It Came from the Sky Page 12

  “But he is handsome,” Arden said.

  “He seemed plenty taken with you too.” I frowned, thinking of how eagerly Oswald had introduced himself to my friends.

  Arden shook her head and her cheeks turned splotchy red. “With Cass maybe. Not me.”

  “Hey,” Cass said, leaning forward. “Don’t do that.”

  Arden shrugged. “It’s true. I’m not trying to insult myself. It’s just, look at us.”

  To be fair, Cass did draw the eye. She wore a sparkly tutu-like skirt and had her hair in a ballerina bun. Arden, meanwhile, was clad in her usual shapeless cardigan. And more important, Cass’s shoulders were straighter. Her chin was raised higher. She carried herself like she deserved to be paid attention to, while Arden twisted her fingers anxiously through her long hair, shoulders pulled toward her chest, eyes downcast. Her posture screamed don’t look at me, though I know she wanted to be seen just as much as the next person.

  Still. I felt 92 percent sure Oswald had seen her. It was Arden his eyes lingered on.

  “Look, Arden,” Cass said. “So you’re not wearing some weird outfit. You think that makes me any better than you? It’s just clothes.”

  “That’s not all it is, and you know it. Guys don’t like me. Ever.”

  “Guys do like you,” Cass said. “You just don’t realize it. You need more confidence.”

  “Great,” I said brusquely. “Maybe Arden can pop into the confidence store and pick some up.”

  Cass raised her eyebrows. “What’s your problem?”

  “I hate when people act like we can change our personalities, like it’s that easy to become something we’re not,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d been coaxed to be more social, more emotional, more outgoing. As if the personality I was born with was deficient, and if I simply put effort into it, I could be a better person—a person who didn’t resemble my true self.

  “Let’s not fight,” Arden said. “Please? Can we talk about something else?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I reached over and grabbed my calculus book from the desk. “Like homework. I really can’t afford to miss more assignments if I want to stay in the running for valedictorian.”

  Cass looked at me with a bemused expression.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t know a ton about MIT, but I’d bet you anything they don’t only accept valedictorians.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” I said. For instance, they would probably overlook the fact that I hadn’t been valedictorian if I showed them my brilliant sociological study that was getting discussed worldwide. “What’s your point?”

  “I dunno,” Cass said, shrugging. “Maybe do homework because you want to learn something and not, you know, to get some title that doesn’t even mean anything out of high school.”

  I frowned. “For the record, forty-two percent of MIT students—”

  “Or,” Cass interrupted, “you can forget all that stuff entirely and tell us what that Oz guy was doing here.”

  “J. Quincy Oswald is the last thing I want to talk about.”

  But Cass and Arden gazed at me raptly and I knew how entertained they’d be by Oswald’s voice of God that became the voice of aliens. So I told them everything. Maybe it was better that I did. We spent most of the evening joking about the extraterrestrial fountain of youth and envisioning the mayhem that would ensue if people at Irving High School were granted eternal life.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to de-stress. How I needed a night of sitting around laughing with friends.

  By the end of the evening, I was more amused by Oswald than concerned.

  And that should’ve been concerning in itself.

  Text Conversation

  Participants: Gideon Hofstadt, Ishmael Hofstadt

  IH: dude

  IH: but what about cow mutilations

  GH: I’m sorry, what?

  IH: i was thinking

  GH: About mutilations? Why? Where are you right now?

  IH: in my room

  GH: Then why are you texting me?

  IH: upstairs is so far

  GH: Why were you thinking about cow mutilations?

  IH: cause its maybe time to raise the stakes again

  IH: and didnt you say cow mutilations are an alien thing?

  GH: Under no circumstances are we mutilating ANY animal.

  IH: oh

  IH: well, we still need to raise the stakes

  GH: Yes, I know.

  IH: you do???

  GH: I’m working on an idea.

  Event: Guidance

  Date: Sept. 27 (Wed.)

  Being that I’d spent the majority of English lit doodling crop-circle designs, I assumed I was in trouble when Mr. Fiore called my name. He’d hated me since the first week of school, when I expressed displeasure that an entire quarter would be spent on poetry.

  But all Mr. Fiore said was, “Ms. Singh wants to see you.”

  I was happy enough to leave class without discovering how Robert Frost (Robert Frost (1874–1963): an American poet. Once confused by Ishmael with Jack Frost, the personification of winter.) handled the apparently overwhelming choice of diverging roads.

  I knocked on the guidance counselor’s door and it swung open instantly, as if Ms. Singh had been waiting. She was young and hadn’t yet lost passion for the job like some of the faculty at Irving High School. I’d met with her once before, at the end of the previous year, and while her eagerness was overwhelming, she was likable.

  “Gideon, so nice to see you,” she said, ushering me inside.

