My grandmother raised an eyebrow. “You have something you wish to say, Sxibbo?”
I was on the verge of answering in the negative, then simply decided to be forthright.
Letting out a deep breath, I said, “I don’t know. I just feel like this thing’s gotten out of control.”
“Hear, hear,” said Gramps, surprising me with a show of support.
“John,” my grandmother admonished. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him,” my grandfather countered. “I side with the boy on this.”
“What?” Indigo muttered, obviously caught a little off guard.
“Look, Indigo,” Gramps said, “hiding my joy when you finally got back a couple of weeks ago was damn near impossible. I reached out to let a handful of old friends know you’d returned, then you and I agreed we’d have a small get-together with a few of them – just for old times’ sake. A couple of other people got wind of it and wanted to join in, then some more, and before we knew it, our little get-together had transformed into a big party.”
My grandfather glanced in my direction and I gave a slight nod to indicate that he had accurately summed things up. The only issue I might take with his narrative was that the term “big party” was inadequate to describe the upcoming affair. To me, that was like calling a hurricane a stiff breeze.
In short, as word circulated that my grandparents would be hosting an impromptu reception for some old acquaintances, the number of people wanting to drop in had broadened considerably. I had initially thought the attendees would include only their old ex-cape buddies, but I had seriously underestimated the level of society at which Indigo and Gramps had circulated in their prime. They had counted as personal friends everyone from celebrities to industrial billionaires to heads of state – many of whom would equate the lack of an invitation to being publicly snubbed. Thus, the guest list had grown.
However, it wasn’t just past newsmakers who wanted to attend. Current media darlings – actors, singers, tech moguls, and so on (most of whom had probably never heard of my grandparents) – also wanted in. In essence, anybody who was anybody (or who thought of themselves that way) had been angling for an invite.
Moreover, it turned out that people were fascinated by Indigo’s story: a long-lost superhero returning to Earth after a lengthy sojourn in outer space. (It didn’t hurt that she was a beautiful, alien princess to boot.)
Long story short, what had started out as an intimate function with a few friends from my grandparents’ heyday had morphed into a gala event, despite its impromptu nature. (Basically, this thing was being held just a few weeks after we got back to Earth, so it was being put together in record time.) Everyone’s initial thought had been to have it at the embassy, but the ever-growing guest list had promptly squashed those plans. Now it was being held at a palatial estate owned by my father, Alpha Prime, who was generally considered Earth’s greatest superhero.
“So in my opinion, Jim’s right,” my grandfather continued, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “This thing’s become so bloated and unwieldy that I’d almost prefer to skip it.”
“Well, all of our old friends will be there, so you’re going,” Indigo stated with finality. She then turned to me. “You, too, Sxibbo. There are some people coming I want you to meet.”
“I appreciate that, Sxahnin,” I replied, “and I was fine when it was supposed to be a small function. I was even okay when it became too big to hold here at the embassy. But now, it’s not just a huge bash – it’s exploded into an over-the-top, red carpet event.”
“The boy hates the spotlight,” Gramps explained in a conspiratorial tone, mostly for Myshtal’s benefit.
“It’s not so much that,” I clarified, “although I do like my privacy. In all honesty, I was simply looking forward to me and my friends listening to you guys and some of your old colleagues talk about the adventures you had. Now it just feels like another pompous, overblown banquet full of pretentious stuffed shirts.”
“Except – since we’re throwing the party – we’re the stuffed shirts,” Mom noted.
“Something like that,” I said.
Myshtal shook her head in confusion. “I’m sorry – ‘stuffed shirt’?”
“A turzzkon,” my grandmother explained. At the same time, she shared with everyone a mental image of a puffed up, self-conceited Caelesian royal. The figure was so blatantly haughty and vainglorious that we all had to laugh.
“Ahhh!” Myshtal exclaimed in understanding, still smiling. “It’s clear now. But don’t worry; I won’t let Jim become a turzzkon. I’ll make sure he has too much fun to stuff his shirt.”
“Oh?” I said, chuckling at her phrasing. “And how will you do that?”
“Like this,” she replied, then stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.
I was so surprised by the gesture (which I didn’t even know she was aware of), that I just stared at her for a second – and then I burst out laughing, along with everyone else.
Chapter 8
We spent the remainder of dinner idly chatting about the upcoming gala. Afterwards, we all retreated to the parlor to play board games, which had been one of my grandmother’s favorite pastimes during her first visit to Earth. It was a form of entertainment that didn’t really have an equivalent on Caeles, so she had missed it terribly. Given her predilection for it, we generally played a couple of times per week.
On this particular occasion, we settled on a game that required each player to build their own medieval kingdom. The game was won by achieving a certain amount of wealth, along with a stable (but sizeable) population and trade routes for specific goods. In most instances, it was easiest to achieve victory by forming alliances with other players, and – on the whole – it was a fun and challenging game. Playing with Indigo, however, took things to an entirely different level.
It turned out that my grandmother was incredibly competitive when
