I am filled with dread and regret. I have been so busy with my GC business that I have visited home rarely in the past thousand years. Even when I did return, I did not heed the warning signs.
I float high over the dark orb of Sandoval. I cannot speak, but risk an interstellar thought plea: Father, I’m sorry. I should not have left you.
A weak voice floats up from the inky blackness. Ketchvar, Ketchvar, I am lost.
Describe your surroundings, Father. Are you stuck in clay? Is the mud salty? Is it wet or dry? Have you corkscrewed so far down that the ooze is congealing?
I must already be dead, my son. It is your burrow now.
No, Father. Search parties are looking for you. There’s still time. I’m sorry I’m not there.
Don’t blame yourself, Ketchvar. You were doing important work.
What could be more important than taking care of my own father?
It’s so dark here. I do not fear death, but I fear this dark and the biting cold.
Hold on. They’ll find you!
I hear a strange sound—a bitter laugh. Can it be the mocking bray of death itself, interposing itself between father and son?
The twin suns of Sandoval recede. The stars bubble and steam around me like cosmic soup.
I hurtle back through space. There is Planet Earth. North America. Barrisford. The crab apple tree in the Filbers’ backyard.
The laugh rings out again. It’s brutal and derisive. It seems to say: I warned you. Now you’ll pay for messing with me! The laugh saws through the cold night air and vibrates. Not a laugh—bad cello music!
I am seated on the patchy grass of the Filber backyard, drenched in my own sweat even though the night is quite cold.
My sister is up in her room, practicing. She must have left her window open. The dissonant cello music leaps from her windowsill and takes wing like a bat. It flutters around the backyard and lands on my shoulder.
I pull away from it, but I can’t shake it off. The bat bares its sharp teeth at me.
You made a mistake, it hisses at me. I warned you. Now you will pay!
24
I sprint back up the stairs to my room. My door is wide open.
Tom Filber’s laptop glows—I recall that I left it on when I ran outside.
An intruder has been in my room messing with it! Someone has read my message to the revered GC Elders! The files labeled “Old Hip-Hop Songs That Sucked” and “How to Sauté a Skunk” have been opened.
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I try to assess the damage. Oh no! Not that! Anything but that! The intruder has forwarded my messages to several different blogs that my schoolmates read!
The whole world will now know about my mission!
My cover is blown! My schoolmates will tell their parents who will immediately alert state and national authorities that an alien presence is hiding in their midst.
The army will come rolling up Beech Avenue to find and destroy me.
I glance out the window. The street is dark and quiet. There are no jeeps or tanks yet.
It is late in the evening. Perhaps no one has seen the blog postings yet. There may still be time to undo the damage.
No, several of my fellow students have already read my letters, and their comments are now popping up on our school message board in response. No one seems to believe my story. The comments are sarcastic:
“Since the Galactic Confederation picked our high school to decide the future of the human race, do you think they could give the girls’ softball team new uniforms?”
“His father’s a boozer and it sounds like he must be smoking some potent Sandovinian weed.”
“Can somebody please make my chemistry teacher disappear with a Flindarian Lapse?”
More and more comments pop up, and as I read them Tom Filber’s room spins around me. The professional wrestlers pictured on the walls reach out to scoop me up and body-slam me. The singers open their mouths wide and spew violent hip-hop.
Tom Filber’s favorite computer game, Galactic Warrior, pops onto the screen and the human hunters join together to blow an alien to bits.
I am hyperventilating wildly. My limbs tremble. I feel an urge to run, to get out, to flee! This must be what humans call a panic attack.
The damage is irreversible! Details of my secret mission have not only been posted, but they have been read. The news is now spreading in a ripple effect. No force in the universe can contain it. The first fools to read my letters may be laughing, but some Earthling with a few brains will understand the truth.
I wrap my arms around myself and try to slow my heartbeat. Cardiac arrest will not solve my problems.
I wrote about how the humans are the laughingstock of the galaxy. They will not take kindly to that portrayal.
I revealed GC projections that they are within a decade of destroying themselves. Earthlings will not be able to handle such dire predictions.
I recorded critical assessments of the shallowness of their top artists and scientists.
I also described some of my experiences during my brief visit to Planet Earth.
I revealed that I was beaten on the way to school.
I confessed to throwing an acorn at a bully’s head.
I wrote of my feelings for Michelle Peabody, and mentioned our kiss.
No, I cannot possibly stay here. My mission has become untenable and my life is in danger. The only thing that makes sense now is immediate extraction.
I pull out the package of sugar doughnuts. My wibbler is switched on. I hail the spaceship.
No answer.
I fight to stay calm. There are two logical reasons for this. First, intense solar flare-ups can disrupt even decimeter band transmissions. I will have to keep trying. No doubt the solar storm will be short-lived, and in an hour or so I will get through to the Preceptor Supervisor.
