American Girl On Saturn by Nikki Godwin

count on Aralie to back me up. She and Tate laugh at something else she mutters that only the two of them can hear.
    Noah looks at Milo. “Dude, I’m getting blasted here, and you’re not even going to help me out?” he asks.
    Milo shrugs. “I don’t figure a dead guy can really do much to help.”
    I await another meltdown from Milo over the rumors of his demise, but Godfrey walks into the room, and everyone goes silent. Eerily silent.
    “Mr. Kingsley,” Godfrey says, looking toward Tate. “Your request.”
    Tate smiles the biggest smile of all smiles and grabs the box from Godfrey’s hands. It’s a Twister game. He jumps up and rushes over to the pretty boy next to me.
    Tate grabs Milo’s arm, hauls him off of the sectional, and drags him out of the room. Aralie is close behind them, and Jules surprisingly follows her. He probably wants a cigarette right about now. Emery runs behind them, as not to miss any action, so I figure it’s best if I go along.
    “Chloe,” Benji says. “Wait up.”
    I stop halfway across the room. Benji and Noah both stare at me.
    “We need to talk to you about something,” Noah says.
    The dormant butterflies in my stomach wake up and shoot around as soon as the words leave Noah’s mouth. Oh my God. Please don’t let them know.
     
    Benji slips his arm around my shoulder and proceeds toward the kitchen. The patio door shuts. Everyone else is outside. Noah slinks up next to me, and I hate their mischievous smiles. Something’s up.
    “So, um, a little bird told me something,” Benji says.
    “Yeah,” Noah agrees. “We hear you’re pretty good with Sharpies.”
    “And artwork,” Benji adds.
    Okay, this is so not about Milo or stomach butterflies. Oxygen rushes back to my lungs, and my chest reforms to its normal shape. Sweet summer air. I can breathe.
    “This little bird doesn’t happen to be named Emery, does it?” I ask.
    I don’t imagine the guys calling anyone else a ‘little bird.’ Emery is the only one who would even think to tell them that I can draw. I don’t actually draw. I can’t sketch people or still art or anything magnificently awesome. I just doodle – shooting stars, non-nervous butterflies, flowers, spirals, whatever.
    “She showed us some of the magnets you made,” Benji says. “She acts like you’re Van Gogh, so we played along.”
    Wow, thanks for the compliment. It’s nice to know you guys pretended like I was a great artist when you know I’m not. Benji clearly needs some lessons in Flattery 101 from Milo. That boy knows how to sweet talk.
    Noah jumps back in. “We were hoping maybe you could give us some practice ink.”
    I forget how tatted up these boys are. I bet they’re trying to lose that goody-goody boyband image and add some edge, but with faces like those, they’re far from grungy rock stars. They’re way too pretty.
    Noah pulls his shirt over his head and turns to show me the artwork along his shoulders and back. The internet swore Noah had more ink than Benji, but he hides it very well. The internet was right.
    There’s an entire galaxy of drawings and doodles and ink splotches on his skin. His upper back is painted with stars and moons and spaceships. A mermaid fin pokes out of his shorts. I don’t even want to know what else is under there.
    “I really need ideas,” Noah says. “So maybe you could help?”
    “But I call first dibs on you,” Benji says.
    They ease ahead of me and block the exit to the patio until I agree. I don’t care if I’m a terrible artist. I’m a decent doodler. And any girl who says no to Benji Baccarini and Noah Winters is an idiot.
     
    Thirty minutes later, Noah towers over us and complains because he’s had to play two rounds of Twister with Emery while I scribbled designs onto Benji’s arms.
    “Okay, fine.” Benji groans and stands up. “I’ll keep the little bird entertained for a while.”
    “Finally,” Noah mutters.
    He replaces Benji on the poolside lounge chair, but