13. Aileen
CHAPTER 13
AILEEN
T he scent of fresh basil and oregano hits my nose as I push through the kitchen door. My fight with Varak still burns in my mind, but the familiar comfort of Papa's kitchen soothes the ache.
"Mom? Dad?" My voice echoes against the stainless steel counters.
No answer. Just the soft thump of dough hitting the prep table.
I freeze. Someone's in our kitchen. A massive someone, his broad shoulders stretching the white t-shirt tight across his back. His methodical movements speak of experience as he kneads the dough with precise, practiced motions.
"Excuse me?" I grab the heavy rolling pin from the counter. "The kitchen's employees only."
The stranger turns. His face is... plain. Unremarkable. Like one of those stock photo models you forget the moment you look away.
"I am staff. My name is Smith Johnson. Your parents hired me." His voice sounds flat, mechanical. "I make pizza."
"Since when do we hire help without telling me?"
"Since today." He stretches the dough between massive hands.
My jaw drops as Smith's hands blur into motion. The dough whips and spins under his fingers faster than my eyes can track. A cloud of flour hangs suspended in the air like slow-motion snow.
The rolling pin slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor.
One second. Two. The dough transforms into a perfect sphere, placed with surgical precision dead center on the prep table. Not a speck of flour mars its surface.
"How did you do that?" The words tumble out in a rush.
"I watch videos on YouTube." Smith's face remains blank as he snatches up the dough ball.
My pulse throbs in overdrive as he launches it skyward. The dough spins and stretches, defying gravity as Smith's hands move in impossible patterns. Each motion precise. Calculated. Inhuman.
First Varak, now this. What is it with aliens and my family's pizza place?
The dough settles onto the prep table in a perfect circle. Too perfect. My fingers curl around the fallen rolling pin.
"So, where are you from, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, call me Smith. Mr. Johnson is my male genetic progenitor's name."
A snort escapes me before I can stop it. Genetic progenitor? Even Varak speaks more naturally than this guy.
"Oh come on. You're not seriously expecting me to buy this crap?"
Smith's blank stare bores into me. No reaction. No change in expression. Just empty eyes that remind me of a department store mannequin.
The silence stretches until I have to break it. "Fine. Where are you from, Smith?"
"Jamaica," Smith replies, his face a blank mask.
"Aren't you a little pale for someone from—" The words die in my throat. His empty stare sends chills down my spine. "You don't even sound—never mind, what part of Jamaica are you from?"
Something flickers in those dead eyes. Fear? Calculation? Both?
"Down by the beach." His voice shifts into the worst Jamaican accent I've ever heard. "Ma Yute."
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out.
I back away from the kitchen, my legs moving on autopilot toward our tiny office. The familiar smell of old paper and Dad's coffee grounds wraps around me as I yank open the filing cabinet.
Applications. We keep them all, organized by year. My fingers rifle through the folders, searching for Smith Johnson's paperwork. There's no way Mom and Dad hired this weirdo. They wouldn't. Would they?
The most recent folder feels thin between my fingers. Empty except for one crisp sheet of paper.
Smith Johnson's application stares back at me, the ink still wet.
I scan the application, my eyes widening with each line. The paper crinkles as my fingers tighten around the edges.
"One East 161st Street?" I mutter. "That's—wait."
A quick check on my phone confirms it. That's Yankee Stadium.
My eyes dart to the next section. Date of birth... 1910? The paper trembles in my hands as I do the math. That would make him...
"A hundred and thirteen years old?"
The education section makes me choke on my own spit. Harvard University, PhD in Applied Pizza Sciences. Major focus on Theoretical Dough Dynamics.
I press the application against my face, the paper cool against my burning cheeks. The fresh ink leaves a faint chemical smell in my nose.
"Mom, Dad, tell me you were drinking when you hired this guy." The groan escapes through clenched teeth.
The stockroom door creaks as I push it open. Mom and Dad huddle over boxes of ingredients, their faces lit by the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Did you two lose your minds?" The application trembles in my hand.
"What?" Dad peers at me over his reading glasses. "Something wrong with the new guy?"
"His address is Yankee Stadium."
Mom tosses a jar of expired olives into the trash. "He said he's staying at a hotel nearby. The address is temporary."
"He claims he's from Jamaica."
"So?" Dad scratches his balding head. "Lots of people from Jamaica."
"Not people who look like department store mannequins and talk like robots."
"Aileen." Mom's voice takes on that warning tone. "Just because someone is different?—"
"Different? He's downright creepy. What if he's dangerous?"
Dad bursts out laughing. "Dangerous? The guy who showed up in pressed khakis and brought his own apron?"
"You should see him make pizza." Mom's eyes light up. "Like an artist. We're lucky to have him."
"But his application says he's a hundred and thirteen years old!"
"Typo." Dad waves his hand. "Must have meant 1980, not 1910."
"And the PhD in Applied Pizza Sciences?"
"Shows dedication to the craft." Mom nods sagely. "Unlike some people who still can't properly stretch dough after twenty years of practice."
"Hey!" Dad's protest echoes off the shelves.
I press my fingers against my temples. How can I explain without revealing Varak's secret? Without sounding completely insane?
"Why did you need to hire someone new anyway?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Business isn't up that much."
Mom and Dad exchange a look. That look. The one they share when they don't want to tell me something.
"What?" My stomach twists. "What aren't you telling me?"
Dad suddenly finds the ingredient labels fascinating. Mom wrings her hands, her wedding ring catching the fluorescent light.
