Starstruck

by S E Anderson

  Driving up here made me wonder if the rumors were true, not that I particularly cared. Today, somehow, I had incredibly high clearance. I handed my driver’s license to the guard on duty, and he checked the list—I was on a list—and let me in.

  The parking lot was surprisingly empty but it wasn't scheduled to open for another two weeks. It was a little odd that Grisham was still hiring so close to the opening date though. I thought people would have been in place well ahead of time.

  I parked next to the entrance and admired the building. It was fancy, all glass and chrome; it could have passed for an Apple store. For a split second, I remembered thinking that this is what I expected when I had been abducted by aliens. Grisham Corp looked more futuristic than I had imagined. The cooling towers were painted a baby blue, almost blending into the sky. It was kind of cool looking.

  I was going to like it here—if I got hired, of course.

  I stared at myself in the rearview mirror, happy with what I saw. I looked quite professional with my hair pulled into a tight ponytail and a little natural makeup. I rubbed some moisturizer on my hands. I was nervous, and it was making my palms sweaty and gross.

  Walking through the front door, I found myself wondering if I had ended up at the wrong place. The brightly lit room looked more like the entrance to a five-star hotel than a workplace. The marble floors and lush plants made it feel like a palace, and unlike most industrial or commercial buildings, the lights were warm, not harsh and fluorescent.

  The only odd thing about the place was how empty it was. Not a soul walked through the marble halls. There wasn't even a receptionist. I was entirely alone and incredibly nervous.

  The place was humming, though. While it hadn't yet opened for business, something must have been running. In the absence of people, you could hear the place thrum with noise.

  “Ah, you're here.”

  I spun on my heels, expecting to see someone standing behind me, but no, the lobby was still empty.

  “Hello?” I called out, searching for the source of the voice. “Who's there?”

  “Just me,” a male voice replied. “Oh, sorry. That probably sounded quite menacing. Believe me, that was not my intention. Look over to the reception desk … yes, hi, hello, over here.”

  I did what he asked, looking over at the previously empty desk, which was, unsurprisingly, still empty; however, the large screen on the wall behind it had filled with a close-up of a balding man in glasses wearing a pinstriped suit. He beamed at me with a grin that showed off his teeth.

  I recognized him from the news and my research before coming here. My new—potential—boss.

  “There we go,” he said cheerfully. “Let me introduce myself. I am Ridgell Grisham, the proprietor of this facility. Sophie, the receptionist, is out for the day, so I shall send you up to my office myself. Awkward,” he said, imitating an eighth-grade girl. “Anyway, feel free to head on up. Take the elevator to the third floor. I'll meet you there.”

  With that, the television shut off, leaving me to stand in silence in the empty lobby.

  Ping.

  The sound echoed through the hall. My heart skipped, but it was only the elevator. The doors slid open with a hiss like the sliding doors in Star Trek. The elevator, too, was outlandishly ornate, the brilliant golden interior more suited to a five-star hotel than an electrical plant.

  Okay, this was a little unsettling.

  For the first time, I wondered if I was walking into a trap. Maybe the events of the past few days were making me paranoid, but something was beginning to feel a little off.

  The doors closed, and I pressed the button for the third floor and felt the elevator rise. The back wall was a window that looked out over the lush, green landscape outside.

  The doors opened on to another upmarket hallway, only this one had polished wood panels and thick carpet. The man who had greeted me on the screen was there, but he was much shorter than I had anticipated, and sitting on an electric scooter.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand to shake mine with enough enthusiasm to sell me a used car. “You must be Ms. Webber. Matthew has told me so much about you.”

  “He has?” I shook his hand in return, feeling both nervous and flattered. “All good things, I hope.”

  “The best.” He nodded. “Please, come with me. We have so much to discuss.”

  He spun around and aimed his scooter along the hallway, going much faster than I’d expected. I had to jog to keep up with him.

  “Welcome to the future,” he said. “Everything you see is breaking new ground, advancing humanity toward a brighter, cleaner tomorrow. And it's only through the hard work of people like yourself that this tomorrow can be reached. You with me so far?”

  He did not wait for an answer. We took a left. Automatic doors whooshed open, leading us out to an empty terrace overlooking the sprawling countryside. Small tables and chairs were propped up against the wall. The man led me to the ledge.

  “You may have noticed how little this place resembles a power plant.”

  “Oh, that's for sure,” I said, chuckling. Gosh, I was nervous. “This doesn't run on any kind of nuclear energy, right?”

  Grisham smiled. “Nope.”

  “So, where is the energy produced?” I asked. “Oh, sorry, I think you're the one who’s supposed to ask the questions. I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm just curious.”

  “Stop that right now,” he said, sternly. “Not the question asking, that much is great. Stop apologizing, there's no need. I'm not a dictator. Please, treat me like a friend.”

  “Sure?” It felt like a trick statement, but the guy seemed nice enough.

  “To answer your question, the energy is produced right there.” He pointed at a large cement cap in the ground, situated right below the terrace we stood on. It was large and flat and utterly featureless.

  “Underground?” I asked, trying not to let my disappointment show.

