It Came from the Sky Read online

Ishmael made a face. “Uncooked chicken is gross.”

  “Then how do you think you’re going to mutilate a cow?”

  Ishmael squinted. He looked up at the sky. He looked back at me. “I see your point.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went back to dragging the two-by-four around the field.

  A while later, Ishmael stopped again. “Maybe we’ve done enough?”

  “We’re only half-finished,” I wheezed. My T-shirt was adhered to my back with sweat and my legs wobbled. “Half a crop circle isn’t a successful close encounter of the second kind.”

  “Second kind?”

  I nodded, trying to get my breath back.

  “What are the other kinds?”

  “Exactly what you’d expect, starting with UFO sightings and getting progressively more ridiculous.”

  “Huh,” Ishmael said thoughtfully. “Why don’t you list them for me?”

  “Are you trying to get out of working?”

  Ishmael grinned sheepishly.

  “Come on,” I said, continuing through the field. “The longer you procrastinate the worse this will get.”

  Dawn was approaching before we finished—we hardly had time to spare. The O’Grady farm being operational meant activity began when the sun rose.

  I couldn’t tell how the crop circle looked. I’d have to wait for an overhead shot of it to know how successful we’d been. But I was sure one was coming. With all the fanfare over aliens, the news crew would send a helicopter. Or maybe one of the Seekers had a drone.

  Exhausted, Ishmael and I picked up our planks and made our way back toward our house. I could get a couple hours of sleep before school started, at least.

  I reminded myself the lack of sleep would be worthwhile. When people saw the crop circle, they’d react with wonder and excitement and maybe even fear. And I’d know I had created it. I’d made something no one in Lansburg would ever forget.

  Interview

  Subject #12, David O’Grady: I don’t leave cornstalks in the field just for giggles, you hear? They replenish the soil with organic material and prevent erosion during winter. Farming doesn’t end when the harvest is done. But I guess I shouldn’t expect the Hofstadts to know that. Their farmland doesn’t do anything but sit there and look pretty.

  Interlude

  Close Encounter Types

  Close Encounters of the First Kind

  • Visual sighting of an unidentified flying object from less than five hundred feet away.

  Close Encounters of the Second Kind

  • UFO event that causes a physical reaction in the observer or in the surrounding area.

  Close Encounters of the Third Kind

  • UFO event where an extraterrestrial life-form is present.

  Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind

  • Human abduction by a UFO.

  Close Encounters of the Fifth Kind

  • Direct, cooperative communication between aliens and humans.

  Close Encounters of the Sixth Kind

  • The death of a human or animal associated with a UFO event.

  Close Encounters of the Seventh Kind

  • Creation of a human/alien hybrid.

  Event: More Lies

  Date: Sept. 29 (Fri.)

  Arden was waiting by my locker in the morning. I slowly approached her, hoping the stiffness in my joints from the long night of manual labor wasn’t apparent.

  “Gideon, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” I wished I had even a fraction of Cass’s acting ability.

  Arden’s fingers twisted through her hair and she gazed at me with enormous eyes. “Mr. O’Grady found a crop circle in his field.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  “You should see the pictures,” Arden gushed. “It’s so cool—though it’s kinda lopsided.”

  I didn’t flinch. I was not going to be insulted. “I’m sure it’s still quite remarkable.”

  “It is, for sure! Just not as fancy as the crop circles on TV.” (For the record, most of the crop circles on television are digitally rendered.)

  I refrained from telling Arden that making a crop circle might look easy but was actually very strenuous, and it wasn’t a failing that it turned out kinda lopsided. I would’ve liked to see anyone else in Lansburg make a crop circle remotely as good as mine.

  All I said was, “How interesting.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She bit her lip and seemed to carefully choose her next words. “Gideon…you believe there are really aliens, right?”

  To buy myself a moment, I motioned Arden to step aside from my locker and spun the dial on the combination lock. I hated lying to her face, but I didn’t trust her enough to tell her the truth, and I couldn’t let a momentary twist of guilt undermine the whole experiment.

  “I believe the universe is full of mysteries. And right now, Lansburg seems to be a hot spot for them.”

  “But do you think beings are visiting from another planet?” she pushed.

  I wished I was better at reading people. I knew Arden wanted, maybe needed, a specific answer, but I had no clue what it was. Instead of trying to fill in the blanks, I said, “Arden, what’s going on?”

  She hesitated. “You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s just…” Arden lowered her voice so no one would overhear. “Part of me really wants there to be aliens.”

  I stopped rummaging through my locker and gave her my full attention. “Why is that?”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to know something else is out there? I’d feel…less alone, I guess.”

  I met Arden’s gaze. For the first time, I felt like we were on the same wavelength.

  “On the other hand,” Arden said, “I’m afraid of what it means if the aliens are real.”

