Chapter 2

I opened my eyes very slowly, thinking — hoping — that perhaps I'd just had a very bad dream last night, a dream in which my mind, but not my body, had skipped three years of high school. Even with them half open, though, I knew that it had all been real. The room was just as messy as it had been when I'd stumbled over the pile of dirty clothing. The newspaper articles about my baseball prowess were still attached to the mirror above my desk. And, I knew deep inside, my mother was still dead.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, telling myself that it's not like I could have done anything to help her. And I'm sure I said goodbye to her; somebody must have been operating this body for the last three years and he couldn't possibly have been that big a jerk not to have said goodbye to Mom before she died. It just wasn't me. I'd apparently gone through all of the stages of grieving already, and now I was going to have to do it again.

I looked over at the clock: 9:24. It was, I suddenly remembered, Christmas morning. I needed to at least show up. I found a relatively clean pair of jeans on the floor, and a nice-looking flannel shirt hanging in my closet that appeared to have never been worn. I pocketed the pile of stuff on my bedside table — a wallet, a pocketknife, a couple of quarters, and a set of keys — and with a last look in the mirror (so far, this body was the only good thing about this whole nightmare) I headed downstairs.

I paused at the doorway to the living room, comparing the scene to the one I had left the night before. The furniture was completely unchanged. Same couch, same chairs, same lamps, same rug. The only thing that had changed was one of the pictures on the far wall. Mom had hung a painting of the church we attended, a 150-year-old building nestled among the oaks and maples that deserved the description it was always given — quaint. The new picture was a photograph; from my vantage in the doorway it appeared to be two people on a beach.

The Christmas tree was in the same place as always, although it didn't seem as "happy" as it usually did. It took me a minute to figure out why; no tinsel. Mom was always a big tinsel person, and I'd spent last night gleefully, but tastefully, helping her put it on the tree.

The three — three? — girls sitting around the living room didn't look all that happy either. The closest to me was Jeanne, sitting on the couch in a pair of jeans and a sweater as she neatly sliced the tape on the back of a wrapped present with a thumbnail. I smiled as I recognized the sweater I'd bought for her, the one I'd intended to give her this morning. Back when this morning was still in 2003. I choked up a little, thinking that I'd never now know whether I had told her how well I thought it was going to go with her eyes.

It was a little tighter than I thought it would be, meaning that I'd screwed up the size, or, more likely, that she'd finally undergone that growth spurt she'd been wishing for. Well, good for her. She was cutting her hair a little shorter, too, in a way that framed her face much better, and adding a few highlights to her brown hair. She was actually a very attractive young woman now, even if she did still have the same thick lenses in the same unattractive glasses.

Sitting at the other end of the couch was Jill, and my God, what a fox she'd become. If this was 2006, she would still only be 15 years old. Fifteen going on twenty-five, it looked like. Her lustrous blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing her perfect cheekbones and her lively blue eyes. Her somewhat over-mascaraed lively blue eyes, to my way of thinking. She was dressed in a bathrobe that had fallen open as she propped her long, tanned legs on the coffee table to paint her toenails with a bottle of polish the color of blood.

I had no idea who the third girl was. She was sitting in one of the wing chairs, her legs stretched open in front of her on an ottoman. She looked to be about 24 or 25. I always had a hard time guessing women's ages, though, so she could be anywhere from 20 to 30. She looked to be about five months pregnant, although again, she could be anywhere from four to six months as far as I knew. She wasn't an unattractive woman, either, with dirty blonde hair that hung down to her almost exposed breasts. She was wearing a short, nearly nonexistent nightie that did little to hide much of anything, particularly with her legs splayed out like that. Dave's wife, maybe? He'd never been the smartest guy when it came to protection, but this girl looked a little older than the standard-issue coed he would have run into at Auburn.

Jill suddenly realized I was standing there, and broke into a grin.

"Hey, bro," she said, "thanks for the gift card. Victoria's Secret. Be nice to buy something there myself."

"For a change," Jeanne muttered as she looked up, too. "Yeah, thanks."

Evidently, I'd bought her the same thing, although with somewhat less success. She picked it up off the coffee table along with a small pile of other gifts that she'd finished unwrapping.

"How come I didn't get one?" the pregnant blonde pouted.

"Maybe because you don't have any secrets," Jill sniped at her, casting a disdainful look at her exposed panties.

