by Cat Jordan
I start to move away from Priya, but her long fingers grip my forearm and hold me fast. “Believes what? That a spaceship landed in this field? That he knows more than other people because something might have crashed at the moment he was born?” I lean into her. “Does that even make sense to you?”
Instead of answering me, she asks, “Are you sure you didn’t believe it once too?”
“I . . . no. I . . . no, I never did.” I shake my head from side to side. How could I have believed that crap? Galaxies and meteors and comets—I could see those. I knew they were real. But the other stuff? The alien autopsy shit and the crazy conspiracies? No, I never believed those. And I don’t think he ever did either. They just suited his needs.
“You will never have proof. You have to have faith,” says Priya.
Words my dad spoke years ago pop into my head: “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” When I was seven, nine, twelve, I trusted in those words. I didn’t truly know what they meant, but if my dad said them, well, that was enough.
But words are not enough. Not anymore.
He lied to me, lied to my mom. He betrayed us both in big ways and small. He was selfish and wanted to be special, but he was just an ordinary man who had ordinary desires. After I discovered my dad’s blog had become a forum for the conspiracy nuts, I asked him about it. I wanted to know why he hadn’t told me or Mom.
We were in his workshop at the time, snow softly piling up outside, the wood-burning stove keeping us toasty. He stopped typing on his computer and his face reddened. “Oh well, your mom doesn’t like it much. She thinks it’s kind of out there,” he said. “But you know what? A lot of people love it. Like, a ton.” He shook his head with a look of wonder on his face. “They’re, like, my followers.”
“You mean they follow your blog?” When he nodded, I asked, “Does Mom know?”
He shrugged and went back to his computer. “She doesn’t have time for that. Work and farm, remember? That’s all she has time for these days. Work and farm.”
“But what about me?” I asked him. “You could have told me.”
I saw his back heave with a sigh. “You don’t have time for me either.” He turned his head toward me. “It’s okay, Junior. You’ve got other things to do now.”
I left feeling bad, feeling like I’d lost something, and I thought maybe I could get back to the astronomy with Dad. Maybe it would help him be a normal guy again.
But then this thing happened six months later. This thing where I walked into my parents’ bathroom looking for Q-tips I could use to clean the lens of my telescope and the water was running in the shower.
I knew Dad was home because I’d seen his truck.
I opened the door, calling to my dad, “Just me, looking for—”
And the woman in the shower who was not my mom poked her head around the curtain at that moment and said, “DJ, would you hand me—”
Her eyes were hazel and she was a blonde, her curly hair slick against her neck and shoulders. Her pink lips formed a little O when she saw me and she quickly ducked back into the shower without another word.
I grabbed the box of Q-tips and left, closing the door behind me, trying to get my pounding heart under control. What the fuck? I met my dad in the hallway. I took one look at him and all that confusion was replaced with disappointment.
How could he?
I pivoted and aimed myself down the hall. I needed to be anywhere but outside that bathroom at that moment.
“Junior, now wait,” he said, grabbing me and holding me in place. “It’s not what you think.”
I stared at him. We were eye to eye for the first time ever. I guess I’d finished that last bit of growth spurt right about then.
“She’s a follower,” he said. “One of my followers.” He was proud of this. He sounded like he was the leader of a cult or something.
“Your blog followers?”
“Yes.”
“What about Mom?”
“This has nothing to do with your mother.”
“I think it kind of does.”
He held me firmly. “It doesn’t. And it won’t be any good for her to know.”
My mind reeled when I thought of my mom.
“You have to keep this to yourself,” he said to me. “It’s better that way.”
“You can’t do this again,” I told him. “You can’t have this woman over again.”
He looked like he was considering it. Then he shook his head. “No, not again.”
“Dad, I mean ever. Any of your damn followers. You can’t . . . have sex with them.”
My dad’s gaze narrowed at me, as if I were being so naive. “Junior, you can’t—”
“No! You can’t do this to Mom.” My voice rose higher and higher, nearly to a squeak. “If you do, I swear I’ll tell her! I’ll tell her everything!”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes! I will tell her. And I don’t care if it hurts her. I want her to know the truth.”
Mention of the truth always struck a chord with my father. He was a truth seeker himself. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded calmly, as if to himself, and said, “All right.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” No hesitation, no furtive glance. He promised and I left him, relieved.
I never told my mother about it. Until three days ago when he left with Carol, I thought that was the end of his cheating.
I wanted to believe.
Priya squeezes my hand, calling me back to the present. Her gaze holds mine. “I’m real.”
“True.”
“You believe in me.”
“I believe you are . . .” Intelligent and charming. “A nice human girl who might be . . .” Nutty. “A little misguided.”
“Is that what you believe?” Her lips twitch provocatively, and suddenly I believe she really can read my mind. I know she can. The truth isn’t out there; it’s in here. It’s in my face and in my voice and in the skin that she’s touching.
I bend my face to hers, curve my shoulders around her, enveloping her, consuming her. I feel a wave of heat roll toward me from her very core, from her heart and her lungs. One hand slides along my arm and up to my shoulder, the other wraps around my waist. Her fingers twist my shirt into knots at my back.
