He stares at me, a vein throbbing at his temple.

"That gra.s.s won't cut itself."

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"What I heard was another excuse about why you can't do your ch.o.r.es." He points a finger at me.

"I'm not your slave."

"You want to live under my roof and eat the food I put on the table, you can d.a.m.n well mow the flippin' gra.s.s. Now!" He takes a menacing step toward the bed.

"But it's after eight on a Sunday night."

"Now." He waits while I pull on my takkies.

"Mom would've been at my concert." We're standing face-to-face, the difference in height negligible. My father might've been a brawny rugby player once, but now all that muscle has turned to flab and beerboep beerboep. "Why weren't you there?"

"Watch it, Gabriel. That piano would make good firewood."

"That was Mom's piano." I can't believe he'd ever do anything to damage the piano. "Did you even remember that? Do you even remember your dead wife at all?"

He slaps me twice. Palm and backhand. My lip splits across my bottom teeth, and I taste blood. With cheeks smarting and involuntary tears welling in my eyes, I push past him and sprint to the garage. Sure, I'll cut his f.u.c.king gra.s.s. I drag the lawn mower out into the dark garden. The tank is full, and the engine starts with three tugs on the crankshaft. Amidst a haze of petrol fumes, I push the mower around the lawn and across the flowerbeds my father so fastidiously tends. Mom loved these flowers too. I don't care. I just need to destroy something beautiful.

Am I an Alien, Treasa Test #04

HYPOTHESIS: Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as controlling electrical circuits. Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as controlling electrical circuits.

GOAL: To prove I can control electric circuits such as the lights at robots-red to green. To prove I can control electric circuits such as the lights at robots-red to green.

METHOD:.

While in car, pull up to red robot.

Concentrate on changing the red light to green.

Change should be almost instantaneous to qualify.

RESULTS: On the drive home from school with Mom, three red robots were encountered. Of those, only one successfully changed immediately after concentration of energy was aimed at it. On the drive home from school with Mom, three red robots were encountered. Of those, only one successfully changed immediately after concentration of energy was aimed at it.

CONCLUSION: Partial evidence for control of electric circuits under certain conditions. Caveat: Lights may have been about to change anyway, and mult.i.tasking (concentrating on conversation with Mom and controlling the traffic lights) may place too much strain on my abilities. Partial evidence for control of electric circuits under certain conditions. Caveat: Lights may have been about to change anyway, and mult.i.tasking (concentrating on conversation with Mom and controlling the traffic lights) may place too much strain on my abilities.

Treasa .

OF COURSE COURSE he didn't kiss you, he didn't kiss you, Jordan informs me by scrawling a pencil message in the margin of her French book. Jordan informs me by scrawling a pencil message in the margin of her French book.

Why? I write back, trying to concentrate on the conversation we're meant to be listening to. I write back, trying to concentrate on the conversation we're meant to be listening to.

He smokes. Did he have mints?

No.

So he had ashtray breath. Therefore no kissing! She goes over the exclamation mark several times to drive home her point. She goes over the exclamation mark several times to drive home her point.

I didn't think of that. Poor guy was just being considerate, which only confirms his G.o.dliness. Can a guy really be this perfect? Poor guy was just being considerate, which only confirms his G.o.dliness. Can a guy really be this perfect?

Buy some Tic Tacs, Jordan scrawls, and I make a mental note to do just that, in case another opportunity for kissing should present itself. Jordan scrawls, and I make a mental note to do just that, in case another opportunity for kissing should present itself.

How do you know if you're in love? I write. I write.

Jordan turns her chuckle into a cough as our hawkeyed French teacher gives us a disapproving glare.

You just know, she writes. she writes.

Make a list?

Jordan turns to a clean page in her book, and I tune into the conversation between a kid and his mother. Something about what he should buy at the grocery store. I've missed most of it, and who can think about tomatoes and bananas when there's an angelic boy to daydream about? Angels. They could be aliens. The way the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary is a lot like how people have described close encounters of the third kind. Bright lights, strange beings-does that mean Mary was impregnated by aliens and that Jesus walked on water because he was really from another planet?

