Starstruck

CHAPTER 7: Seismic shift

  "Rigel?" I said, my embarrassment forgotten in my concern for him. "Are you okay?"

  He blinked, shook his head like he was dazed, then stuck the trays in the slot. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Um—" He glanced over his shoulder at the giggling gaggle of cheerleaders on their way out of the cafeteria. "What . . . did she mean by that?"

  It was almost like he was forcing his voice to sound normal, like he wanted to shout or something. I couldn't imagine why, though.

  "You mean the 'Marsha the Martian' thing?" I tried for a little self-deprecating laugh, but it came out more like a hysterical titter. "Just something they used to tease me about in elementary school."

  The lunchroom was emptying, but he stayed where he was, just out of the way of the last few people dropping off their trays, frowning down at me. "But . . . why? Why would they call you that?" His intensity was unnerving, making me hesitate.

  Abruptly, he seemed to realize he was overreacting. He gave a little laugh that sounded as forced as mine had and finally started walking. "I mean, was it just because 'Marsha' sounds kind of like 'Martian'? I know little kids do stuff like that."

  Tempting as it was to say that's all it was, I told him the truth. "No, it was mostly my own fault. I had kind of a . . . vivid imagination when I was younger. Back in second grade, I went through a phase where I told everybody I was really a Martian princess in disguise, and that someday my royal parents would come claim me and I'd go back to Mars to marry my prince. Just silly kid stuff, but I got teased a lot for a while."

  He was still looking at me kind of strangely. "Wow, that is . . . vivid, as you said. Why do you think you, um, made up something like that?"

  I shrugged, trying really hard to make light of it, though I was still unsettled by his reaction. "Why do kids make up anything? I guess I wanted to feel . . . important or something. Special. And since I didn't know who my parents really were, it was fun to imagine they might be special, too." I laughed. "Really, really special."

  Now his laugh sounded more natural. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

  "It's still kind of embarrassing," I said as we reached class, trying not to sound giddy from relief, now that I'd confessed what was probably my darkest secret and Rigel was still speaking to me.

  Other than a quick good-bye after History, I didn't see Rigel again that day, and I missed him way more than was reasonable. I'd always sneered (mentally, anyway) at girls who needed a boy to be "complete." But I couldn't deny the empty feeling I had when he wasn't around, almost like there wasn't quite enough air to breathe. I didn't like it.

  After school, Bri and Deb came over to my house, supposedly to do homework together, but really so they could extract every single little detail of my lunch with Rigel. They were properly incensed at Nicole's attempt to embarrass me, but had no good theories on why Rigel had wigged out at the mention of my dumb childhood fantasy.

  "Maybe he just doesn't have much imagination himself?" Bri suggested. "I've heard that people without imagination have a hard time getting it when other people do."

  "Or maybe it reminded him of something he read?" Deb offered. "I didn't know you then, but from what Bri told me, it did sound almost like a story you'd read in a book or something."

  I shot a glance at Brianna, a little ticked that she'd talked to Deb about that behind my back, but she just shrugged and gave me an apologetic smile. I tried not to be bothered that Deb and Bri seemed closer these days than Bri and I were, but it hurt just a teensy bit.

  That night at dinner, there was no hiding from my aunt and uncle that I wasn't wearing my glasses. I'd considered wearing them just to avoid the inevitable questions, but they made everything so blurry I was afraid I'd get sick to my stomach.

  "They're in my room," I replied to Aunt Theresa's query. "My eyes seem to be improving or something—I can actually see a little better without my glasses than with them lately."

  I wasn't sure why I hedged instead of telling them about the sudden and apparently complete cure of my nearsightedness. Maybe it was because the only person I'd told so far was Rigel and I wanted to keep it our secret for now. That made it somehow precious.

  My aunt harrumphed. "I suppose we'll have to take you to the optometrist, even though you've only had these glasses for eight or nine months. Have you checked to see if one of your older pairs will work in the meantime?"

  "Oh, good idea, I'll do that."

  The next morning at breakfast, I made a point of wearing my glasses from two years ago—which didn't make things quite as blurry as my current ones—and telling her they worked perfectly.

  "So there's no rush for an optometry appointment," I said.

  She hmphed again but didn't argue, and I thought she looked a little relieved. So was I. Apart from the cost, the eye doctor would probably treat me like some kind of medical curiosity, attention I really didn't want.

