Lightspeed: Year One

Not even acknowledging the obvious. That she’s green. Maybe they didn’t notice. Like I said, it was a pale green, a tint really, but it was pretty obvious to me, and she had weird eyes too, beady black pinhead eyes like a hamster’s.

So finally I ask, “Where are you from?”

And she says, “Jupiter.”

“Jupiter, New York?” my parents ask.

Not that they know there is a Jupiter, New York. It just makes more sense than the other possibility.

“No,” she says. “Jupiter, Jupiter. The planet.”

“Oh,” they say. “I didn’t realize we’d found life on other planets yet. How interesting.”

She says, “You didn’t. We found you,” and goes back to her reading.

That shuts my parents up fast. They have no response. They do an about-face and head back to the car.

“Jupiter,” my father’s saying. “You believe that, Cath?”

My mother’s shaking her head, saying “Jupiter” over and over. First, like it’s a word she’s never heard, a word she’s trying to get used to. Then like a question. “Jupiter?” Not quite sure whether or not to believe it. She says it several more times, looks at my father, then me.

“I was worried about Angela living with city kids,” she says. “This is a bit different.” She unlocks the car, grabs a handful of pillows, and adds, “Is Jupiter the one with the rings?”

“I thought Jupiter was made of gas,” my father says. “How can she live on a gaseous planet?”

“Let’s just drop it,” I say. “She could be from the moon, for all I care.”

As it turned out, she was from the moon. Well, one of them. Apparently Jupiter’s got a few dozen. The one she’s from is called Europa—by Americans at least. But she tells everyone she’s from Jupiter, says it’s easier to explain. Her name is Bibi. No last name. Just Bibi. I looked it up. It means “lady” in Arabic. Ironic, as her kind doesn’t have genders, just one type, like flowers, self-germinating and everything. But she looks more like a girl than a guy, so that’s how we treat her while she’s here, even though her body parts serve both functions.

She tells me most of this the first night in the dorm. I’m unpacking my toiletries and makeup, and she’s still reading. I say, “Your parents were cool with you coming to America? Mine wouldn’t even let me go out of state.”

“I don’t have parents,” Bibi says.

“Oh Christ!” I say. “I’m sorry. That sucks.” What can you say in a situation like that? I’d never met an orphan.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Nobody has parents. I grew up like this, sort of in a dorm.”

“How can nobody on Jupiter have parents?” I ask. I know I’m being nosy, but you’ve got to admit it’s a bit strange.

“It’s complicated,” she says. “I don’t feel like getting into it.”

I’m about to insist when there’s a knock at the door. Bibi jumps to get it and these men wheel in a full-size fridge. It’s brand-new, a Frigidaire, one of those side-by-side freezer-and-fridge jobs complete with icemaker. They prop it against the window, plug it in, and leave.

“What the hell is that?” I ask, knowing damn well it’s a fridge, not quite sure what it’s doing in our room. My parents bought us one of those mini units, just enough space for a Brita filter, pudding snacks, and string cheese. The university had exact specifications on which ones were allowed. This Frigidaire wasn’t on the list. Bibi explains how she got special permission to have it in the room, says she has a medical condition.

“What kind of condition?” I ask. “Are you contagious?”

“It’s not a viral condition,” she says. “I need a daily supply of ice.”

“Ice,” I say. “For what?”

“Don’t they teach you this stuff in school?” she asks. “The basics of the solar system?”

“Of course,” I say. “Third grade. We memorized the planets. There was a song.”

Apparently she doesn’t believe me. She goes to my dresser and starts grabbing stuff. She throws my nightie in a lump in the middle of the floor and says, “That’s the sun.” She places a red thong beside it and calls that Mercury. Venus is a pair of toe socks. Earth a blue bra. Mars a pair of leggings. And Jupiter and all its moons are my best sparkly panties. She lines them up, stands to the side, says, “See?”

“Yeah, I get your point,” I say, though I don’t really. I’m too pissed that my underwear are on the floor. Matching bras and panties aren’t cheap. “I appreciate the astronomy lesson,” I say, but she cuts me off.

She points at my bra. “You’re here,” she says. “We’re there. See how far we are from the sun? It’s cold. We don’t have sweat glands. Your planet is hot, so I need ice. Capisce?”

Capisce? Who the hell does she think she is? A Jupitarian girl trying to intimidate me with Italian. Barging in with her refrigerator. Taking the best side of the room and making my thong a planet. I snatch her solar system off the floor and stuff it back in my drawer, say, “I don’t know much about Jupiter, but here, shit like that just isn’t cool.”

There’s another knock at the door. I’m about to say, “That better not be a fucking stove,” when these guys from down the hall walk in. They want Bibi to join them for a game of pool.