There is another possibility why the spaceship is not answering my summons. When I threw my essence into space to get news of my father, I noticed that my spaceship was not in its orbit. An emergency may have broken out on a nearby Confederation world. When I began this mission, there was fear of an outbreak of microtic plague on Bubos VII. If plague hit that crowded planet, my spaceship may have been dispatched for an emergency rescue mission.
They would not leave me alone on Planet Earth for very long. At most, I may be stranded here for a few days. But I will be at the mercy of Earthlings who now know exactly who I am and why I am in their midst.
Something dark and ominous squeezes in under my door and flutters around Tom Filber’s bedroom. Now your jugular is exposed, the bat hisses, its red eyes ablaze. You have no place to hide.
Panic gives way to anger. I stand up, rip open my door, and storm across the hallway. I burst into Sally’s room.
She is seated in her chair by the open window, pulling her bow vigorously back and forth as if she is trying to saw the cello in half. “Did you forget how to knock?” she asks without looking up.
I am a civilized Sandovinian and a trained GC evaluator, but it takes all my willpower to resist the violent impulse to run over there and put my foot through her cello. I stand frozen, struggling with myself, so furious that I cannot move or speak.
Sally stops playing and glances up at me. “Do you mind? I’m trying to practice.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“Why what?”
“Why did you do it?”
“I warned you to stay out of my business.”
“I didn’t do anything to you to deserve this,” I say, walking closer to her.
“Take one more step and I’ll scream for Mom,” she threatens. “Go ahead and try me. See what happens. One more step and you’ll regret it. She’s already super pissed off at you.”
I stop walking and stand with my hands on my hips. “Foolish, pathetic Earthling. You have no idea of the damage you’ve caused,” I tell her. “Not just to me, but to my mission, and potentially to your entire species. I was trying to be charitable, but you’ve
taken that last chance for your brothers and sisters away. Shame on you.”
“Fine. Shame on me,” she says. “Terminate my species and please shut my door on your way out.”
25
The police car rattles up the unpaved road and stops near me.
I am sitting at the edge of the turtle pond in Beaverdale Park. I thought I was well concealed between two bushes, but Sergeant Collins must have sharp eyes. He gets out of the driver’s side with a serious look on his face.
So they have found me. Now they will take me to the police station and then to an army post and then probably to a top-secret CIA prison-lab where they will try to separate me from the body of Tom Filber. Their top scientists will run tests on me. They will torture me for information about the Confederation.
Sergeant Collins is wearing a gun on his belt. He has no doubt already called in my location and radioed for support. There is nothing I can do. I raise my hands.
“What are you doing, Filber?”
“I surrender.”
“Put your arms down and don’t give me any lip or you’ll regret it,” he snaps.
I lower my arms.
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching turtles.”
He glances toward the pond. Then back at me. “There’s a little thing called school on weekdays. Did you forget about that?”
“No, sir. I was not feeling well.”
“You look okay now. Maybe watching the turtles improved your health.”
“Yes, I am starting to feel a little better.”
“Then let’s get you to school,” he says. “I just happen to be heading in that direction. Get in.”
Perhaps this is a clever way of taking me into custody. I ride next to him in the front seat, expecting him to pull out his gun or clamp handcuffs on my wrists at any moment. But he drives me up the hill toward school. “How’s your dad?”
“On a trip,” I tell him.
“Where?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know where your own dad is?”
I think of Ketchvar II and the search parties scouring the mud of Sandoval. “No, sir.”
“When’s he getting back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s pretty screwed up.”
I manage a nod.
“He’s not a bad man, your father,” Sergeant Collins says. “We used to play football together. Had an undefeated team senior year. Did he ever tell you about those days?”
“No, sir.”
“He was a hell of a player. Smart, too. Voted ‘most likely to succeed.’ When he went away to college I never thought he’d come back here. But he had a thing for your mom. Hell, half the boys in town did.” Sergeant Collins steers his car to a stop in front of our school. “You worried about him?”
“A bit.”
“I figured it wasn’t just the turtles. He’ll come back. He hasn’t had an easy time of it, but he’s not going to walk out on his family.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I mean, for the ride.”
“Don’t let me catch you playing hooky again,” he tells me. “Now git in that door and learn something.”
I walk hesitantly through the front door.
Classes are changing. The security guard is momentarily distracted. I slip by him and plunge into the crowded hallway.
I instantly become the center of attention.
Everyone watches me. Nobody says anything.
The entire Winthrop P. Muller student body seems to be stunned into a kind of collective shock. Their “Alien” has turned out to be a real alien! Now he is in their midst. They are nervously digesting the information, trying to figure out what to do next.
I hear whispers. I feel stares.
Keep a low profile, I tell myself. Skulk. The school day is already half over. I just have to make it through three more periods. My wibbler is on. The spaceship will return from Bubos VII any moment. The sympathetic voice of the Preceptor Supervisor will reach out to me. “Sorry, Ketchvar. The plague has been averted. Now we can get you out of this mess.” He will already have an extraction strategy plotted.
I turn into a hallway and run into Michelle Peabody. When she sees me she stops walking. I can tell from the way her blue eyes sharpen that she read my letters off the Internet. She does not look pleased that the entire school now knows that we kissed and I went for some “tongue action.”