  Today, Rigel actually walked me to lunch from Science class. I couldn't help feeling like the queen of the world, entering the lunchroom at his side, knowing everyone there was staring at us. For once in my life, I didn't mind being the center of attention. Bri and Deb grinned at us as we approached the table, then scurried off for yet another "project" the minute we sat down.

  Rigel and I both chuckled a little as they left, but then he turned to me, suddenly serious.

  "Before I forget, M, would you be at all, well, interested in coming to this afternoon's football practice?" He said it in kind of a rush—the way I said things when I didn't want to lose my nerve. Not that I could imagine Rigel ever losing his nerve about anything.

  At least as flattered as I was startled, I nodded. "I'd love . . . uh, that is, sure. I mean, I'll need to call home, but I'm sure it'll be okay. I'll use Bri's cell phone after school."

  "You can use mine if you want," he offered.

  "Oh, um, thanks! So . . . you don't have any problems using a cell phone with the, er, static thing?"

  He shrugged, then grinned. "Well, I did fry my first one, but then my dad got me one of these shockproof ones with the rubber casing." He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  I touched the table leg before taking it, still afraid I might manage to destroy it, but it didn't spark at all when I touched it. It was completely covered with a tough, rubbery skin.

  "Cool! My aunt won't let me have one until I start driving, but I think she was going to use my electrical problem to put it off even longer. Now I can tell her about this."

  "Do you want to call her now?"

  I knew she wouldn't be home yet, but I went ahead and left a message on the answering machine at home, saying I was staying after school but would be home in plenty of time for dinner.

  Though I wanted to ask him why he'd invited me to practice, I didn't. I knew sometimes girlfriends of the players went to watch, but I didn't think I quite qualified for that status. Yet? And I didn't want to give him any reason to reconsider and maybe decide he didn't want me there after all. That it might be too much of a declaration to the rest of the school that we were . . . friends.

  Instead, I asked something I'd been wondering about. "Rigel is kind of an unusual name, at least here in Indiana. Did your parents name you after the star, or is it a family name or something?"

  "You know, you're the first person I've met at this school who even knows it is a star."

  I felt my face heat and looked away from him, remembering that first day in Science class. "Um, astronomy is kind of a, uh, hobby of mine. So you were named after the star?"

  "I guess so, but I think it was mostly that my mom just liked the name."

  "That's a good reason." I almost said I liked it too, but thought it would sound forward.

  "So how about your name?"

  I grimaced. "My name? I dunno—I always assumed my birth parents gave it to me, but I don't actually know that."

  "And what was that face? You don't like your name?" He had that intent look again, like he could see inside me or something.


  So I told him the truth. "Not much. It wasn't so bad when I was little—well, not until the Marsha the Martian bit." He gave a little twitch but covered it quickly, so I continued. "But now that they're showing 'Brady Bunch' reruns on TV Land, I get a lot of 'Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.' I wish everyone would just call me M. I've even thought about switching to my middle name."

  He leaned forward, seeming way more interested than the subject warranted. "So . . . what is your middle name?"

  "Prentiss. I did ask my aunt about that once, and she said it was a family name. But when I asked which family, she got all evasive—so that's all I know."

  Rigel shook his head. "I can't imagine knowing so little about myself or my family. Does it ever bother you?"

  "Sometimes," I admitted. "It bothered me a lot when I was ten or eleven—when I first started to really think about it. I used to ask a lot of questions, but my aunt, well, you met her. She's not the kind of person to pester. My uncle is easier, but he doesn't seem to know a lot. About me, I mean. So now I just . . . try not to think about it too much."

  "I guess that makes sense."

  "So what about your family?" I asked before he could start feeling sorry for me again. "You don't have any brothers or sisters? What about grandparents?"

  "No, no brothers or sisters. My grandfather—my dad's father—lives in Washington, DC. I don't see him very often, but he calls every week."

  "How about your other grandparents? Where do they live?"

  He got a strange look on his face, kind of an oh, crap look, but then he gave a little half-shrug. "Um, they're dead. Died before I was born, so I never knew them."

  "Oh. I'm sorry," I said automatically, confused by his initial reaction. It didn't seem to fit his answer at all, but it wasn't really something I could ask about. "Any cousins?" I asked instead.

  "No, at least, not . . . no. No cousins."