  “Me too,” I admitted. I spoke evenly, remained collected, even though I wanted to shout, Yes! Either way is terrifying! Yes, either way we have to confront our own cosmic insignificance! Yes, you understand!

  “Because if they’re real,” Arden went on, “why haven’t I been taken?”

  Wait. What?

  Just like that, the momentary link we shared was shattered.

  “What do you mean?”

  Arden tugged her hair over her shoulder. “People keep seeing UFOs and some people have even been abducted. And I keep thinking… I don’t know. It’s probably scary, but it also means you’re special, you know?”

  I did not know. But I gestured for her to continue.

  “I keep watching the sky at night,” she said. “But I haven’t seen or heard anything. What’s wrong with me?”

  What could I possibly say? Arden, the reason you haven’t been abducted is because no one has been abducted. The difference between you and the abductees is that you’re not a liar.

  I couldn’t bring myself to voice the words, though. I’d have to admit I lied to her from the start. I’d have to admit the reason I lied to her—because I was afraid to trust people, because opening up to her would make me vulnerable. Just the thought of being so candid made my heart rate spike.

  So instead of being honest, I said, “Being abducted by aliens doesn’t make a person special.”

  Arden snorted. “Easy for you to say. This all started at your house. It’s like someone in a relationship telling a single person that relationships don’t matter.”

  “They don’t matter,” I said.

  I hated the expression on Arden’s face. I suspected she might start crying and I really didn’t know how to deal with that.

  “Maybe you’re focusing on the wrong thing. As long as there are aliens, you’ll always have the potential to get abducted, right? Isn’t that, ultimately, better than knowing we’re alone?”

  Arden thought about it. “I guess
so.”

  “You are special,” I told her. “Even if you never get abducted by aliens. You’ll always be special.”

  Arden’s eyes filled with tears, and I worried I’d made the situation worse. But she said, “Thank you.”

  She leaned over and hugged me. It wasn’t just the first time Arden and I had hugged—it was the first time in a long time any friend had hugged me. Cass had learned my rules about physical affection long ago. (Outside of a romantic context, physical affection made me uncomfortable.)

  I awkwardly patted Arden on the back, feeling the sharp jut of her shoulder blades. I didn’t know how long the hug was expected to go on. Was I supposed to pull away or was she?

  Before I was forced to figure it out, Arden disengaged.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  “Um. You’re welcome.”

  Then she went to class. She moved away down the hall, silent and oddly graceful, slipping between people the way water slips over stones.

  I watched her go, guilt welling up inside of me. How many times would I lie to her before the hoax was over?

  Event: Father Revolts

  Date: Oct. 1 (Sun.)

  When I left my room in the morning, I noticed a strange phenomenon: my house was quiet. There was no clang of breakfast dishes. Music didn’t play from the radio on the kitchen counter. The television wasn’t tuned to ESPN. It was then that I realized how bustling the farm usually was.

  I paused on the stairs and pondered it. What did it mean that some things could only be recognized by their absence? How much in a person’s life might go unnoticed until it’s gone?

  I filed the thought away as something to dwell on later and continued to the kitchen. Father sat at the table. He was eating a Pop-Tart and reading a book about the history of the Pittsburgh Pirates. I didn’t know where the Pop-Tart came from. Mother hated them. She said we might as well eat cake for breakfast.

  “What’s going on?” I asked cautiously.

  Father kept his eyes trained on the book. “Good morning.”

  I looked at the stove. It was off. There were no pots or pans on it, no dishes in the sink.

  “There’s no breakfast?”

  “There’s a full fridge and pantry,” Father replied.

  “You want me to make breakfast?”

  “I’m sure you’re capable.”

  Of course I was. I’d followed complicated recipes during experiments. It wasn’t the thought of making my own food that distressed me, it was the fact that Father wasn’t.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Well,” said Father in an amiable voice that didn’t match his words, “it looks like everyone in this house is going to do what they want, without me having any say. So you can all make your own goddamn breakfast.”

  “I see.”

  I walked to the counter and put a piece of bread in the toaster.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d made food for myself. For instance, there were times when Mother and Father took a solo vacation and left us with Gram, and she certainly wasn’t going to wake up early and make breakfast for perfectly capable teenagers.

  But aside from those rare occurrences, if Father was home, he cooked. He always said taking care of the house and family was his job, and it was important he do his job well. The current situation was unheard of.

  My toast popped out of the toaster. I regarded it. Jelly sounded nice. But while eating jelly wasn’t generally messy, slathering it on the toast in the first place could be an issue. Undoubtedly, someone (See: Ishmael.) was careless the last time they opened the jar and slopped jelly down the side, or got it stuck in the threading on the lid. I’d likely end up with jelly covering my hand.

  I grabbed the peanut butter instead, which at least didn’t leave sticky residue.

  I sat down across from my father. “Do you want to talk?”

