by Carrie Jones
I give him the rundown on what actually happened. I don’t know the kinds and names of all the aliens, but like I said before, I’ve been reading up on all things alien. Describing them is easy. Explaining about the toilet seat maneuver is embarrassing.
“That was fast thinking,” he says, surprising me.
“Wait. Did you just praise me?”
His lips twitch at the right corner. He doesn’t stop me until I get to the part about Lyle and me returning and the bodies being gone.
“Gone?”
“Yep. Just gone. They put the toilet seat back, too, but forgot to actually bolt it back down.”
“So, it was a rush job.”
“I had barely left. It was a super-rush job. Who would do that?” I ask.
He wipes his hands together, removing the extra moisturizer, I guess. “So many. None. Everyone. There are a million answers to that question, Mana.”
“So, what is the most likely answer?”
“Are you hungry?” He reaches out a hand to me. To do this he has to reach across my mother’s body, which seems awkward and wrong, so I don’t take it.
I admit, “Yeah.”
I can’t remember when I last ate. Lyle can always remember when he’s last eaten. Lyle is food focused.
“Late lunch is the first step to our answer, then.” He wiggles his fingers.
“I’ll agree if you take off your sunglasses inside.”
He laughs. “I’m about to go outside. I’ll just put them on again.”
He wiggles his fingers one more time. Giving up, I take them. I have never voluntarily touched him before. I don’t explode or catch fire all over my mother, so that’s nice, but then I let go, bending over my mom, kissing the dry flaky skin of her forehead.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back.”
When I stand up straight again, China is staring at me with a strange expression on his face. His brow furrows, but his eyes remain wide.
“Do you say that every time?” he asks. “Say ‘I’ll be right back’?”
“Yep.”
“So do I.”
“That doesn’t make me forgive you for not answering my texts.”
“You sent three a day.” He self-corrects, “A minimum of three a day.”
“Whatever.”
“It wasn’t time yet.”
“And now it is?”
He sighs and averts his gaze. “Possibly.”
* * *
A long time ago, Lyle, Seppie, and I had a huge argument over why Goofy the dog could talk in the Disney universe, but Pluto the dog couldn’t. Lyle said it was because one was a pet and one was an equal. Seppie said that none of it made sense. Half the animals in Disney could talk and half couldn’t, even if they were pets. She used Pascal in Tangled and the mice in Cinderella and Percy in Pocahontas as examples. I just thought it was irrelevant. “You either believe or you don’t,” I said.
They didn’t get it.
We were at cheer practice, running laps inside the school hallways because it was winter and snowing outside. Lyle was being kind and staying with us instead of sprinting ahead effortlessly. We were pounding up the stairs, our normal, happy trio.
“You can’t just believe that one dog can talk and another can’t,” Seppie insisted. “Any more than you can believe that the dragon in Mulan or the fish in The Little Mermaid can talk.”
“So you’re saying you can’t believe any animated creatures can talk?” Lyle asked.
“Exactly.”
We got to the hall straightaway past the foreign language rooms. It stank up there.
“Then you can’t enjoy the movies or the cartoons.” He was flabbergasted.
Seppie threw her hands up in the air. “How can you possibly enjoy something that you know is impossible? That makes no logical sense?”
“It’s not impossible. Nothing is impossible,” he countered.
I had tuned them out. I don’t even remember who—if anyone—won the argument. What had changed since then? We never kept secrets. We told one another everything.
Not everything, I reminded myself.
Lyle and I didn’t tell Seppie about when the Wendigo appeared at my house and tried to eat us. We wanted her to have fun and go to a party and then when everything went to hell, when we realized about the chip and the aliens, we still didn’t tell her because we wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. We did tell her eventually, when it was impossible not to tell her, but we kept it secret as long as we could.
But that couldn’t be what was happening now. We all know about the aliens. Lyle is one. I’m just making excuses for them because I still love them both, no matter what.
