Starstruck (21 page)

At his touch, nearly every other thought left my head—as always. But I managed to focus long enough to say, “It’s Bri. She’s mad at me and I thought I should try—”

“What’s she mad about?”

I shrugged, since there was no way I was telling him the truth. “Just girl stuff.”

He gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “You can call her tomorrow. Come on.” He led me back to his admiring throng.

Normally I would have felt hugely out of place surrounded by cheerleaders and football players and other super-cool types, but with Rigel’s arm still around me, I felt only the tiniest bit awkward. Everyone was raving about him, patting him on the back, saying it was the best quarterbacking they’d ever seen. A couple of the players smiled at me, but none of the cheerleaders did. Not that that surprised me.

“C’mon, Rige, you gotta ride the bus home,” David Jaworski yelled over to him. “It’s gonna be a party all the way!”

“Yeah,” said Michael Best, another sophomore player. “It won’t be half as fun without our star QB. We need our miracle man to help us celebrate.”

Heather, the head cheerleader—a gorgeous brunette senior—joined in. “He’s right, Rigel. We’ll be on the bus, too, and you
know
cheerleaders know how to party.”

There was a shrill chorus of agreement from the rest of the squad. Trina gave me a mean smile, then whispered something to Bryce Farmer, making him laugh. It made me wonder again what she’d said to Bri earlier.

But Rigel shook his head. “Sorry, guys, can’t, but you all have fun. You all did a great job out there. And so did you,” he added to the cheerleaders. “You kept us motivated.”

There was a flurry of protests, but he just smiled and steered me back toward his parents.

“You can take the bus if you want to,” I told him with what I thought was admirable selflessness. “You deserve to celebrate with the team after that game.”

He grinned down at me. “You really wouldn’t mind me partying with the cheerleaders all the way back to Jewel?”

“Okay, I might mind a little,” I admitted. “But it’s not like I have any right to—”

“Hey.” He stopped me with a little squeeze. “You do have a right. I hereby give you the right to mind. But I really don’t want to go with them, anyway. All that—” He tilted his head in the direction of the hilarity still going on behind us—“is a little too over the top for me. Not my style. Anyway, I’d much rather be with you.”

My heart turned over at the look in his eyes. I still didn’t get—at
all
—how I could matter so much to somebody like Rigel, but I loved that I did.

“Thanks,” I managed, just as we reached his parents.

“Ready to go?” his mom asked. “I thought we’d stop for ice cream on the way back, and I know Marsha’s aunt and uncle won’t want her out too late.”

“That was a great game, son,” his dad said as we all headed toward the parking lot. “You’re an even better player than I realized. We won’t have to worry about college tuition, if you keep this up.”

Rigel squeezed my shoulders again and I knew it was his way of giving me part of the credit.

“We’re very proud of you,” his mother added. “We noticed that you’ve figured out how to pull back a little so you don’t overwhelm your receivers.”

“Yeah, I, uh, worked on that at practice all this week.” Rigel gave me a little half-wink.

I kept my smile mostly to myself, not sure if he wanted his parents to know about the role I was apparently playing in his improvement.

When we reached the car, Rigel threw his helmet, jersey and pads into the trunk, toweled off, then slipped on a fresh t-shirt before sliding into the back seat next to me. Even more than last week, I was hyper aware of him. Of course, he was sweaty, making him harder to ignore, but I didn’t think that was the main reason. My heart kept doing little dances every time I relived that wonderful kiss before the game.

But I was determined to find out more about the whole Martian thing—about myself—before we reached home. I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to ask questions that maybe only the Stuarts knew the answers to. They were still discussing the game as we left Springdale and turned onto the state road that would take us back to Jewel. I didn’t participate much, trying to screw up my courage to ask the question that mattered most to me.

About fifteen minutes out, Mr. Stuart pulled into a custard stand just off the main road and we all went up to the counter to order. We sat at one of the little stone tables to eat our ice cream, the three of them still talking football.

I had just taken the first bite of my hot fudge sundae with mint-chip ice cream when there was a lull in the conversation. No one else was nearby, so I grabbed the opportunity and blurted out, “What do you know about . . . my parents? My real parents?”

Before answering, Rigel’s parents looked at each other—for so long that I was sure they were reading each other’s thoughts again. Finally, his mother turned to me, her expression so kind, so concerned, that I braced myself for yet another shock, though I had no clue what it might be.

“We weren’t sure we should tell you this yet, Marsha—we were going to wait until Shim—Rigel’s grandfather—got here. You’ve already had so much to absorb today.”

I felt my heart, my breathing, speed up. They
did
know! “Tell me. Please!”

She nodded slowly. “Since you’ve asked us directly, I think we must. You’ll need to know before long, anyway.”

“I think she’ll be fine with this,” Rigel said, putting a hand on my arm, calming me.

I put my hand over his and squeezed it in gratitude. “Please?” I said to his mother.

“Your parents were . . . very important people on Mars,” she told me. “In fact—”

“In fact,” his father interrupted, “they were two of the
most
important people on Mars, before they came to Earth.”

I looked from one of them to the other. “I don’t understand.”

“Earlier today, I mentioned the political situation on Mars,” Mr. Stuart said. “To give you a bit of background, ours has been a remarkably peaceful society, by human standards. Part of the reason is that an aversion to violence—and specifically to killing—was genetically programmed into us by our alien, ah, abductors, all those centuries ago.”

“But things have changed now?” I ventured.

“More than I believe most Martians realize,” he replied. “Though it may sound odd to someone raised in the United States, we’ve had a functional monarchy for our entire recorded history. One reason it was successful was that the, ah, royal class was originally chosen from the most intelligent, most talented leaders among us, and those characteristics have persisted through countless generations.”

