“—stay back!” warned the armed teacher, waving her umbrella as Tandy stepped toward her. “Do not underestimate me because of my size!”
I wouldn’t think of it, thought Fletcher.
Tandy stood by the Reading Nook, her arms outstretched, her palms facing the ceiling. “I am not trying to underestimate you; I am only trying to reassure you.”
“Then stop with the lies! I heard your conversation! Tell me what you’re doing on my planet!”
“It’s my planet, too,” said Fletcher, stepping toward her.
“You sit!” ordered Miss Plum, pointing with her umbrella to desks near the front of the room. She cast a severe look at Tandy. “You, too!”
Tandy and Fletcher meekly squeezed into two second grade chairs, and seeing the difficult feat it was for the medium-sized man and the voluptuous woman, Miss Plum amended her order. “You may sit on top of the desks if you’re more comfortable,” she said, seating herself where she felt the most comfortable, behind her own teacher’s desk.
Folding her hands and resting them on her blotter, she leveled a gaze at Fletcher.
“You say this is your planet, too?”
Fletcher nodded his head vigorously. “I’m an Earthling! I was minding my own business—sleeping in my own bed, as a matter of fact—when suddenly a whole pack of aliens were in my room!”
Tandala made a huffing sound. “A whole pack. You make it sound like we’re wild animals, Fletcher.”
“Shh!” directed the teacher and, chastened, Tandy pressed her lips together.
“When was this?” said Miss Plum.
“When?” asked Fletcher. “Well, it seems like years ago, but—” He looked at the neat writing on the top of the blackboard. “Is that today’s date?”
The teacher craned her head to look at the board behind her and nodded.
“Then it was just days ago.” He looked at Tandy. “Wow, time really does fly.”
“I won’t argue with that,” agreed the alien.
Miss Plum rapped her knuckles on the desktop.
“I’m going to ask you what I ask my students when I need to get to the bottom of something: start at the beginning.”
Tandy and Fletcher exchanged looks and resigned shrugs and proceeded to do exactly as the teacher ordered.
“Why, I never . . . ,” said Miss Plum after Fletcher and Tandala had told their tale. Finally, she was successful at speaking aloud; she had opened her mouth three times with the intention of verbally communicating but had shut it just as many times when words failed to materialize. The fourth time proved the charm. “Who would have . . . well, all I can say is thank goodness I stayed after school to clean out the cloakroom!”
“Really?” asked Fletcher, his heart suddenly beating faster. “You’re glad?”
“Of course,” said Miss Plum. “I always teach my students to be open to new learning experiences—and you can’t deny an alien encounter is a new learning experience!”
“Unfortunately,” said Tandy, “this particular experience is going to have to end. Fletcher and I have other business to attend to.”
“Oh,” said the teacher, her pretty lips pouted in disappointment. “May I ask what other business?”
Rising, Tandala shrugged. “We really have no idea.”
Miss Plum frowned. “If it were my mission, I think I’d like a bit more of a lesson plan.”
Seeing Tandy bow her head as if scolded, Fletcher couldn’t help his blurt of laughter, which made the teacher color.
“I don’t mean to criticize,” she said.
“No, no, I understand completely,” said Tandala. “I would have liked a bit more of a lesson plan, too, but Lodge 1212 always—oh, what is your saying?—flies by the seat of its pants.”
“Well, now you’ve got Mr. Weschel to consider,” said Miss Plum, folding her hands primly in front her. “And maybe flying by the seat of your pants isn’t the best method of transport for his comfort and safety.”
Fletcher felt as if he had just had a medal pinned on him by a five-star general.
“Looking to history,” said the teacher, writing on a pad of paper, “we could presume that you’re off to another one of Fletcher’s boyhood fantasies.” She looked up at Fletcher. “That’s also presuming you had more than two fantasies.”
Fletcher blushed. “You would be correct in that presumption.”
“So,” said the teacher, regarding Tandy. “Is that what you’re doing, exploring Mr. Weschel’s imagination? And if so, for what purpose?”
