I rubbed at my forehead. A headache was already forming behind my eyes.
At least Ishmael was right about one thing: Frykowski’s blog didn’t appear to get much traffic. Most of his posts had fewer than three comments, and the only consistent user was someone called CIAyylmao2001, who mainly wanted to know why Frykowski wasn’t covering the 9/11 conspiracy.
Maybe my alarm was needless. No one would see the alien article. And if someone did stumble on it, their judgment would be of Frykowski, not us. No one in Lansburg would assume the normally steady Hofstadt family thought their farm was under alien attack.
Soon, everything—the explosion, the meteor, the aliens—would blow over. There’d be a new scandal, and no one would remember the crater in our field or its mysterious origins.
Or so I thought.
Interlude
Lansburg, Pennsylvania
At first glance, Lansburg wouldn’t appear much different from other rural American towns. Thirty miles south of Pittsburgh, it was founded by German settlers in 1823.
Though it began as a humble farming community, tourism kept Lansburg alive from the second half of the twentieth century to the present. No, it wasn’t Disney World, but downtown Lansburg boasted a charming, old-world village—though I questioned the authenticity of Ye Olde Fudge Shoppe and the Pizza Haus.
Admittedly, Main Street was attractive, with its German architecture, cobblestone streets, and faux gaslights. Or perhaps I should say that once it was charming. Before the lava lamp was installed.
Yes, you read correctly. Lava lamp. But you likely already know about this. After all, the sixty-three-foot lava lamp prominently rising from downtown’s central square was Lansburg’s real claim to fame.
The lamp was the brainchild of Benjamin Irving, an eccentric inventor who retired to Lansburg in 1957. In the late ’60s, when psychedelic decor was at peak popularity, Irving decided to build the world’s largest lava lamp. Just to see if he could. Just so he could tell the world, Yes, I did this odd, impossible-seeming thing. Incredibly, the town of Lansburg agreed to have the monstrosity installed in the very center of town, surrounded by quaint shops with thatched roofs.
Taller than most of the surrounding buildings, the lamp, filled with pink “lava,” even had an observation deck wrapping around it so viewers could get up close and personal with the rapidly heating and cooling gobs of paraffin. Or at least, they could in theory.
Unfortunately for Irving, the liquid in his lava lamp was based on the original formula. Along with paraffin and mineral oil, the lamp was filled with carbon tetrachloride. And in 1970, the United States banned carbon tetrachloride due to its toxicity.
In compliance with the new law, Irving’s lamp was turned off, but that didn’t deter him. Lava-lamp makers had already come up with a new formula to achieve the same result, and though the recipe was kept secret, Irving knew that given enough time, he’d be able to figure it out.
Sadly, he died before that happened.
The lava lamp remained standing but hadn’t been in operation for almost fifty years. That didn’t stop some of Lansburg from celebrating Irving as a local hero.
And it didn’t stop tourists, who apparently didn’t mind that the lamp wasn’t lit and actively swirling with lava. Just seeing the giant structure seemed to be enough. Busloads came from Pittsburgh on weekends—mostly groups from retirement homes—and they happily took pictures in front of the dormant lamp before buying their great-grandchildren five-dollar T-shirts at Ye Olde Souvenir Shoppe.
Every few years someone petitioned to have the lava lamp removed, citing it as an eyesore to our picturesque town. But enough other people loved it for the tourism revenue. For better or worse, it seemed that Benjamin Irving’s lava lamp would be a permanent fixture downtown.
I should have considered that for the people of Lansburg, people already accustomed to the bizarre, the idea of aliens might not have been such a stretch.
Event: Aliens Arrive (Cont.)
Super Scoop was located directly across the street from the lava lamp, where a tour group was already gathered. Like most Saturdays in the fall, downtown would get busy, but it would be a few hours before people flocked to the ice cream parlor.
Owen (Owen Campbell, age seventeen. Handsome, friendly, intelligent. Well respected for being a top athlete, a star of the theater department, and student body vice president.) was already behind the counter when I entered the store, wearing the old-fashioned white paper cap that looked absurd on everyone but him.
“What is happening at your house?” he asked when he saw me, looking both amused and baffled.
“What do you mean?” I ignored how my heart rate sped up in his presence and made my way through the 1950s-style ice cream parlor—yet another Lansburg anachronism—to the staff room so I could clock in.
“I’m just a little confused,” Owen said lightly, “because a few days ago everything was normal and now you’ve got explosions on your property and apparently aliens are the cause.”
I stopped.
How had he heard about aliens? Did Ishmael blab to more people than he claimed, or had Owen read Frykowski’s blog? Either way, it wasn’t good.
“Well, yes…I can see how that would be confusing.”
“And when I text you, I get one-word responses.”
“Right,” I mumbled absently, my mind still on aliens. “Wait, what?”
Owen shrugged, his previous good humor dimmed. He began needlessly wiping down the counter. “I kinda feel like you’re ignoring me.”
“I’ve just been busy. And I’m eighty-six percent sure—”
Owen groaned. “Please no arbitrary percentages right now.”
“They’re not arbit—”
“Gideon.”
“Okay,” I said. I looked longingly at the door of the staff room, wishing I could disappear through it. “I haven’t been ignoring you. I promise.”
I truly hadn’t been. I just wasn’t good at texting or calling and could easily go days without social interaction. I’d tried explaining to Owen that my introversion (Introversion: a term popularized by psychologist Carl Jung, referring to people who are drained by social encounters and prefer solitary pursuits.) had nothing to do with him, but he never seemed to believe me.
As if on cue, he said, “I wish I knew where I stood with you.”
I glanced around the ice cream parlor, as if we might have suddenly gained an audience. Seeing no one, I took a step closer to Owen. “Please don’t make this a relationship thing.”
Anger flashed in his brown eyes. He threw down his dishcloth and turned to me. “Is that what this is about? There are explosions on your property, but you can’t keep me in the loop because then I might think this is a relationship?”