  Again, I had the feeling he'd nearly said something, then changed his mind for some reason. Was there something awful about his mother's side of the family he didn't want to talk about? If so, it was his business, I told myself. It didn't stop me from wondering, though.

  Since he clearly didn't want to talk about his family, I switched to talking about our Science projects for the rest of the lunch period. As we got up after the bell, Rigel gave a sudden jerk of his head, glancing over at Trina's table, then frowned.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Nothing."

  Frustrated and a little bit irritated, I didn't say anything else on the way to History, but he seemed so preoccupied, I wasn't sure he even noticed. Then, just as we reached the classroom, he turned to me.

  "You have Trina in your Health class, don't you?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer—again. But then he looked at me from under his eyebrows, frowning just like he had in the cafeteria. "Check your seat before you sit down, okay?"

  "In Health class, you mean? Why?"

  "Just do it. Or don't say I didn't warn you."

  With that, he turned away and headed to his seat without looking at me again, leaving me to make my mystified way across the room to Bri and Deb, who were waiting—of course—to hear the latest update. They both squealed when I told them I wouldn't be on the bus this afternoon because Rigel had asked me to come to football practice.

  "Shh!" I hissed, glancing over at Rigel, who was looking amused. "It's not like he asked me to prom!"

  "Still," Bri whispered, "it's a really big deal, M. I mean, it's one thing for girls with crushes to sneak into the stands to watch practice." She and I had done that more than once last year when Greg and Jimmy were practicing with the JV team. "But for him to actually ask you?"

  Deb nodded vigorously. "Only girlfriends—like serious girlfriends!—go to the practices. This is huge, M. Trust us."

  I just shrugged. Much as I wanted to believe them, I didn't want to set myself up for a crushing disappointment. Plus, Rigel hadn't made it sound huge at all, more like a friendly invite to pass the afternoon.

  Still, I couldn't think about much else for the rest of the school day. History and French went by in a fog of hope, fear and anticipation.

  It wasn't until I was about to sit down in my last class that I suddenly remembered that weird warning Rigel had given me after lunch and paused to examine my desk chair. It looked shinier than usual, so I took the precaution of touching it. Sticky, like it was covered with glue.

  I glanced at Trina just in time to see her look away with a fake innocent expression. Yep, she'd definitely done something.

  There was still a minute or two till the bell, so I went up to the front of the room and stopped next to the teacher, then looked at Trina again. Now she was looking nervous—and so were her minions, Donna and Amber.

  Just to mess with them, I asked Mrs. Harklewood a quiet question about yesterday's lesson before going to the paper towel dispenser near the door and grabbing a few sheets, then returning to my desk. Without even a hint of a glance at Trina or her buddies, I calmly spread the towels over my seat, then sat down.

  Once class was underway and everyone around us was distracted, Trina leaned across the aisle and whispered, "Okay, which one of you warned her? Nobody else knew I was going to do that!"

  I couldn't quite hear their replies, but it was obvious they were both vigorously denying saying a word to me. I smiled to myself.

  And wondered how on earth Rigel had known.

  "Hey, M, thanks for coming," Rigel greeted me when I reached the football stadium after class. "I hope it won't be too boring for you—I think we're mostly going to be doing drills. But you can do homework and stuff if you want."

  "I'll be fine." I was about to ask him how he knew about Trina and the glue when the coach blew a whistle and he sprinted off to the field.

  With a little shrug, I climbed into the stands and sat down. I'd just add that to my list of things to ask later—along with why he really wanted me here today.

  There were a few other girls watching the practice, all sitting together at the other end of the bleachers. I toyed with the idea of joining them, then decided it wasn't worth the risk of rejection. Rigel might have asked me here, but that didn't mean I would instantly be accepted into a group several social rungs above my usual one.

  Instead, I pulled a couple of books out of my backpack so I could pretend to be working on something, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything except Rigel.

  The players were already warming up, running up and down the field. After a moment I decided it definitely was not my imagination that Rigel moved more smoothly than any of the others. He had a strength and grace about him that seemed almost out of place in a high school sophomore—more like something you'd see in a professional athlete. With a happy sigh, I gave myself up to the pleasure of just watching him.