"Honey." Mom's voice goes soft. "With you spending so much time with Charles lately..."
The twist in my gut tightens. "What about it?"
"We've been struggling to keep up." Mom's eyes meet mine. "The prep work, the deliveries, the cleanup. It's a lot for just the two of us."
"But I..." The words stick in my throat. Have I really been gone that much?
"We're happy you found someone." Dad's voice sounds gruff. "But the work doesn't stop just because you're in love."
Love? The word hits like a punch to the chest.
"We had to hire help." Mom gestures toward the kitchen. "Someone to pick up the slack."
Pick up my slack. The words hang unspoken between us.
My legs wobble. I grab the shelf for support, knocking over a jar of capers. The briny smell fills my nose as the liquid spreads across the floor.
"I didn't realize." My voice comes out small. "I'm sorry, I'll do better. We don't need him."
"Aileen." Mom's hand touches my shoulder. "It's okay. You're allowed to have a life."
But it's not okay. This is our place. Our family business. And I've been too busy playing house with an alien to notice my parents drowning in work.
The worst part? That blank-faced creep is probably better at making pizza than I ever was.
Shame burns my cheeks as I flee the stockroom. My parents' disappointed faces chase me back toward the kitchen. I'll deal with Smith Johnson first, then figure out how to make things right with Mom and Dad.
The kitchen door swings open under my palm. A metallic whirring fills the air.
Smith stands by the prep table, his massive frame hunched over something that gleams silver and purple in the fluorescent light. The device pulses with an eerie glow, sending patterns dancing across the stainless steel surfaces.
Our eyes meet. Smith's blank face twitches. In one fluid motion, he sweeps the object behind his broad back.
"What was that?"
"What was what?" His voice comes out flat, mechanical. The fake Jamaican accent nowhere to be heard.
"You—you just hid something behind your back."
"No I didn't."
The device's glow reflects off the wall behind him, casting alien shadows across the kitchen floor. My jaw hits the floor as pieces click into place. The robotic speech. The impossible dough-spinning. The wet ink on his application.
First Varak, now this. But while Varak protects Earth, something tells me Smith Johnson isn't here to guard our timeline.
"I can literally see it." I jab my finger toward the pulsing purple glow behind Smith's back. "It's right there, all glowy and weird."
"This is just my vape." Smith's face remains blank as a fresh sheet of pizza dough. "I have to maintain my Rizz."
My hand finds the bridge of my nose, pressing hard against the building tension.
"Your vape. That oblong, ludicrously humming thing is your..." Wait a second. "Hey, what happened to your accent?"
"Nothing, mon." The fake Jamaican lilt returns with a vengeance. "Everything Criss."
My fingers itch to grab fistfuls of my own hair and yank. Between Varak's drama and this obvious alien infiltrator, I'm about to lose it.
"If that's your vape, 'mon,'" I cross my arms, "then why don't you hit it?"
Smith's empty eyes dart from the device to my face. The purple glow reflects off his unnaturally smooth skin.
"I am not in the mood."
"I give up!" My hands fly up in surrender. "The whole world has lost its damn mind."
My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone and dial Varak's office. Each ring feels like an eternity.
"Mr. Varakian's office, how may I help you?"
"This is Aileen Marella. I need to speak with Charles right away."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Varakian is not in the office at the moment."
My heart sinks. "Please, you have to get him a message. Tell him there's a crisis at Papa Marella's Pizza. It's urgent."
"I'll make sure he gets the message as soon as he returns."
The line goes dead. My stomach churns as I stare at Smith through the kitchen window. He's still there, moving with that uncanny precision.
I can't wait for Varak. Who knows what that thing masquerading as Smith Johnson might do?
My fingers dial 911 before I can second-guess myself.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"Hi, I need to report a suspicious person at Papa Marella's Pizza. We just hired someone who I think faked all their documentation. His application lists impossible information and I'm worried he could be dangerous."
"We'll send an officer to check it out. Please wait outside for their arrival."
The evening air hits my face as I step out onto the sidewalk. Cars crawl past in the fading light while I bounce on my heels, watching for flashing lights.
Please hurry, I silently beg. Before whatever Smith Johnson really is decides to do more than just make pizza.
Blue and red lights paint the street in alternating colors as the patrol car glides to a stop. Relief floods through me at the sight of the female officer behind the wheel. Finally, someone who can help.
I rush to the driver's side before she can even put it in park.
"Officer, please hurry. There's someone in our kitchen - he's got some kind of weird device and his paperwork is all fake and-"
"Where is the subject located?" Her voice comes out flat, mechanical. Just like Smith's.
My heart skips a beat. That same empty stare. Those same precise movements.
"My parents are still inside," I stammer, taking a step back. "We need to be careful-"
The officer's head tilts at an impossible angle. "Location of subject. Specify."
Ice spreads through my veins. I turn to run, but her hand shoots out faster than my eyes can track. Steel fingers close around my wrist.
"No, wait-"
The world spins as she yanks me forward. My shoulder screams in protest. Then I'm airborne, sailing through the open rear door of the patrol car.
The impact knocks the wind from my lungs. By the time I catch my breath, the door slams shut with a final click.
I press my face against the window, desperate to catch sight of the officer. She turns toward me with robotic precision.
My scream dies in my throat.
My own face stares back at me through the glass, perfect down to the last freckle. But the eyes are wrong - empty and cold like Smith's.