Starstruck (24 page)

“Deal,” I agreed. But though I smiled back, I was more nervous about tonight than ever.

CHAPTER 14

Coronal attributes

The rest of the day seemed to pass at super speed, right when I needed more time to prepare myself for whatever lay ahead at Rigel’s that night. Bri and Deb continued to give me the cold shoulder—Deb a little apologetically—and Rigel continued to act more formally toward me than he had last week. All of which gave me plenty to worry about, but not enough time to think.

I wasn’t staying after for football practice, since I didn’t want to give Aunt Theresa any excuse to change her mind about dinner at the Stuarts’. Plus, Rigel mentioned on the way to History that he thought just having me there once or twice a week would be enough to help him compensate for my presence at the games. I tried to tell myself he was being considerate, so I wouldn’t get into trouble.

When I reached the bus after school, I was cranky enough to welcome the chance to confront Bri again about what a brat she was being. She and Deb were ahead of me, and of course they sat together, but I surprised myself almost as much as I surprised them by sitting right behind them—next to jerk-face Bobby Jeeter, of all people.

“Okay, Bri, give,” I said, before the bus even started moving. “You’ve been treating me like I have a disease or something ever since Friday night. There’s got to be more to this than a party invite.”

For several long seconds, she didn’t say anything, didn’t even act like she’d heard me. But then she whipped around to lean on the back of her seat, facing me.
Glaring
at me.

“Oh, don’t play innocent, Marsha,” she said. “I know what you’ve been saying behind my back. Just because you’re dating the
quarterback
doesn’t mean you’re better than me, you know.”

I blinked, honestly confused. “What? I haven’t said
anything
behind your back. What are you talking about?”

She flicked a quick glance at Deb, then at Bobby next to me, before answering. “About not needing to hang with losers anymore?”

“Bri, I would never say anything like that! Ever. But . . . I’ll bet I know who told you I did,” I added, remembering something from Friday night.

The fact that she wouldn’t look at me, and that her cheeks went suddenly pink, confirmed my guess.

“Seriously, Bri?” I asked, and she reluctantly—guiltily—met my eyes, but only for a second. “You really believed something
Trina
of all people would say?”

She gave a little shrug, looking down now. “She said she heard you. Then she and Nicole were talking about it, like everybody knew. And you
had
been—”

“I’d been ignoring you and . . . stuff.” I didn’t need to give Bobby Jeeter any extra fuel for gossip. “I know. And I
am
sorry about that. But come on, like I’d talk bad about you to Trina? Or talk to her at all?”

She shrugged again. “She
said
she overheard you, but . . . yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry. Oh, our stop. I’ll, um, call you later, M, okay?” she said, getting to her feet and heading to the front of the bus without another glance my way.

“Okay. Later,” I said, still not sure she believed me. “Bye.”

“Bye, M,” Deb said over her shoulder, looking relieved.

Not until they were off the bus did I remember I wasn’t going to be home most of the evening. I hoped Bri would call before I left for Rigel’s or after I got back, since I really didn’t want to explain it to her.

“So, Marsh,” said Bobby Jeeter as the bus lurched forward again. “Lookin’ good these days.”

“What?” I glanced at him, startled—and distrustful. “Um, thanks?”

His smile looked genuine, but it couldn’t undo all the years of him being obnoxious. “Just sayin’. Y’know, if the thing with Stuart doesn’t work out . . .” He let that hang there. So did I, glad mine was the next stop.

I didn’t say goodbye.

Once home, I dove right into my homework, determined to finish it before five-thirty, when Rigel’s mom was supposed to pick me up. When my aunt got home an hour later, I was nearly done.

“I don’t suppose you’ve sorted your laundry?” she asked me, by way of greeting.

“Um, not yet, but I’ll do it before I leave,” I said, closing my history book and opening my French. “Did you have a nice day today?”

“I suppose.” She gave me a long, speculative look, then went upstairs to her room.

