pointers?
It Came from the Sky Page 20