Ms. Schwartz always read out loud to us, sometimes twice a day. She read wonderful books like The Hobbit and The Sword in the Stone.
When someone asked Mr. Smith if he was going to read out loud, he gave him a funny look and said it was "a waste of time."
Well, you get the picture. Over the next few
weeks Mr. Smith straightened us out all right. But you know how boring a straight line is. We had no more surprises. We pretty much stopped laughing in school. Things weren't terrible— just awfully grim.
Even the playground wasn't so much fun as it had been. Oh, Mr. Smith did keep Duncan Dougal from beating kids up. But he almost went nuts the first time he caught one of us playing a radio. Radios and tape players were banned from the playground. Mr. Smith didn't just hate rock music; he hated all music! I could see him shiver every time I picked up my piccolo and left the room for my music lesson.
After the third week of this I said something about it to my music teacher, Mr. Bam-Boom Bamwick. (Actually, his first name is Milton. But everyone calls him Bam-Boom because of his preference for thundering marches.)
Mr. Bamwick sighed. "Susan, you have to understand that not everyone appreciates the finer things in life," he said.
I guess that was as much support as I could expect. You know how teachers stick together.
When I got back to the room that day, it was time for our math test. I finished the test early. I was still feeling cranky about Mr. Smith's reaction to my piccolo, so I decided to write a note about it to Stacy.
"Mr. Smith is a total creepazoid!' I wrote. That felt so good I decided to keep going. "He has totally ruined this class. Our whole year has gone down the tubes. The man is a total philistine!"
Philistine was a word I had just learned from my father. It means someone who has no appreciation for art and beauty. I thought it was a neat word, and I was using it every chance I could get.
A few more sentences and I was really wound up. This note was turning into a humdinger! At the bottom I drew an extra-tall, extra-skinny Mr. Smith holding his ears while I played the piccolo.
It wasn't a very nice picture. But when I was all done I felt better. I slipped the note under my test and waited for a chance to pass it to Stacy. I began thinking about how she'd react to my picture. I imagined her laughing so hard she fell off her chair.
Unfortunately, while I was daydreaming, Mr. Smith started collecting our papers. By the time I saw him walking up my row, it was too late to move the note. As I watched in horror, he snatched up my test—and my note along with it.
A wave of terror washed over me. I watched Mr. Smith walk away with my nasty note.
I closed my eyes and swallowed.
I was doomed.
CHAPTER THREE - An Unearthly Noise
The only thing I could think about for the rest of the day was how I was going to get that note back!
When we went outside for recess, I pulled Stacy aside to tell her what had happened.
"What am I going to do?" I wailed.
"I don't know," she said. "But you'd better do something because if that note has my name on it, Mr. Smith will get mad at me, too."
"Maybe he won't see it," I said.
Stacy snorted. "Are you kidding? He's checked every single paper we ever handed in."
Stacy was right. She always was when it came to that kind of stuff.
Actually, the heavy-duty checking was probably the best thing about Mr. Smith: he always handed back our papers. Of course, they never had a note or comment on them, just lots of red circles around the mistakes and a grade at the top. I didn't mind that on math papers, but it really annoyed me when it came to my writing. When Ms. Schwartz marked our stories and essays, she had always penciled in comments that showed she was paying attention to our ideas.
When Mr. Smith handed back an essay, it looked as though he'd been sitting next to an ax murder while he was marking it. The man must have bought red pens by the case. But all he used them for was to circle missing commas and misspelled words. He treated our essays like spelling tests.
I ask you, what's the point of writing something if that's the only response you get?
Finally I decided to try to get back into the building to see if I could snatch my note while Mr. Smith was still outside. If it had been Ms. Schwartz, I would have just asked if I could go to the bathroom. But Mr. Smith didn't believe in letting you off the playground for such a frivolous reason. He said by the time you were in sixth grade, you should know enough to take care of things like that in advance. The first three days after Mr. Smith came we had a line of worried-looking kids standing at the door each time recess ended.
The second-best method for getting off the playground was getting sick.
"I'll see you inside" I said to Stacy. Then I clutched my stomach, squinched up my face, and staggered over to where Mr. Smith was standing.
Later, I remembered that he was looking straight at the sun. But right then I was too worried about the note to pay attention to the fact that what he was doing should have burned out his eyeballs.
"Unnnyh," I moaned, trying to sound pitiful.
Mr. Smith looked down at me. "Is something wrong, Miss Simmons?" he asked.
"I don't feel good," I said. "I want to see the nurse."
Mr. Smith hesitated, then looked at his watch. "It's time to go in now, anyway," he said. "Line up with the rest of us. You can see Mrs. Glacka after we get in."
Now what? If I claimed I was about to throw up, he'd probably let me go inside right away. But if he was bringing everyone else in anyway, I wouldn't have the time I needed to go through the papers and find the note.
"All right," I moaned, trying to sound pitiful. I hoped it would make him feel guilty. I almost wished I was going to throw up. I'd make sure to hit his shoes!
