by S E Anderson
I froze. That was a name I couldn't hear. Not right now, not when everything else was such a mess. Panic rose and I forced myself to remember how to breathe.
Marcy’s face paled.
“Don't say his name.” I gripped the couch for support. Every time my brother came up in conversation, I shut down.
“Hon, have you taken your meds?”
“Yes.” Another lie. With everything going on, I hadn't had time. I should have been worried about this. I wasn’t.
“I'm worried about you, Sally Webber,” she said, using my whole name like it was a plea. “I don't know how to help.”
“It's okay,” I said. My panic subsided, which surprised me. It was unusual for it to pass that quickly. Something was different. “Has it really been two years? I guess … yeah, it has. But I'm ready for a change now, you know?”
“Don't do anything you don't want to do,” she insisted, sneaking a glance at her phone as it buzzed again, but she didn't touch it. “I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, understand? I just hate to see you like this.”
I smiled. “All I need is … a job, a roommate, and, well, a life.”
“Take a day off first,” said Marcy, glancing around. “And what’s with all the sand? When was the last time you went to the beach?”
“Ugh, true,” I agreed, trying to brush it off. “But for now—Netflix? We can hit some Firefly eps. I have cake mix in the cupboard. We can make a feast.”
“Perfect.” Marcy grinned. “And I've got to tell you about Dany.”
“From last night?”
“Yes, her,” she said, brimming. “We got talking and never really stopped.”
As if to agree, the phone buzzed again. This time, she picked it up, read the past few messages, and giggled in an oddly adorable way. I watched her quietly; I hadn't expected my day to get any weirder.
“So, the two of you hit it off then?”
Marcy nodded. “My gosh, yes. I foresee a date in our near future. Many, actually.”
“What's she like?”
“She's … awkward,” Marcy answered. “An endearing kind of awkward, if you know what I mean. She's well-traveled but poorly situated. I know it doesn't make much sense, but you'll get it when you talk to her. It's amazing, though, how she listened to me ramble on for hours. I was even naming the best kinds of macaroni and cheese brands, and she was genuinely interested. Like it was fascinating. I've never had a person treat what I was saying like that before.”
“And all this running business?”
“Overbearing father.” She shrugged. “Understandable, really.”
“Where's she from?”
“Didn't say.”
“You spoke for all that time, and she never said where she was from?”
“I did most of the talking,” she replied awkwardly. “Hold on, I'll ask her.”
Her thumbs flew over the screen, blurring as she typed. Seconds later, the phone buzzed again.
“Small town in Nebraska,” she read. “But she spent some time in Nepal because of her dad's job. Odd stuff.”
“I dunno, Nebraska isn't the oddest state,” I started, but my friend gave me a look that meant I was neither funny nor clever.
“So, Netflix?” I offered.
“No, you shower first.” Marcy grinned, turning back to her tiny screen as it chimed again. She laughed and dropped the phone on the armrest beside her.
“Fine, but when I get back, I have to tell you about my own success. Guess who asked me on a date?”
“Seriously?” I didn't think her grin could have gotten any wider, but she proved me wrong. “Wait, who?”
Her phone buzzed again, and this time, she apologized and went for it. She and Dany texted back and forth, making her eyes twinkle. I felt so happy for her.
I stood and walked to the bathroom. There was no way I was going to let Marcy see the mess in there. I closed the bathroom door to inspect the wreckage in peace: it wasn't so bad. There was sand everywhere, of course, but the big issue was the huge canvas sheet soaking in the tub. The blood tinted the water red.
It was grotesque. I did a double take at the sight of it, holding my hand to my mouth to keep my gag reflex under wraps. How on earth would I explain this?
I wouldn’t. I grabbed some trash bags from the cleaning cupboard and threw the sodden wrap inside without wringing out the water. I drained the tub, brushing the sand away. I would have to mop and clean tomorrow. Marcy, in the meantime, didn’t look up from her phone, asking me if I was all right as she texted her new belle.
