NASH: More than present. They’re sending you messages.
OSWALD: Sure are. I’ve been in communication with the Visitors since adolescence. My most recent abduction was just last week, from right here in Lansburg, Pennsylvania, which I’m temporarily calling home.
NASH: We all want to know, what exactly happens when you’re abducted.
OSWALD: It begins with waking to a kind of glow around me. Light fills the room ’til it consumes everything—even me. When I reach full awareness again, I’m in a spherical room with white walls. There’s nothing in the room but the chair I’m sitting on. I’m not restrained in any perceivable way, yet I can’t move.
NASH: Mm-hmm, go on…
OSWALD: I’m approached by a Visitor. Sometimes one, sometimes several. They have skin like soft gray leather, and their eyes are large and black. They have mouths, but they never speak to me with them.
NASH: But they have spoken to you in some way?
OSWALD: They most certainly have. They have a device almost like a needle attached to a long tube. They push that needle into my head right at the temple, maybe all the way to my brain. They’re able to communicate with me then.
NASH: These Visitors, as you call them, they’ve given you a mission?
OSWALD: They’ve taught me how to combine Earth ingredients with alien technology to create what one might call “the fountain of youth.” An extract that, when regularly taken, will prevent aging.
NASH: And you’ve been tasked with making this product?
OSWALD: The prototype is complete and I’ll be ready to unveil the finished version in a few short weeks.
NASH: Did you hear that, listeners? Soon enough, we can all experience this alien miracle product! Why don’t you tell everyone what you call it?
OSWALD: The health drink is called myTality Elixir ETernia.
NASH: With a capital ET on ETernia, is that right?
OSWALD: You got it.
NASH: And where can our listeners find this product?
OSWALD: It can be purchased through any of our myTality distributors for the low cost of $15.99 per ounce. Of course, if someone signs up for our compensation plan and becomes a distributor themselves, they’ll get a lifetime discount…
Event: Oswald’s Rally (Cont.)
Cass and Arden declared me “boring” when I refused to talk to Oswald after his sermon. He’d descended from the observation deck and was immediately swarmed by people trying to get close to their new prophet.
“He’s busy anyway,” I said. Besides, I’d rather not risk him cornering me again.
“Let’s just go over for a minute,” Cass insisted.
“Why? What could you possibly have to say to that man?”
“He’s probably the strangest person to ever pass through Lansburg. And these days, that’s saying a lot. How could I not be fascinated?”
I was even losing my best friend to Oswald. He was taking everything from me.
“Fine. Go talk to him. I’ll meet up with you later.”
I stalked away from Cass and Arden before they tried to convince me otherwise.
Laser still vaped in front of Super Scoop, though the crowd around her had thinned. I moved in that direction.
“Can you believe this shit?” she asked, gesturing with her e-cig. She snorted. “Alien fountain of youth.”
“Indeed,” I said, pleased that I wasn’t the only anti-Oswald person in town after all.
I moved toward the door of Super Scoop, but Laser blew out a plume of vapor and held up a hand to stop me. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“What?”
“You’re going in there because Owen’s working. And I’m warning you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I see,” I mumbled, and slunk off in the other direction.
I was mortified. I didn’t realize Laser paid attention to what went on between Owen and me. If she knew about our relationship and our fight, everyone must.
The whole town probably thought I was a jerk. A jerk bad boyfriend who couldn’t create alien scandals nearly as enticing as J. Quincy Oswald did. A jerk who had no social skills, who couldn’t drive, who probably wasn’t going to get into MIT because his grades continued to slip.
Shame churned inside of me. It was bad enough to fail. Having everyone know about my failure was something else entirely.
“Gideon,” someone called from in front of Ye Olde Fudge Shoppe.
I looked over to an unpleasant sight.
“Agent Ruiz,” I said, trying to keep my tone even, to hide that my heart rate had doubled. “Did you come to watch the spectacle?”
“I did,” he said in his own even tone.
“What did you think?” I said as if we were acquaintances making small talk.
“I’m more curious what you thought,” Ruiz replied.
“Well, I don’t think there’s a fountain of youth, that’s for sure.”
“But the alien parts—you believed that, right?”
I hated how casual Ruiz seemed, when I knew he was anything but. There was an intensity in his eyes that betrayed the truth. I needed to watch myself around him.
“In a sense,” I said carefully.
“What sense?”
“Should one of my parents be here for this conversation?”
Ruiz chuckled. “I’m not interrogating you.”
“In that case, I think I’ll be on my way.”
“Okay then. Nice seeing you.” He smiled at me weirdly. Suspiciously.
I hurried away with no idea where I was headed, just needing to move. Ruiz knew about the hoax. Maybe he couldn’t prove anything yet, but he was keeping tabs on me. He’d been sent to find out what was happening in Lansburg, and it hadn’t taken him long to discover Ishmael and I were at the center of it.
