Description: Alienated 1 IT WAS AN EVENING LIKE ANY OTHER IN THE SMALL TOWN of Santa Rosa, except for the fact that Gene Brennick''s fingerprints were falling off. He''d been eating a cinnamon Pop-Tart when the skin on his thumb unrolled like loose string and landed in the kitchen sink. "That''s weird," he said, and then popped his earphones into his ears. Weirder stuff had happened to him. Just yesterday he''d been swallowed by a giant plant that lived behind the old watertreatment plant and called itself Eddie. Gene sat on the steps of his front porch, alone. Even with all the lights on he was easy to miss. His short, thin frame was perfect for squeezing into out-of-the-way spaces, and his helmet of jet-black hair blended into most shadows. The only way to spot him was to look for the ears, two pale white orbs that stuck out from the sides of his head like a pair of raw mushrooms. Eyes closed, Gene strummed an air guitar as passionately as if it were real. He imagined that he was onstage, jamming in the front of his imaginary band, which he sometimes called Galactic Hammer and sometimes called the Gene Brennick University of Funk. Bobbing his head, he whispered along to the music blasting through his earphones, a song only he could hear. As Gene''s cell phone beeped for 6:00 p.m., a tall figure approached from the sidewalk. It moved slowly up the front walk to the house, long legs sticking slightly out at the sides like a cowboy''s. Hair stuck up in sharp spikes from the shadowy head. This was not a hairstyle. It was most likely the result of many nights without sleep and of pulling one''s hair in frustration. Gene didn''t notice any of this. He was too busy totally destroying the guitar solo from Sonic Chimp''s hit single "Don''t Touch Applesauce." Finishing a riff, Gene opened his eyes. Standing over him was his best friend Vince Haskell. Gene jolted with surprise, then, popping the earphones out of his ears, he whammed Vince''s toes with his fist. "Don''t do that." Vince smiled. He had a nice smile, a nice face all around, but he was tall and gawky. His mom had trouble buying clothes for him because his arms and legs were unnaturally long. Whenever he wore pants, the cuffs rode up two or three inches above his socks. "It''s kind of hard to resist when you''re rocking," he said, scratching his nest of brown curls. Gene glared at Vince as he put away his iPod and got to his feet. "Let''s go. We''re late again . Because of you." Vince followed, but a few steps behind. "Well, I do have a geometry test tomorrow," he said. " We have a geometry test tomorrow. Do we really have to do this now? Couldn''t we do it on a weekend?" "Listen," said Gene, patting Vince on the back. "You''ll do fine on the test. You''re a great writer." Vince raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, geometry was mostly numbers. Not so much the writing." Gene walked to the driveway and picked up his bike. "I''ll take your word for it," he said. "I''m failing both geometry and English." Pushing off, he coasted down the driveway and into the darkened street. As usual, Vince hurried to keep up. Gene and Vince wrote articles for a newsletter called the Globe , which the two of them had started earlier that year. It was a cheap publication, one they printed themselves on the backs of old science worksheets to save money. They handed it out for free at school and left bundles of it in several other locations around Santa Rosa. The boys may have been only fourteen years old, but they were the most respected and talented writing team on the newsletter. That was because they were the only writing team on the newsletter. Their staff consisted of Gene, Vince, and three other students who just so happened to be their friends. The boys had once put an advertisement in the Globe for more reporters, but since no one else in school believed their reporting, no one ever applied. "Remind me why we do this," asked Vince, puffing as he pedaled. "I haven''t slept in, like, three days. I''ve been up every night writing the San Diego Dwarf story." "That''s an important story!" said Gene. "What we do is a public service. People need to know." Vince frowned. "Well, sleep definitely helps with grades. Want to know what I got on the last pop quiz?" "What pop quiz?" Gene asked as he left the road to avoid a puddle of pink goop oozing from a paper cup. " Yesterday''s pop quiz," said Vince. "I got a four out of ten. On the question ''Water consists of what two elements?'' I said, ''Hydrogen and