I wondered where Zander was. I shouldn’t be the one cleaning up after him, though I guessed it was only fair after he saved my life. Neither of us had said goodbye, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that was the last time I would see aliens. Maybe I could try to fix my life—the normal way.
The me who's writing this now, the one who's thinking back over these events and trying to piece together those stray thoughts, that me is laughing uncontrollably.
* * *
After a restful Sunday—boring compared to everything else that was going on, so I'll spare you the details—I finally got myself out the door, driving my junker car to the closest garage which, in itself, was miraculous. The mechanic inspected it, scratching his head as I told him the same story about hitting a deer. I didn’t have to fake the tremor in my voice.
“All good?” Marcy asked as I slipped into the passenger seat of her car.
“Should be,” I replied, faking my cheer. “Hopefully, it'll be repaired soon. Sorry to make you drive me around like this.”
“I offered.” Marcy grinned, pulling onto the street. “I told you, I don't mind.”
“Still …” I kept an eye on the street. Ever since that Saturday, anybody remotely glancing in my direction sent shivers up my spine.
“There's one last place I need to go,” I said, clutching my purse to my chest. “It shouldn't take long.”
“Where's that?”
“I need to find a pawnshop.”
“A pawnshop?” said Marcy, “Sally, what—”
“Don't worry. I have some stuff I need to sell. It’ll keep me going for the next few months. It won't take a second.”
“Then lunch,” she urged. “I'm famished. Any preference where we go?”
I grinned. “Your car, your pick.”
Marcy pulled up in front of the first pawnshop she saw, a dingy looking place with a pile of odd-looking junk in the window. There was a statue of a clown playing a saxophone, its red hat faded from years in the sun. It was kind of creepy—really creepy. Did I mention I wasn't a fan of clowns? Most of my fears were rational: I mean, lots of people are afraid of heights, but when it came to clowns, something inside me just didn’t sit right.
“Should we go somewhere else?” she asked. “The only thing I know about these places comes from Pawn Stars, and I'm not sure how reliable that information is.”
“Nah, it won't take long. I'll be right back.”
I slipped out the car and into the dark store, gripping my purse. The coins Zander gave me jingled noisily in my pocket as I walked.
The place was full of strange trinkets, antiquities, and gaudy decorations, a patchwork of things that found themselves there by odd circumstance. A foot-tall angel statue glared at me from the top shelf above the counter, its face twisted to the point where it could no longer be called angelic. I glanced down trying to fight the glare of the bronze face, my eyes falling to the contents behind the glass. Instead of the old rings and watches I expected to find, two long cutlasses sat on a velvet cushion, almost as if waiting for a duel. Incredibly old, incredibly ornate; I was shocked to find items like that in this tiny place rather than a museum.
“Beauties, aren't they?” the shopkeeper said, making me jump. I looked up, glad that he stood between the distraught angel and me.
“Incredible,” I replied. “How old are they?”
“Not as old as you’d think,” he said, shaking his head
. “Perfect replicas of a dueling pair from the sixteenth century. They're only a hundred years or so old.”
“Seriously?” I looked down at them. They were in surprisingly good condition. The blades looked sharp.
“May I help you with something?” he asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
I nodded. “Yes, um, I'm looking to sell some things?” I replied, wondering why I felt so nervous. Fact was, Zander had given me these coins as a gift, albeit thinking I could use it as actual currency. Trying to sell them felt wrong.
I dumped the contents of my change purse on the counter. The six tiny gold coins clattered against the glass, rolling every which way. The owner put a firm hand over them then picked one up to inspect it. He held it close to his eye, letting out a low whistle.
“Now where did you get these?” he asked in a soft voice. He put the coin down and picked up another, holding it so close to his eyes I had no idea how he could see anything.
“I was cleaning out my grandmother's attic,” I lied. “Are they worth anything?”
He laughed quite suddenly, making me jump for the second time that day.
