you want?” she asked.
“For you to have common courtesy and not blast your music.”
“It doesn’t bother Mom and Dad.”
“They don’t share a wall with you.”
Maggie rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. I’ll keep it down.”
I was about to leave, because I’d never been entirely comfortable in my sister’s lair. Each wall was painted a different neon color and they were covered with movie posters, photos, and various other bits of memorabilia. Softball trophies cluttered a dresser. The majority of her wardrobe was on the floor, along with who knew what else. The chaos of Maggie’s room made me anxious.
But I hesitated when I realized what Maggie had been doing when I walked in. Not watching TV or playing a video game or texting friends. She’d been reading a book. An actual, physical book, made of bound paper. I was 91 percent sure I’d never seen her do that before.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
Was it my imagination, or did she shift her leg to hide the book cover?
“Clearly you’re reading something.”
“It’s none of your business.”
If I were Ishmael, I’d have charmed the information out of her. But I didn’t have that skill, so I resorted to a less sophisticated tactic: I leapt toward the bed and attempted to grab the book.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast either. Maggie and I wrestled for a moment. I was on the brink of giving up when my hand finally closed around the book’s spine. I pushed away from her and moved to the center of the room, examining what I held while Maggie scowled and called me an asshole.
“Follow Me: A Study of the World’s Most Charismatic Cult Leaders,” I read.
I looked at my sister.
“What?” Maggie asked.
“Why are you reading this?”
“Why not?”
“It’s a weird interest to suddenly have.”
Maggie laughed, loud and sharp. “Do you really want to talk about sudden, weird interests?” She yanked the book from my hand. “I found it in a box with a bunch of other books Gram left here and was curious. That’s all.”
“I see.”
Maggie and I gazed at each other for a long moment, and there was a clear understanding between us. The understanding that neither of us trusted the other at all.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“What are you up to?”
“Me? I’m not up to anything.”
There was another silence, then Maggie smiled meanly. “You realize no one buys your alien story, right?”
“Judging from what I hear around town, you’re wrong.”
“Oh, please. Ishmael is known for practical jokes. You’re known for being a science nerd. You think people aren’t able to put the pieces together?”
“Why go along with it then?” I shot back. “Why are people making up alien stories of their own?”
Maggie shook her head and looked at me sadly, as if pained by my naivety. “You just don’t understand human nature at all, do you?”
Of course I didn’t. I never had, and even with the help of this sociological experiment, maybe I never would.
“I’m going back to my room,” I said.
“Good.”
“Please keep your music down.”
Instead of responding, Maggie, a thirteen-year-old far better versed in human nature than me, curled up on her bed again, the book about cult leaders open in her lap.
Interview
Subject #2, Magdalene (Maggie) Hofstadt: I kept thinking about how J. Quincy Oswald made me want to believe him, even though all that alien stuff was totally stupid. Probably everyone who signed up for myTality felt the same way. They didn’t join the company for the products, they joined for Oz. Gideon always called myTality a cult, and I wondered if he was right, and what other cult leaders were like. That’s why I read the book. Not that it was my brother’s business. Besides, I saw what book was on his nightstand.
Event: Crop Circles
Date: Sept. 28 (Thurs.)
Getting eight hours of sleep was necessary to function at top capacity. For that reason, I’d always kept myself on a strict schedule. Unfortunately, you couldn’t sneak into a neighbor’s field to make crop circles while the rest of the world was awake.
It was past midnight when Ishmael and I dragged our supplies to David O’Grady’s (David O’Grady, approximately seventy years old, our closest neighbor.) farm. It would have been more convenient to stay on our own property, but that would raise suspicion. Due to its proximity, O’Grady’s field was the next obvious choice.
I’ll admit I never liked O’Grady. When I was very young, he once happened upon Father teaching me to play baseball. He called me “sissy-boy” when I ducked from the ball—as if I was supposed