I wondered what she suspected me of now. I knew she didn’t approve of me going to Rigel’s tonight, but she
had
given her permission, and I didn’t think she’d go back on that—unless I gave her an excuse. Which I definitely wouldn’t, no matter how nervous I was.

Five-thirty arrived sooner than I expected, somehow. I was still looking for my other seashell earring—I’d decided at the last minute that those were more sophisticated than the daisies I’d been wearing all day—when Aunt Theresa called up the stairs that Dr. Stuart was in the drive.

I hurtled down the stairs to the front door, the just-found earring in my hand. “I’ll see you later tonight,” I said to my aunt, yanking open the door before Dr. Stuart rang the bell. “Hi!” I greeted her.

“Hello, Marsha,” she said, looking only the slightest bit startled at my abrupt appearance. “Are you ready?”

I swallowed and closed the door behind me. “I hope so.”

“You’re nervous.” It wasn’t a question. “Please don’t be. Tonight is just a formality. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

A formality? “Um, just what
is
happening tonight?” Now I had visions of some kind of tribunal, with me in the spotlight.

She opened the passenger door of the car for me, then went around to the driver’s side and got in before answering. “There are a few people, including Rigel’s grandfather, who want to meet you. They’re understandably . . . interested . . . to hear your story. If you need a break, just give me a nod. I won’t let them do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

That was obviously impossible, since I was
already
uncomfortable just thinking about it. But she was trying to be kind and I appreciated that, so I changed the subject.

“Do Rigel and his grandfather, um, get along? He seemed a little, I don’t know, preoccupied at school today.”

She glanced at me as she pulled away from the curb, but so quickly that I couldn’t decipher her expression. “They’ve been fairly close in the past. At least, I thought so. But as Rigel gets older, I suppose such relationships are bound to change.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but I couldn’t think how to pursue it without sounding nosy. Besides, in a few minutes I’d be able to draw my own conclusions. We made the rest of the drive in near silence.

“Here we are,” she said unnecessarily as we pulled to a stop in their long driveway, next to a large gray van. Was it my imagination, or was she a little nervous herself?

I felt my palms sweating as we approached the front door, though I didn’t know exactly why. Dr. Stuart opened the door and stood back to let me enter first, calling out, “We’re here!” before ushering me through an archway on the left.

The living room was large but cozy, with a sofa, loveseat and several overstuffed chairs, along with several antique-looking tables—and a whole lot of people. I counted seven as they all leaped to their feet, five men and two women. I was pretty sure seven qualified as “several” rather than “a few.” Mr. Stuart, the only one I recognized, came forward.

“Welcome, Marsha,” he said. A couple of the strangers—the taller woman and one of the older men—flinched visibly. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, the smaller woman hurried forward, both hands outstretched. She was shorter than I was, maybe five feet tall, and clearly older than the Stuarts, with curly reddish-gray hair and crinkles around her eyes and mouth. She looked about sixty, but since Martians lived so long, I figured she could easily be twice that.

“No introduction is necessary for
me
,” she cried. “Princess Emileia is the very image of her mother—but with her grandfather’s eyes. My dear
Banfriansa
. . . Excellency . . . this is
such
a tremendous honor!” She paused to sink into a deep curtsey. “I never thought I would live to see the day . . . that is—”

“Nara,” snapped the taller woman, her voice surprisingly deep. She looked maybe fiftyish in Earth years. “I thought we were agreed that the tests would be performed before—”

“Oh, but just
look
at her, Kyna! Feel her
brath.
How can you doubt it?” The little woman, Nara, looked back and forth between us, her expression radiant.

“This is Nara Gilroy,” Mr. Stuart said. “Nara is a pediatrician, microbiologist and specialist in childhood diseases. She was well acquainted with your grandmother back on Mars.”

Though I appreciated her effusive welcome, my smile was completely forced.
Tests!?
No one had said anything about tests! And where was Rigel?