  They finished warming up and started drills involving sprinting and throwing and stuff. The ball became a blur when Rigel threw it. Watching Jaworski and Mullins repeatedly dropping passes, I remembered what I'd heard them saying yesterday morning. The coach said something to Rigel and he nodded. It looked now like he was trying to throw softer, so the other guys could catch the ball. It didn't seem fair that he had to lower his level of play for their benefit, but I guess if it would help us win games . . .

  Suddenly I saw half the team's heads whip around, so I looked where they were looking and saw the cheerleading squad, including Trina, sauntering up to the field, dressed in teensy shorts and sports bras. They mostly pretended to ignore the players, though a couple of them waggled their fingers at the guys. Then they started practicing, which mostly meant waving their boobs and butts around for the benefit of the team.

  Sheesh, no wonder our school sucked at football! I was surprised the coaches even allowed this, as distracted as most of the guys seemed to be. But not Rigel, I noticed with great satisfaction. Whatever attraction he'd felt toward Trina on the first day of school had apparently evapor
ated once he'd gotten to know her better. Which proved he was smart as well as gorgeous.

  Of course, I already knew that. I'd heard his answers in the classes we shared, though he rarely raised his hand. He seemed to know geometry and geology as well as the teachers did, if not better. English was the only class I felt like I might be able to keep up with him, since I'd always been a big reader. Books were so much easier to relate to than people.

  As if to prove my point, just then one of the other girls in the stands called over to me, "Hey, Marsha! What did you have to promise Rigel to get him to sit with you at lunch?"

  The others laughed, then one said—or rather, yelled— "You know what they say, nerds are really easy, if a guy just pays some attention to them."

  Now the cheerleaders joined in. Donna shouted up from the field, "I bet five bucks he's tired of her in a week! Any takers?"

  I kept my eyes on Rigel, who was across the field, doing my best to ignore them, though I knew my face must be fire engine red.

  One of the players near our side of the field looked over at Donna and made a comment about not betting against a sure thing, getting a laugh. My one consolation was that Rigel was too far away to hear any of this. But just as I was thinking that, Rigel suddenly turned and zipped the football at the guy who'd made the crack, catching him squarely in the stomach.

  He doubled over and almost fell down. It took him a minute to get his breath, and then he yelled, "What the hell, man?"

  "Sorry," Rigel called, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "I thought you were paying attention. I'll shout 'heads up' next time, okay?"

  The other guy turned away muttering and I realized it was Bryce Farmer, last year's quarterback. Rigel probably wasn't his favorite person, even before this.

  But . . . what had that really been about? It looked exactly like Rigel had hit him with the ball because he'd laughed at me, but there was no way Rigel could have heard any of those cracks from across the field! Could he? I remembered the glue on my seat in Health class. Had he heard Trina and her pals talking on the other side of the lunchroom? How else could he have known what they were plotting?

  So . . . did he have super hearing or something? Along with super strength, at least in his throwing arm? Not that I was complaining, exactly . . .

  Speculating about the wonderful weirdness that was Rigel kept me occupied for the rest of practice. The other girls didn't say anything else to me, which was absolutely fine. I needed to think—with the fraction of my brain that wasn't devoted to watching Rigel.

  All too soon, practice was over and the players were sent off to the showers. I used that time to finally get some homework done, since I knew Aunt Theresa would ask about it and I didn't want to tell her why I'd been too distracted.

  I was almost finished with my Geometry assignment when a shadow fell across me. I looked up with a smile, ready to tell Rigel he'd looked good out there, then saw it wasn't Rigel. Instead, Bryce Farmer stood there, glaring down at me.

  "Um, hi?" I said. Bryce and I didn't know each other at all, had never even spoken, since not only was he a senior, but we were at exact opposite ends of the social spectrum. Or had been last year.

  "You. Marsha. Tell your boy Stuart he'd better stay out of my way if he knows what's good for him."

  I blinked at him for a moment before a spurt of anger surprised me. "Why? Are you afraid to tell him yourself? Why ask a girl to do your dirty work for you?"

  The rational part of my brain was astonished that I, Marsha Truitt, was actually standing up to big shot Bryce Farmer, but mostly I was just pissed.

  But he looked pissed, too—and a lot more dangerous. "It's your fault he made me look stupid today—in front of Trina."

  Bryce was still looming over me, so I jumped to my feet to face him. He still topped me by a foot or more.

  "You're making yourself look plenty stupid without anybody's help." Again, the words were out before I could stop them.

