At my school desk, learning proper English and grammar skills, I knew I wasn't learning it for myself, but as a vehicle for those who need the knowledge. Perhaps the alien picked at my brain, eager like a school kid itself, unraveling the
nuances of this language. I, too, loved words, like sacred keys unraveling distance and transforming reality.
Though I learned with average intelligence like any ordinary kid, I sat apart from them. Maybe I knew I was different or maybe I did not have the natural desire to mingle or achieve intimacy. Though I looked human, people sensed something unsettling within me—as if my skin masked my true identity, or perhaps, it was only my imagination. Only I knew the subtleties, but a few odd characteristics stood out. Still and silent-with intense eyes that terrified others-I used my skeletal hands with long figures to draw-to entertain myself and fulfill my desire to create. I used art to describe what I had no language for.
But, Vieve (short for Genevieve) Grayson did not belong. Blond and frail, I was bookish and shy. I did not understand trends or the consumer's plight of coolness. I watched others until they shrank away. They whispered behind their hands. I did not care. There was plenty to learn. I studied facial expressions and reactions. Emotions and outbursts fascinated me. Even the priests and nuns sensed that I was different. I feared they knew that I did not fit in. But, what was I?
The Grays knew me. How did they come to find me? Have they always known me and vice versa?
My mother sometimes talked of seeing three lights or orbs floating in her bedroom. I thought she must be crazy. I guess I was a hypocrite or just used to denial. However, when Anna came running out of our parent's bedroom, claiming to have
seen them too-I had no choice except to believe in them. Still, I did not share my own secrets. I was afraid to. Anna was somewhat like me, though meaner at times. She once made a girl get sick with her mind. The girl had been taunting her on our way to school, and Anna wished for her to throw up, then she did-right there on the spot. We shared a laugh, but that was as far as our camaraderie went. The occult drew both of us to the dark passages of life, where one must travel alone. Therefore, even bound by a similar route, we were on our own to sink or swim. I never asked her about the visitors. For some reason, I felt we should not discuss them-I think she felt the same. As scared children, we always sought to keep our closet door closed; we always hoped to make it go away.
* * * *
Other strange events started happening. White vans started following me. Slowly they neared me when I played outside near the apartment building. Back and forth, they drove with eerie attention directed toward me while I played hopscotch or made up secret codes with chalk outlines. I made sure I walked the other way or ran when necessary. Sometimes they parked out in front of my house and sat there-with their eyes plastered on me. I went inside and told Mom.
Once, both she and I caught a strange man staring into the living room window. When he realized we saw him, he dove behind our car, and then ran off into an awaiting van. She and I just looked at each other and then went about our business. Mom had mastered the art of denial as well as I had.
Although only a girl with straight hair, green eyes, and fair complexion, I felt like a rabbit waiting to be snatched up and gutted. I did not know whom to trust back then-and I still don't.
Who will believe me?