We melt into each other, magnetized from waist to hips to thighs.
My eyes squeeze shut as our lips meet, and it would be crazy to say I see stars, wouldn’t it?
So I won’t say it.
But I feel it.
This is real. Her tongue against mine is real. Her back beneath my hands is real. Her legs entwined with mine . . .
Breathless, she pulls back and a breeze cools us down as we separate. But she doesn’t let go. Her fingers cling to my shirt, damp from the humid air, from us. She looks up at me in surprise, bewildered. But how can that be? This can’t be her first rodeo. She obviously knows what she’s doing. That kiss, that passion? Oh-so-human.
“Priya?”
She blinks a few times and she looks around her, at the field, at me, as if she were finding something in her scope. When she gets me between her crosshairs, she grins. “Yes. That was . . .”
Awesome. “Nice.”
“Yes. You call it . . . ?” Her head tilts and her white-black hair hangs to one side.
“Um . . . kissing?” All those times I wanted to touch her hair but stopped myself. I don’t stop this time. My fingers caress the ends of her wig; the impossibly silky hairs don’t clump together like normal hair. I feel like I’m touching a ghost’s hair, smoothly ethereal.
“Kissing,” she murmurs. “Kiss. Again.”
I crush her to me. She responds with equal pressure, hugging me to her chest, squeezing her arms around my neck. I let my lips wander to her ear and trail down to her shoulder.
A shiver runs up my spine when she does the same. It’s as if she’s echoing me. I kiss; she kisses. I touch; she touches. I taste; she tastes. . . .
<
br /> Is this real? Like, really real? We’re standing in a field, clutching each other as if there is no tomorrow, and maybe there won’t be, not if she leaves—not by spaceship, not through a wormhole, but in a car or a bus or on foot.
No. I won’t let her go. I’m not ready.
I pull her with me to the ground and lower her head gently against her bag. I line my body up with hers and let our legs tangle. Her tutu tickles my arm when I run my hand up the back of her leg and along the curve of her hips.
She’s not like Emily. She doesn’t have the muscular back and thighs that Em has. I can feel each vertebra in her spine as if it were a bulb on a string of Christmas lights.
I touch here, squeeze there, lick this, nibble that.
And she does the exact same to me.
I think she’s going to stop me, that she’s going to do what other girls have done and whisper, “No, not that,” or “That’s far enough.”
She doesn’t.
But we have to stop. We can’t. Not here. Not in a field. Not with my dog watching. Well, maybe Ginger isn’t watching, but she’s here and that’s just weird.
I hold back and take a deep breath so Priya will too. Gradually the pulse of my heart slows to the speed of a freight train.
Priya grins and brushes her hair away from her temples. “Thank you.”
“Thank . . . me? Why?”
She taps the side of her head. “Data collection.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Right, yeah, okay. You’re welcome.”
“You taught me well.”
“And now you’ll teach others?”
She shakes her head. “I won’t have to. They will know it because I know it.”
“And what do you know?”
She answers me with the longest, deepest kiss I have ever experienced.
You have to stop. Now.
“Why do I have to stop?” she asks, in complete innocence. She has absolutely no idea what she’s doing to me.
But it’s my own fault. I started it.
Thank you, Matty.
You’re very welcome, Matty.
I roll onto my back and look up at the stars. Beside me I feel Priya do the same. She stretches her legs straight in front of her like she always does and rests her arms on top of her thighs.
“I’ll probably be leaving tonight,” she says.
My heart knocks against my ribs. “What?”
“It’s been three days since I anticipated my ship’s arrival. My calculations aren’t that wrong. They will be here very soon.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, as if she and I didn’t just make out like rabbits.
“Are you . . . are you sure?”
She reaches behind her and takes her notebook out of her bag. Holding it above her face, she tilts it so it catches the starlight. Flipping page after page, she makes little hmmm noises. Try as I might, I can’t see what’s on those pages. They could be grocery lists, for all I know. A celestial to-do that only she understands. Finally, she closes the book and places it back in her bag.
“I believe so,” she says.
“Can I . . . stay here with you? Until you leave, I mean?”
She nods. “You can’t come with me.”
“I know,” I say abruptly, and maybe a little too sharply. “I just want to see the ship and you know, wave good-bye.”
“Wave?”
I hold my hand up and wave it in the air. Priya holds hers up too, matching it; we wave together, fingers pressed like bodies.
I have to stop thinking about her, about this. She’s right. She’s leaving. I have to accept that.
I lower our hands to the ground, let her fingers rest in my palm.
Don’t go.
DAY FIVE
10:28 A.M.
By the time the sun warms my face, it’s too late. I fell asleep beside Priya and didn’t go back to the house to tell Mom I was home.
Priya is still on the ground, still flat on her back with her feet pointed and her arms by her sides. Ginger must have trotted over to her after I fell asleep, because her head is nestled against the crook of my dog’s neck, using her like a furry pillow.
Damn dog didn’t give me a place to rest my head.