He was right. It did sound strange that such an advanced people would have something as backward-seeming as a monarchy.

“And?”

“Your ice cream is melting, dear,” Dr. Stuart gently reminded me.

I took a few quick bites, barely tasting it even though it was my favorite. “And?” I asked again.

Mr. Stuart smiled at my eagerness, but it was a sad smile. “A few decades ago, a particularly charismatic man named Faxon began fomenting unrest, bringing charges of elitism—among other things—against the Royal class. Over the years, discontent grew, carefully nurtured by Faxon and his agitators, until there was an active uprising and, finally, a coup. The monarchy was overthrown.”

Though I still didn’t see what this could possibly have to do with me, I was caught up in the story. “What did the deposed king—was he called a king?—do?”

“The nearest English translation is ‘Sovereign.’ He called for a referendum of the people to decide the matter, as was our custom when any general disputes arose. But that wasn’t good enough for Faxon. He and his followers stormed the Royal Palace and took our Sovereign and his wife captive, then assumed the powers of government, claiming popular acclamation.”

He paused and I noticed that both of Rigel’s parents looked unhappy. Clearly, their sympathies had been with the Sovereign.

“But . . . you were already here on Earth when all this happened, weren’t you?”

Rigel’s mother nodded. “We’re able to get fairly regular news from Mars, though we’ve had to take more precautions to mask our communications in recent decades.”

I supposed that made sense, given their advanced technology.

“I still don’t understand,” I said when neither of them continued the story. “What does all of this have to do with my . . . my parents?”

Dr. Stuart sighed, her expression troubled. “Your grandfather, Leontine, was our last Sovereign before the uprising,” she said. “Your father, Mikal, was his heir. On the advice of the Council, he left for Earth when things started to get ugly—with his wife and their infant daughter. You.”

“Wait.” My mind hadn’t quite caught up with what she was saying. “You mean—?”

“Yes, Marsha.” She put a hand over mine on the stone tabletop. “You are the direct heir to the Martian throne.”

CHAPTER 13

Stress-energy tensor

My world had been knocked askew several times over the past couple of days, but now it tilted even further on its axis. Surely there must be hidden cameras somewhere? Though I’d nearly managed to accept that I was Martian in origin, the idea that I might really, truly be a Martian
princess
was just too outlandish.

“But . . . didn’t you just say there isn’t a throne anymore? I mean, if the monarchy was overthrown, that means I’m just—”
Just a regular person after all
. Well, a regular person from
Mars
, but still.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything, Marsha.” Mr. Stuart’s voice was unexpectedly stern. “For countless generations, we’ve looked to the royal family, and particularly the Sovereigns, for leadership. The respect, the reverence, our people have for that office and the person holding it is deeply ingrained. A mere dozen or so years under an upstart despot hasn’t changed that.”

Shaken, I looked to Rigel for confirmation—or a return to sanity. “They’re . . . they’re really not kidding?”

Slowly, he shook his head. I thought his eyes held a touch of sadness, which seemed strange. “They’re really not. That’s why it was
so
important to find you. I’m not much on the politics, but my folks say there’s still a lot of resistance to the new leaders.”

“Yes,” Dr. Stuart said. “And it’s growing. The new regime is growing more and more oppressive and even some of its most ardent original supporters are becoming disillusioned, wondering if they made a mistake.”

“Which they did,” Rigel’s father said forcefully. He obviously had very strong feelings about all of this.

But to me, it sounded more and more like a dream—or maybe a science fiction novel. Shying away from the whole politics/royalty thing, I focused on the part I really cared about. “So . . . what exactly happened to my grandfather?”

There was another one of those speaking silences between Rigel’s parents before his mother answered. “Though we Martians, as a people, are nonviolent, I’m afraid—”

Mr. Stuart interrupted her. “Those now in power have found a way to overcome our natural—and adaptive—aversion to killing. I’m ashamed to claim them as brethren.”

“Are . . . are you saying that my grandfather was . . . murdered?” Their bleak expressions answered me. I felt a sudden sense of loss that surprised me, given that I’d never known him—or even known of his existence until a few minutes ago.

“And what about my parents?” I almost whispered the words.

Dr. Stuart took my hand again, with a reassuring squeeze. “We have no reason to believe their deaths were anything more than an unfortunate accident.”

“How?” Somehow, it was important that I know this.

“An automobile accident,” Mr. Stuart told me, his voice gentler than I’d yet heard it. “Their car went off an embankment into a river and they were drowned. At the time, it was assumed that you drowned with them. But then, just a few years ago, my father came across evidence that you had survived and set us on our search.”

I was both relieved and saddened to know the truth. All my life I’d made up stories about what had happened to my parents, from the mundane to the bizarre. I was glad it was closer to the mundane. I opened my mouth to ask about the evidence he’d mentioned when Dr. Stuart let go of my hand with a start.

“Oh, goodness, look at the time!” she exclaimed. “We need to get going immediately if we’re to keep Marsha from getting into trouble at home.”

I glanced down at my sundae, but it was just brownish-green soup. I had no appetite now, anyway. We all stood and I tossed it into the nearest trash can without regret.

“You okay?” Rigel murmured to me as we got back into the car, just as he had earlier that day in his kitchen, right after I’d learned I was from Mars.

“Yeah. At least . . . I think so. I’m probably going to have really weird dreams tonight, though.”

But then, remembering what a big part he’d been playing in my dreams lately, I lapsed into embarrassed silence. No way I wanted him to know
that
. Even if I thought maybe he wouldn’t mind.

More and more questions kept occurring to me on the drive back. At one point, I asked, “Do all the other Earth Martians, um,
Echtrans
, know about me?”