Of course, once we were inside, I had to go to the nurse's office—even though I actually felt perfectly fine. Mrs. Glacka told me to lie down. I wasn't surprised. That was her basic cure for everything. So I lay there, staring at the ceiling and worrying about that note.
Finally I decided to follow Mr. Smith home. Maybe I could find some way to get the note back before it was too late. I didn't have any big plan, mind you. I was just desperate.
I wasn't sure where Mr. Smith lived. But I figured it couldn't be too far, since he always walked to school. So after the last bell I hung around on the playground, waiting for Mr. Smith to come out of the building.
I was concentrating so hard I almost jumped out of my skin when Peter Thompson came up behind me and said, "Hey, Susan, what are you doing?"
"None of your business!" I hissed. "Leave me alone!"
Peter's skinny face kind of crumpled, and he looked like he was going to cry.
"Look," I said. "This is private, OK?"
"Sure," said Peter. "I won't bother you." He tucked his book under his arm and walked away, trying to whistle. It was a pretty pathetic sound. I thought about Peter and realized with a shock that I was probably the closest thing he had to a friend.
That made me kind of sad. Not that there's anything wrong with having me for a friend. But I've got a lot of friends, and I didn't really think of Peter as being one of them. I liked him all right. He just wasn't someone I spent much time with.
I wondered if there was anyone who did spend time with him.
My thoughts were interrupted when I saw Mr. Smith come out of the building. I waited for a minute or two, then began sneaking along behind him. I tried to stay a half a block or so away. Whenever I could, I ducked behind a tree or a bush so he wouldn't spot me. I probably looked pretty weird. But that's one nice thing about being a kid: you can get away with this kind of stuff.
Mr. Smith's home was farther away than I had expected. He lived at the edge of town, in an old white house with black shutters. The house was set way back from the street. A thick hedge completely surrounded the lot on which it stood.
I stood outside the hedge feeling stupid. What had I hoped to accomplish by following
Mr. Smith?
But I was in luck. As I watched from a hole in the hedge, I saw Mr. Smith set his briefcase down on the porch and go inside. Since it was a warm afternoon, I figured he planned to get something to drink, then come back outside to sit on the porch and correct our papers.
This was my chance! I scooted through a hole in the hedge and onto the porch. I was working up
the nerve to open the briefcase when I heard an unearthly howl. It sounded like someone was trying to put a cat in a blender.
Hot as it was, I felt my blood turn to ice. What was going on in there? Had someone attacked Mr. Smith? I wasn't crazy about the man, but I didn't want him to be tortured or anything, which is what this sounded like.
Should I run for help, or go inside?
But what kind of help could I get? All I could say was that I had heard a terrible noise. Nobody was yelling for help, or anything like that.
I didn't think I could get anyone to come.
Then it occurred to me that maybe Mr. Smith really was putting a cat in a blender, or something awful like that. If so, he certainly shouldn't be teaching our class.
I decided to find out.
CHAPTER FOUR - Broxholm
The door was unlocked. Trying not to make any noise, I turned the knob and pushed.
The door opened without a sound. I hesitated for just a moment, then stepped in.
I was standing in a hallway. To my left I saw an empty living room—and I do mean empty. Except for curtains, there wasn't one bit of furniture or decoration in the room. The walls and floor were totally bare.
I flinched as another burst of horrible squawking and growling sounded above me.
Taking a deep breath, I began to tiptoe up the stairs. I was glad I was wearing sneakers.
About halfway up I stopped and thought, What am I doingI I should get out of here while I can!
You may not believe this, but the only reason I didn't turn back was that I thought Mr. Smith might really be in trouble. Even though I didn't like the man, I didn't want anything horrible to happen to him.
So I swallowed and took another step.
The noise stopped. Was everything over? Would Mr. Smith start down the stairs and find me standing here? I was just about to turn and run when another round of squawking and shrieking made it clear that whatever was happening was still going on.
I still wanted to run, but I was afraid to—afraid that if I did, I might read in the paper the next day that something terrible had happened to Mr. Smith. Something I could have prevented. Of course, I was afraid to keep going, but I decided I didn't have any choice. I took another step and then another. I held on to the railing as if it was a life line. The knot in my stomach got tighter with every step I took.
When I got near the top, I lay down on my stomach. I had read somewhere that when you're peering around a corner, you're less likely to be seen if your head is low. So I kept my head as low as possible. If I could have pulled out one eye and just stuck it around the corner to take a peek, that would have been fine with me.
The hall was as empty as the living room: no pictures on the walls, no rug on the floor. Through an open door at the end of the hall I could see a small, blue bathroom.
Closer to me, on the right, was another open door. The horrible sound seemed to be coming from there.
I decided low was the way to go. Still on my belly, I slithered down one side of the hall until I had reached the doorway.
I shivered. That noise was like a tiger running its claws down a blackboard; it felt like aluminum foil against my teeth. What could be making it?