I was going to get caught. I hadn’t set up the perfect hoax. I hadn’t done anything perfectly, maybe ever.
With every step I took, my embarrassment and anger increased. Everything was getting away from me. Everything.
Interviews
Subject #3, Cassidy (Cass) Robinson: Just because I wanted to talk to Oz didn’t mean I was going to become one of his disciples. Obviously, I got total jeepers-creepers vibes from the guy. But I did want to study him. He was probably the best actor I’d ever met.
Subject #6, Arden Byrd: I didn’t expect him to pay attention to me. There were so many people waiting to see him. People who loved him. But listening to him tell a whole crowd the truth about his life, no matter how it made him look… I guess it inspired me. And I wanted him to know I’d had an experience too. Nothing like his. But I saw the lights. I felt something. I thought, even if I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, maybe Oz would glance over and our eyes would meet for a second. Maybe he’d look at me and know that, in some small way, I was like him.
Event: The Date
Date: Oct. 14 (Sat.)
It was my greatest hope that Father would forget we had another driving lesson planned for Saturday morning. He didn’t.
“Can’t we do this next week?” I asked. “I have that thing tonight.”
“What thing?” he asked, hovering in my bedroom doorway, running shoes already laced and baseball cap perched on his head.
“That date thing.”
Father raised an eyebrow. “You need ten hours to prepare for a date?”
“Maybe.”
“Gideon, get in the car.”
I sighed and turned off my laptop, where I’d been skimming Adam Frykowski’s write-up of Oswald’s rally. I was less interested in what Frykowski had to say and more interested in the blog comments. But they trickled in at a surprisingly slow rate. Though the post had gone live hours before, there were only six comments total. Was Frykowski losing his followers?
“Is Ishmael coming?”
I asked, following Father downstairs.
“Ishmael didn’t get home until three in the morning.”
“So he’s sleeping?”
“No. He’s scrubbing the floors as punishment for breaking curfew.” (Note: I’d never been punished for breaking curfew. It was a benefit of rarely leaving the house.)
My second driving experience was as harrowing as the first. Father decided we should practice parking. He had me drive to the St. Francis parking lot where, thankfully, there wasn’t a mass going on.
“Wide open space,” he said, gesturing around. “Nothing to worry about.”
Yeah, as long as every time I parked I made sure there were no other vehicles within fifty feet of me. Nor did having an empty parking lot help me effectively maneuver the Jeep between the painted lines of a parking space. By my twentieth try, Father was frustrated.
“The lines are right there. Line the Jeep up with them. It’s not that hard.”
“Clearly, Father,” I replied, “it is that hard. I’m sorry my spatial awareness isn’t up to your high standards, but I don’t appreciate—”
“Just try again.”
“I can’t do it,” I snapped.
“You can.”
“You’re getting angry at me for something I literally cannot do. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“It’s not that you can’t,” Father said through clenched teeth. “It’s that you’re too worked up to try. You’re as capable of parking a car as anyone else. You just can’t stop thinking.”
“Well, pardon me, but I always considered that an asset.”
By the time Father decided we could quit for the day, we were both irritated and speaking to each other as little as possible. Admittedly, it was still childish the way I slammed the Jeep’s door and stomped into the house.
“So it went well then?” Ishmael cracked when I passed him. He was vacuuming under the couch cushions, presumably stage two of his punishment.
I ignored him and stormed into the bathroom. I needed to splash cold water on my face, cool myself off. I turned on the tap, took a deep breath, and glanced in the mirror.
And froze in horror.
My face was redder and more broken out than usual. My frustration with driving had triggered the worst acne attack known to man.
Certainly, I was just overheated. Once I cooled down and spent some time far away from the Jeep, I’d look better.
But an hour later, when Ishmael crawled past my bedroom door, dusting the baseboards with a rag, he looked at me with concern.
“Dude, why are you so broken out?”
I cringed. “It’s still bad?”
“I mean… You don’t look awful or anything, but…”
I reminded myself that I’d never been vain about my looks. Who cared if my face was horribly broken out? It was irrelevant.
“Hopefully it clears up before tonight,” Ishmael said.
“Before tonight?” But as soon as the question was out of my mouth, I remembered. “Oh god. The date.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Ishmael said, unconvincingly. “I mean, the guy probably gets acne too.”
Based on his social media pictures, I was 86 percent sure that wasn’t the case.
No, looks weren’t everything. But my self-esteem had taken several blows recently, and I didn’t relish the idea of going through a date with the worst breakout of my life.
“What am I going to do?” I moaned.
“Doesn’t that spot-treatment stuff work pretty fast?”
“I don’t have any, since Father refuses to run errands. Could you go to the store for me?”
“I’m not allowed to leave until I finish everything on my list,” Ishmael said, holding up his dust rag as if it was proof. “I’ve got to clean the grout in the bathroom next.”
