“HEY,” I TYPE, THEN delete.
“How’s it hangin’?” Delete, delete, delete.
“What’s shakin’, bacon?” Oh God, help me.
I stare at the blinking cursor in the We Are Not Alone chat box, trying to decide how to open my convo with BeamMeUp. It’s been three days since we’ve talked—ever since I blew off his WANACON invitation, it’s been radio silence on his end.
It’s not like I don’t have other things going on—yesterday in physics, Brad even turned around and waved at me, and Jenni said Pia’s expression could only be described as stank face. And Jenni’s keeping me updated on the day-to-day fluctuations of spirit points by checking the ReardonsFutureQueen tumblr. But I already miss the cozy ritual of maxing out my allotted Internet time talking to BeamMeUp. Even my favorite threads aren’t that interesting to me anymore, including the one dedicated to an X-Files fan fiction story that involves Mulder and Scully as a married couple who run a haunted bed-and-breakfast. BeamMeUp was the comfort zone I didn’t want to complicate. We don’t even know each other’s names. I imagine actually meeting him and having to introduce myself:
Hi, I’m Mal, the recluse.
’Allo, Mal here, a girl so awkward she can ruin meetings in a single bound.
Hello, I’m Mal, I throw up when I go outside.
No, it’s easier to keep our relationship where it belongs—inside the computer.
My Internet exile is even worse because Lincoln has barely been home since the football incident. He and Scott have gone to every night of Brian de Palma week at the art house theater, and judging by the takeout containers that keep showing up in our fridge, they’ve sampled every Indian restaurant in town while I subsist on frozen Stouffer’s lasagna. And when he’s home, Linc spends about 95 percent of every day looking at his phone and chuckling quietly to himself.
But Lincoln isn’t the only one who’s being super confusing. When Brad came over two nights ago, he brought me a hazelnut latte, just the way I like it (half whipped cream). He even left a smiling emoji on a picture of Jenni and me on Instagram. Is it possible he could be into me? I’m not even sure how that thought makes me feel. I know I had fun when he spent an hour teaching me how to make crepes the other night instead of getting any work done on our project, but then again, I have fun anytime Nutella is involved.
I’m tired of waiting around for BeamMeUp. I’ll message him myself—after all, Dana Scully would never sit around and wait for a guy to send her a message. That’s because she’s way too busy performing autopsies or trying to convince Mulder that the Loch Ness monster isn’t real, but still, she’s a woman of action. And I can be, too.
I skip the hellos.
AlienHuntress: Sorry I had to bail on our last conversation. I needed to go work on my project. Obviously, I would way rather be here talking about aliens and weirdos, but we’re running into a major snag.
For a moment, I think he won’t respond, but up pops the little flashing alien.
BeamMeUp: No problem.
I frown. That’s it? Then the alien flashes again.
BeamMeUp: So, are you stuck?
That’s more like it.
AlienHuntress: You know how I told you I was doing a physics project that was loosely inspired by you? Well, it turns out we can’t even get the basic construction down.
A link to an online tutorial pops up.
BeamMeUp: I had a lot of trouble securing the parachute to the capsule, but this info helped.
AlienHuntress: Wow, thanks! With your help, we might even be able to create a project better than your original.
This time, his response shows up immediately.
BeamMeUp: Doubtful.
I smile. Typical. The doorbell rings and I glance at the clock. It’s 5:30 already, meaning that Brad’s done with football practice.
AlienHuntress: Gotta go! My homecoming date is here. We have to coordinate outfits and figure out which limo we’re going to take and stuff. You know, exerting a force.
BeamMeUp: Cool. Have fun.
A strange knot twists in my stomach. I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment that things are back to normal. It’s not like I expected him to fly into a jealous rage, but I thought I’d at least get a jealous whimper.
I can’t focus as Brad and I sit across from each other at the kitchen island. He’s trying to assemble another parachute and I’m taking down some notes in our physics journal. But BeamMeUp’s last message, Have fun, is ricocheting around my head. What would happen if I actually went to WANACON, I wonder as I chew on my pencil. What if we meet? What if he likes me? What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him? What if his identity has been a long con and he’s really a grifter who only befriended me in hopes of convincing me to buy him super-rare X-Files memorabilia at WANACON that he can later sell for a major profit?
“Mallory?”
I drop my pencil. “What?”
Brad smiles and sighs at the same time, pushing a lock of perfectly unkempt hair away from his face. “I’ve been trying to get your attention! It’s like you’re on another planet.”
I almost laugh. If only he knew. “Sorry.”
“White chocolate macadamia nut cookie?” He pulls a bag out of his backpack.
“Um, yes, please,” I say, holding out my hands.
As I eat and Brad works, I decide to, as Dr. Dinah would say, “live in the now.” My mom’s in the office, working, and Lincoln’s out with Scott, so we have complete privacy. This might be the only chance I get to ask him about homecoming.
“Do you know who you’re taking to homecoming?” I ask.
Brad’s fingers stop moving around the parachute and, although he’s still staring at the wrinkled fabric, I can tell he’s not really looking at it.
“Um…,” he starts to say.
“I’m sorry!” I say, my momentary self-confidence totally evaporating. “Was that a weird question?”