  Though her office was too small for it, she’d pushed her desk to one side and brought in a love seat and small armchair—using her own money and time, I imagined. A box of tissues sat on a coffee table next to a vase of fresh flowers, and motivational posters adorned the walls.

  Ms. Singh gestured for me to sit on the love seat and took the chair across from me. It was so cramped that my knees bumped into the coffee table. I couldn’t imagine how taller people managed.

  “I want to check in with all the upperclassmen while we’re still early in the year,” Ms. Singh said. “It’s time to get serious about the future, so I thought we could chat and make sure you’re on the right track.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. I never shied away from talking about the future.

  “Last we spoke, you had your heart set on MIT.”

  “I still do.”

  Ms. Singh nodded pleasantly, but said, “Have you considered backup options?”

  I frowned. I’d gotten that question enough from Mother and Father. “No.”

  “Well, I really encourage students not to pin all their hopes on one school.”

  But for me, there only was one school. I’d wanted to go to MIT since I’d found out MIT existed.

  “I’ve worked very hard to make myself the ideal applicant,” I said.

  “I know you have. I looked through your file before you got here. Your GPA is excellent—”

  “Not as excellent as Sara Kang’s,” I replied bitterly.

  “You still have a shot at valedictorian if you put in extra effort this year.”

  “And if Sara Kang doesn’t put in effort, right?”

  Ms. Singh ignored the question and said, “Are you keeping up with your extracurriculars?”

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t strictly true. I’d skipped the last several debate team meetings and hadn’t volunteered in a while. But I was semi-active in science club. And I was still on track to becoming an Eagle Scout, despite it being a torturous experience. I enjoyed working toward some of the merit badges, (See: astronomy, electronics.) but the camping trips were agonizing. Tents and trees and nature. Not to mention s’mores, which were the stickiest, most stress-inducing food I’d ever eaten.

 
“I’ve done some research on MIT,” Ms. Singh said. “They strive to take on well-rounded students.”

  “Which I aspire to be.”

  “They prefer applicants to have participated in a sport.”

  I knew that. I’d done my research too. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible.”

  “Have you looked into all the options? Maybe track?”

  I almost laughed out loud. I couldn’t make it down the corridor without getting winded. “They prefer students to have a sport; they don’t require it.”

  None of this mattered anyway. Surely my unconventional pursuits would be more attractive to the admissions board than whether or not I played football. I began to feel anxious. I should be working on the next stage of the hoax, not spending time discussing my athletic ability.

  Thankfully, Ms. Singh moved on. “What about your hopes for after college?”

  “I plan to work for NASA.”

  She smiled. “An astronaut, huh?”

  “An engineer.”

  People assumed wanting to work for NASA meant wanting to go to space. Not me. Astronauts were daredevils. Space travel involved innumerable risks. I’d rather keep my feet firmly planted on Earth.

  “You know,” Ms. Singh said thoughtfully, “I have a friend who works for Triple i.” (Triple i: Interstellar Initiatives Inc., a private space-travel company.)

  I tried not to visibly cringe.

  “Triple i is interesting,” I conceded. “But not NASA.”

  Triple i was all about space tourism and flashiness. It was where hip, young people worked, because sometimes space could be trendy. It wasn’t comparable to NASA, with its long history of tradition and countless achievements.

  “It might be worth looking into, though,” she said. “I could put you in touch with my friend.”

  I thanked Ms. Singh because she really was trying to help, but I didn’t want to talk to her friend. It was NASA or nothing. It was MIT or nothing. And thanks to the groundbreaking sociological paper I was writing, achieving those goals would be possible.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, discussing my strategy for the rest of the year. She offered to get me information pamphlets. Poor Ms. Singh didn’t seem to know that the information in her pamphlets could be easily found online.

  Still, I left the meeting feeling optimistic and imagining the glory and wonder my future would hold.

  Of course, there were still several steps I had to take before I could enjoy that future. Beginning with researching crop circles.

  Event: Suspicious Behavior

  Date: Sept. 27 (Wed.)

  I liked doing research right before bed. I’d drift to sleep with new information still floating through my consciousness. I always hoped it would permeate my dreams.

  But it was hard to concentrate on research with overly synthesized pop music blaring from the bedroom next door.

  I threw my book about crop circles on the bed, stomped into the hall, and pounded on my sister’s door.

  “What?” she shouted.

  I pushed the door open and stepped into Maggie’s room.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t say come in.”

  I held up a hand to my ear, pretending I couldn’t hear. She rolled her eyes, but reached over to her tablet and cut the sound.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “For you to have common courtesy and not blast your music.”

  “It doesn’t bother Mom and Dad.”

  “They don’t share a wall with you.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. I’ll keep it down.”

  I was about to leave, because I’d never been entirely comfortable in my sister’s lair. Each wall was painted a different neon color and they were covered with movie posters, photos, and various other bits of memorabilia. Softball trophies cluttered a dresser. The majority of her wardrobe was on the floor, along with who knew what else. The chaos of Maggie’s room made me anxious.