Jordan nudges my arm with the corner of her book, ending all heretical speculation. I read the list: Warm fuzzies?-check Guy seems perfect?-he is You feel weird around him (weak, dizzy, warm etc.)?-of course You can't stop thinking about him?-check You dream about him?-check You're counting the seconds til you see him again?-check You type sms's to him, but can't decide whether to send them or not?-maybe You check your phone twenty times a minute waiting for an sms?-maybe He's the hottest thing ever and you'd like to do bad things to him?-Jordan!

You feel all floaty and giggly for no apparent reason?-check I pa.s.s the list back to her, and she smiles as she whispers, "You're in love, Ree."

The conversation about tomatoes ends, and I waft through the rest of the lesson. Not even the never-ending list of verb conjugations can get me down. Gabriel. I'll only see him again in three days. The waiting is the worst. At least there's an episode of Project Blue Book Project Blue Book to look forward to in the meantime. to look forward to in the meantime.

I'VE PRACTICED PRACTICED the walk for two hours and still can't get it right. Are guys' legs even connected to their hips at all? How do they walk from the knees without getting that swaying movement in their hips? It's impossible. My thighs and b.u.m muscles burn from pacing up and down my bedroom in guy mode and listening to Manson when I should be doing homework. Even when I concentrate on altering my center of gravity, sinking low and flicking out my feet, I end up looking like a Neanderthal with a limp. It's not even remotely close to how Gabriel walks, how effortlessly he carries himself, all broad shoulders and straight back and narrow hips that don't go sashaying all over the place. d.a.m.n hips, d.a.m.n b.o.o.bs, d.a.m.n double-X chromosomes! the walk for two hours and still can't get it right. Are guys' legs even connected to their hips at all? How do they walk from the knees without getting that swaying movement in their hips? It's impossible. My thighs and b.u.m muscles burn from pacing up and down my bedroom in guy mode and listening to Manson when I should be doing homework. Even when I concentrate on altering my center of gravity, sinking low and flicking out my feet, I end up looking like a Neanderthal with a limp. It's not even remotely close to how Gabriel walks, how effortlessly he carries himself, all broad shoulders and straight back and narrow hips that don't go sashaying all over the place. d.a.m.n hips, d.a.m.n b.o.o.bs, d.a.m.n double-X chromosomes!

Too sore to keep it up, I collapse in my chair and open up the Word doc.u.ment I've been working on. It's not even a coherent story anymore-and definitely not something I can hand in to my English teacher-just a collection of scenes I wish would manifest in real life. I'll have to write something more PG for school.

"WHAT IF IF we get caught?" Tristan scanned the corridors for prowling teachers. The whole point of being on Earth was to blend in and disappear, to act human, to stay off the intergalactic radar until the political situation cooled down on Kazar and an extraction team was sent to retrieve the emperor. we get caught?" Tristan scanned the corridors for prowling teachers. The whole point of being on Earth was to blend in and disappear, to act human, to stay off the intergalactic radar until the political situation cooled down on Kazar and an extraction team was sent to retrieve the emperor.

"What are they gonna do? Scramble our DNA and exile us to some primitive planet?" Resa grinned and grabbed Tristan by the shirt, dragging him into the janitor's closet.

"But-" Tristan's protests were silenced by a crush of lips and tongue. Resa tasted like orange Tic Tacs (do they have Tic Tacs in America?) (do they have Tic Tacs in America?), sweet and fresh and not at all like the menthol cigarette he'd insisted on smoking before cla.s.s to solidify his bad-boy status in front of the cheerleaders. But the cheerleaders weren't the ones getting dragged into a closet for a make-out session, and that made Tristan smile as his hands slid beneath Resa's shirt....

"WHAT ARE ARE you listening to?" Mom startles me as she walks into my room with a pile of clean laundry. you listening to?" Mom startles me as she walks into my room with a pile of clean laundry.