  Now he looked really, really pissed. "You little— Nobody talks to me that way. Especially a nobody like you. How about I give you a stronger message to take to your boyfriend?" He stepped toward me, an ugly smile twisting his face.

  Suddenly Rigel was there, stepping between us. "Go home, Farmer. Any beef you have, take it up with me—or the coach. But leave M out of it."

  "Yeah? Or what?" Bryce sneered. "Your dorky girlfriend needs to learn some respect. If you won't teach her, maybe I'll just—"

  He reached for me and then several things happened at once. I grabbed Rigel's hand just as he moved to block Bryce again, and out of nowhere—or rather, out of us—a blue arc of what looked almost like lightning hit Bryce in the chest, knocking him to his knees. His eyes went super wide for a second, then he slumped down onto the bleachers and passed out.

  "Holy crap!" I looked around wildly, expecting to see people rushing toward us, but the bleachers and the field were empty. "What the hell just happened?"

  Rigel looked almost as startled as I was—but not quite. At least, I didn't think so.

  "I . . . I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe that static thing—?"

  "No way. That went way, way past anything static could ever do. You did it, didn't you? You shot lightning at him or something? How did you do that? What if he's—"

  Bryce groaned, then struggled to his knees, looking dazedly up at Rigel. "You bastard! You punched me!"

  Rigel barely missed a beat. "You deserved it. Leave M alone. Got it?"

  Though Bryce still seemed pretty out of it, he glowered. "Yeah, I'll leave her alone. For now. You didn't have to go all caveman on me." With one last glare at both of us, he turned and stumbled back down the bleachers and out of the stadium, still shaking his head.

  I waited until he was gone to round on Rigel. "Now, will you please tell me what the hell just happened?"

  "I think I . . . we . . . shocked him. Somehow."

  "Well, duh. But how?"

  He shrugged and shook his head, but I noticed he didn't look me in the eye. He was definitely hiding something and I was determined, this time, to get to the bottom of it, even while I was a little terrified that I might push him away. In just a week, Rigel had become almost as important to me as air. Which was scary all by itself.

  So instead of demanding he explain, I tried something more roundabout. In as offhand, nonchalant a tone as I could manage, I said, "Maybe Mr. Ferguson will have some kind of explanation. I'll ask him about it tomorrow."

  As I'd hoped, Rigel immediately looked alarmed. "No! I mean, I'm sure it's not worth bothering him about. He'll probably just think we imagined it or something."

  I wasn't giving up that easily. "Maybe," I said with a shrug, "but it's worth a try. I'll explain exactly what happened just now. If he doesn't believe me, maybe I can get Bryce to remember and back me up. If . . . if you won't."

  He frowned at me for a long, tense moment, and I could tell he was trying to come to some kind of decision. Finally, he said, "Look, I know you need to get home and the late buses leave in about five minutes. But can I call you tonight?"

  "Sure," I said eagerly, then remembered— "But I, uh, don't have a phone in my room. So my end might not be very . . . private." I had a feeling that might matter. At least, I hoped it would.

  "No cordless?"

  I shook my head. "We used to have one, but I, um, shorted it out. The old-fashioned kind seems to be more resistant—or so my aunt says." Personally, I thought it was to make sure I didn't spend too much time on the phone.

  "Hm. Well, I'll still call, and then we can talk more at lunch tomorrow or something. C'mon, we'd better hurry."

  We headed for the three activity buses in front of the school.

  "So you're not even going to give me a hint?" I asked.

  "I . . . I'd better not. Not yet."

  Even with only three buses, Rigel and I were on different ones, which meant I couldn't keep pestering him for information. But he'd all but admitted there was something to tell. I really hoped I could ma
nage to get some privacy when he called tonight.

  Unfortunately, hoping wasn't enough. Aunt Theresa wanted to know exactly why I'd stayed after school, and she was horrified when I told her the truth. All through dinner I had to listen to a lecture about girls who chase after boys and what that would do to their reputations. No amount of explaining that Rigel had invited me to come to practice made a difference.

  "A boy like that is bound to have certain . . . expectations about a girl who goes along with his every whim," she told me as I cleared the dishes from the table and put them in the sink. "It never hurts a girl's stock to play hard to get. Remember that."

  I came back for the water glasses. "It's not like that. We're friends—that's all." I definitely wanted it to be more than friends, but for now that was the absolute truth.

