American Girl On Saturn (3 page)

It’s not her fault. I can’t even blame the guys of Spaceships Around Saturn. Honestly, even if it was partially their fault, they’re too pretty to blame – except maybe Jules because he really does seem like a jerk. I hope whenever the USA government catches this idiot, my dad has a very long talk with him or her about how much crap we’ve all suffered through because of those bullets.

Two hours ago, I was thanking God for sending Paige to me because she’s the only friend who didn’t abandon me after the Deacon break up. I was naïve to think anyone would stick it out with me. Deacon had the entire high school in his back pocket. Apparently, being his girlfriend meant I should’ve given him what he wanted when he wanted it. Who knew having principles would work against me?

I step outside near the pool for a moment of silence to make the call. Car doors slam shut around the house, and engines start up. The management team and last few agents are finally leaving, which means we’ll soon be alone with Spaceships Around Saturn. I scroll through my contacts, select Paige’s name, and hit the call button before I can chicken out.

“Hey!” she shouts through the earpiece. “I was just about to text you.”

She rattles off something about sneak peeks of the trailer for the final installment of the Rainwater
Trilogy, and in the midst of her words, I blurt it out.

“Our trip to
Cancun has been cancelled.” Ugh. That sounds so harsh.

“It’s what? Why? Since when? How could this happen?” Her questions go on without
her coming up for oxygen.

“My dad told us when we got home,” I say. “Something about…terrorists…and stuff. He couldn’t give us any real details, you know, all that secret service business.”

I wonder if Paige can tell I’m stuttering through my words. I hate lying to her. I hate ruining her summer plans. This was her senior trip too, and she was only getting to go because my parents paid for it when her parents couldn’t.

“Didn’t you beg and plead?” she asks. “We’d be careful. It’d be all three of us – me, you, and Aralie. We wouldn’t let each other get hurt or whatever.”

I should’ve begged Aralie to make this phone call instead. She doesn’t like Paige anyway. She’d have no problem hurting her feelings. Aralie is blunt and brutal in ways that aren’t always good. It’ll make for an interesting summer with Spaceships Around Saturn. Ugh, this sucks. I have a world-famous boyband in my house, and I can’t even tell my best friend.

“Well, Chloe, thanks a lot for ruining my summer. After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? Really? You’re the worst friend ever.” With that, Paige hangs up on me.

Mom gives me sad eyes when I walk back into the house.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

I shrug my shoulders and say good night, then I head up to my room. I don’t want to think or lust or feel anything for the rest of the night.

Tate was right
– welcome to the summer of hell.

My phone buzzes on my pillow for the millionth time this morning. It’s Paige. Again. I open the message but only half-read it. It’s just a repeat of everything she’s already texted me this morning – another plea for me to talk to my parents and a well-thought-out apology for the terrible things she said last night.

I knew she’d get over it. I’m
really not even mad. I just don’t feel like dealing with her on top of Spaceships Around Saturn. I can’t tell her that, though. It feels weird even thinking about having them in our house. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe Emery’s obsession has gone to
my
brain, and it was all an extraterrestrial dose of fiction.

But just in case it was real, I make a point to brush my hair, put on some makeup, and dress in non-pajama clothing before heading downstairs. Aralie’s complaints float up the staircase from the kitchen as I descend them. It already feels like a typical morning in the Branson household.

Typical…until I round the corner and see Benji Baccarini planted at the dining room table. Last night floods back into my brain – Milo’s body wash, Milo’s caramel eyes, Milo calling my dad ‘Mr. Branson’ when Jules stormed out. So maybe “last night” doesn’t flood back into my brain – but
Milo
does.

“I have to do laundry,” Aralie says.

“You can do it when you get back. Chloe will go with you,” Mom says.

Aralie has never wanted to do laundry a day in her life, so if she’s using laundry as an excuse not to do something, this ‘something’
must be pretty awful.

And Mom just volunteered me for it as well.

My sister takes notice of me as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

“
Chloe,” Aralie says. “Tell Mom we can’t go grocery shopping for the band. It’s too risky, right?”

She shoots me this ‘you better agree with me’ look and waits for my reply. Grocery shopping for the band? These are five guys. Buying that many groceries would definitely look suspicious.

“She has a point,” I agree. “Someone would know it wasn’t all for us. Our family couldn’t eat that much if we tried.”

Mom sighs and turns away from her glittery picture frame project on the counter.

“You girls make everything so complicated,” she says. “I’ve already sent Godfrey out for the frozen items, and he’s picking up anything boy-related that they may need. Your dad left this morning, heading back to follow the investigation. I can’t afford to take Emery out in public right now. She’s too excited.”

I hate it, but Mom’s argument is stronger than Aralie’s. There’s no way we could let Emery back into society right after she witnessed her beloved Benji Bikini sitting on our loveseat. I sigh the ‘sigh of surrender.’