* * *
China and I make it all the way outside the hospital before he says, “Are you still in?”
“In?” I stop beneath the awning, standing on the bland concrete that has salt thrown down on the icy patches. The salt has melted the ice away, and even though its work is done, it remains there.
China sighs as if my question is a real question and not just me buying time. “Do you want to still help me if it’s okay with the higher-ups?”
“Three texts a day during which I beg doesn’t make you think I’m in?”
“You could have changed your mind.”
“Because why?”
“Because I took forever to respond. Because Lyle is being weird. Because of the bathroom incident. People change their minds all the time.”
I creep over to the salty mixture, touch it with my toe. That salt had a reason and then it didn’t. I have a reason, too. My mom had a reason. That girl who died in the bathroom had a reason. Even that orc-Shrek-alien-of-evil had a reason. Once you know your reason, is there really a point in fighting it? Before the salt dissolves the ice so that people don’t slip, what does the salt do? It just stays in the bucket, waiting. I am not into waiting.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Yeah. I’m still in.”
He claps his hands together and rubs them. “Okay, first stop is food. Come on.”
“Are you paying?” I ask.
“Of course.”
Even if I did have a good handle on how much money is in Mom’s bank account and how much on her credit card line, free food is not something I would ever argue with. I stand staring out at the hospital parking lot. An ambulance pulls in to the emergency room driveway. A nurse and a doctor rush out of the hospital doors. Paramedics jump out of the ambulance, open the back, pull out a wheeled stretcher with a person on it. So many people hurt all the time. So much violence. So much pain. I am tired of doing nothing, of being helpless, of just barely hanging on, of not knowing exactly what is going on, ever, of never being in control.
“Let’s take my car,” I tell China.
His lips twitch. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Definitely.”
Something grumbles from behind the ambulance. I freeze because the grumble sounds exactly like the creature in the woods. The EMTs have already shut the door and headed inside, but the ambulance shakes and then topples over onto its side. I scream. China jumps in front of me. I move him out of the way. One second later, an alien just like the one in the bathroom is standing on top of the ambulance. It has pieces of tree branches sticking out of its toes.
“That’s what it looked like!” I yell.
“Stand back. I’ve got this.” China pulls a spray bottle out of his pocket. It looks like a cleaner bottle with red liquid inside it, but he yanks the spray nozzle and pulls at it until it’s about three feet long. “Watch out for the tongue!”
The tongue lashes at us. I tuck up and to the left. China dives right, rolling on the asphalt, right over the NO PARKING line, and shoots. The nasty-smelling red liquid sprays out and hits the orc’s tongue. It recoils. He shoots again and it hits the monster directly on one of its four eyes. It rumbles and bounces and screams.
“Duck!” he yells. I’ve dived behind one of the hospital’s support posts and manage to miss
the spray as the alien explodes.
China has taken shelter behind a trash receptacle. Only a bit of alien flesh lands in his hair. He wipes it off and tucks the spray nozzle back into place and then pushes the bottle into his pocket. He is still wearing his sunglasses.
“You had that with you because?” I blurt, hands on my hips.
“I heard there was an orc around here.” He is nonchalantly using his cell phone to search for alien pieces. He finds an eyeball on his shoulder and flicks it off.
I stand there with him and demand, “Before I told you? You knew this? Is that why you’re here?”
He shrugs. “Pretty much. Still want to take your car?”
I stare at the exploded alien all over the ground for one more second. “Absolutely.”
CHAPTER 6
We head to a place called the Side Street Café, and I order a hummus and olive tapenade plate with homemade pita chips and a salad and a side order of sweet potato fries. China, to his credit, does not make any snarky “hungry” comments, which I appreciate, but the waitress’s eyes widen as my order expands and expands.
“And a soy shake,” I finish, closing the menu shut finally. “Please. Thanks!”
I beam at her and sit back in the chair, my spirits buoyed by the thought of food, a lot of food, a lot of good food.
