Jennifer Chan Is Not Alone: Chapters 1–8

But the problem with the Gibbons Academy middle school orchestra is that instead of learning new music, they play the same Christmas carols all year, every year. By the millionth rendition of “Silent Night,” it’s kind of...a lot.

“No,” I say. At least, I think I say it. Because I hear myself speak, but I don’t actually register saying the word.

“Jennifer left a note that said she’s, like, running away.”
“She ran away.” I’m only capable of repeating Reagan’s words, apparently.

I can hear the twinge of desperation in my voice, but for once, I don’t bother to stifle it.

When he leaves, she repeats her Worried About Mal mantra: “Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Mallory.”

Mom is philosophically opposed to lying to me, so she does not say: Everything is gonna be okay.

“Try not to call our town Nowhereville in public, Mal. It’s a tad dreary.”

Dad snorted into his coffee, but Mom thudded the pie on the kitchen counter. I tried to ignore the scent wafting off it—cinnamon apple, my favorite.

Lately every conversation with Mom turned into a fight or a lecture, like she didn’t trust me to be a decent person on my own.

I cringed, partly at the awkwardness of hearing such a cutesy term, but mostly because in Florida, a lovebug wasn’t a cute nickname. It was what we called the bugs that spontaneously descended in May and September to swarm the air and stick to windshields.

Mom grimaced like, Why is our state like this?

“I’ve gone to Gibbons since kindergarten,” I said, as if that were relevant information.

The weird thing about our neighborhood was that all the houses almost looked the same—painted brick facades and big windows, small houses on big lawns filled with oak trees and flower boxes.

I felt my cheeks flush, though I wasn’t sure why.

Reagan had lived in Philadelphia before she moved here—which was way awesome—but Chicago was even more glamorous.

“Have you ever had something strange happen to you? Something you can’t explain?”
My palms went clammy.

A tiny knot released in my chest, and the feeling made me giddy. It made me...intellectually curious or something.

She blinked quickly. Her smile faltered.

“So you mean—you really believe...in aliens?” I didn’t want to sound rude, but it was a valid question.
She smiled, like she’d been expecting the skepticism.

It might sound wild at first, but there’s no way we’re the only sentient life-forms in the universe.

“I’m sharing it. And when you’re done reading, I can teach you about the hunt.”
I hesitated. Something about the way she said it sounded ominous.

A couple years ago, he told me about a scientific theory called the altruism theory. Basically, a bunch of really smart scientists believe that if an alien civilization becomes advanced enough to travel through space, that means they’ve already lived through all the bad stuff. They’ve lived through nuclear weapons and wars and climate change, and they managed not to destroy themselves and their planet.

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Sometimes Dad does this kinda annoying thing where he lets a question hang and waits for other people to draw their own conclusions.

“Because there are aliens here. That one time I visited, we were driving nearby, a little past the military base, when suddenly the radio went staticky. And that’s when I saw evidence.”

So many people have seen unidentified aerial phenomena. The government even confirmed the existence of UAPs!

So many people have seen unidentified aerial phenomena. The government even confirmed the existence of UAPs!

We’d been talking at a normal volume, but after that I felt like I had to make myself barely audible, just to balance her out.

I almost don’t see the light outside—not until a beam of red swings into my room, illuminating my white walls, desk, and bed in an eerie glow. It’s like, suddenly, I’m inside a haunted house.

Adrenaline speeds through my veins, urging me to dive right through my window and back under my covers.

In the inky sky, a red oval of light, big as a helicopter but long and slim as a Tic Tac, blips into existence, blocking out the thin sliver of moon.

Then the Tic Tac dips and swerves, flitting through the neighborhood.

I watch as it skims over the shingled roofs, moving faster than anything I’ve ever seen, zipping up and down as if gravity does not apply.

“Please,” Reagan scoffs. “How would she rob a bank? She’s twelve.”

We patter down the steps to the basement and stumble into the girls’ bathroom.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence that she ran right after the Incident.