“Worth anything?” He chuckled. “They’re pure gold and date from the last time we had a woman running this country.”
"Wait, what now?”
The man leaned back casually, a winning smile plastered his face as he picked up one of the coins again.
“Back in the days before Hamilton,” he joked. “These coins were the currency back when Queen Anne was, well, Queen of the colonies.”
“You're kidding me!”
“It's no joke,” he said, pulling out a small set of scales and dropping the coin on it. He nodded at the numbers, though they meant nothing to me. “These coins are four hundred years old, at least. But …”
He held it up to the light, frowning slightly.
“What's wrong?” I asked, leaning forward. A small fear grew in the pit of my stomach.
“The coins should be four hundred years old,” he muttered, “but the gold has barely aged. There are no wear marks, except for the scratches. Either your grandmother kept them incredibly well … or, more likely, they're like the cutlasses—replicas.”
“Oh,” I said. For a second, I felt as if I’d held a piece of history in my hands. “Are they still—”
“Hey, they’re still high in gold content,” the owner said. “Maybe their historical value has diminished, but the gold is strong. I'll give you $4,000 for the bunch.”
I almost fell over with shock. That was more than I had anticipated. It was more than enough to cover the cost of my car's repairs. Heck, it would probably cover my rent for the next few months, with some to spare.
Gone was the worry about bills, the fear of not being to make it through the next month. Just like that.
The check felt heavy in my purse. Marcy picked up on the look on my face the instant I got in the car.
“What happened? You're pale.”
“Just a little surprised,” I muttered.
“Why is that?” Marcy's stomach grumbled loudly, and I laughed so hard I couldn’t see where we were driving. Tears ran down my cheeks as relief washed over me. Maybe, just maybe, I was going to be all right.
But my relief was quickly replaced by guilt. I owed Zander that money, and holding on to it felt dishonest. Sure, he had given the money to me, but he hadn’t known the true value of those coins. Keeping the money felt like I stole from him.
After lunch, I asked Marcy to drop me off at home. This was good for her since she made plans to spend time with Dany that evening. The second she drove off, though, I turned around. Instead of going into my building, I made my way into the park.
I had never been afraid of it before, but I felt like Little Red Riding Hood as she went off-roading on her way to her grandmother's house. The trees seemed closer together and the path thinner and more winding than I remembered. And, worst of all, I felt stalked, as if someone or something were watching me, hidden somewhere in the shadows.
“Zander?” I called out, my stomach twisting in knots. “Zander, are you there?”
No reply. Instead, wind flowed through the treetops, rustling the leaves and chilling me to the bone. I wrapped my coat around me.
“Zander, where are you? I've got to talk to you about something?”
Still no answer. Not that I was expecting one. I had only hoped … no, I was still hoping—hoping for a reply that would not come. I had no idea where he was, if he had a place to stay, if he was even on this planet anymore. Maybe his sister had made it back. Maybe he had moved. Maybe he had been captured. There was no way for me to know.
I wondered, vaguely, why my life was changing so quickly. If it hadn't been for the hot-air balloon, I would still be working the cash register at Price's right now.
The hot-air balloon had changed everything. That, and the missing alarm clock. A mystery I might never solve.
I called out again and waited, and waited, and waited. He wasn't going to answer, even if he were here. He had left without saying goodbye. Obviously, that meant he was done talking.
I took that as it being over. All of it. And I turned around, returning quietly to my house.
CHAPTER NINE
Life Gives Me Lemons
Job-hunting is hard.
Seriously. Though I assume I’m being Captain Obvious here.
I worked on my résumé—plumping out the two-line paper that summarized my adventures in retail—and sent it out as far and wide as I could. So far, no one had called back—even to decline, let alone offer an interview.
Which, of course, made me feel even more lousy. I had thought about re-enrolling in university but couldn't decide what major I wanted. There was nothing I was passionate about, or even interested enough in, to lie convincingly on an application. Life just felt like a huge, complicated mess.