  Father put down his book. He looked at me for a long moment. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  I waited patiently.

  “Your mom and I wanted to stay out of it,” he said. “Let you and Ishmael get trapped in your lies.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.

  “Don’t start with me, Gideon. Don’t tell me you saw aliens.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Anyway,” Father continued, “now we’re apparently going along with this ruse.”

  I took a bite of toast and chewed carefully. “You are?”

  “We are. Because Oz is here,” Father said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And we’re going to cater to him.”

  It suddenly became very hard to swallow. “Why?”

  “Your mom is building a business. And having J. Quincy Oswald in her town, creating a new product line with her at the helm, will make all her dreams come true.”

  I was certain this new turn of events would lead to no good.

  “And you’re…okay with that?”

  Father looked at a spot on the wall over my head for a long time. Finally, he said, “No. I’m not okay with it. But despite the fact that I gave up my career to raise you kids, despite the fact that I take care of everything around this house—I cook, clean, do laundry, spend half my day playing chauffeur—despite all that, I don’t actually have a voice in what happens here.”

  I wanted to tell him how untrue that was. But I realized I didn’t actually know one way or the other. It never occurred to me that he might be unhappy, that he might feel there was an imbalance in his and Mother’s relationship.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.

  “Do whatever you need to.” He stood and made his way out of the kitchen.

  There was a heavy feeling in my stomach. It was unnatural to see Father so unhappy. I wanted to give him something, some small token.

  “Father?” I said, drawing him back into the room. “I was wondering if you might teach me to drive soon.”

  The look on his face indicated he wouldn’t have been more surprised if a UFO descended right in front of him.

  “Why now?” he asked.

  “I just… I’ve put it off for too long. I’m ready to learn.”

  “Okay then,” he said, his expression brightening a fraction. “We’ll go out this weekend.”

  This weekend? “There’s no rush if you’ve got other things going on.”

  “I’d rather do this sooner than later.”

  Well then. That was that. I was learning to drive.

  Interlude

  The Problem with Driving

  Someday the issue of driving will be irrelevant. After all, we’re moving in the direction of self-driving cars, and I’m 88 percent sure that, in the near future, they’ll be the primary means of transportation.

  For that reason, learning to drive was pointless. It would be a better use of time to learn a skill with long-term application.

  “No one forced Isaac Newton to drive,” I once told my parents. “Instead, he was given the freedom to make some of the most important scientific discoveries of all time.”

  Father gave me a long look. “Remind me, when was Isaac Newton alive?”

  Isaac Newton lived from 1643 to 1727, which, yes, meant he never had to make the choice about driving one way or the other. It didn’t exactly help prove my point. But the fact remained: driving was an unnecessary waste of my mental energy.

  It was also dangerous.

  More than one million people died in car accidents each year. On average, that was 3,287 deaths a day. And car crashes were the leading cause of death among people ages fifteen to twenty-nine.

  Even the best drivers risked their lives when they got on the road—and I harbored the secret fear that my driving skills would be severely deficient.

  People assumed that if you were science-minded, you must be good with al
l mechanics. I can assure you, that isn’t the case. Manipulating a vehicle has more in common with athletic prowess than it does with building a vehicle.

  Sadly, my spatial awareness left something to be desired. I had trouble gauging distances. The mere thought of maneuvering a car filled me with anxiety, and few phrases struck fear in my heart like “merging into traffic.”

  So, thus far, I had avoided driving.

  I’d avoid even mentioning driving if I could—it’s a topic that only serves to embarrass me. But, alas, like so many things that happened that autumn, my inability to operate a motor vehicle would turn out far more significant than I’d ever imagined.

  Event: Father Revolts (Cont.)

  Father left the room, gone off to…do whatever he planned to do. How would he fill his day if he wasn’t taking care of us and the house?

  A while later, the rest of my family wandered into the kitchen. Mother grabbed a myTality™ Power-Up and seemed entirely unconcerned with the lack of breakfast options. Maggie shrugged and got a bowl of cereal. Ishmael was the only one of us who seemed lost.

  “Get a grip,” Maggie told him. “You can pour cereal.”

  “I was just really hoping for waffles today,” my brother replied glumly.

  Mother sat at the table and opened her planner, aggressively flipping pages and making notes. I’d tried getting her to switch to using her phone to no avail. She said the act of physically writing down appointments etched them into her memory. But why did her memory matter if she kept track in a planner anyway?

  “Will J. Quincy Oswald be in town for a while?” I probed.

  “Hmm?” Mother replied, distracted. “Oh yes, quite a while, I think. At least until the launch of the new product. I’m meeting with him today.”

  “I see.”

  My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Ishmael. I glanced up and frowned at him. He widened his eyes and nodded at the phone, urging me to read.

  Text Conversation

  Participants: Gideon Hofstadt, Ishmael Hofstadt

  IH: go with her