In my story, Resa hangs out with my character, Tristan-another alien and Resa's bodyguard on Earth-and, while waiting to return to Kazar, together they fight the government that wants to eradicate all evidence of extraterrestrial life. Personally, I think the producers should've asked for my help here, because having Tristan in the picture makes the story way more entertaining.

Writing from a boy's point of view should be hard, according to my English teacher. I wouldn't know, since I've never written anything from a girl's perspective. Never wanted to.

The cursor blinks, waiting for my words....

TRISTAN EXAMINED EXAMINED his reflection in the cracked and grimy bathroom mirror, not satisfied with the color of his tie. his reflection in the cracked and grimy bathroom mirror, not satisfied with the color of his tie.

"It would look better blue." Resa zipped up and sauntered toward the sink.

"Which shade?" Tristan waved a hand over his tie, rearranging the molecules into turquoise, then aquamarine, then indigo.

"Try periwinkle." Resa grinned and ran his wet fingers through his hair.

"Is that even a color?"

"It should be."

Tristan settled on cerulean so the tie matched his eyes. "Why are we doing this?"

"To blend in." Resa smoothed down the lapels of his tux.

"And going to senior prom without dates is how we blend in?"

"We've got each other." Resa winked and tucked an unruly wave of blond hair behind Tristan's ear. Tristan sighed, not really looking forward to hanging around alone all night while Resa flirted with other guys' dates.

He felt the music vibrating along the corridor a minute before he heard the nasal whine of some pop princess straining over growling ba.s.s.

"Just stay away from the punch. Overheard the quarterback saying he was going to spike it with gin," Resa said as he pushed open the gym hall doors. A cloud of perfume and aftershave a.s.sailed Tristan's nostrils before he could dull his too-sensitive senses.

"Do you think they have proms on Kazar?"

"I hope we've evolved beyond this primitive mating ritual." Resa grinned. "But I try to see the good in every situation." He swaggered into the gym-turned-ballroom, approaching a group of cheerleaders-turned-Barbie dolls.

Tristan ambled past the snacks, speared an olive with a toothpick, and picked up a custard pastry. He crammed both of them into his mouth, savoring the sweet-salty explosion, and leaned against the wall in a dark corner, contemplating turning himself off-white so he'd blend into the wall.

He watched the humans, laughing and interacting so effortlessly. He watched Resa lead a pretty brunette wearing a crimson gown onto the dance floor as the pop song faded into a rock ballad. Resa pulled her close, his hand on the small of her back, his lips brushing her ear as he entranced her with his mellifluous voice. The girl's date showed up, a scowl on his acned face when he saw his date leaning into Resa. Tristan's gut tightened, antic.i.p.ating the worst as the football player marched across the dance floor and tapped Resa on the shoulder. Tristan's sensitive ears tuned into the conversation as the jock grabbed Resa's jacket and shoved him away from the girl blushing the same shade as her dress.

The jock, Mitch, pulled back his fist, aiming for Resa's nose. That's when it happened. Tristan couldn't control the impulse hard-coded into his triple helix. He was Resa's bodyguard. His whole reason for being was to protect the exiled emperor of Kazar. He flung out his hand, condensing the atoms around Resa to form a protective, if invisible, barrier. Mitch's fist met the barrier, and he screamed as the bones shattered in his hand. Resa spun around to face Tristan, anger etched into his expression before making a run for the door. Tristan released the atoms and followed Resa into the corridor.

Resa whirled on him, shoving him into a row of lockers. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"He was going to hit you."

"And?" Resa's green eyes swirled through various shades, indicating severe rage.

"And I'm meant to protect you. I have to."

"Maybe I'm tired of you protecting me. Maybe I'm tired of being this and want to be that." He jerked his head toward the gym. "Even if it means getting a black eye once in a while."

That was impossible. Resa's cells regenerated in nanoseconds.

"Well, maybe I'm tired of that, and want to be this." Tristan acted before really thinking about it as he wound his fingers through Resa's hair and pulled him close. Their lips brushed together, and every light in the corridor exploded in a shower of sparks.

Gabriel

"NO SON SON of mine-" My father tears up the application form, leaving my dream in tattered strips on the kitchen table. of mine-" My father tears up the application form, leaving my dream in tattered strips on the kitchen table.

"It's my life."

"It's my money." His face is ruddy from one too many beers. This is the worst possible time to pick a fight with him, but I can't stop myself. I hate him, hate him so much I want to put my fist right through his face, to break him and leave him a soggy mess on the floor.