And yet, through everything, I felt different somehow, almost like I knew myself better. Not enough to know what I wanted, but it was something. Even so, you can't put 'survived an alien abduction' on your résumé.
So, I did what Matt suggested and sent my résumé to Mr. Grisham. Matt had given me his boss's personal email address, which I found odd, but within two hours, I had a response. My hands flew into the air in victory; I had an interview.
Tomorrow.
A celebration was in order, and while Marcy thought that kind of party deserved to be held at a club with a bottle of who knows what, I was more of the opinion that a Netflix marathon was more appropriate. I sat down in front of my small TV with a box of chewy chocolate chip cookies from CVS and a bottle of Dr Pepper. I put on an episode of Futurama and grabbed my phone. There was one person I needed to text.
“I got an interview with your boss,” I typed and sent it to Matt.
He replied in less than a minute. “That's fantastic! I knew you would.”
“It's just an interview. I don't have the job yet.”
“You will!”
Then came the onslaught of emojis. He was so excited for me, and, man, did it feel good to text back and forth, as if I was back in high school, before everything went down with John the way it had. Eventually, I realized I wasn't even watching the show. The two of us had been texting for so long that it was now dark outside and all my soda was gone.
Ok, Kirk or Picard? Matt had asked. This one took me more than few seconds to respond.
Don't hate, okay? I sent back. Picard all the way for me. Way better diplomat. And French. Space French.
I'd be wary of any Frenchman in space, Matt replied, but he was a force to be reckoned with.
We chatted all night and continued into the morning. By the time I had fished out my best-looking outfit, I knew his entire life story. I knew about him growing up in New York, about his vinyl collection—both what he was proud of and what he was still hunting—and I knew about his taste in movies.
A geek after my own heart.
The conversation moved on to his boss, the mysterious Mr. Gris
ham. Now, I say mysterious because only a handful of people had ever met him. Members of the press repulsed him, and he only spoke to his employees, whom he treated like family.
Matt said the man was like a father to him and that he had spent all week talking me up in the hopes of bringing me into the fold. He was under the impression I was already hired, talking like I would show up to work on Monday and we'd have lunch together. He even offered to carpool.
I wasn't nearly as confident. My nerves were shot, and my hands trembled as I buttoned my shirt. It was silly. After everything I had been through, there was no way I should be scared of a little job interview. But I was, dangit.
Marcy picked me up outside my apartment, but she wasn't alone. Her new beau, or belle I should say, sat in the passenger seat. Dany looked much less threatening in daylight, though her height and muscles were still intimidating.
“Hey,” I said as I climbed in. “Nice to see you again, Dany.”
“And the same with you, Sally,” she replied, outstandingly courteous.
“You look great, Sal,” Marce said. She looked tiny next to Dany. “Let's get your car. Don't want you to be late on your big day.”
I groaned. She sounded like my mother.
I was thankful, though. Without her help, I would never have gotten my car back. It looked so much better now the fender wasn't busted. I paid the mechanic and climbed back into the battered chariot, adjusting the mirror the way I liked it and pulling the seat forward.
I watched from the driver's seat as Dany leaned over to kiss Marcy on the cheek, making my friend blush. I had never seen her like this, and I was so incredibly excited for her. I barely knew Dany, but seeing how she made my best friend feel, I was sure I was going to like her. I shook this out of my head. Time to focus. No relationships on the mind. No aliens trying to ruin my day. I was going to fight for this job, and I wasn't going to mess it up.
The road was newly paved, built expressly for Grisham Corp. The company had been in the news for months, maybe even years, but nothing about the technology was ever released. It was, so they said, quite possibly the best-kept secret in the world. Outside the fence, people protested, but their signs didn't say very much. I guess they were worried about the environmental impact or maybe the lack of info. The press releases about how it all worked were vague. People were mad, but many didn't know what they were actually mad about.
