Page 29 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

“You sang beautifully,” Seeker says.

Well, crap. Now I’m jealous. I don’t want to be. It’s petty. But I am.

Jaz smiles. “Thanks. Normally I’m too nervous to open my mouth onstage, but everyone here is so nice.”

Poppy doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m just glad I didn’t embarrass myself.”

“I don’t want to sing now,” Tad mumbles.

“You already put our names down,” Ravik points out.

And the volunteer calls them up. No escape. The two of them are beyond awkward at first, and for reasons known only to Tad, he’s put them down for “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys. But to my surprise, Ravik steps up and brings the swagger necessary to sell the song. Tad seems stunned but he manages to halfway match the energy and soon they’re bouncing around, giving attitude and dropping the lyrics with conviction.

“Ravik! You didn’t tell us about your secret ambitions to be a hip-hop star,” I joke.

They give me a look, but I’m not sure how to interpret it. “Have we concluded the noisy portion of the evening’s entertainment?”

“When you say shit like that, it makes me want to yell in your ear,” Poppy says. She seems to enjoy poking at Ravik in person even more than she did online.

Now everyone else has gone from our little group, and they totally killed it, albeit in different styles. I’m even more nervous when they call our names. I don’t want to be the weakest link. Despite my doubts, I head to the front with Seeker beside me. The first strains of “Weird Science” start and there’s no screen with a bouncing ball for me to follow along with either. There’s only a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Luckily, this is a song that demands enthusiasm, not precision. Seeker watches me instead of the audience, taking cues from me. When I do a little dance on the line about hearts and hands, he mimics my silly moves, matching my enthusiasm. And on the next verse, when I point at someone in the crowd, inviting them to shout the chorus, he does the same. We’re totally in synch.

We may not be the most talented, but it doesn’t matter—we’re having a blast. And so is the crowd. Their laughter and cheers echo back to us, energizing me. By the end, they’re chanting “weird science” along with us. I sneak a look at my partner, but he is as impassive as ever, his face giving away nothing of his emotions. I wonder why he doesn’t smile, even when he seems to be having fun. At least, I think he likes doing things with me.

The DJ says, “Let’s give these two a hand!” and I impulsively take a bow.

Seeker does too, then follows me back toward the group. “I have never done anything like that before,” he says.

“I hope I didn’t push you into—”

“No. I wanted to share the experience with you.” He pauses as if contemplating his next words. “There is some pressure for excellence in such matters where I’m from.”

“Ah, the achievement ladder. I know people who won’t do anything if they’re not great at it.”

“But…enjoyment matters,” he declares.

“It definitely does.” And Seeker makes everything better. “I was kind of nervous. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

We share a look, and I wish I could say that I see his eyes sparkle or some visual cue that means he’s feeling this too. But instead, his face is still and static, almost like a photo. I frown, confused by what feels like mixed messages. The others rush in our direction, lights flashing as the next performer starts singing.

“You two have mad chemistry!” Poppy calls, waggling her eyebrows beneath the ridges of her Klingon forehead ridge.

“Definitely,” Tad says. “Anyone else hungry?”

“I could eat,” I admit. It’s been a while. But the food trucks have all closed for the night, so there are only snacks on-site now. I add, “Should we go get dinner? I can take four people in my car if anyone needs a ride.”

That said, folding Tad into my back seat will be tough. But he shakes his head. “We should just meet up. Pick a restaurant?”

Most places are staying open late, special Space Con hours, so we don’t need to worry about all the eateries closing their doors at 8:00 p.m. We get out our phones and agree on a comfort-food place that looks good. Seeker follows me as we split up to find our cars.

A happy sensation washes away my minor pang of jealousy from before; I’m mildly irritated with myself over that. He’s not my boyfriend. I have no right to feel any kind of way over him liking how Jaz sings. Everyone loved how she sounded, judging by the reaction. It’s not like Seeker was alone in thinking she’s good.

“Are we coming back to the party?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. Depends on how long it takes to eat, how late it is. Do you want to?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you.”