Page 38 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

I freeze. Someone's in our kitchen. A massive someone, his broad shoulders stretching the white t-shirt tight across his back. His methodical movements speak of experience as he kneads the dough with precise, practiced motions.

"Excuse me?" I grab the heavy rolling pin from the counter. "The kitchen's employees only."

The stranger turns. His face is... plain. Unremarkable. Like one of those stock photo models you forget the moment you look away.

"I am staff. My name is Smith Johnson. Your parents hired me." His voice sounds flat, mechanical. "I make pizza."

"Since when do we hire help without telling me?"

"Since today." He stretches the dough between massive hands.

My jaw drops as Smith's hands blur into motion. The dough whips and spins under his fingers faster than my eyes can track. A cloud of flour hangs suspended in the air like slow-motion snow.

The rolling pin slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor.

One second. Two. The dough transforms into a perfect sphere, placed with surgical precision dead center on the prep table. Not a speck of flour mars its surface.

"How did you do that?" The words tumble out in a rush.

"I watch videos on YouTube." Smith's face remains blank as he snatches up the dough ball.

My pulse throbs in overdrive as he launches it skyward. The dough spins and stretches, defying gravity as Smith's hands move in impossible patterns. Each motion precise. Calculated. Inhuman.

First Varak, now this. What is it with aliens and my family's pizza place?

The dough settles onto the prep table in a perfect circle. Too perfect. My fingers curl around the fallen rolling pin.

"So, where are you from, Mr. Johnson?"

"Please, call me Smith. Mr. Johnson is my male genetic progenitor's name."

A snort escapes me before I can stop it. Genetic progenitor? Even Varak speaks more naturally than this guy.

"Oh come on. You're not seriously expecting me to buy this crap?"

Smith's blank stare bores into me. No reaction. No change in expression. Just empty eyes that remind me of a department store mannequin.

The silence stretches until I have to break it. "Fine. Where are you from, Smith?"

"Jamaica," Smith replies, his face a blank mask.

"Aren't you a little pale for someone from—" The words die in my throat. His empty stare sends chills down my spine. "You don't even sound—never mind, what part of Jamaica are you from?"

Something flickers in those dead eyes. Fear? Calculation? Both?

"Down by the beach." His voice shifts into the worst Jamaican accent I've ever heard. "Ma Yute."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out.

I back away from the kitchen, my legs moving on autopilot toward our tiny office. The familiar smell of old paper and Dad's coffee grounds wraps around me as I yank open the filing cabinet.

Applications. We keep them all, organized by year. My fingers rifle through the folders, searching for Smith Johnson's paperwork. There's no way Mom and Dad hired this weirdo. They wouldn't. Would they?

The most recent folder feels thin between my fingers. Empty except for one crisp sheet of paper.

Smith Johnson's application stares back at me, the ink still wet.

I scan the application, my eyes widening with each line. The paper crinkles as my fingers tighten around the edges.

---