"Just because your dreams turned to s.h.i.t, doesn't mean you get to b.u.g.g.e.r up mine."

He stares at me as it takes his beer-soaked brain a moment to process what I said. His face distorts, a grotesque mask of rage. How did Mom ever love this man? I could block his hand; of course, I don't. If hitting me makes my father feel better, then so be it. I probably deserve it. Mom would've put atchar on my tongue; my father slaps me and storms out of the kitchen as much as a man with a limp can storm. Just another breakfast in the du Preez household.

I salvage the pieces of my application form. No bachelor of music for me, then. Forging his signature wouldn't help much either, not when the deposit needs paying as well. Why my father even cares what I do when he's got Jean-Pierre to be proud of escapes me. My father tore his ACL twenty-five years ago on the rugby field, the injury ruining his chances of Springbok glory. I can understand him wanting to live vicariously through my prop-forward brother, so why can't he just leave me alone?

The front door bangs shut, and a moment later, the bakkie growls as my father revs the engine. He won't wait more than a minute for me to grab my school bag and blazer. Tires churn on the gravel driveway and the electric gates grind open. He didn't even give me a minute. I'll have to call Dirk for a lift again. Either that or a b.l.o.o.d.y long walk and detention for being late.

I pause at the piano and run my fingers along the keys. My father reckons playing music makes me a moffie moffie because all male piano players are obviously gay, despite my repeatedly telling him I'm straight. Things would be different if Mom were here, and it's my fault she's not. There aren't even pictures of her on the walls anymore. My father made sure of that, tearing down every framed image of us as a happy family days after we put Mom in the ground. He doesn't know I kept some, that I've got them hidden in a box under my bed. because all male piano players are obviously gay, despite my repeatedly telling him I'm straight. Things would be different if Mom were here, and it's my fault she's not. There aren't even pictures of her on the walls anymore. My father made sure of that, tearing down every framed image of us as a happy family days after we put Mom in the ground. He doesn't know I kept some, that I've got them hidden in a box under my bed.

I dial Dirk, and he answers on the third ring.

"Need a lift?" he asks.

Treasa

WITHOUT J JORDAN beside me, I feel vulnerable, as if I've got this giant bull's-eye on my back. beside me, I feel vulnerable, as if I've got this giant bull's-eye on my back.

Walking down the corridor between cla.s.ses is like running a gauntlet, only I'd take the threat of physical damage over the lash of tongues any day.

"Oh look, it's Beam Me Up Scotty!" Gillian-one of Candyce's posse-thinks she's hilarious, giving me a Vulcan salute. She can't even do it right, her ring finger struggling to maintain the separation from her middle finger. Correcting her would only make matters worse.

"Howzit, Brace-Face, seen any flying saucers today?" Hannah cackles as the girls shove past me.

Maybe I invite their ridicule, considering my s.p.a.ce case is covered in National Geographic cutouts of nebulae and crop circles. Having pictures of Star Trek Star Trek and and Project Blue Book Project Blue Book plastered on my books probably doesn't help much either. If only Jordan were here, she'd have already silenced Hannah with some brilliant riposte, but I'm eternally cursed with stair wit. plastered on my books probably doesn't help much either. If only Jordan were here, she'd have already silenced Hannah with some brilliant riposte, but I'm eternally cursed with stair wit.

Face burning and stomach feeling like a washing machine on the spin cycle, I keep my head down, hoping to avoid any more verbal abuse. Jordan, my savior, appears at the end of the corridor, and I scurry toward her, dodging a cl.u.s.ter of grade eights.

"Wait for me," I shout above the tumult of the changing cla.s.ses. She leans against the wall and studies her nails; her hands are spattered with black paint. Hannah and Gillian skiff her and she ignores them.

"How's the art project going?" I ask as we file into the cla.s.sroom.

"Good, I guess. This term's theme is great. Pick any lyrics and create something." We take our seats near the window.

"Which lyrics are you doing?" I dig around in my bag for the unfinished math homework.

"'Catholic School Girls Rule' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers." She grins.

"Jordan." There's an edge of admonishment in my voice that makes me sound an awful lot like my mother. I know that song, and it's only going to get Jordan into even more trouble than usual.

"What?" She grabs my math book and a pen. I protest as she elbows me out of the way and finishes off the problems in a blur of cos and sin. Jordan does my math homework, I do her French homework. We've got the perfect symbiotic relationship.