I didn’t really think a spaceship was going to pick up Priya last night, but it is a relief to see her here. While she sleeps, I stare at her, memorizing her for that moment when she does eventually leave the field. In the sunlight, her skin appears bronze against my dog’s dingy white coat and her hair shines like it was painted. I brush a lock of white from her face and feel the impossibly silky texture slip between my fingers. With her dimpled chin tilted up to the sky, her delicate neck exposed and vulnerable, she looks almost regal, like a princess, with her fluffy tutu and patent-leather boots.
“Is that it, Priya?” I whisper. “Are you royalty?” Not from another planet but somewhere here on Earth, in a small country on a tiny tropical island floating in the southern hemisphere? Or maybe she’s a queen in exile, spirited away by courtiers while a coup takes place? Perhaps she doesn’t even know she’s the daughter of a deposed king. She doesn’t even know she’s special.
Someone must be missing her. A mother, a father, a younger sister who idolizes her.
A boyfriend?
I consider waiting with her until she wakes up, but I’ve got to check in with Mom before she flips out.
Or has she already?
Cop car in the driveway. Jack’s Mustang right behind it. Seriously, dude?
I pause a few feet from the kitchen. Part of me wants to flee, to run back to Priya and grab her hand and just keep going. The part that wants to deal with my mom right now is infinitesimally small.
I circle around the front of the house to see if the entire police department is here, but there’s just the single squad car—white with brown and yellow lettering, “Sheriff’s Department” written on the side with a gold shield and the name of the county.
I clear my throat, readying myself to face Mom and the cop who came to investigate. He’s one of the older guys, doesn’t move so fast, wouldn’t fare well in a shootout. Not that we get much of those around here. Round-faced, round-bellied, wearing a tan polyester jacket that’s too heavy for this weather and too short for his bulk, he stands with his sweaty back to me, facing my mom and Jack in the hallway. Mom’s face is tense with worry and fear and for a second, I feel a pang of guilt clench my stomach.
“. . . your son has any friends he might be with?” he’s saying as I step into the foyer.
My mother sees me and pushes the cop aside; relief replaces worry. “Matthew, where the hell have you been?” She’s in her pj’s and Jack’s in his suit, which means she didn’t flip out until this morning when she got up and I wasn’t making coffee for her.
She grabs me by the sleeves and hugs me hard. My uncle pats me on the back as if I were the fine leather interior of a brand-new muscle car.
“Jeez, kid, you scared us,” he says.
The cop jerks his thumb toward me, says to my mom, “This him?”
Your powers of deduction astonish me, Mr. Policeman. She nods and thanks him profusely for coming out and taking the time and she’s very sorry, she hopes he wasn’t called from something more important, thank you and good-bye and . . .
“Where were you, Matty?” she shouts as soon as the door closes. “You should know better than this.”
“What?” is all I can manage. I mean, what am I supposed to say? The truth? I slept next to a crazy girl in an empty field while we waited for her spaceship to arrive?
“Did you make coffee?” I start for the kitchen, but my mother’s gaze hardens and she crosses her arms over her chest as she paces in front of me, blocking my path.
“Answer me. Where were you?”
“I was around. Jeez. I was actually really, really close by,” I say with a grin. “You could have called my name and I’d have come.”
“I called your phone.”
“Oh. Huh.”
“Where. Were.
You.”
“I was . . .” My brain is in low gear, turning so slowly.
“Were you drinking? Smoking?”
“No! Don’t you trust me?” I shake my head and walk past her and Jack. I need coffee. The pot is half empty. I pour myself a mug and hear flip-flops slap against the stone floor. I stare into my cup and shake my head. This is absurd, her calling me out like this.
“Face facts, Matty, you’re starting to act just like your father,” Mom says.
I take a gulp of hot coffee and scald my throat. “Seriously? You did not just say that to me.” I glance over at Jack to see if he’s on board with this. He catches my eye and then sheepishly stares at the creases in his fancy pants. Really? No love from the only other guy in the room? Thanks, man.
“I’m not like Dad, okay? I am nothing like him.” I slosh the coffee around in the mug, cooling it off before I swallow the rest in two long gulps. I can’t believe she would even say that to me. After all we’ve been through? I mean, I’m here every single day. I do what she wants. I make her coffee. I take care of the dog. Yeah, I smoke a little weed and maybe I could get better grades but I’m not a cheater. I don’t lie to people and I don’t betray their trust.
I slam the mug on the counter a little harder than I intend. I’m pissed but not break-a-cup pissed. “Maybe you need to go to work and stab someone with a needle or something.”
“What?”
I probably just put a toe over the line, but why the hell stop there? Let’s go for the whole two feet. “Take your bullshit frustrations out on some other chump. Not me.”
My mother’s face pales with anger and her freckles stand out like spots on a leopard. A very pissed-off leopard. “That is not the tone to take with me this morning,” she says, her voice so low it sounds like a growl.
Again, I seek out Uncle Jack for support, for someone to agree that my mom is flipping out for no good reason, but he’s got far more important things on his mind, like picking stray hairs off his jacket lapels.
“You know, I’ve got crap to do, so—”
“I think you should stay home and clean the house,” Mom says. “Top to bottom, including both bathrooms.”
