Melissa Landers - Alienated

Winning. Cara Sweeney had made it her business, and business was good. Honor Society president? Check. Young Leader Award? Check. State debate champion two years running? Double check. And when the title of valedictorian had eluded her, she’d found a way to snag that, too.

Over the summer, she’d staged an academic ambush of such epic proportions, Midtown High’s geek-elite were still chewing their pencils in shock. Sneaky as a senator, she’d retaken AP Calculus, raised her grade from 92 to 100, and usurped Marcus Johnson as valedictorian. Her stealth attack had caught him with his Hanes down, and unless her grades tanked this year—which was so not going to happen—the sulking loser had no chance of reclaiming his rank.

But she had a feeling Marcus would laugh his lacrosse pads off if he could see her now: slumped in the principal’s wingback guest chair, mouth agape as she tried to form a coherent response to the “awesome news” Mr. Ferguson had just tossed into her lap like a live grenade.

“I don’t think you understand what a big deal this is. Not only for you, but for the whole school.” Principal Ferguson’s brown caterpillar eyebrows inched toward a receding hairline. “The L’eihrs chose you over every other valedictorian in the country. We’re talking thirty thousand seniors!”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cara nodded blankly, trying to make sense of it. Maybe there’d been a mistake. She’d cut soccer, track, volunteer tutoring, and chess club a couple years ago when Mom got sick, and it took a lot more than academics to impress a scholarship committee these days. So why hadn’t they chosen someone more accomplished?

“I know the money comes with a few strings attached, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime.” Mr. Ferguson pointed a marble fountain pen at her and “fired” it like a tiny pistol. “Especially for a budding journalist. Think of the blog potential here.”

A few strings attached? Holy Mary, mother of all under­statements! Cara shifted in her seat, the backs of her thighs sticking to the warm leather. “Oh, right—yeah, of course I’m happy. It’s just a shock. I didn’t even apply.”

“No application. Every high school submitted its top can­didate, and the L’eihrs took it from there. You’ll never guess why they picked you.” Without giving her a chance to try, he announced, “They saw your footage from last year’s state debate finals. They admired your”—he held up two fingers and made air quotes—“passion.”

“What?” Cara scrunched her brows. Passion? She’d hammered the opposing team until their captain had cried and run off stage. The L’eihrs, who had the emotional range of tree bark, liked her atomic temper?

“This is huge!” Pausing a moment, Mr. Ferguson twisted his mouth while jabbing his index finger at a closed manila file folder. “And you don’t seem thrilled. Last year you said you were interested in exchange programs.”

Well, yeah. But there was foreign, and then there was foreign.

Mr. Ferguson leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk’s polished mahogany surface. His eyes softened behind thick glasses, voice lowering to a whisper. “You’re not afraid of the L’eihrs, are you?”

“No!” Cara scoffed, wiping her clammy palms on the front of her skirt. “Of course not.”

Okay, maybe a little. She’d been as fascinated as everyone else when the aliens made contact two years ago, but their secretive nature made her stomach feel heavy, like she’d eaten a dozen Taco Bell double-decker burritos in one sitting. And as much as she wanted to travel, leaving Earth wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

“Good. I don’t want you doing anything that makes you uncomfortable. The young man—uh, I mean the young . . . uh, well, technically we have the same DNA, so I guess I could call him—”

A sharp voice barked, “Student ambassador,” and Cara jumped in her seat. The old military guy lurking near the corner had camouflaged so perfectly into the green curtains that she’d almost forgotten he was there.

Mr. Ferguson nodded. “Right. The ambassador who’ll stay with your family sounds just like you—a top student, even by L’eihr standards, which is saying a lot.” He picked up a small photograph and handed it across the desk. “He just turned eighteen. His name’s Aelyx.”

He pronounced it A-licks. Cara gave the photo a perfunc­tory glance and handed it back. Whatever. They all looked the same to her.

“Wow, this scholarship is a lot more . . .” What was the right word? Lavish? Excessive? “. . . generous than the others I’ve applied for, but I don’t know how my parents will feel.”

What a bald-faced lie—she half expected her nose to grow. Mom and Dad would streak the Super Bowl halftime show just to meet a L’eihr, let alone live with one.

“No problem. I called your folks this morning, and they’re totally on board.”

Frick. Of course they were. Mom was probably empty­ing Troy’s old bedroom at that very moment, finally clearing out his tacky, testosterone-fueled shrine to heavy metal and Harley-straddling bimbos.

Mr. Ferguson stood and pulled some papers from his file. “And from what the colonel says, your brother’s over the moon”—he let out a hearty laugh—“to be the first human on planet L’eihr.”

“Wait.” She bolted forward, gripping the armrests. “Troy’s going there?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head.

“As soon as he heard you were selected, he volunteered to serve as human liaison for the program. He’ll get acclimated to the L’eihr culture now so he can help you and the other two exchange students adjust when it’s your turn next year. Think of him as your intergalactic mentor.” He grinned. “A big brother, no pun intended.”

If this were Mr. Ferguson’s idea of a few strings attached, she’d hate to see what he considered complicated.

The colonel came to life again, stepping forward and giv­ing a curt nod. “Your brother’s a fine Marine. He’s never turned down an opportunity to serve his country.”

Exactly. Which was why Cara hadn’t seen the jerkwagon in almost two years. Apparently the Middle East wasn’t far enough away for Troy—he needed to leave the galaxy now. What was next, time travel?

Principal Ferguson strode to the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet and happier than a pigeon with a French fry. “I’ll make some copies of the exchange contract while Colonel Rutter explains the details.”

Cara turned her head and caught a glimpse of her dazed reflection in the debate team trophy cabinet. The blue eyes of the concavely distorted girl staring back looked haunted, like the stuffed owls in science lab, and long wisps of fiery auburn hair made her cheeks look even paler.

Get a grip, she chided herself. Maybe it won’t be SO bad.

Sure, living with a L’eihr for the rest of the year would blow chunks, but she’d get a full ride out of the deal—anywhere she wanted, even Dartmouth! She’d never dreamed she could afford the Big Green, considering Mom’s treatments had knocked the family into a black hole of debt six figures deep.

And Mr. Ferguson was right about the blog potential. Humans knew next to nothing about L’eihrs, and she’d be sharing a bathroom with one. That gave her an instant leg up on every other journalist in the country.

What if she started a brand-new site, something with a catchy title and an outer-space theme? If A-licks would open up and spill some tidbits about life back home, she could run a special-interest series and attract followers from around the globe. And when it was her turn to visit L’eihr, all the photos and news she’d gather could land her a book deal. She might even be able to sell her proposal to a publisher before she left.