Read more
Informationen zum Autor Andrew Auseon is a video game designer and the author of Jo-Jo And the Fiendish Lot and Funny Little Monkey , a finalist for the Borders Original Voices Award which received a starred review from Publisher's Weekly. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland. Klappentext Hollywood screenwriter Russell ("Flirting with Disaster") and critically acclaimed novelist Auseon team up on this hilarious middle-grade novel about two boys who publish a newspaper filled with wacky but true stories of aliens.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<...