“Kyna is right, Nara,” said the older man who had flinched when I first came in. Moderately tall, with a squarish face and salt-and-pepper hair, he had an air of authority about him. “While it’s clear the girl is of Martian blood, we can’t allow ourselves to be swayed by emotion.”

He turned to me then, practically dissecting me with his pale, blue-green eyes before he bowed. “Allister Adair, ranking Royal member of the
Echtran
Council. No disrespect intended, your—ah—Miss Truitt, but we must be sure.”

“Sure?” I echoed, growing more confused by the second. Ranking Royal?
Echtran
Council? What did that mean?

Now the tallest—and oldest—man in the room stepped forward. “You must forgive my colleagues, Marsha. They are understandably skeptical, though hopeful, as we all are.” His voice was deep, resonant and pleasant.

He crossed the room with a measured, deliberate pace, studying me as he approached. He was an imposing man, completely apart from his height, with a sweeping shock of pure white hair above a long, deeply lined, aristocratic face. His eyes, the same clear gray as Mr. Stuart’s, seemed almost supernaturally intelligent—or maybe that was just my inferiority complex. I felt like a silly child under his knowing gaze.

But then he extended a hand and smiled, and the smile transformed his face into something kindly, wise . . . and utterly trustworthy. I found myself smiling in return, my momentary panic subsiding.

“Hello, Marsha.” His voice calmed me as well. “I am Shim Stuart, Rigel’s grandfather. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”

“The . . . the pleasure is mine,” I stammered, shaking his hand. The tingle was similar to what I felt when Dr. Stuart touched me—in other words, about a tenth of what Rigel created.

His smile deepened and my nervousness lessened further. Though he looked at least seventy—easily the oldest-looking person in the room—he was amazingly charismatic. “I doubt that, but thank you.”

I had to think back to what I’d just said to make his words make sense.

“Please, have a seat.” He released my hand to gesture toward the biggest, most comfortable-looking chair in the room and my nervousness immediately flooded back.

“M!” Rigel’s voice came from behind me and I turned to him with intense relief. He gave me a quick, reassuring smile, then frowned at the others. “I asked you not to start before I joined you.”

His hair was still damp from the shower and I had to restrain myself from too-obviously inhaling his unique scent.

“Young man, I told you that we would proceed as we think best,” said the man who had introduced himself as Allister Adair. He frowned at the Stuarts, who stood together near the doorway. “Are you certain—?”

“Yes.” Dr. Stuart’s voice was definite. “She’ll be much more comfortable if Rigel is here for this.”

Mr. Adair raised a skeptical eyebrow but didn’t argue.

My nervousness began to border on panic, and it was all I could do not to reach for Rigel’s hand. I desperately needed the courage I knew his touch would give me. But after what he’d said earlier and the way he’d been acting today, I didn’t dare, especially in front of everyone.

“Marsha?” Shim motioned again to the chair.

Trying not to look as scared as I felt, I moved to the big chair and sat down, half expecting shackles to materialize. They didn’t. Rigel took a step toward me, but his father put a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. Still, knowing he wanted to be closer to me made me feel a little better.

“So, what is this all about?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.

One of the other men now stood. He was the youngest one in the room, except for Rigel and me—he looked about twenty, though of course with Martians there was no knowing. Whip thin, he was shorter than the other men, about Kyna’s height, with carefully combed sandy hair. I tried to control my instinctive dislike.

“Certain claims have been put forth,” he said. His voice was thin, too, and higher than I expected. “We are here to verify them—or not.”

“Claims?” I assumed he meant the royal lineage the Stuarts said I possessed. With a fortifying glance at Rigel, I lifted my chin. “And you are?”

The haughtiness in my tone seemed to startle him almost as much as it startled me. “Flynn. Flynn Kellen. Genetics researcher at the World Health Organization here on Earth, and member of one of the leading scientific families on Mars.” There was a grudging deference in his tone that hadn’t been there before.