“We’ll do it,” I say.

Aralie snatches a small stack of papers off the countertop.

“You haven’t seen their lists!” she yells. “Benji’s goes on for two pages, and Noah has special instructions on his. Seriously, he described the packaging to make sure we get the right brands.”

Mom’s eyes bulge, but she doesn’t speak. We already know what she’d say, but she’s not going to scold Aralie in front of Benji and draw more attention to what was just said. I walk over to Aralie, take the lists, and look them over. She’s right – Benji’s is long, Noah’s is detailed, and…

“Well, this one is easy enough,” I say, holding up the third list. “Oreos and milk. Seriously? That’s my kind of list.”

Benji laughs from behind us. I glance over, but he’s eyeball-deep in a tattoo magazine, probably picking out his next piece of ink.

“That’s Milo’s list,” Aralie says. “He’s clearly the least complicated of the group.”

Oh, sister dear, that’s what you think. He wasn’t crammed onto the couch next to her last night, squirming around and brushing his skin against hers every few seconds. She didn’t have to breathe him in or look into his eyes or suffer the burn scars from the hot lava melt of hearing him say ‘Mr. Branson.’ Was she even
in
the living room last night?

Aralie grabs her keys off the table, shoots a glimpse over her shoulder to me
.

“I’m driving,” she says.

Mom hands me her credit card and a list of supplies she needs for her craft classes. I fold the lists and tuck them into my jeans pocket until I can get back to my room and grab my purse. I could probably make a fortune off these lists online once this is all over and done.

But I don’t know if I could part with Oreos and milk that easily.

“Aralie!” Mom calls out as I’m heading upstairs. “Don’t forget Emery’s special request.”

I stop on the third stair and look down at my sister, who’s waiting in the foyer for me.

“Special request?” I ask.

Aralie laughs. “Oh, just wait. I’m going to let you handle that one.”

If I’d known Emery’s special request, I might
have fought harder not to get groceries. I would’ve played off Aralie’s laundry excuse. I might’ve even thrown in some down and dirty yard work. But here I stand, with two loaded shopping carts, next to the birthday cards and stationery, staring at the rack of posters hoping no one I know sees me browsing the solo shots of Benji Baccarini.

Aralie plays with her cell phone from behind the other shopping cart, leaving the final decision up to me. Emery wanted one where he’s smiling because if he’s serious, he looks mean like Jules – Emery’s words, not mine. She likes him better in T-shirts because he “looks normal like us.” I pick the one with the lime green background. There’s plenty of green space for him to write personal messages to her.

I slip poster A7 into the cart, among the milk and Oreos and Noah’s low-fat angel hair pasta noodles with the green and red logo. Aralie beats me to the checkout line and unloads her cart. The items creep across the black conveyor belt.

“Big party? Or summer houseguests?” the cashier asks.

She smacks her gum when she talks, and I want to smack her across the face. It’s none of her business.

“Out of town visitors…distant relatives,” Aralie says. “So distant you’d think they were from another planet.”

My face flushes in shades of red that would put Mars to shame, and I feel like this blonde-haired girl behind the register knows. She knows we have a boyband hidden in our house. She knows that Benji was sitting at our table this morning while Emery showed Noah and Tate around the backyard. I look away so I can’t inadvertently give her too much info through eye contact. I didn’t think I’d be this paranoid.

The tabloids and teen magazines stare back at me now. And there they are – even in the freaking checkout line at the grocery store – Spaceships Around
Saturn, plastered on a magazine cover, decked out in tuxes for an awards show. I don’t even like the color bronze, but Milo’s vest and tie are as bronzy as a statue, and damn, it does him well.

By now, I’ve bypassed Mars and am certain my face is flaming like that big red bubble on Jupiter. I can’t look at the cashier, I can’t browse the tabloids, and I feel like every person in this grocery store is staring at us because they
know
!

“Don’t look
back,” Aralie whispers as she eases toward my shopping cart. She grabs a few items, places them on the conveyor belt, and whispers again. “Deacon is two registers over.”

I drop my head quickly, hoping he won’t see us if we stoop down low enough to hide behind the candy racks.

“Has he seen us?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Just lay low, and he’ll be gone in a minute. He probably won’t even
recognize my car out there.”

I begin to empty the second cart. The items beep and beep and beep until I hear the gum-smacking cashier complain about a scanning issue. Before I can fully process what’s not scanning, I hear her voice through the loudspeaker.

“Price check on register three. I need a price check on the poster A7 of Benji Baccarini,” she announces. “Price check, register three. A7 poster of Benji Baccarini.”

Her voice echoes across the universe. An older lady rushes over to help her, explaining that she only needs to announce ‘price check’ and her register number. She says something about customer privacy and how not everyone wants a public service announcement of what is being purchased.
The cashier answers the register’s phone and types in some numbers to get the poster’s price. I could’ve told her the price – the Canadian equivalent of one million US dollars’ worth of humiliation.