China orders a fish burger, which is totally not what I would have expected. When the waitress leaves, he says, “Tell me what happened with Lyle.”
“Are you being my dad?” I squint at him like that will somehow allow me to read his intentions. It seems weird that he cares about what’s going on with me and Lyle. He’s not exactly Mr. Empathy.
He takes the knife and taps the handle on the table. Then he reaches up, taking off his sunglasses, revealing his dark eyes, which are warm and a little sad. “No, I’m being me.”
So, I tell him the Lyle parts that I left out of the story, only pausing when the waitress brings water and my soy shake. She tries to flirt with China. China is oblivious, which makes me feel bad for the waitress. Flirting with obliviousness is never fun. Believe me, I know.
He clears his throat and leans forward after I’ve explained it all. “I hate to suggest this, but maybe it wasn’t Lyle. Maybe it was a shapeshifter, like the ones we’ve met before.”
A tiny muscle at the edge of his eye twitches. He rubs at it with his napkin as my heart sort of stops. The door to the café opens with a creak. Cold air bursts inside. The door shuts. “I never even thought about that.”
“It’s possible, or he may just be being a douche nozzle.” China accepts the plate of food from the waitress, making eye contact. She giggles. Giggles! I am so worried about my gender. I want to tell her that it isn’t worth it. Guys will kiss you and then say they can’t handle it. They will be your best friend and then they’ll get yelled at by the principal and it will be all over. Guys are not worth giggling over, especially if you’ve only just met them. But I do not preach as she sets my shake and food plate down, I just wait.
Once she’s gone again, I say, standing up, “We should go find him. If that isn’t Lyle, then we have to make sure the real Lyle is okay.”
He doesn’t move. “Mana. When was the last time you ate?”
I don’t answer because two days ago isn’t the sort of answer he’d want to hear.
He points his fork at me and then my plate and then back at me again. “We need to eat first … I have suggested it because it’s good to look at all possibilities, but it’s highly doubtful Lyle was Not Lyle. He wouldn’t have pushed you away if he was. So, let’s not worry about him as a number one priority until we’ve dealt with other things. Seppie? Same deal. Plus, someone is meeting us here. Orders from the top brass. They think he might have some important intel.”
“Who?” I ask, torn between leaving and eating.
“Me. Sorry, I’m early.”
I turn around. The man is around Six foot five and built like a pro wrestler, all muscle and bulk, buzz-cut hair. “Tim Wharff.”
He reaches out his hand. I shake it. He doesn’t crush my fingers, so that gives him a lot of bonus points. His last name is Wharff. That sounds just like a Klingon name of a major character in the Star Trek universe. I didn’t realize people even had that for a last name. Lyle would be very into this in an excited way.
Lyle.
My food doesn’t come across as appetizing, all of a sudden.
“Don’t mind her. She just lost her boyfriend,” China explains, motioning for Wharff to sit down and then making a motion for the server to come back to the table.
“Did they take him?” Wharff asks, swallowing the chair with his bulk.
“Take him?” I ask.
“Abduct him,” Wharff explains, grabbing a napkin and daintily spreading it across his lap.
I almost choke on my shake. “No.”
“Dead?” His eyes meet mine. The pupils are a bit wobbly. They jump around.
“No! He just—He just—ah…”
“He dumped her,” China explains for me in his lovely tactful way. “Or maybe not. I’m not a hundred percent convinced it was actually him. Or that it was an actual breakup. Or that they were technically dating.”
I stare at my food, somehow losing my appetite even more. “It was him.”
Wharff sips his water. All his actions seem slow and deliberate. “He is a fool then.”
“I’ve always said that,” China agrees.
“I’m not cool with talking about him when he’s not here,” I say. “It’s mean.”
“He dumps her and she’s worried about being mean? When he can’t even hear it?” Wharff places the glass on the table again, delicately. “That’s a whole lot of kindness in one person.”