The alien scratched the nape of her neck and then, with a look of concern, looked down at her shoe, as if it had caused her sudden pain.
Miss Plum was familiar with stall tactics from her students but she was abashed that the alien used them.
“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
“One does not necessarily need a map to travel.”
The teacher wrote something down and clicked her pen before setting it down.
“I guess one way or another, things will be revealed.”
“Exactly!” said Tandala, appreciating the young teacher’s graciousness. She looked at Fletcher. “Are you ready?”
“This is so exciting!” said Miss Plum, standing up. “I’ve always been a fan of science fiction, but to witness science fact—my goodness . . . it’s just so hard to believe.”
“Ha!” said Fletcher. “Imagine how I feel.”
The blonde teacher stared at him for a moment, her brow furrowing as if she were displeased at him, but when she broke into a smile, deep dimples flashing, Fletcher’s stomach rode a little elevator.
“Like you’ve been through a cosmic wringer, I’ll bet!”
Fletcher returned her smile, thinking, That’s it exactly.
Part IV
15
Fletcher plunged into water and a minute later bobbed up, gasping for air from both the shock of the cold and the shock of his new circumstances. To go from bathing in the delightful attentions of Miss Plum to this plummet into glacial waters was the most jarring—and unwelcomed—zamoosh thus far.
“What’s the big idea?” he sputtered, assuming Tandala was near enough to respond, but before he could see or hear her, he was yanked out of the water with such force that he cried out.
Fletcher had never tried LSD, but he imagined that what his mind was trying to process right now would make an acid trip seem like a mild caffeine rush. Speed. Water. Blue. White. Speed. Maniacal laughter—his own! Shouts. A boat. A boat ahead of him. He looked at his hands—small fat hands attached to short fat forearms—which held a triangular plastic handle attached to a rope, attached to a boat, in blue and white water, going fast. He was waterskiing.
Remembering his very first zamoosh on mountain slopes, he looked down to see if he was naked again. He couldn’t see over his big belly, so he leaned forward and saw that thankfully the practical jokers had at least allowed him the modesty of swimming trunks.
“You’re doing it, Shark! Way to go, Shark!”
Straightening up, he looked at the boat ahead of him and returned the waves of several boys whose heft matched his.
“Why are they calling me ‘Shark,’ Tandy?” Fletcher said, but he heard no answer and his skis jumped in the boat’s wake as it cut sharply to the left. Losing his balance, Fletcher fell into the water with a resounding splash, and when the boat circled around and the man at the helm asked him if he was all right, it was the eleven-year-old boy nicknamed Shark who said, “Sure, Bear—but can I go around again one more time, please?”
Intergalactic Memo
To: Tandala
From: Charmat
We are hearing stirrings that there is some sort of big competition afloat and that Fletcher is key in this competition. Because Lodge 1212’s tendency is not to worry, we’re not worrying . . . . Still, if I were a member of another Lodge who was paranoid (I’m specifically thinking of those of #448 who think that wherever they are Orion’s arrow is aimed at them), I’d thi
nk that you might wish to be more engaged in Fletcher’s life/lives, as your extracurricular activities might harm our chances in winning whatever prize there is to be won.
But far be it from me to counsel you to do anything but party on!
Intergalactic Memo/Reply
To: Charmat
From: Tandala
I’m engaged, Charmat, hoola, baby, am I engaged.
As for Fletcher, I marvel at his adaptability and independence.
In the attached Sense-O-Gram, enjoy the moonlight stroll down the pier, and when an ocean breeze picks up, the soft grateful smile you feel when a sweater is placed across your shoulders by hands you trust.
The stated mission of Camp WoogiWikki, located on the banks of the pristine Vermont lake from which its name derived, was To Turn Your Overweight, Idle Child into a Slim, Active One! It gave hope and relief to parents of means from all over the country who responded by sending their children to its eight-week sessions. The camp was at its capacity from its inception.
“Man, I never realized there were so many rich fat kids,” said one counselor to another as they watched the very first group of children disembark from assorted chauffeured cars.