I can’t get in the house fast enough. There’s a good chance Mom will be receiving a phone call soon from the grocery store telling her that Aralie and I are banned from shopping there until further notice. It would’ve been okay if Aralie hadn’t opened her mouth. I was doing just fine. I’d scooped up the last bit of my dignity and took the walk of shame to the sliding doors with Emery’s A7 poster in hand. I was fine.

Until we spotted that fancy little blue sports car blocking the path to Aralie’s trunk. Deacon was hanging out the window, with his two best friends tagged along, clucking out the words, “Bock, bock, Baccarini!”

As if that weren’t enough to make me want to splatter onto the pavement and become part of the asphalt, Aralie’s backlash and obscenities were. And in pure high school fashion, the manager ran outside, jumped down Aralie’s throat for her “use of profanity on the premises,” and he politely asked Deacon to leave so as not to “provoke her” anymore. Deacon smiled that classic Deacon McCullough smile. Then he said, “Yes sir,” and drove on his way.

Now, rushing across the garage toward the kitchen door, I don’t think I’ll even be able to find words to tell Mom how awful it was. Even if I’m quoting Deacon, I don’t think I can bring m
yself to actually say the words “bock, bock, Baccarini.”

Yeah, there’s absolutely no way I can cluck Benji’s last name out loud.
Especially when he’s in our house.

The door bursts open in front of me, but I keep my head down. I cannot face a Saturn boy right now – especially one whose last name is Baccarini. I
hurry across the kitchen, but I slam smack into one-fifth of Spaceships Around Saturn. I don’t even have to look up. I know who it is by the smell of his body wash.

“Are you okay?” Milo asks.

I don’t look up at him. I can’t. Those caramel eyes are way too beautiful to look into again. There’s no freaking way.

I nod my head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

I try pushing past him, but he doesn’t let me go around. Instead, he pulls me to the side and allows Godfrey to squeeze past us. Aralie runs in behind me. She doesn’t slam into a fifth of Saturn, though.

“Oh my God. Mom!” she screams instantly.

Milo can’t stop me this time. I sprint around him, chasing after Aralie, but Mom hurries into the kitchen before we can escape to the land of private mother-daughter conversations. You’ve gotta be kidding me. We’re not really going to have the bock-bock-Baccarini conversation in front of Milo, are we?

Aralie begins the story with Emery’s poster not scanning. She tells it so dramatically, in grave detail, down to the gum-smacking and loudspeaker announcement.

By now, Tate and Noah have joined ‘Story Time with Aralie’ and stand in the archway between the kitchen and dining room. Milo lingers between us and the garage door until Godfrey comes inside carrying too many bags at once.

Milo rushes to the door and grabs two of the bags.

“I can help you bring these in,” he offers.

Godfrey thanks him for the offer but tells him it won’t be necessary.

Milo hesitates for about three seconds before walking out toward Aralie’s car.

“Suck up,” Noah mutters behind us.

“Oh shut it,” Tate says. “You know he likes to make a good impression.”

“Really? We’re on lockdown. We’re missing out on our lives, and Milo is worried about good impressions? Give me a break,” Noah says.

I’m so with Noah – I need a break! I need a break from Deacon drama, Milo’s eyes, and bock-bock-Baccarini. I make a mad dash between Tate and Noah toward the stairs. I absolutely cannot listen to Aralie cluck Benji’s last name. I can’t bear the humility of Tate and Noah laughing while Milo tries to play Mr. Nice Guy because he pities me and my misfortune.

“Chloe!” Mom yells after me.

Oh God, please don’t make me come back in there and listen to this. I was there. I know all too well what went down.

“Can you please go relieve Benji of Emery? He’s been in Saturnite Hell since you left,” she says.

I nod and continue my ascend toward Mr. Baccarini.

For once, I don’t mind dealing with Emery.

I manage to stay hidden within Emery’s Saturn-covered walls for two hours. We sort out her five zillion plastic beads by color so she can bake them later and make suncatchers. She wants to make a blue and green one for Benji. We string together six attempts at a friendship bracelet until we finally have one that looks boyish enough. The blue string frays a bit, but I don’t point it out because I don’t want to go for a seventh attempt. It’s for Benji.

But aside from making things for Mr. Bock-Bock-Baccarini, Emery has enlightened me on all things Spaceships Around Saturn. 1) Noah is a jerkface – Emery’s words – until he has his strawberry milk each day, but then he’s fun. That’s what Benji told her anyway. 2) Tate laughs at everything. 3) Milo is way too serious and acts like a grown up. Emery says he’s really boring. 4) Benji sings in the shower. 5) Jules smells like crushed ladybugs, but I’m pretty sure it’s his cigarettes that Emery smells on him.