  “Entirely.” He grinned. “I found a pocket of natural gas a few years ago. All we had to do was install some turbines, and presto, we have a source of power that depletes at an incredibly slow rate. Impressive, is it not?”

  “Incredibly so,” I said, leaning over the railing to get a better look. The thing didn't look any more interesting up close. “But wouldn't it be incredibly, I don't know, volatile? High-pressured gas, just below the surface and all.”

  “We have precautions in place.” Grisham nodded, backing up his scooter, turning it around, and gesturing for me to follow him back inside.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, trotting next to him. “This is more than you've told the media.”

  “Well, if you want to work here, you ought to know what we do. So, are you interested?”

  “In what?”

  “Working for me—with me—to make this dream a reality.”

  “Definitely,” I replied, reaching for my purse, “I have my résumé right here, and—”

  “No need, no need.” The man waved away the paper. “Can you get the door?”

  I hit the power button, and the oak door flew open for him to drive through. “Now,” Mr. Grisham said, riding his scooter up behind his large wooden desk. He reached into the silver-inlaid antique and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of wine, and poured us both a drink.

  This was getting weirder by the minute.

  “I'm a people person, and I like you,” he said, raising his glass in salute. “You've got an honest face, and having read your application, I think it's safe to say that you're exactly what I need.”

  Definitely weird.

  "And you," he paused to take a sip from his glass, "you, dear girl, have got ‘trustworthy’ written all over your face. You see, I need people I can trust for this project. It is a revolutionary idea, and I don't want the details to get out before I'm ready. I don't want the world using my technology without me getting the credit. So, what I'm saying is …” He raised his glass. “I lik
e you, and I want you.”

  “Um, sir?” I said, taking a step back.

  “To work for me, Ms. Webber. To work for me. To run this plant. To make history while creating the future.” He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.

  I took a sip of the wine, still trying to figure out if I was supposed to be flattered by all this. I was, a bit, but I was mostly creeped out. “So, is this when we do the interview?”

  “Already done.” The man waved away the idea. “You passed with flying colors. I looked you up online, ran a few background checks—nothing invasive—and I know, I just know, I can put my trust in you. Call it my superpower. I can see your potential. It's radiating from you, and I simply must have it—you—here at the plant. So, what do you say? Will you join the Grisham Corp family?”

  “I'm not even sure what I'll be doing.”

  “It's quite easy,” he said. “As you can see, walking isn't my forte. I'm going to need someone to do all the running around for me; that's it. Answer the phone and tell people I'm not here, maybe drop off and pick up my dry cleaning, play some Scrabble with me from time to time when things get slow. Oh, and this would be your starting salary.”

  Just like in the movies, he wrote it down on a small piece of paper and slid it across the table. I looked at the figure, then at him, then at the paper again.

  It was like winning the lottery.

  “Just like that?”

  “As I’ve already said, you've had your interview.” He chuckled. “I don't need your words to answer my questions; all I needed was your face, and your face shouts honesty. Shake my hand, and embrace the future.”

  I shook his hand. I embraced the future. After all, the future was full of large paychecks.

  And just like that, I was hired. Everything was written down, agreed upon, and signed. I left the office with a job that paid in more zeros than I had seen in my entire life. For a job that was, basically, nothing more than picking up the phone and saying no one was there.

  Doesn't this seem a bit weird? I shook the thought away. Not weird, just incredibly lucky. Or highly improbable.

  “Before you go, just so you know,” Grisham said quietly, leaning forward to press the elevator button for me. “I care a lot about Matthew—call him my protégé if you will—and he thinks very highly of you.”

  “Oh?” I replied, not sure what to say to that.

  “Don't break his heart.”

  “I wouldn't dare.”

  That's when I realized, or maybe I had before and put it in the back of my mind but it was incredibly clear now: Matt was the reason I had this job. Not my trusting face or good vibes, but Matthew Daniels.

  And I wasn't mad. I swallowed my pride and shook my boss's hand. After all, this job might be one of the best things to ever happen to me.

  It could be the worst, too, but that was for time to tell.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dang Aliens, Always Getting Themselves Arrested

  That evening was full of excited texting and phone calls.

  First, of course, there was Marcy. She was ecstatic, even before I told her my good news. She posted on my Facebook wall, which led to my mom and dad thinking they needed to check up on me.

  Thanks, Marce.

  “Why didn't you call us first?” Mom shouted the second I picked up. “And why did you switch jobs? I thought you were happy at the flower shop?”

  I hadn't worked in the flower shop for nearly eight months. I didn't interact much with my parents, not since John. Even so, when we did talk, they heard what they wanted to hear. And they hadn't heard much since I told them I was dropping out of college.

  “This job is huge, Mom. I'm working in a new company. I mean, this place is space-age. It's super advanced.”

  “So long as you're not working for the government, I'm happy,” Dad said, the most excited of us all. “I've heard about this place. It's been in all the papers. You might actually be able to make a difference in the world, Sal.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I replied, and I was happy. He wasn't a man who showed his feelings easily. What he was really saying, or at least what I heard, was that he was proud of me. I took it as a compliment. If they could pick and choose what they heard, so could I.