“Shh!” warned Miss DuBarry, the founder, who had herself been more than pleasingly plump as a youngster. “Fat is not a word we allow at Camp WoogiWikki!”
I only calls ’em like I sees ’em, thought the new State College graduate with a degree in physical fitness.
It was that small exchange that gave Lucille DuBarry one of what she called her Eureka Flashes.
“We’re going to give every child a nickname that will give him or her a sense of strength,” she told her counselors. “A name that unlike their real one has nothing to do with how they see themselves currently.”
Now in its twelfth successful year, it was Camp WoogiWikki’s tradition to have its counselors, after the Camp Welcome, Camp Song, and Recitation of the Camp Pledge, conduct a New Identity Ceremony. The first year, a counselor thought names inspired by weather, like Storm, Hurricane, and Hail, denoted energy but had to rethink one moniker when the boy he called Wind tearfully told him the sort of teasing he was being subject to.
Mac (short for McKinley), a counselor who conducted his Oak cabin workouts like a drill sergeant, gave himself and his charges names of mountains—Teton, Sierra, Shasta—although one year when he had a particularly lazy camper, he often thought, Even I can’t move this mountain.
In the Birch cabin, Shark tried to convey the thrill of waterskiing to his parents, in his biweekly letter:
I was going so fast, and it’s not like it’s not bumpy on that water, and I just couldn’t help laughing! This boy named Cheetah nearly stayed up as long as me but not quite!! Our counselor who I hope you get to meet because he’s the greatest says I might just be a natural! Well, I guess I should go now because we’ve got lunch and then it’s the big volleyball match!
Your son, Vince (otherwise known as Shark)
It was an intense and insular eight weeks. Originally, there had been more interplay with the girls, whose weight-loss camp Miss DuBarry had situated on the other side of the lake, but the dance was dropped after its second year (the kids were so self-conscious that it seemed more a punishment than a reward), and two years later, for the same reason the coed opening and closing ceremonies were withdrawn.
Miss DuBarry tried to subvert the rivalry among the four cabins that made up the boys’ camp by grouping some classes and games by age rather than cabin, but loyalty to the cabin prevailed.
In the dining hall, it was obvious that Aspen didn’t mingle with Oak, who had nothing to do with Birch, who hadn’t the time of day for Fir. (The cabins were already named when Miss DuBarry bought the camp, and rather than bother with repainting the signs or taking them down she kept them the way they were.) Each cabin held boys ranging from ages eight to twelve; this, thought Miss DuBarry, was a way for the older boys to inspire the younger boys and the younger boys to teach responsibility to the older ones. That hopeful scenario seemed to work itself out in public, but away from adult supervision inside their cabins little fiefdoms were constructed in which the older boys made all the decisions and used the younger boys primarily as their personal servants.
“Oaks, how many times do I have to tell you—chew your food, don’t inhale it!”
Listening to Mac bark orders at his campers, Shark helped himself to another carrot from the relish tray, thinking how lucky he was to be a Birch, with a nice counselor like Bear. More than once, he had seen Oak boys vomit or cry or both from the strenuous workouts Mac put them through.
“Come on, Teton, you can’t tell me you can only do thirty-two sit-ups!”
“One more time around the track, Allegheny, or it’s no dinner for you!”
Now as Mac continued to berate his Oaks, Shark gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to Zebra, the youngest member of the Birch cabin. Even as they had entered the second week, the boy was still homesick, crying himself to sleep after Lights Out. Shark could see that Mac’s harsh tone affected Zebra, who was beginning to tear up.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, knowing that it was one thing to cry in the dark privacy of your own bunk and a different thing altogether to cry in the dining hall, in broad daylight. “They say people who talk the toughest are really the biggest wimps.”
This brought a bashful smile to the eight-year-old’s face.
“You think he’th a wimp?” he lisped.
Shark nodded. “I heard him cry like a baby when Bear beat him in a swimming race.”
