Entry 8

I can’t say I knew a lot about anthropologists when I lived on Earth. I knew anthropology was some sort of history meets science meets sociology, but beyond that I knew nothing. I could not tell you what an anthropologist did. I’m still not sure what they do on Earth, but I do know about the Intergalactic Society of Anthropologists. They have a mission statement in a fancy proper language, but for those of us who are mere Earthlings and speak English, this is what they do:

The Society of Anthropologists studies civilizations that have yet to travel out of their solar system (like us). They don’t call us “primitive” because that insinuates their culture and way of life is better than ours and a good anthropologist would never insinuate that. (However, most anthropologists do believe that). Above all they fear cultural contamination. They essentially believe in the prime directive, which is why they will never let me go back to Earth. I would tell everyone the truth and contaminate our culture with knowledge that life exists outside of the Earth and that they’re monitoring us. This is why they hate Gene Roddenberry. You don’t think Star Trek affected our culture? Think again, my friend. It’s also why my writing this blog is an Intergalactic offense.

Have I mentioned that before? This blog will put me in prison for a very long time if I’m ever caught, but I don’t ever plan on being caught. Prison is the least of my concerns.

However, before I wrote this blog, in the time I’m currently telling you about, I was caught. Sadly, I did not even realize it.


I woke up dazed and confused. I remembered everything that had happened: John being shot, John and I transporting to the music camp, John’s confession of being an android, and meeting the blue anthropologist. But when I woke up, I was not in the music camp or in an alien spaceship. I was lying in my canopy bed in Ellen and Scott’s home.

I stared at my green canopy in confusion. Had it all just been a dream? It could not have been. It had felt so real. The terror of John being shot was still fresh in my mind. I had dreamed some pretty horrible and ridiculous things before, but never like John being shot but not dying because he was an android.

Unsure, I sat up in my bed. Light was streaming in my window and my digital clock declared it to be 11:36 am. I never slept in that late. Never. Something was not right. Something had to be wrong.

The door to my room opened and I tensed, expecting to see the grumpy blue anthropologist. To my surprise it was Scott, peeking his head in. His green eyes widened in surprise upon seeing me.

“You’re awake!” he exclaimed, stepping in the room with a large smile on his face. “How are you feeling?” He came to my bedside and offered me a thermometer. I stared at it as if it was the strangest thing I had ever seen. Honestly, at the moment it was. If he had pulled out a phaser or a lightsaber, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but a thermometer?

“What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously, still not willing to believe that everything had just been a dream. “Where’s John?”

“At school of course,” Scott answered, placing the thermometer in my hand. “Under your tongue.”

“Why?” I demanded. “If John is at school, why am I not?”

“Don't you remember?” His hand immediately went to my forehead since I was refusing to put the thermometer in my mouth. Was I sick? It could explain why Scott and I were both home in the middle of the day. Scott was a nurse practitioner, practically a doctor. Ellen was a doctor. Together they ran a private practice. Whenever I got sick, it was usually Scott, not Ellen, who stayed home with me, since Ellen was usually in higher demand at work. Scott never stayed home with John since John was never sick. Androids did not catch illnesses.

“You’ve had a high fever for days,” Scott explained, forcing the thermometer into my mouth. Out of habit, I put it under my tongue and held it there. “You passed out in band practice after school on Tuesday. You were in the hospital overnight, but they released you into my care yesterday. We were worried about you, kid.”

The hospital? I did not remember any of this. I remembered surviving band and driving to the gas station with John. I remembered him getting shot. I did not remember a hospital.

The thermometer beeped. Scott pulled it out of my mouth, and his face filled with relief when he saw the value. His concern was touching. Scott and Ellen were the best foster parents we had ever had, and it certainly was not just because they were well off. They cared about us.

“Ninety-nine point three,” Scott said. “Your fever is coming down nicely.”

“I don’t remember the hospital,” I stated. Scott looked at me without surprise.

“I would be impressed if you did,” he responded. “You were delirious, crying out for John, claiming he was hurt. John was right there beside you, but you could not even see him.” His words insinuated that everything I remembered had just been a delusion. I couldn’t believe it. Something was wrong.

“What did I have?” I asked.

“There is a virus going around,” Scott answered. “That compounded with your dehydration was too much for your system. How many times do we have to tell you to hydrate yourself during the day before practice?” It was something I was often guilty of. I had dehydrated myself badly before. His words were plausible, but I somehow could not believe him. The occurrence I remembered had just been so real.

“I thought I had hydrated,” I responded unsure. “I thought I drank an entire Nalgene.” Ellen and Scott had started monitoring how much I drank at school. Every morning I filled up my Nalgene and every evening they checked to see how much I drank. Recently I had been trying to drink the entire thing.

“You drank half,” he said. “On a band practice day that’s just not enough, Carlee, not in this heat.” I nodded, accepting the reprimand. He was right, if I had only drunk half, but I remembered drinking the entire thing.

Was I crazy? Had it all been just an illusion? Or could something more sinister be going on?