I open my mouth to try to explain, but she turns her back on me and hurries away.
I will have to find a better time to apologize to her. This is a day when I am focused on just surviving.
I am a few minutes late for gym class. The other boys are already on the field. I put on shorts and a T-shirt and hurry out.
Today we are playing flag football. Mr. Curtis, our instructor, paces the sideline shouting helpful advice.
“Thanks for joining us, Filber. Better late than never. That’s the ugliest-looking pass I’ve seen in fifteen years! Can’t you throw a spiral? Do you even know what a spiral is?”
Yes, I am very familiar with the shape. Our galaxy is a spiral. Soon I will be safe on a spaceship speeding homeward through its long and glowing concentric arms.
Flag football ends. The locker room is unsupervised. My earth street smarts tell me it is a dangerous place. I stay outside in the hall, by the water fountain, and let everyone else enter first. After a dozen sips of cold water I tiptoe in.
I wait for them all to finish showering before I take my turn. I am rinsing soap off my arms when I hear footsteps. Scott and Zitface appear. They are fully dressed. There is no reason they should be heading back to the shower. “Hi, Tom. How’s everything with the Galactic Confederation?” Zitface asks in a friendly voice.
I look back at him. “Pretty good.”
“Any word from your father in the red ooze?” Scott asks.
“No, but thank you for asking.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. Then he steps toward me. “Don’t scream,” he mutters. “That will make it worse.” He has a mean look on his face. I have seen it before, when he made me eat dirt.
I access the consciousness of Tom Filber. What’s my way out of here?
You got into this, you get out, he says.
If they break my leg, they break yours, I remind him.
Yeah, but I won’t feel it in this bubble.
I’ll leave one day soon, and you’ll spend the rest of your life limping around.
Turn on the hot water and run out through the back exit, he advises quickly.
I turn the hot water on full blast, and Scott jumps back with a curse. I dart to the spigot on the opposite side and turn that shower on hot also. A wall of steaming spray now separates me from Scott and Zitface. While they’re trying to shut the scalding water off, I sprint out the back exit.
Two other boys are waiting for me there in ambush. They catch me. I struggle but there is no escape.
I try to scream for help but one of them punches me in the stomach. Suddenly my lungs are empty. I gasp so hard there are tears in my eyes.
Scott and Zitface run up. I struggle but they carry me to a corner of the locker room. All the other boys have left. They pin me on my back to a bench.
Scott stands above me. “Let’s get two things straight,” he says to me. “First, the only thing that’s saving you right now is that you didn’t mention my name. But you did write about being roughed up on the way to school. That’s not information to be released. You understand that, you little weirdo?”
I nod. “No one on Earth was supposed to read those letters. My sister came into my room and . . .”
He grabs my right ear and pulls it so hard I’m afraid it will come off. “Do you understand or not?”
“Yes.”
“Second, I’m sure Michelle won’t go within smelling distance of you anymore, but you’re gonna leave her alone. She’s mine. No more swinging. No more kisses.” He draws back his fist. “You got that?”
&
nbsp; “Yes.”
Instead of punching me, he slaps me in the face so hard my ears ring and my nose starts to bleed.
He turns to the others. “He’s a snail creature. He likes being inside a shell. Get that garbage can over here.”
They drag over a tall, cylindrical garbage can, partially filled with trash. I struggle, but they force my arms to my sides and wedge me into it feetfirst. They tip the can over and roll me to the darkest corner of the room.
“Find his clothes,” Scott commands. “Check his pockets. See if there’s a package of sugar doughnuts.”
A second later I hear someone say, “Here it is!”
“Hey, Alien, isn’t this your emergency communication device?” Scott asks, holding it in front of my face. “Let’s see you use it.”
They wedge the package of sugar doughnuts into my mouth. The plastic breaks and I choke and gag on powdered sugar.
But the wibbler is on! I can feel its decimeter pulse. I cry out, “Preceptor, I need help.” My voice sounds high-pitched and feeble.
Scott and the other boys roar with laughter. “Do it again.”
“It’s Ketchvar. My life is in grave danger. I request immediate extraction!”
“Your life will be in danger if you tell anybody who did this to you,” Scott promises.
They take my T-shirt and drape it over my face so that I cannot see and have trouble breathing.
I hear the gang walk away.
I am alone. I try to escape, but I cannot free my arms or legs. The stench from the garbage can is putrid.
My only hope is the wibbler. It is lying on the floor, a few inches from my chin, encased in stale doughnut. I tilt my head toward it. “Preceptor, this is an emergency. At least tell me when I can expect help. Come in, PLEASE . . .”
There is no answer. The only sound is the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the shower room.
26
Tom, I’ll be honest, I don’t believe you,” Miss Schroeder tells me. “Maybe the boys who attacked you did grab you from behind and put a shirt over your head. But I think you know who they were. And I wish you’d trust us enough to tell the principal, or the police, or at least me.”