How I Stole Johnny Depp's Alien Girlfriend (13 page)

I lift myself up, pull her body against mine, and kiss her—or sample her—right there in front of Zook.

And I don't care if she'll ever find her chosen one or if she'll throw me into that wall and let the Valks turn us into two heaps of ashes because of all the terrible sins we've committed. Because, personally, I see a thousand stars, and I know for sure that the universal balance has just been restored with a single smooch.

“GUUUUYS!” Malou shouts. “I hate to spoil
the moment,
but can we go hide someplace and
then
make out!?”

“C
an you cover yourself? You're going to give Olivier another anxiety attack.”

Malou shrugs and flips to her other side, sunbathing on the grass in the type of super-mini bikini that's already made Olivier's head explode on many occasions in the past. And then I'll have him crying on my shoulder for hours, begging me to pass her another of his love letters.

I've told him he's not her type. He's not middle-aged, he's far from anorexic, he hasn't done time in a mental or penal institution, and he doesn't look like he's into mass murder. All red flags for Malou.

“Your friend is obsessed.” She sits up. “Do you know the sort of shit he writes in those letters? Like, I'm the caramel to his butter-scotch pudding!” She takes off her bikini top, exposing her
things
to the sun.

I hear someone screaming and falling in the neighboring garden. I have a pretty good idea what sort of UFO crash-landed the instant bazooms came into the landscape.

“Olivier? Are you all right?”

I walk to where I can see into his garden. Olivier is standing up, brushing dirt and grass from his knees and ass and clumsily picking up a ladder. I retrieve something that must have fallen on the ground during his plunge: his air gun.

“I was coming to get you. Frogs?” he asks, blushing.

“Can't.” I give him back his air gun. “I have to go to therapy soon,” I lie.

“Wait.” He follows me back to my own garden. Freezes. Stops to breathe. Makes a face like Godzilla's mowing my lawn. Malou is still flashing her bazongas, singing and drumming the grass as she listens to her iPod.

“Did you give her my letter?” Olivier whispers, unable to take his eyes off her.

“I did.” I carefully back away before he can start quizzing me—he might shoot a pellet through his heart when I tell him she's not into him.

“What did she say?”

“She was very intrigued by your food metaphors.”

“Hey! Butterscotch boy!” Malou takes out one of her earbuds and throws her bottle of suntan lotion toward him. It lands in front of his feet. “Can you do my back?”

I leave them to it and run into the house, then check on them through the window to make sure Olivier hasn't died of
spontaneous combustion. He's walking toward Malou in ultraslow motion, holding tight to the lotion. You can hear him swallowing saliva from sixty feet away.

I laugh and open the fridge, grabbing leftovers from lunch, a bottle of milk, and her absolute favorite: a pint of vanilla ice cream from the freezer. I pack all this in a plastic bag and head toward the back door. As I pass Dad's office, I can hear him snoring happily. I have a good three hours before he calls me and Malou in for afternoon snacks. (Dad's an afternoon-snacks fanatic and thinks a day isn't complete without a proper milk-and-cookie break.)

I stop under the apple tree in the back garden, then climb up and retrieve the baton Zelda made for me. I jump over the fence and run across Monsieur Dupuis's cornfield, knocking, kicking, clubbing, and shouldering the cornstalks like they're a thousand imaginary enemies.

“OUCH!” I scream, scaring some bats away. She clubbed me on the shoulder again.

“I said keep your guard up. And watch for my side blows.” Zelda kicks some dust toward me with the tip of her boot, getting back into her combat stance. “Fight!”

“Wait. I need to finish rubbing my dead shoulder.” The sun is beaming on the thick waves of nettles outside. A strong, warm wind flows in and out of the cave. “Can we do something else? I'd love to take another crack at bending time.”

The wind blows her hair across her face. She brushes it away and smiles. “Sure. I'll bend time for you.” And—
zaaam!
—she Space Splashes.

I hate when she does that!

She reappears right in front of me and goes for the head. I'm
able to block that one. She keeps swinging. Left, right, front.
BAM!
Gets the same shoulder on the very same spot. My howling sends another family of bats looking for quieter parts of the cave.

“You're too predictable. Too slow.” Zelda corrects my position with the tip of her baton. “Left leg forward. Bend your knees. Stomach in. Shoulders relaxed. Chin up, and…fight!”

“Stop!” I throw my baton away and sit down in the dust.

This old clay mine is our secret kingdom. The Cornouaillois never come here. It's supposed to be haunted since SS soldiers murdered and buried a group of resistance fighters here during World War II.

Zelda puts her baton away and sits beside me. “You have so much to learn to earn this.” She takes my arm and checks the octopus tattoo. She says the key will transform me, in time. Make me more like her. Like, I might even be able to bend time and Space Splash one day.

“But you need to practice, practice, practice!”

I reach for the plastic bag and take out the pint of perfectly melted vanilla ice cream and two spoons.

“You think you're going to win me over with ice cream again?”

“Negative. I
know
I'm going to win you over with ice cream again,” I say, opening the lid. “It's like a Vahalalian trap.”

“Clever boy,” she says, and we start spooning away, admiring the bats shooting out of the cave and then quickly flying back in to escape the sun. She leans against me and rests her head on my shoulder. I smile. I'm the key to her world. I might be slow, clumsy, and still unable to block her side blows, but I'm with her forever.

And, who knows? One day she might give up running on rooftops, smashing policemen's heads, and destroying cities searching for her chosen one. And I'll be right here waiting for her, eating vanilla ice cream and watching bats dance in the wind.

Text © 2011 by Gary Ghislain.

Illustrations © 2011 by Jillian Tamaki.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Data is available.

eISBN 978-1-4521-0845-2

Book design by Jennifer Tolo Pierce.

Jacket illustration © 2011 by Jillian Tamaki.

The illustrations in this book were rendered using digital medium.

Chronicle Books LLC
680 Second Street
San Francisco, California 94107
www.chroniclekids.com