The Girl Who Won An Alien

By Michele Tracy Berger

In this sci-fi psychological dark/horror novelette, Lindsay, an African American girl "wins" an extraterrestrial in a national contest only to find her family's life upended.

 

It's the late 1970s and all Lindsay Fields has ever wanted was to have a best friend–someone to share all her likes and dislikes, who would truly understand her. When she enters a national diplomatic competition to host Nussia, a teenage alien from a different planet–and wins–thirteen-year-old Lindsay is ecstatic. Now, the Fields' are not only the first ever humans to host a Fike alien, they are also the first African-American family to do so. But Nussia is not quite what Lindsay expected. And Lindsay's family, home, and entire life changes because of Nussia's arrival… but not in the way she imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Tracy Berger
• Release date: Sep 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215833919

Book preview

Nussia. I said her name like a wish.

I was elated that our family was chosen to host Nussia, an alien child. My family was this regular black family that owned a house in Parkchester, in the northern section of the Bronx. Nussia, well, Nussia was Fike (pronounced Fīkē).

The Fike landed on Earth in 1975. In 1976 the President announced a contest to build good relations between humans and Fike. The winner of the contest would get to host Nussia (pronounced Nōōsēä). Sixth graders had to write why their families should be chosen. The Fike and the President chose the host family. Nussia came to live with us toward the end of spring in 1978. I was thirteen. It was at a time when firsts for black folks still mattered.

When my family found out that we'd won, my sister and I ran around the house shrieking. My Dad put on some George Benson, and my Mom opened the 1972 Burgundy. That night my family toasted me, Lindsay Fields, and my sixteen-year-old sister, Virginia. We were each allowed to have a glass of wine. Mom wound up drinking several glasses that night.

It's strange how things work out:  Even though Virginia helped me write the essay that won the contest, it was all my idea to enter it. We said sophomoric things like the Bronx is a fun place, and that we would take Nussia roller-skating at Skate Key, and to the Botanical Gardens where she would be astounded by the variety of flowers. I also said that Mom made the best baked pork chops and potato salad. It was the kind of potato salad that's real sweet 'cause Mom used Miracle Whip, and put sliced green apples in it. I put in that our grandmother had been a hoofer—a dancer at the Cotton Club in Harlem in the 1930s (as she would say, "When Harlem was Harlem")—and was one of the adventurous black expatriates who still lived in France.

I argued we were a family of pioneers, so hosting Nussia would fit right in. Maybe we were the best family chosen out of those that applied. Maybe not. I was, however, a sincere child when I wrote the essay. I wanted to have a best friend very badly.

My sister and I sat up all night preparing and rearranging our dolls, games, and toys. We did everything over again as if to familiarize ourselves with who we were. I couldn't wait for Nussia to experience the newest craze, video games. We made lists of things our parents would just have to buy us in order to host Nussia properly. I wanted to play The Game of Life with Nussia, though I figured it'd have to be adapted for the Fike way of doing things.

I proudly hung up the acceptance letter in the midst of an ever growing collage of photos, articles, and pinups of Michael Jackson, Rod Stewart, and Shaun Cassidy that cluttered my room. I wanted to look at the acceptance letter every morning and evening.

Later that night, I sat in the foyer next to the phone anxiously waiting my turn to call my favorite person in the whole world—my grandmother. I waited for what seemed like an eternity while my parents broke the news over the phone while it was also being broadcast on TV by the White House. First, they called the pastor of our church. After that, they called Dad's lawyer, a reporter from the Amsterdam News, our doctor, and then all their white friends. Dad talked the longest; he paced back and forth with his hands wrapped around the snaky, yellow telephone cord. He said, My daughter, this family, an alien...can you believe it? Uh-huh, Lindsay’s going to be able to write her own ticket. Maybe I’ll even stop going to the race track, he said with a chuckle.

When I finally got through to Grandma it was very late. For at least five minutes, I didn’t give her a chance to speak. She finally broke in with, I’m so excited for you, baby. This is a big first for the family. . . for America. . . for America, she said. Her deep voice crackled and several words echoed. The connection to France wasn't so great.

I know, Grandma. I'm going to try to make Nussia real happy.  

I bet some white folks are eating their hearts out, she said, giving a real hearty laugh. Grandma was an uplift the race type of woman.

But. . . you don't worry about that, you hear? she said.

Okay, I said.

Those Fike are a good-looking group. Even the French are saying that. God knows we got enough ugly people in the world. We don't need anyone or anything else that hurts the eyes.

Oh, Grandma.

Nussia. I said her name until it became a song.

Soon after the decision, the exchange committee sent us pictures and information about Nussia and her people. I had read a lot about the Fike already, so I skipped most of the background on them being humanoid aliens. But I studied Nussia’s picture. She was beautiful.

In the picture they sent of her, Nussia stood against the backdrop of the Black River Ridge, majestic mountains in the background and the sky dusted with yellow clouds, on the southern tip of her planet. Her blue tunic played off the deep amber color of her skin. Flipping to customs and traditions, I found more about their surricille, or head covering in English. The most striking characteristic of the Fike was the contrast between the iridescence of their surricilles and the darkness of their eyes. The surricille was made of thick cartilage, which covered