  Matt, of course, knew that I had gotten the job the second I had walked out of Grisham Corp. Did Grisham have him on speed dial? From what I could tell, the man really was taking his role as a mentor seriously, involving his student protégé in most of his decisions.

  When the phone rang next, I’d expected Matt, but, instead, it was an unknown number.

  “Sally Webber?” the voice asked, gruffly, as I picked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is the police department. We've got one of your friends here.”

  “What?” I stood up, wondering who the man could be talking about. I only knew one person in this city who would turn to me in her time of need, and my heart sank. Marcy.

  “He got himself in a little trouble. Nothing to worry about, he's not hurt.”

  “He?” I insisted. “He, who?”

  “Oh, sorry; he says his name’s Zander,” the cop replied.

  I felt like taking a drink, just so I could spit it back out.

  What. The. Heck.

  “What did he do?” I asked, shocked. Yes, what had he done? And why was I, of all people, being called about it?

  “It would be easier to explain once you get down here,” the man said solemnly. “He needs help getting home, and, well, he needs someone to pay his bail.”

  “I'll be there in a minute.” I put the phone down. This was odd, very odd. Of course, I could probably afford to pay his bail, and I owed him, what with everything Zander had given me. Why would he be in the station? He didn’t seem the type to attract undue attention.

  Why wouldn’t he have jumped out of there?

  I looked up the route on Google Maps and hit the road. Man, I was happy to have this baby back. My taxi, so to speak, was out on a date tonight. She was—from what I could tell from the lack of warning texts—having a fantastic time, so I was glad I didn't have to rely on her for such a strange request.

  I was surprised at how little time it took me to reach the police station. I went in, and smiled awkwardly on my way to the desk. The place was practically empty. There were only three officers inside, one at the desk and the others busy with stacks of paperwork. The place was as quiet as a library.

  “Um, hi,” I said. The receptionist jumped. “Ouch, you almost gave me a heart attack,” he said cheerfully. “Didn't hear you come in. Good evening, by the way. What can I help you with?”

  “Oh, sorry about that. I'm here for my friend—Zander.”

  The man froze, his face dropping into a look of shock. From the back of the station, someone scoffed—loudly.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “You're Sally Webber?” one of the officers in the back piped up. I nodded, my worry growing. He sounded familiar, and I assumed he was the one who called me. By the looks of it, he wasn't very happy. He grunted, and gestured for me to follow.

  I had expected much, much worse. Zander sat on the bench in the drunk tank, staring into the distance. And he was shirtless again for some reason, and had a towel wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was damp too. He didn't look harmed—if he could ever look injured—nor did he seem uncomfortable. He seemed happy.

  “Zander, hey,” I said, walking to the cell to get a better look. He wasn't alone. A wasted guy slept in the corner. At least, I assumed he was drunk—and I assumed he was sleeping. A man the size of a mountain sat opposite Zander. His shirt said something along the lines of Grace Town bender-bender benders, with a picture of a paper clip. Absolutely no idea what that meant. I thought nothing of it, focusing instead on Zander.

  “Stay gold,” the big man said as Zander stood up and walked to the door.

  “You too, Big Eddy.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

 
; “Open your chakras!”

  Zander grinned casually, giving me a small wave that turned into an elaborate move of fingers running through his hair. “Thanks for coming, Sally. I’m really sorry about this.”

  “What happened to you?” I asked, relief washing over me when I took in the complete lack of blood on him. He hadn't gotten into any fights.

  “I was taking a bath,” he said with a shrug.

  The cop snorted. “He was taking a plunge in a pond—completely nude, I might add. Public indecency.”

  “It's a free body of water. I should able to bathe in peace.” Zander sighed. “Anyway, I had no idea I was doing anything wrong.”

  “He says he's been living there for a few days,” the officer continued, ignoring Zander's eye rolling. “Did you know about this?”

  “No,” I replied. Zander made an 'I told you so' face at the officer. “In any case, I'll pay the bail. Do you intend to press charges?”

  “No. However, we can recommend a few hostels for—”

  “He's coming to stay with me,” I said, making Zander jump in surprise. Ha. Finally, I was the one to surprise him.

  Zander tore his eyes off the cop and looked at me, his eyes wide in what I could only assume was fear.

  “Well, until he can get back on his feet, that is,” I continued, forcing myself to ignore Zander’s reaction.

  “You all right with this, Mr. Smith?” The officer sighed and unlocked the cell. He let Zander out, who reached over to plant a kiss on both the cop's cheeks, took a step back, gave him a bow, and extended an arm to shake his at the elbow. The police officer shook back, completely befuddled, his eyes wider than dinner plates. I fought the urge to laugh.

  I went up to the front desk to pay the fee and fill out the paperwork, while Zander haggled with some of the policemen for the loan of a shirt. They found him one from their last Fun Run Fundraiser, which was far too big for him, but at least it was something he could wear without getting into trouble. Luckily, the jeans Jules had given him were still intact, though stained in places. They returned his small items, which he shoved into his pockets.