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scoping time for Mike, but it meant bigger problems for me.
I paused for a second, staring up at the dark, ranch-style 23
The Silver Spoon
house in front of me. Besides the diner, the house was the only thing of value my parents had left my brother and me, but it was still being paid for. So, no diner meant no money for the mortgage or Scott's tuition. We had insurance, but the payout wouldn't be enough to keep us going for the next three years while Scott finished school.
Thinking of Scott, my stomach twisted. I'd have to call him to tell him what had happened. And then he'd freak out and want to come home from college. It had been hard enough getting him to go out of state in the first place. After our parents died in a car accident, he'd become almost paranoid about my safety. My alien dream thing over the last couple of years hadn't helped. I sighed. Yeah, I'd have to call him, but maybe I could wait a few days until the insurance company came by and I got an estimate for repairs...
I am never going to get out of here, I thought. I kept moving toward the front door, but it suddenly felt like my legs were two large tree stumps instead, and I was getting too weary to lift them. I wanted to quit, just walk away. But that wasn't an option. I had no options. Unless I became willing to take up that Observer on his kidnap offer. Ha. I almost needed my inhaler again, just thinking about it.
"Hey, Zara." Mike's voice called out as I reached the front steps. "I'll wait until you get inside and turn on the lights, okay?" Irritation flashed through me. I didn't need Mike keeping an eye on me. I wasn't a child. It wasn't as if I'd handed the crazy Observer my address. But in a town this size and this gossipy, I guess my house wouldn't be that hard to find. Considering all that had happened tonight, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing for Mike to hang around for a couple extra minutes.
Biting back my temptation to shout for him to go ahead and go, I nodded to Mike and turned back around to climb the steps. I didn't have my keys–they were buried in the diner rubble 24
Stacey Klemstein
somewhere–so I had to stand on my tiptoes to search for the extra key behind the porch light housing. My fingers located the familiar shape and got it down without dropping it. The key felt warm, almost hot, like the light had just been on. I frowned up at the dark porch light. Usually I left it on when I knew I'd be closing the diner. The light bulb must have blown. I let myself in, then locked the door behind me. You can never be too careful, especially after a night like this. I got about two steps into the house before I realized something was wrong. The floor beneath me crunched. I looked down, unable to see anything in the dark. I hadn't spilled anything this morning, had I? I took another step and fumbled for the light switch just inside the living room.
The light snapped on, Mike's engine revved, and I stared in disbelief. My house had been destroyed. In the living room, the couch was turned on its side, and the cushions were skinned like strange square-shaped animals, the white fluffy innards spread throughout the room. The bookcases were emptied. Books and my mother's porcelain collectibles lay scattered throughout the room. All the magazine and newspaper articles on the Observers that I'd collected and hidden in shoeboxes behind the bookcases were shredded and strewn in little confetti bits everywhere. My videotapes with news clips of the landing and every alien feature story I could find were torn out of their plastic cases and strung through the room like a giant plastic spider's web. Shards of glass from the little side window beside the door sparkled on the floor around my feet. In the darkness outside, I'd missed the fist-sized hole in the pane.
"No." I started to back out of the room on wobbly legs. If I could get to Mike before he pulled away...
A hand clamped over my mouth and pulled me back against something solid and
I paused for a second, staring up at the dark, ranch-style 23
The Silver Spoon
house in front of me. Besides the diner, the house was the only thing of value my parents had left my brother and me, but it was still being paid for. So, no diner meant no money for the mortgage or Scott's tuition. We had insurance, but the payout wouldn't be enough to keep us going for the next three years while Scott finished school.
Thinking of Scott, my stomach twisted. I'd have to call him to tell him what had happened. And then he'd freak out and want to come home from college. It had been hard enough getting him to go out of state in the first place. After our parents died in a car accident, he'd become almost paranoid about my safety. My alien dream thing over the last couple of years hadn't helped. I sighed. Yeah, I'd have to call him, but maybe I could wait a few days until the insurance company came by and I got an estimate for repairs...
I am never going to get out of here, I thought. I kept moving toward the front door, but it suddenly felt like my legs were two large tree stumps instead, and I was getting too weary to lift them. I wanted to quit, just walk away. But that wasn't an option. I had no options. Unless I became willing to take up that Observer on his kidnap offer. Ha. I almost needed my inhaler again, just thinking about it.
"Hey, Zara." Mike's voice called out as I reached the front steps. "I'll wait until you get inside and turn on the lights, okay?" Irritation flashed through me. I didn't need Mike keeping an eye on me. I wasn't a child. It wasn't as if I'd handed the crazy Observer my address. But in a town this size and this gossipy, I guess my house wouldn't be that hard to find. Considering all that had happened tonight, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing for Mike to hang around for a couple extra minutes.
Biting back my temptation to shout for him to go ahead and go, I nodded to Mike and turned back around to climb the steps. I didn't have my keys–they were buried in the diner rubble 24
Stacey Klemstein
somewhere–so I had to stand on my tiptoes to search for the extra key behind the porch light housing. My fingers located the familiar shape and got it down without dropping it. The key felt warm, almost hot, like the light had just been on. I frowned up at the dark porch light. Usually I left it on when I knew I'd be closing the diner. The light bulb must have blown. I let myself in, then locked the door behind me. You can never be too careful, especially after a night like this. I got about two steps into the house before I realized something was wrong. The floor beneath me crunched. I looked down, unable to see anything in the dark. I hadn't spilled anything this morning, had I? I took another step and fumbled for the light switch just inside the living room.
The light snapped on, Mike's engine revved, and I stared in disbelief. My house had been destroyed. In the living room, the couch was turned on its side, and the cushions were skinned like strange square-shaped animals, the white fluffy innards spread throughout the room. The bookcases were emptied. Books and my mother's porcelain collectibles lay scattered throughout the room. All the magazine and newspaper articles on the Observers that I'd collected and hidden in shoeboxes behind the bookcases were shredded and strewn in little confetti bits everywhere. My videotapes with news clips of the landing and every alien feature story I could find were torn out of their plastic cases and strung through the room like a giant plastic spider's web. Shards of glass from the little side window beside the door sparkled on the floor around my feet. In the darkness outside, I'd missed the fist-sized hole in the pane.
"No." I started to back out of the room on wobbly legs. If I could get to Mike before he pulled away...
A hand clamped over my mouth and pulled me back against something solid and
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