"Um, just a CD Gabriel gave me." Surrept.i.tiously, I slide the surreal, genderless alb.u.m cover under a pile of papers so Mom won't see it and freak out. She c.o.c.ks her head, listening to lyrics about drugs and suicide. I save and close the scene I've been writing. Best Mom doesn't read my h.o.m.oerotic fan fiction.

"You like this?" She folds her arms, clearly unimpressed.

"It's not bad." I shrug. Like it? I b.l.o.o.d.y love it.

"And this is the music Gabriel listens to?" Her eyebrows form perfect arches.

"When he's not listening to Beethoven and Chopin."

Mom sits on my bed, and Riker joins her. "Do you like this boy?"

"I think so."

"He's older."

"He's only just turned eighteen." His birthday's January tenth, making him Capricorn, which is a great match to my being Cancer, or so says the Zodiac Matchmaker column in one of Mom's magazines.

"And eighteen-year-old boys have one-track minds, Resa."

I roll my eyes. We haven't even kissed yet.

"Treasa, this is serious. I don't want you to throw your life away over some boy."

"How is having feelings for Gabriel throwing my life away?" I fold my arms over my chest.

"I don't want you pressured into something you can't handle. That's all."

"You mean pressured into s.e.x? And of course I'll end up pregnant, because that's what happens to all ignorant teenagers. Mom, I've known about condoms since grade four."

"Are you sleeping with this boy?" Mom's voice is choked, and her eyes shine as if she's about to cry.

"No!" Not that I wouldn't. I mean... would I? And just how does Mom think we've wrangled the logistics to find somewhere private enough to have s.e.x? Like I'd do it on school property or in the back of Gabriel's bakkie, because that's just so b.l.o.o.d.y romantic. Honestly, mother!

"Has he asked you to?" Mom's fingers wrap around the edge of my duvet.

"He hasn't even asked me to kiss him. I think my virginity is safe, possibly forever."

Mom exhales a relieved breath that only irritates me. Doesn't she want me to be in love and have moonlight kisses and possibly, maybe, one day make love to some perfect boy with beautiful eyes and a ripped body like all the pop songs suggest I should?

"I just don't want you to be in a situation you can't handle, sweetheart."

"I'm fine, Mom. I go to self-defense training, remember?"

A fleeting smile sprints across her face. "You're enjoying that?"

"A lot."

"I'm glad." Mom gives Riker a final pat before standing up to leave.

"Mom?"

She pauses at my door.

"I was wondering if I could start taking piano lessons again."

"Really?" She arches a single eyebrow at me this time.

"I know we don't have a piano anymore, but I could practice at school."

"Does Gabriel have something to do with this?"

"Listening to him play just made me miss it, is all."

"And how much would that cost, Resa? You're already taking the martial arts cla.s.s." Jordan only paid for the first one.

"I know." I chew on my bottom lip when an idea goes supernova. "What if I asked Gabriel to teach me? He's doing his teacher's licentiate, so he probably wouldn't charge as much, if at all." I exaggerate a little.

Mom gives me a long, hard look, and I know she must be thinking this is just a ploy to spend more time with him, which it isn't, although I'll hardly complain about that if she says yes.

"Let me discuss this with your father and we'll see. Fair?"

I nod and listen to Mom's footsteps retreating down the pa.s.sage, headed toward the kitchen. I check my phone for an SMS. Nothing, so I turn up the volume on Manson and return to my blushworthy descriptions of Resa and Tristan making out in the janitor's closet. It's a real pity we have neither boys nor janitor's closets at St. Bridget's.

Gabriel

MY FATHER FATHER won't even look at me since I annihilated the geraniums. He hates me, probably as much as I hate him. I guess we deserve each other. won't even look at me since I annihilated the geraniums. He hates me, probably as much as I hate him. I guess we deserve each other.

Jean-Pierre got a car when he turned eighteen. A c.r.a.ppy old Nissan. At least he still had wheels and freedom. Not me. Apparently, it's because my father can't afford it, given my expensive extramurals, but I bet it's his pa.s.sive-aggressive way of punishing me. If I made it into first-team rugby, I'd probably come home to find a brand-new car waiting for me in the driveway.