Only Alien on the Planet by Kristen D. Randle

up straight and turned my face to the window. My breath clouded it immediately, and I couldn't see anything but the mist I'd made. My heart was pounding in my ears. What were you thinking? I rested my forehead against the window. My hands were shaking.
    Of course you would never do such a thing.
    I was now entirely rational. I sat up in the seat and folded my hands in my lap. I could only imagine what might have happenedto him if I'd touched him then, trapped in the backseat of this car the way he was. A nightmare. What I couldn't imagine was what bizarre twists my mind was taking on me.
    What I had just felt—was it only, like, five seconds ago? It hadn't been anywhere close to pity. It had been something else. Something bordering on deep and heartbreaking. Some kind of fantasy. But where was I really? In the backseat alone with a mentally ill person. Evidently I was lonelier than I'd ever guessed, and—now I was afraid—maybe a little crazy myself.
    I turned to the window again. The mist was gone. The stars were clear and sharp out here, out away from the glow of the town lights. After a minute, I worked up my courage and looked over at Smitty. He hadn't moved. He was just sitting there, watching the stars, all unaware of me. And what are you thinking? Where in the name of heaven are you?
    Suddenly I knew how lonely I truly was.
    Lost.
    “I loved that movie,” I whispered, not necessarily to be heard. “I love happy endings. Paul and I used to make popcorn and sit around in our pajamas, watching that old black-and-white stuff on channel two. Me and my brother, Paul. We always liked the ones that ended like that.” I felt tears coming up in my eyes and I turned back to the stars.
    When I looked at Smitty again, his eyes were closed, his hands folded, asleep for all I knew.
    So I started talking. It was kind of strange, but everything that had been sitting so heavily in my heart seemed to be coming out ofme, all in a whisper, here in the back seat of Caulder's mother's car. I talked about all my brothers, about the way it used to be when we were all together. I talked about the old house and Christmases past, about how I missed Paul, and about how there hadn't been any family since we'd left home, how it was all changing, and would never be the same again—how it was all going to keep unravelling until there was nothing left at all—
    I began to feel drowsy after a while, the way I used to feel when I was little, riding along, half asleep in the back of the car at night, coming home from Nana's. Floating, kind of—distant and detached. I could hear my own voice, as though it were somebody else's.
    And Smitty sat low in the seat, his head back and his eyes closed, maybe asleep—but maybe there, maybe hearing.
     
    I owe you. Hally wrote to me on Monday. You name it, you can have it. Caulder is great. Caulder is wonderful. I got my brother to invite Pete's brother to the party, and—by the way—he's supposed to bring Pete. Just for you. So there. We'll be even.
    It was like she'd stuck ammonia or something under my nose, the jolt I got from that—pure terror. But, hey—this was adventure, right? And it was a shoo-in nothing would ever come of it. So I dusted off my sense of humor, pulled a piece of paper out of my notebook, and I wrote: You really invited Pete? This is Peter Zabriski, we're talking about? Gorgeous Peter Zabriski????? He won't come. I'm not even sure I want him to come. What would I say to him? You think he'll bring his French horn? Ah, sweet mystery of life, I've found you. I even drew little hearts over all the little i's.
    I folded it up, watched for my chance, and tossed it over to Hally's desk.
    I never dreamed the teacher would get that one.
    Not only did she intercept it—she read it. Out loud. In front of the entire class .
    “I believe this is yours, Ms. Christianson?” the woman said, just in case anybody should not have had a completely clear idea who it was being publicly