  But I hesitated when I realized what Maggie had been doing when I walked in. Not watching TV or playing a video game or texting friends. She’d been reading a book. An actual, physical book, made of bound paper. I was 91 percent sure I’d never seen her do that before.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Was it my imagination, or did she shift her leg to hide the book cover?

  “Clearly you’re reading something.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  If I were Ishmael, I’d have charmed the information out of her. But I didn’t have that skill, so I resorted to a less sophisticated tactic: I leapt toward the bed and attempted to grab the book.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast either. Maggie and I wrestled for a moment. I was on the brink of giving up when my hand finally closed around the book’s spine. I pushed away from her and moved to the center of the room, examining what I held while Maggie scowled and called me an asshole.

  “Follow Me: A Study of the World’s Most Charismatic Cult Leaders,” I read.

  I looked at my sister.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  “Why are you reading this?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a weird interest to suddenly have.”

  Maggie laughed, loud and sharp. “Do you really want to talk about sudden, weird interests?” She yanked the book from my hand. “I found it in a box with a bunch of other books Gram left here and was curious. That’s all.”

  “I see.”

  Maggie and I gazed at each other for a long moment, and there was a clear understanding between us. The understanding that neither of us trusted the other at all.

  “What are you up to?” I asked.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Me? I’m not up to anything.”

  There was another silence, then Maggie smiled meanly. “You realize no one buys your alien story, right?”

  “Judging from what I hear around town, you’re wrong.”

  “Oh, please. Ishmael is known for practical jokes. You’re known for being a science nerd. You think people aren’t able to put the pieces together?”

  “Why go along with it then?” I shot back. “Why are people making up alien stories of their own?”

  Maggie shook her head and looked at me sadly, as if pained by my naivety. “You just don’t understand human nature at all, do you?”

  Of course I didn’t. I never had, and even with the help of this sociological experiment, maybe I never would.

  “I’m going back to my room,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Please keep your music down.”

  Instead of responding, Maggie, a thirteen-year-old far better versed in human nature than me, curled up on her bed again, the book about cult leaders open in her lap.

  Interview

  Subject #2, Magdalene (Maggie) Hofstadt: I kept thinking about how J. Quincy Oswald made me want to believe him, even though all that alien stuff was totally stupid. Probably everyone who signed up for myTality felt the same way. They didn’t join the company for the products, they joined for Oz. Gideon always called myTality a cult, and I wondered if he was right, and what other cult leaders were like. That’s why I read the book. Not that it was my brother’s business. Besides, I saw what book was on his nightstand.

  Event: Crop Circles

  Date: Sept. 28 (Thurs.)

  Getting eight hours of sleep was necessary to function at top capacity. For that reason, I’d always kept myself on a strict schedule. Unfortunately, you couldn’t sneak into a neighbor’s field to make crop circles while the rest of the world was awake.

  It was past midnight when Ishmael and I dragged our supplies to David O’Grady’s (David O’Grady, approximately seventy years old, our closest neighbor.) farm. It would have been more convenient to
stay on our own property, but that would raise suspicion. Due to its proximity, O’Grady’s field was the next obvious choice.

  I’ll admit I never liked O’Grady. When I was very young, he once happened upon Father teaching me to play baseball. He called me “sissy-boy” when I ducked from the ball—as if I was supposed to stand there and let a projectile fly directly toward my face! Father immediately chastised O’Grady, but I never forgot those words, or how small they made me feel. Years later, once I learned more about bigotry, I wondered if O’Grady had only been talking about baseball.

  So there was no lost love between the farmer and me. But even so, I chose to make a crop circle in a cornfield that had already been harvested for the season. I wasn’t out to ruin anyone’s livelihood.

  “It’s funny,” Ishmael said, dropping the two-by-four he carried and looking at the cornstalks surrounding us. “You’d think crop circles would be difficult to make.”

  “And yet they’re not.”

  “It’s totally not something I ever saw myself doing.”

  I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “Let’s get this over with. I have a test in the morning.”

  Plotting the shape of the circles was simple with a computer and overhead maps. Ishmael assisted me in using string to mark the design in the field—we’d chosen one of the least complex ones. In no time, we were ready to begin the labor portion. Ishmael and I each had a wooden plank with rope attached. By holding the rope, we could drag the plank through the field, flattening cornstalks as we went.

  It was absurdly simple, but exhausting. After nearly an hour of hard labor, we’d only completed the inner circle.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t have gone with cow mutilation?” Ishmael asked. He stopped working and wiped his brow with the hem of his Hawaiian shirt.

  I took the opportunity to stop too, doing my best to disguise how heavily I was breathing. “Is that a serious question?”

  “Yeah, dude.”

  “Are you telling me you’d feel comfortable mutilating an animal? If I remember correctly, you won’t even touch uncooked chicken.”