“Really?” said Zebra, who snuck a sidelong glance at the counselor who was now reminding another boy that just because the relish tray held “free food,” it didn’t mean he was allowed to empty it.
“Oh, it was pathetic,” said Shark.
Zebra chortled at this, and as he happily returned to his own lunch, Shark decided he was finished with his. There was still a quarter of a canned peach slice and at least two tablespoons of cottage cheese remaining in the partitions of his plate, but he was done. He had never been able to leave food on his plate—whether he liked it or not—and the act of doing so filled him with a sense of control he had never before felt. As he savored his water, he looked around the dining hall at his competition.
There were two boys from the Aspen cabin he’d have to watch—in the first week, Eagle had lost the most weight of any of the eleven-year-olds and Tern had done well at both weigh-ins, but Shark had seen them buying candy on a field trip into town last Saturday. It wasn’t as if one Butterfinger or a Mars bar would torpedo everything, but still, Shark was not going to take any chances.
Absently drumming his fingers on the brim of the baseball cap in his lap (hats weren’t allowed indoors), he coolly eyed the Fir table, where Copper was dabbing his mouth with his napkin. The biggest boy at camp, Copper couldn’t walk ten steps without his shorts riding up and bunching in places they weren’t supposed to bunch. He was always the last in a race or on a hike, having to stop to ingloriously dig his shorts out from his hindquarters. Shark had heard that his father was a nuclear physicist who had been lured to America from Austria before the war; at the last Tuesday Night Talent Show, Copper had sung German songs, wearing a pair of lederhosen for whose construction a very large cow had sacrificed its hide. He had a high sweet voice, which Miss DuBarry appreciated but which didn’t do much in the way of impressing his peers.
Still, Shark sensed in Copper a steely resolution, one that would serve him well even as the rest of the kids made fun of him.
It was in Rocky at the Oak table that Shark saw his biggest rival. After the first weigh-in, he realized the two were the exact same weight—212 pounds. They were about the same height, too, although Rocky carried himself as if he were the tallest person in the whole camp, adults included. Shark thought that because they shared the same weight, they might also enjoy a cross-cabin friendship, but his first words to Rocky as they walked out of the Weigh Station—“Do you
wanna—” were interrupted by an adamant “No!”
Since then, Shark had adapted Rocky’s own cool-toward-everyone-but-his-own-cabin-mates demeanor.
I’m not here to make friends, he’d remind himself when he wanted to look at Hawk’s marbles or play darts with Iron and Steel. I’m here to lose weight. And win the contest.
The contest was what was helping many of the boys stick to the rigid diet and exercise program.
“Can you believe it?” Cheetah, Shark’s closest friend in the cabin, asked. “Isn’t that the best prize ever?
“I know,” said Shark. “I can’t wait to win it!”
Jack Parrish was a former bodybuilder who had parlayed his muscles, killer smile, and thick black hair into a movie career. His movie Agent of Impossibility had been a huge hit, arriving the same week as Dr. No. Two months later, it was still number one in theaters.
“Ha!” a major film reviewer had reported. “Seems our American Jack Parrish is smoother, smarter, and better looking than Great Britain’s Sean Connery!”
By a stroke of outrageous luck, Lucille DuBarry had grown up next door to Mervin Phillips, who as a child had been ridiculed for his weight as well as his black curly hair, which his mother liked to keep longish just because it was so pretty. In the neighborhood they grew up in, it was thought that the two eldest Phillips sons were the ones to watch, and not the little fat kid with the ringlets.
There were lowered expectations for the DuBarry girl, too, because of her weight, and it was this shared burden that brought Lucille and Mervin together. While the other children swam and played kickball and climbed trees, Lucille and Mervin played games of jacks and Tiddlywinks and Parcheesi or wrote plays they acted out for themselves, in which they were the beautiful princess and the handsome prince, who rather than getting picked on were revered.
The Phillips family had moved away when Mervin was twelve and Lucille was fourteen, and the friendship had died out after the two exchanged a few letters, until Lucille read an article in Look magazine about the actor who was about to star in a major Hollywood espionage movie.