Of course he did. Of course this would happen on the day he was being punished. I considered calling Cass and asking her to give me a ride to the store, but remembered she was in rehearsal all day. Opening night of Hamelin! was approaching, and they were squeezing in all the practice they could. I was on my own.
Except…
Something occurred to me. I jumped to my feet and hurried past Ishmael.
“You okay, dude?” he called after me, but I didn’t pay attention. I went outside, crossed the yard, and let myself into the barn.
Where I was met by a sea of thirteen-year-olds.
“Could you please knock before you come in here?” Maggie asked.
I stepped through the circle of Maggie’s friends and made my way to the other side of the barn, where boxes upon boxes of myTality™ products were stored.
“You don’t own the barn, Maggie,” I said, scanning labels for the box I wanted.
“No,” Maggie agreed. “I don’t own anything. And that’s what allows me to be truly free.”
I glanced back at my sister. “What are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Maggie spoke with a knowing voice that was nothing like her normal tone.
“But we could teach you,” piped up a girl on the other side of the barn. Several other girls nodded in agreement.
Maggie gestured serenely to the circle. “Would you like to join us, Gideon?”
“I’ll pass.”
I turned back to my search and finally found what I wanted. A box of myTality™ Clear-It-Up products. I pulled it off the stack and rifled through while Maggie and fifteen of her closest friends watched me attentively. Finally, I located the spot-treatment cream.
I left the barn quickly, hoping it wasn’t obvious how embarrassed I was, wondering how many times I’d be humiliated before the day was over.
Interview
Subject #2, Magdalene (Maggie) Hofstadt: Cults play on the familiar. Have you ever noticed that most cults have a religious aspect? If someone’s raised in a Christian house, and they come across a cult with Christian influences, they don’t have to relearn anything. Their old belief system fits into the new one. Another example would be if there was a whole town that believed in aliens. Starting an alien-based cult wouldn’t be as hard as, say, starting a werewolf-based one. How it works is that cults help people believe something they wanted to believe anyway.
Event: The Date (Cont.)
The instructions on the tube of myTality™ Clear-It-Up spot treatment said to dab a small amount on “the infected area.”
So basically, my entire face.
I spread the cream liberally over my cheeks and forehead, praying it would work. Then I went back to my room and scoured the internet for articles about Oswald and the Elixir ETernia.
The response was mixed. Naturally, the myTality™ distributors thought the elixir was as groundbreaking as Kepler (Johannes Kepler, the astronomer, not my cat.) discovering the planets moved around the sun in elliptical orbits. Conspiracy theorists and ufologists were more hesitant—but not outright skeptical. It irritated me that no one was calling Oswald a phony.
How did he do it? How could he stand in front of a crowd, say he’d discovered the fountain of youth, and have people believe him? I could hardly get anyone to trust me about things that were true.
I spent so long stewing and reading everything I could find about Oswald that I didn’t notice the growing dusk. I was startled when Ishmael burst into my room, saying, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for—”
He stopped short and I looked at him expectantly.
“Dude. What did you do to your face?”
“What?” I asked, holding a hand to my cheek. “Is it better?”
“Um. Maybe you should look in a mirror?”
I bolted into the bathroom. In my haste, I skidded on the wet floor—
Ishmael must have just finished mopping. I grabbed the sink to stop myself from falling, pulled myself back into a standing position, and lo
oked in the mirror.
My entire face was bright red.
Not my usual acne-prone red. Not even the terrible red from a few hours earlier. No, it was the red of the worst sunburn ever. The red of poison ivy rash. The kind of red that doesn’t even look natural.
“Oh god.”
Ishmael came up behind me. “It looks painful.”
“Just to my ego.”
“Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“No,” I said. “I think I should never leave the house again.”
“What about your date?”
“I’ll text him and cancel.”
Except I didn’t have his number. Not to mention, he was driving from Pittsburgh and probably on the way already since he was supposed to pick me up in—I pulled out my phone and glanced at the time—fifteen minutes.
“This is bad.” I turned to my brother abruptly. “Do something. Fix this.”
Ishmael winced. “This might be beyond repair.”
It was Oswald’s fault. Everything was his fault. His stupid myTality™ product had ruined my skin as effectively as he was ruining my life. I hated him. I hated him more than I’d ever hated anyone before.
I grabbed the tube of spot treatment from where I’d left it by the sink and tossed it angrily to the ground. When that didn’t make me feel better, I stomped on it. The cap burst off and the rash-causing cream shot all over the bathroom floor.
“Hey!” Ishmael said. “I just cleaned in here!”
“Ishmael, my date is going to be here in a few minutes and I look like I have an infectious disease!”
My brother bit his lip. “I have an idea.”
I followed him into Maggie’s bedroom. He didn’t bother knocking, but it was empty anyway.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He gestured to a basket sitting on the dresser. A basket filled with makeup.
“Don’t girls use that concealer stuff to hide acne?”
I was willing to try anything. I rifled through the basket until I found a bottle of tan liquid.
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