ranch dressing.''" "And what are the right answers?" asked Gene. "I have no idea," said Vince, "and that''s my point. I would have known if I''d actually had some time to study." But Gene had already moved on. "Someday people are going to find out that aliens like Hip-Hop Sasquatch and Wolf Boy are real. And from that day on, my friend, no one will ever make fun of us again." Vince smiled and shook his head. "I''ll believe that when it happens," he said. "I''m pretty sure they''re just going to keep treating us like weirdos." "We are not weirdos," said Gene, flashing his friend a stern look. "Now let''s go interview Mold Man." Jumping a speed bump, one after the other, the boys passed the crooked sign for Lodestone State Park, and then turned a sharp left. Above them a low-hanging canopy of trees swayed gently in the evening breeze. It seemed to swallow them up as they rolled down the long, lonely road into the forest. The only sound was the whir of their gears, the scrunch of the tires on the gravelly asphalt. It was almost completely dark when they reached the parking lot, which lay empty but for a park ranger''s dusty old truck. A thick layer of fog floated a few inches above the ground, swirling, twisting, spreading, as if it had a mind of its own. Gene and Vince rode over to the farthest corner of the lot, where the map of the hiking trails stood on posts beside an overstuffed trash barrel. A dirt path wound away into the trees and disappeared. High up on a lamppost, a single lightbulb burned like a star. "Creepy," said Vince as he came to a stop with a shower of gravel. "It makes sense that he''d live here," said Gene, pulling alongside. "Only weirdos would ever come all the way out to the state park." "Exactly," said Vince as he parked his bike. "Knock it off," said Gene. Somewhere in the forest, in the fog, something moved loudly through the underbrush. "Are you boys going to talk all night?" said a strange, low voice. "My favorite reality TV show starts in ten minutes." Out from the shadows stepped an alien, a real live extraterrestrial being from another planet. Of course, it was the third one Gene and Vince had seen that week. So they weren''t too impressed. Mold Man resembled neither mold nor man but rather someone made entirely of bumpy green balloon animals. Stretched over his body was a see-through jumpsuit that seemed to be made out of plastic, like a full-body poncho. This included a helmet and face mask. Inside the upper part of the helmet was a small blue bulb that bathed the man''s entire body in an otherworldly light. "Blue raider," said Gene, using the code word. He raised one hand, something he''d seen people do in movies when they approached an alien they didn''t know. It was supposed to mean, "I come in peace," but most of the time the aliens pulled out laser guns and turned a couple of minivans into toast. Mold Man nodded when he heard the code word and took a step forward. "You know Fred?" he asked. His voice fuzzed through the little metal speaker on the front of his face mask. It made him sound like someone taking your order at a fast-food drive-through window. "He''s my cousin," answered Gene. "Cousins are nice," said Mold Man. He turned to Vince. "Is he your cousin too?" "Um, no," said Vince. "But I like him." "Works for me," said Mold Man. Looking around suspiciously, the bumpy green guy took a pack of Super Blast chewing gum from a pocket of his jumpsuit. He opened a tiny trapdoor on the side of his helmet and popped in a piece. Then, closing the hatch again, he began to chew. "Did anyone follow you?" he asked. "No," said Gene. They hadn''t seen a single car since they left his house. "Good," said Mold Man. Then he reconsidered. "Unless it was a cute girl," he added. "I never get to meet any girls." "What''s with the awesome outfit?" asked Vince, pulling out his notebook. "Are you unable to breathe without it? Does it protect you from our sun? Is it comfortable?" "I have to be in UV light twenty-four/seven," said Mold Man, "or my body starts growing spores from planet Porkus. They itch, and that''s not the half of it." "Whoa," murmured Vince, writing as fast as he could. "So, Mold Man, what do you do for fun?" Mold Man rolled his big eyes. "Don''t call me Mold Man," he said. Gene hummed, tapping his finger against his chin. "A few of us were actually wondering about that. So is it Mold Boy or Mold Man ?" "It''s Alan, moron," snapped Mold Man. "I have a name just li

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