Brad shuts the laptop so that we’re looking right at each other. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s just…” He sighs, drumming his fingers on his closed laptop. “Everyone’s been asking me that. Being on court, being on the football team … those things are important to me, you know? But that’s not all there is to my life. I mean, look at me.” He gestures to the parts scattered across the island. “I’m working on a physics project.”
I smile because I have literally no idea what else to do.
“I love playing football. And I love being at my house and hanging out with Jake now that he’s back. But all my dad ever wants to talk about is football. I just need a break, you know? And working on this project, with you? It gives me a chance to chill out a little.”
“I never thought I’d hear Brad Kirkpatrick say that he relaxes by doing physics.”
Brad laughs. “And I never thought Mallory Sullivan would enjoy working on physics with a football player.” He gives me another one of those perfect, knee-melting smiles and gets back to work on the parachute. I keep writing about our progress in the journal, letting embarrassment wash over me. Clearly, I made him uncomfortable. But buried in the embarrassment is a tiny victory: He doesn’t have a homecoming date yet.
About an hour later, after I’ve made Brad help me illustrate the journal entry with some diagrams of what we hope our project will do, it’s time for him to leave. I walk him to the door because … well, that’s what you do with friends, right? I’m just about to give him another one of those high fives he’s so fond of when he surprises me by leaning in for a hug.
“Thanks, Mallory,” he says into my shoulder. “Thanks for letting me talk.”
I pat him woodenly on the back. “No prob.”
He gives me a wave as he trots down the stairs and I shut the door. Brad and I are turning into real friends … the kind who talk about feelings. Who hug. And I’m not sure what that means.
I don’t mention the conversation or the hug to Jenni or Lincoln that night, or even the next day. I just need some time to mull it over, and anyway, I’d much rather discuss the situation with someone who can be objective. Someone I only know through the Internet.
Luckily, by the time I’ve finished classes, BeamMeUp is signed into We Are Not Alone and I have about twenty minutes of Internet time left. It takes us about 2.5 seconds to get deep into a conversation on The X-Files. He’s rewatching the whole series chronologically on Netflix, and although I just hop around and rewatch my favorites whenever I feel like it, I still enjoy talking about each episode with him as he sees it.
AlienHuntress: Listen, I need an outside perspective on something, and WANA is about as outsider as it gets.
BeamMeUp: Agreed. Shoot.
AlienHuntress: So let’s say you have a friend. Who’s a girl. Would you hug her, or are hugs reserved for girls you want to be your girlfriend?
I wait a long, long time for a response, imagining my Internet minutes floating away into oblivion.
BeamMeUp: Personally, I’m not much of a hugger when it comes to friends. But that’s just me. And anyway, if a guy really wants to show he likes you, he should come up with something better than a hug, which, FYI, is free and requires no forethought.
I nod at my screen. Good point.
AlienHuntress: In that case, I’ll hold out for that bouquet of Twizzlers or an edible doughnut arrangement.
BeamMeUp: Good for you. Don’t settle for anything less than true, diabetes-causing romance.
He then immediately changes the subject back to the X-Files episode where Mulder and Scully create an entire compendium of cities that have reported alien sightings.
BeamMeUp: Here’s what I can’t stop thinking about. What is it about those places? What makes Roswell so special? Why would aliens come to Omaha or Detroit?
I think about my dad’s birding map and look down. It’s sticking out from underneath my bed.
AlienHuntress: Maybe there’s nothing inherently special about those places. Maybe the aliens are just bored. I mean, who knows what’s happening on their planet. Maybe they don’t have Netflix or Snapchat.
BeamMeUp: I guess you’re right. Maybe they’re just like people … always looking for something else. Maybe it doesn’t even matter where it is, specifically, as long as it’s somewhere new.
BeamMeUp is right. Some people—and some extraterrestrials, apparently—just need to stretch their metaphorical wings. But aliens don’t stick around here on Earth forever—they’re sighted, they find new things, and then they leave. They go back home.
And isn’t that what everyone does? You always go home eventually. You can’t stay on vacation forever.
Focustime pops up with my thirty-second warning.
I tell BeamMeUp I have to go, then sign out without waiting for his response. If everyone, even aliens, goes home eventually, then what about people? Even those people who left their families to go on mysterious birding excursions? Mom’s made it abundantly clear that she’d rather host a paintball game in the living room than answer my questions about Dad, but that doesn’t mean I can’t continue to try. I remind myself, again, of everything Dana Scully goes through on The X-Files; the least I can do is handle an awkward conversation.
I walk down the hall to Mom’s office (which, by the way, is bigger than my room). I can hear her on the phone in her adjoining bedroom, so I sit down in her office chair to wait. It’s not that I’m trying to snoop, but her e-mail is open on her computer screen.
I should look away. I should go wait for her in my room. I should do a lot of things, but when I see Dr. Dinah’s e-mail address, all of my respect for privacy flies out the energy-efficient windows Mom had installed last month. Dr. Dinah’s e-mail simply says:
This may be an option we want to consider. Let’s talk more about it on the phone.
I scroll down and see the words rehabilitation center, recuperate, and anxiety.
“Oh my God,” I mutter. My mom thinks I’m so messed up that I need to go to rehab. All the words on the screen blur together, and I let my head fall into my hands.