“Too much, if you ask me,” China grumps.
Luckily, the server comes back. Wharff orders two cheeseburgers, a salad with blue cheese dressing, a milk shake, orders me another shake, adds a piece of apple pie, and asks for both regular fries and sweet potato fries. The waitress gives him this face like she’s totally appreciative of his appetite and makes one of those flirty comments about big men and big whatever, which is so inappropriate. China rolls his eyes. Wharff, however, doesn’t even really notice. It’s like he’s used to it or doesn’t care or both. When their little interchange is done, he settles in and tells us to eat our food before it gets cold, but I can’t do that because it’s too impolite and my mother would kill me. China dives right in.
The men make small talk about the New England Patriots and football teams for a while and I zone out, remembering the time Lyle and I went to a diner and it turned out to not be Lyle, but a shape-shifting alien. I had escaped in the nick of time through the ceiling of the restroom. I fell through the kitchen and fled to the street, where I eventually found the real Lyle and China. Good times. Not really, but I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a positive mental attitude. I used to be positive all the time before I knew about the aliens.
The waitress serves Wharff. He is enthusiastic about his food and she trots off happy. We all dig in and even though my own meal isn’t chicken or anything, it tastes brilliant, as does the smooth, cold vanilla soy shake. I guess my appetite has returned.
Wharff eyes me eating. “Are you not feeding her?”
“I haven’t seen her in a while,” China replies.
Wharff harrumphs like that is not a good enough answer. Once he’s ravished one burger and half the salad, he tells us that he’s been abducted before.
“I know that you believe. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, so I’m going to skip with the precursors and I’m only going to tell you this story one time. If you mock me, I leave.” He smiles. “With my burger, of course.”
His grin seems forced, a bit of bravado, and I suddenly feel for this big man who was obviously once helpless and probably afraid. It’s hard to feel helpless and afraid. I totally get this feeling.
“We won’t mock you,” I say. I reach across the table and touch his hand,
trying to give him some comfort even as the crystal vibrating slightly in my pocket distracts me. “I promise.”
He seems reassured and begins to tell us a story, pausing only when the server comes too near. He tells us that he drives a truck in between stints in his MMA career, and explains to me that MMA stands for mixed martial arts. Men and women fight each other for money, kind of like professional wrestling with more realism or boxing with legal kicking. Anyway, he had a bit of MMA-enforced bad luck to make the season more dramatic and he was driving a Walmart truck for a couple months to help make his story more sympathetic.
“They want me to come back as the underdog, the everyman’s hero. Walmart trucker fits into that persona,” he says between bites of lettuce.
One night he’s driving the eighteen-wheeler down the long, deserted stretch of highway in north-central Maine between Augusta, the state capital, and Bangor, which has an airport and a mall or something. There are no lights on the interstate up there, and barely a car. He noticed an orange glow ahead, a reddish-orange glow, and he started to slow the truck down, figuring there had been an accident and some cars were on fire. He got on the radio and asked if anyone knew anything.
“All I got was static,” he says. “And then I’m over the hill and I see it. It’s hovering right over the highway, maybe two or three feet above the ground.”
“It?” I ask.
“The craft. It’s circular and huge, covers more than both lanes of the highway, and there are a lot of lights on it, little lights, mostly white, some red. Looking at it is like looking at a little city, you know? When you look at a city from on top of a mountain. That’s what it’s like.”
He pauses and takes a drink of his water. Then changes his mind and goes for the milk shake. I sip mine, too, slurping it through the straw and then apologizing for the noise. I don’t think either of the guys actually notices the noise or the apology, honestly. China is super-focused on this Wharff guy’s story and I can’t blame him because the guy is a compelling, charismatic storyteller.
Wharff’s eyes close for a second as if he’s cut up remembering. The chatter of the restaurant seems to ease its way back into my ears. Other people at other tables chew and talk and clank their silverware and slurp their shakes just like I did. The world continues. People continue.