"They're not going to like those lyrics," I say.

"Wait til you see the artwork I have planned." She nibbles on the end of her pen.

Our math teacher walks in, and Jordan slides my now complete homework across the desk.

Another arduous hour begins. Jordan dozes with her head on the desk and still manages to get every answer right when she's called upon. I'm not so lucky. My turn at the whiteboard yields a chorus of snickers from Hannah and crew as my inability to solve for x x becomes public knowledge. becomes public knowledge.

What would Resa do? He'd probably solve the equation in two seconds and swagger back to his chair, prop his feet up on his desk, and wink at the teacher. What would my Tristan do? He'd do something pa.s.sive-aggressive like turn Hannah's blond hair gray with a twitch of his fingers. With my cheeks burning, I glare at Hannah and Candyce, willing their hair to turn white. The teacher orders me back to my seat before the molecular manipulation can be completed. Or I just don't have superpowers because I'm not from Kazar, which doesn't really exist, according to the s.p.a.ce atlas I found in the World Book. Granted, they've probably discovered a lot more planets since 1985, when the books were published.

Defeated, I crumple into my chair, wishing I could disappear. Why is math even compulsory? If I could drop it, I would, and stick to languages and history-the stuff I'm good at.

Jordan sidles closer to me and whispers, "Screw them."

AT THE THE end of the torturous hour, we're redirected to our homerooms for a briefing on the Charity Ball. Bliss-Gillian and Hannah aren't in our cla.s.s. Unfortunately, Candyce is. end of the torturous hour, we're redirected to our homerooms for a briefing on the Charity Ball. Bliss-Gillian and Hannah aren't in our cla.s.s. Unfortunately, Candyce is.

"Since I did your homework for you, you kinda owe me," Jordan says as we find our seats at the back of the cla.s.s.

"I'm sure I did your French homework on Monday."

"True, but there were more math problems than French verbs."

"Fine." Last time I owed Jordan, we tried to get into a s.e.x shop because, apparently, s.e.x shops sell the coolest clothes. I'm not convinced.

"There's a self-defense training course starting this weekend at Riverstone Country Club."

"How much?"

"My treat." Jordan winks. "Be at my house nine o'clock Sat.u.r.day morning."

"I'll have to ask my mom."

"It'll be fun, I promise." Jordan puts her arm around me like I imagine a protective big sister might.

"Get a room," Candyce shoots over her shoulder.

Jordan just squeezes me tighter and ignores the rest of the mumbled insults. Moments later, our teacher walks in carrying a basket full of envelopes. Some of the girls squeal with excitement as the invitations are handed out. I peel open the envelope and remove the card with wary fingers. The front image is a chessboard with a fancy serif font scrawled across it declaring Grade 10 Charity Ball 2000.

I've got til the end of the holidays to find a partner. More than two months. That's manageable. The theme is black and white: girls in white dresses, boys in black suits.

"d.a.m.n, Bryce would've looked good in white." Jordan shoves the envelope into her bag.

"Wearing a white dress is just going to make me look like a corpse."

"Get some fake tan," Sibo teases.

"You'll look stunning in white," I say.

"You think so?" She c.o.c.ks her head to the side, her henna-dyed ponytail falling over her shoulder.

"You know so."

Jordan beams. "You'll look good in white, Ree. You must have Irish genes."

Looking Irish is just a polite way of telling me I have too many freckles, that I'm pale, and that my hair is that weird reddish color no one knows what to call so it ends up being dubbed anything from strawberry blonde to ginger. My mom calls it auburn. I think it looks more carrot.

"Who are you going to take, Ree-Ree?" Sibo rocks back in her chair to be part of the conversation.

"No idea."

"We can help." Lethi smiles. "Our cousin. Mm-hm. That boy is fine."

While I appreciate the twins' offer to help out the dateless mutant in the back row, I'm not sure I even want to go to the ball.

"I don't think I'm going," I say as the break bell rings.

"What? Haw wena Haw wena, of course you're going," Lethi says as she and Sibo sweep up their invitations.

"You could take Gabriel," Jordan says.

"Gabriel? Like choir Gabriel?" Sibo frowns.

"No."

"Yes." Jordan nods vigorously. "He's perfect."

"He's in Matric," Lethi says, as if I need reminding.

"And he'd never agree if I asked him."

"We'll see." Jordan winks, and my insides turn to knots as we file outside in search of shade.

"He is good-looking for a white boy," Sibo says before heading for the tuck shop with her sister.