  She still wasn't buying it. "A girl doesn't stop wearing her glasses and fix up her hair for a 'friend.' You may not believe it, Marsha, but I do remember being young, once upon a time. I know what peer pressure can do to a girl's convictions."

  The very idea of stolid Aunt Theresa ever being tempted by a boy almost made me drop a glass. Before I could get past that distraction to argue again, the phone rang.

  "I'll get it!" I said quickly, but it was too late. Uncle Louie already had his hand on the receiver.

  "Hello? Yes, she's right here." He turned to me with a grin. "It's Rigel," he whispered loudly enough for the next door neighbors to hear. I was sure Rigel had.

  "Thanks," I said, ignoring Aunt Theresa's sour look. I took the phone, wishing harder than I ever had before that we still had a cordless, like every single other family in the United States. The best I could do was to stretch the cord its full length, which took me just barely around the corner from the kitchen into the front hall.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey," Rigel said. His voice didn't have quite as profound an effect over the phone as it did in person, but it was close. "Can you talk?"

  "Some." The silence in the kitchen made me fully aware that my aunt and uncle were listening. "Can I have a hint now?"

  It took him a moment to answer. "Um, I don't think a hint is a good idea, actually. How about we bring our lunches tomorrow and eat in the courtyard? We should be able to talk there."

  "Okay, sure. But can't you at least tell me—"

  "I'd better go. See you tomorrow, M."

  The line went dead and I was left with the impression that he didn't want to be overheard any more than I did. Interesting.

  "That was quick," Uncle Louie said when I hung up the phone. "I used to talk to girls for a lot longer than that when I was your age."

  "Louie!" Aunt Theresa snapped. Then, to me, "You'd better finish the dishes, Marsha, then get to your homework, if you don't want to be up half the night."

  Of course, I was awake half the night anyway, even though my homework was finished by nine o'clock. I couldn't stop speculating over what Rigel might be going to tell me tomorrow.

  Was he the result of some secret government experiment? Or maybe since he was so smart, he'd done some kind of experiment himself that had made him extra strong and given him super hearing. And a static charge like mine, only stronger. No, that sounded lame.

  I'd read a few vampire romances, but since he didn't have any trouble being out in the sun, I didn't think that was it. Besides, I was pretty sure I didn't believe in vampires. But maybe he was some other supernatural something?

  I fell asleep long after midnight, still puzzling over it, then woke well ahead of my alarm. I rushed through my shower and made myself a sandwich, mumbling an answer when Aunt Theresa asked why I was taking my lunch. I was in such a hurry to get to school that I reached the bus stop ten minutes early and had to wait, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.

  When I got to Geometry, I caught Rigel's eye and held up my lunch bag for him to see. He gave me a wry kind of smile and nodded, but didn't come over to talk to me.

  "What was that about?" Deb asked me. "You were so mysterious on the bus. What happened at football practice yesterday, anyway?"

  I shrugged. "Like I said, nothing much. But we agreed to have lunch in the courtyard today."

  "Ooh, that's so romantic! Why didn't you tell us?"

  I just shrugged again.

  The next three and a half hours seemed to last for weeks, but finally the bell rang for lunch. I grabbed my paper sack and turned to face Rigel, trying not to look too eager.

  "So. Lunch?" he said with that devastating grin that always made my knees go weak.

  Trina glanced from him to me, then made a disgusted noise and hurried out of the Science classroom. I barely noticed.

  "Let's go," I said.

  We walked in silence to the courtyard. It was nearly ninety today, so nobody was out there. It could have been a hundred and ten and I wouldn't have cared, so long as I got to be with Rigel—and got to hear whatever his big secret was.

  I'd been trying to prepare myself to be disappointed, telling myself it would probably turn out to be some perfectly normal something, after all my wild speculation. But I couldn't help being excited as we sat on the one stone bench in the shade and pulled out our lunches.

  "So?" I finally prompted when he didn't say anything right away. "You had something you were going to tell me?"

  He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed, and took a big swig from his water bottle. Then, finally, he turned to face me.

  "Yes. But I don't think you're going to believe me."

  I set down my own water bottle. "Try me. I've known something was different about you since the first day of school. So . . . what is it?"

  Rigel drew a deep breath, took both of my hands in his and looked me directly in the eye.

  "I'm a Martian."