When I finally got up the nerve to sneak a look around the bottom edge of the door, I saw Mr. Smith sitting at a little makeup table, looking in a mirror. Stacy was right. The man really was handsome. He had a long, lean face with a square jaw, a straight nose, and cheekbones to die for.
Only it was a fake. As I watched, Mr. Smith pressed his fingers against the bottom of his eyes. Suddenly he ran his fingertips to the sides of his head, grabbed his ears, and started peeling off his face!
I gasped. Fortunately, the horrible noises coming from the room drowned it out. I wanted to get up and run, but I was too terrified to move.
I started to shake instead. Whatever Mr. Smith was, I was pretty sure the face he was slowly uncovering wasn't anything that had been born on
earth! As he stripped away the mask I could see that he had skin the color of limes. His enormous orange eyes slanted up and away from his nose like a pair of butterfly wings. A series of muscular looking ridges stretched from his eyes down to his lipless mouth.
Soon the handsome face of "Mr. Smith" was lying on the dressing table. The creature that had been hidden underneath it began to massage his face—his real face. "Ahhh," he said. "What a relief!" He smiled at himself in the mirror, showing two rows of rounded purplish teeth.
I had noticed that the horrible noise was coming from a pair of flat pieces of plastic hanging on the wall. But it wasn't until Mr. Smith started "singing" along with the sound that I realized the plastic sheets were speakers. That hideous sound was music! Or at least what passed for music wherever my alien teacher had come from.
I was still trying to find the courage to start backing up when the alien turned down the music and flipped a switch on the table. The mirror began to shimmer. Suddenly the image of "Mr. Smith" was replaced by another alien face, this one just as horrible. Beyond the face I could see a big room, with other aliens bustling around. From the look of things, I figured this must be a spaceship.
The face in the mirror said something that sounded like "Ign rrzznyx iggn gnrrr." The words were low and growly.
"Broxholm reporting," said Mr. Smith.
The face in the mirror made some growly noises.
"It is good to hear our mother tongue," said Mr. Smith—or Broxholm—or whatever his name was. "I cannot wait to return to the ship and have this language implant removed, so I can speak the true tongue, and not this barbaric garble."
Hey! I thought. Whose language are you calling barb arid
But before I could get too angry, I heard something else—something that sent a cold chill down my spine.
"The testing process is proceeding on schedule," said Broxholm. "Before long I will have selected the students I wish to bring back for study."
Bring back for study?
I couldn't believe my ears. My teacher was an alien! Even worse, he had come to earth to kidnap kids and take them into space!
CHAPTER FIVE - How Strong Is an Alien's Nose?
The face on the screen smiled—at least, I think it smiled. It's hard to tell with someone who looks like that. Let's just say that all its teeth were showing. Then it made a long speech in that awful language. I felt like someone was grinding metal next to my ear.
I don't know what he said. But it made Broxholm/Smith laugh. Well, I suppose it was a laugh. His shoulders shook as if he was laughing. The sound made my stomach turn.
When Broxholm stopped laughing, or whatever, he reached down and turned off the screen. The other alien faded from view.
Time for me to get out of there! I slithered backward on my belly along the hall and then down the stairs. When I heard the alien music come on again, I relaxed a little.
On the porch I hesitated for a moment. Should I try to recover my note? A noise in the house made up my mind. Compared to what was behind me, any trouble I might get in because of that note was nothing. I jumped off the porch and ran all the way home, praying that Broxholm hadn't seen me.
Did you ever have something awful happen to you, and not really react to it until later? Like, you might almost get hit by a car on your way home from school, but not start shaking until after supper. It was like that with me that afternoon. It wasn't until I got home that what I had seen really began to sink in.
I ran up to my room, plowed my way through the mess, and collapsed on my bed. I lay there until supper, staring at the ceiling and shaking with fear. What was I going
to do? What would you do, if you found out your teacher was an alien? Go to the principal? Tell your parents?
Think about it for a minute.
Imagine the conversation.
Not a pretty thought, is it?
The only person who might believe me was weird Peter Thompson. I decided to tell him what I had seen. If I couldn't convince him, I knew I didn't have a chance of convincing anyone.
I must have looked pretty bad when I went dojvn to dinner because my mother asked me three times what was bothering me. But then, she tends to be a bit of a fusser. I try never to let her hear me sneeze, because if she does she decides I've got pneumonia and tries to pack me into bed for a week. All right, that's a slight exaggeration—but not much. She and my dad are always battling about how much freedom they should give me.
"Come on, Margaret," my dad will say. "She's in sixth grade now. You can't treat her like a baby anymore."
"Oh, Edward," my mother will reply, "you seem to think you can treat Susan the same way you would a boy."
Can you believe she actually says that?
Anyway, that night at supper she put her hand on my forehead and clucked about how pale I looked. I think she was actually disappointed that I didn't have a fever. At least then she would have known what to do.
"Are you still upset about Ms. Schwartz, Susan?" she asked, shoveling a load of broccoli onto my plate.