"Jill," the blonde warned her, "do you want me to tell your father we're not getting along again?"

"No, stepmother dear," Jill's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I'm so sorry."

Stepmother? Whoa. This was my stepmother? I leaned back against the door jamb as I processed this information. Dad had remarried? And since she was five months pregnant, and Mom had died 18 months ago, he sure hadn't waited very long, the son of a bitch.

Jeanne had finished gathering her stuff, and moved toward the doorway I was standing in. She stopped suddenly, and eyed me with suspicion.

"I thought you hated that shirt," she said.

"No, why would you think that?" I asked.

"'Cause I've never seen you wear it before," she answered me, as if I'd done something wrong by not wearing it, and was doing something equally wrong now by having put it on.

"No, it's great," I assured her. "Matches my eyes, don't you think?"

"Of course I think it matches your eyes," she nearly took my head off. "That's why I bought it for you last year."

Without even the hint of a smile, she pushed past me and stomped up the stairs to her room.

"We saved your presents," Jill said, pointing to a pile of gifts sitting on the couch between her and the seat Jeanne had occupied. I sat down in the space Jeanne had warmed for me.

"Where are Dave and Dad?" I asked as I glanced at the card on the first gift, from Jill.

"Your father, uh, didn't get enough sleep last night," my stepmother giggled as Jill rolled her eyebrows. "He'll be down soon. Dave had to go in to open up the Seven-Eleven because his manager called in sick."

Jill's gift proved to be a very nice-looking cellular phone.

"This is awfully expensive, Jill," I said, "but thank you."

"You're welcome," she favored me with a well-practiced, but nonetheless glowing, smile. "And I actually got it free, sort of. It comes with instructions for transferring all your numbers from your old phone on it."

"Sort of free?" I asked.

"Well," she giggled, "he did get to take me to dinner."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Oh, fuck you," she grinned and threw a pillow at me. "Who are you to talk?"

Who was I? That was turning out to be a very good question.

"Anyway, thank you," I said, leaning across the couch to kiss her on the check and sitting back with another gift in my hands, one from "Dad and Mom (Tiffany)." Tiffany. That figured.

It was an empty picture frame, with a gold inset inscribed "Marshall High School — 2006 State Champions."

"It's for that picture you have in your room," Tiffany bubbled. "We can hang it on the wall now. Your father picked it out."

For me or for him? I couldn't help but think.

"Thank you," I smiled at Tiffany.

"Where's my kiss?" she pouted.

I stood up and walked over to her chair. She planted her feet on the ground and pushed herself up a little, and I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. She threw her arms around my neck, and I was only barely able to brace my arms against the arms of the chair to keep her from dragging me down on top of her.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"I wish this was our baby," she whispered into my ear.

She let go, and I turned and tripped over the ottoman, somersaulting onto the rug. "Our" baby? How could "we" have a baby? Oh my God, I was doing my stepmother. Not only had I managed to misplace my virginity in the last three years, but I'd apparently buried my self-respect along with it. Oh my fucking God.

"Are you okay?" Jill asked when I hadn't gotten up after a minute or two on the ground.

"Yeah, sorry," I said, pushing myself onto my elbows. "I just hit my head."

"Didn't hurt the golden arm, did we?" she arched her eyebrows, her voice taking on the slightest mocking quality.

"Which one is that?" I asked in all innocence.

She just clucked her tongue in disgust and returned to her nails. I returned to the couch, and opened a hastily-wrapped magazine from Dave, with a card telling me I'd be receiving Sports Illustrated for the next year.

"That's very nice," I said absently as I replaced it on the coffee table.

"It's a big sacrifice for Dave," Tiffany assured me.

I looked over at her. A subscription?

"He doesn't make that much at the Seven-Eleven," she seemed eager to press his case, "and it's hard for him to even think about sports after his injury."

"Oh, yeah," I agreed. "I hadn't thought about it that way, uh, Tiffany. Thanks for reminding me."

"Tiff," she said quietly.

Jill was rolling her eyes again.

"Tiff," I acknowledged.

The final gift I unwrapped was from Jeanne, a wool winter hat, mostly blue, with little white baseballs in it. It was just so - so Jeanne. I imagine I was grinning stupidly as I put it on.

"What do you think?" I asked Jill and Tiffany.

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A Stitch in Time

Marsh Alien

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