Page 7 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
She’s chattering from the passenger seat, voice high and full of fizz, like she’s been holding it all in all day just for me.
“—andthenMrs. Fallon said the photos were probably fake, but Iknowthey’re real, because look—see? You can totally make out the alien cruiser shape in the second one. And this guy—look, he runs a blog called Illinois Sky Watchers dot info—he says he’s got data from radar intercepts out of Scott Air Force Base!”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, eyes locked on the road, trying to do math in my head. Rent’s due Monday. Groceries wiped me out. Sammy needs new shoes, and the utility bill’s been playing peekaboo with my checking account for two weeks. I make a mental note to check the couch cushions again for change. Dignity can wait.
Sammy’s backpack sits open on her lap, bristling with paper—printouts from conspiracy forums, doodles of weird bug-eyed creatures with tentacles, one particularly detailed sketch of what I assume is supposed to be a “Snaxoid,” which looks like a churro with fangs and attitude.
She holds up one sheet. “I gave this guy six arms 'cause I figured if he comes from a heavier-gravity planet, he’d need extra appendages for climbing and stabilizing during locomotion. Plus, he’s got a mouth on each palm, so he can eatwhilehe’s fighting.”
I blink. “Jesus.”
“I named him Glarb.”
I glance at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve got a real future in speculative biology, babe.”
“Or monster design for horror games.”
“Also a viable option.”
She beams.
We round the bend into our neighborhood, passing Mrs. Leone’s place—still decorated with faded Fourth of July flags and a sad little plastic eagle—and then the Wilkerson duplex with its leaning basketball hoop and chalk-covered driveway. The houses here are small, mostly one-story ranches and vinyl siding nightmares, but they’reours. They’ve got soul, chipped paint and all.
And then I see it.
The house next door.
The one that’s been empty for almost a year, ever since the Freemans packed up in the middle of the night and left nothing but a busted lawn mower and an unpaid water bill.
There’s a sign in the yard now.
Bright red. Freshly staked.
SOLD.
I blink. I must’ve driven past it this morning and missed it in the rush.
Sammy leans forward like a meerkat. “Wait. Wait wait wait—what? Someone bought the Freeman house?”
“Looks like.”
“Today?That wasn’t there yesterday! I checked after my walk!”
I shrug, easing the car into our cracked driveway. “Well, maybe someone bought it and the sign just went up. Realtors move fast when they smell commission.”
“No, Mom,” she says, voice dropping into that suspicious hush she reserves for government cover-ups and Walmart brand cookies. “Something’sweird.”
I kill the ignition. The heat rushes in instantly, thick and muggy.
“Weird how?” I ask, gathering my purse, my sadness, and my patience.
Sammy doesn’t answer right away. She’s got her face smushed against the window like she’s trying to press through the glass. Her fingers leave little sweat prints on the pane. Then she sucks in a breath, sharp and startled.
“There’s someone in the backyard,” she says.
My hand freezes on the door handle.
I glance across the lawn. Sun’s just low enough that everything looks surreal—golden and too sharp, like God turned up the contrast in Photoshop. The fence separating our yard from the Freeman place is half-rotted and covered in honeysuckle. Beyond it, I catch a glimpse of something.
