Starcrossed

Chapter 7c: Bailerealta (part 3)

Chapter 7 (part 3)

Bailerealta (bay-luh-ree-AL-tuh): an all-Martian village on the west coast of Ireland

The past month had been hands-down the happiest of my life. By, like, several orders of magnitude. Which meant I was both terrified it couldn't last, and determined to fight tooth and nail if anyone tried to take it away from me.

That line of thinking—not to mention the energy boost from Rigel's goodbye kiss at the door of the do jang—put me in an interesting mood for Taekwondo class. I'd been steadily improving ever since Rigel and I had first touched in late August, but today it was like I was supercharged.

Master Parker came over to me after class ended. "Marsha, your sparring today was spectacular. I'd really like you to consider entering the regional tournament coming up in February. I think you'd do the school proud."

"Thank you, sir. I'll, um, ask my aunt."

"Do that. If she isn't keen on the idea, let me know and I can speak to her."

I nodded without committing. Though I was flattered, I wasn't sure competing in an actual tournament, with lots of people watching, was a great idea. I was feeling visible enough these days.

I changed out of my do bok and headed home, wishing now that Rigel and I had walked faster earlier so we could have had time for more than one kiss. Not that we'd progressed beyond kissing—we were both a little afraid of what could happen, considering what just kissing did to us—but we hadn't had a good make out session for over a week. It always seemed like someone was watching us or one of us had to be somewhere.

With a sigh, I trudged past the half dozen jewelry and craft shops on Diamond and turned up Opal toward Garnet Street, remembering our first secret meeting in the cornfield by the school. It had been such a magical afternoon. I'd only learned the truth about Rigel—and myself—a few days earlier and I'd been full of questions. He'd told me all about the graell—our bond—and about some of the Martian political stuff I still needed to learn so much about.

But what I mostly remembered about that day was the kissing, and how I'd felt when Rigel made it clear he liked me as much as I liked him.

Of course, my last memory of that clearing in the cornfield wasn't warm and fuzzy at all, since that's where the big showdown between Faxon's forces and my defenders had taken place. If Shim hadn't been so convincing—and if Rigel and I hadn't amazed everyone (including ourselves) by creating the lightning bolt that destroyed that awful Ossian Sphere—we'd probably all be dead now and Faxon's forces would be well on their way to conquering Earth.

"There you are," Aunt Theresa greeted me the second I opened the front door. "What took you so long getting home? I hear thunder in the distance."

"Sorry." It never paid to argue with Aunt Theresa.

"Well, go shower, then come down and snap the beans for me. Then you can do your homework."

Something in her voice caught my attention. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? Of course not." She hmphed. "But I did tell Lili O'Gara that you'd go over there after dinner to tutor Molly and Sean. So we're eating at seven, whether Louie is home or not."

I couldn't squelch a spurt of resentment. "You told her without asking me? What if I'd had plans?" Not that I did, but still.

"Plans you haven't cleared with me?" She arched one iron gray brow in that way that always made me feel like I'd screwed up. "Do you?" she prompted when I didn't respond.

"No," I grudgingly admitted. "I just wish you'd asked me first, that's all."

Now she frowned. "You seemed willing enough when Lili asked you last night."

"I am. It's just . . . Never mind. It's fine. I'll go shower."

By the time we sat down to dinner—Uncle Louie made it with two minutes to spare—I was over my snit. In fact, I was looking forward to a chance to learn more about the O'Garas, and the village in Ireland, and Mars, and maybe even their actual reason for being here, if there really was more going on than they'd admitted. I ate quickly, then did the dishes in record time.

"The O'Garas are on Opal, right? What's the house number?" I asked as I stuffed my history book into my backpack.

Uncle Louie told me and I headed out. It was starting to drizzle, but the thunder had moved off and I was only going around the corner, so I didn't bother with an umbrella. Less than five minutes later, I rang the doorbell of a house very similar to ours—a little Victorian with gingerbread trim, a deep front porch and slightly peeling paint.

I hoped I wasn't walking into the dragon's den.

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