My Teacher Is an Alien

by Bruce Coville

  Actually, at the moment I was upset about the broccoli. But Ms. Schwartz was a close second. I nodded weakly.

  "Well, I can tell you it wasn't Dr. Bleekman's fault," she said. "In fact, he's very upset that Ms. Schwartz didn't give him more notice. I talked to

  Helen. She told me Ms. Schwartz didn't even have the courtesy to tell Dr. Bleekman face to face that she was leaving. He got a letter the first day of vacation, saying she wouldn't be back. That left him six days to find someone to take her place. I think he did very well to find that handsome Mr. Smith in such a short period of time."

  "Mr. Smith is ruining our class," I said bleakly.

  "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Susan," said Mom.

  I'm planning to be an actress when I grow up. What should I be? Athletic? Besides, this so-called teacher was going to kidnap some of my classmates and drag them off to outer space. Suddenly I realized that I had been putting off the truth. He wasn't going to kidnap some of my class mates. If he was going to pick someone from my class, I might well be on his list. In fact, after he read that note, I might be his number-one prospect.

  I swallowed hard. I was dying to tell my folks what I had learned, but I knew they wouldn't believe me.

  That night I tried to call Peter. But I couldn't get any answer at his house. "Come on, Peter," I hissed at the phone. "Where are you? I need you!"

  I let it ring fifteen times.

  No answer.

  I tried again an hour later.

  No answer.

  I was as nervous as a marshmallow at a bonfire.

  It was even worse when I had to go to school the next morning. I didn't think Broxholm knew I had been in his house. But what if I had left behind some kind of clue? Or what if he had some kind of alien super-senses that would let him know I had been there? What about that weird/ muscular nose? Just how powerful was his sense of smell? Would he know I had been snooping by my odor? I watched his nose carefully when I walked through the classroom door that morning. It didn't twitch or anything. But that didn't mean much. Maybe underneath that mask his real nose had sniffed me out. Maybe it was sending him a message even now. There she is. That's the one who was in the house yesterday!.

  I sat down. I was so tense I felt as if I would explode if anyone so much as touched me. I wanted to pass Peter a note asking him to meet me on the playground at recess. But I was in enough trouble because of notes already.

  We stood up and said the Pledge of Allegiance. Then Smith/Broxholm motioned me to his desk.

  "I think you lost something yesterday," he said.

  And then he handed me my note.

  CHAPTER SIX - Drafting Peter

  I sat at my desk and stared at the note. What was going on here? Was Broxholm playing with me?

  For a moment the thought that he was actually being a nice guy crossed my mind. I brushed it away. Nice guys don't kidnap sixth graders and drag them into outer space. I decided it was more likely he was just sending me a message. I've got your number, kid. Don't mess with me.

  I was so wrapped up in trying to figure out what was going on that I could barely concentrate on my work. Most of the time I just sat and stared at Broxholm's face, trying to figure out how the mask was attached.

  When I started to wonder if there was any way I could pull it off, my imagination began cooking up a horrifying scene. In this daydream, I saw myself grab Broxholm's ears and begin pulling

  on them, trying to unmask him. Only the mask wouldn't come off. So I pulled harder. Suddenly his face began to stretch and twist all out of shape. But still the mask wouldn't come off.

  It was gross.

  Stop it! I told my brain firmly.

  But the vision kept coming back.

  Sometimes I wonder about my brain; I mean, it seems to have a mind of its own. If it was really my brain, you'd think I would have a little more control over it, wouldn't you?

  When you get right down to it, brains are pretty weird.

  But not as weird as having an alien for a teacher.

  By the middle of the morning, I was beginning to wonder if this whole alien business had been a bad dream. It seemed too impossible to believe.

  But I knew I hadn't been dreaming. It was real.

  My teacher was an alien.

  I couldn't wait to get Peter aside so I could talk to him.

  When recess came, I tried to act calm as I wandered over to the wall where Peter usually sat to read. He was sitting on the ground, cross-legged, clutching a book called A Princess of Mars in his skinny hands.

  I slid down the wall and sat beside him.

  He acted as if he didn't notice me. Or maybe he really didn't. He was one of those kids who could get so wrapped up in a book it would take a bomb to break his attention.

  I hated to interrupt him. Peter always seemed a little unhappy to me, like he understood that he just didn't fit in with the rest of us. The only thing I knew that made him happy was reading science fiction. He always had a book hidden behind his school book. The neat thing was, it didn't make any difference, because he was so bright that whenever the teacher asked him a question, he always knew the answer. I could never figure out why they wouldn't just leave him alone and let him read. But that's the way school is, I guess.

  "So, what's going on?" I said.

  What a stupid line ! I'm glad I'm a girl, because when I get older the guys are going to have to come up with lines when they want to start a conversation. Now there's one job I'll be glad to let them have!

  Peter lifted his nose out of the book and looked at me as if I were the alien. He blinked, and I realized he was trying to come back to the real world. I felt bad for interrupting him. In class he had to read with one eye on the teacher. Out here he probably planned on shutting everything out for a while.

  I hesitated for a minute. How was I going to say this?

  Finally I just decided to jump right in. "I need your help," I said.

  Peter looked surprised. "For what?" he asked.

  I realized I hadn't jumped in after all. The biggie was still to come.

  "Promise you won't laugh at me?" I asked.

  Peter shrugged. "Sure, I promise."

  "All right, listen. I know you're not going to believe this, but I found out something awful yesterday. Mr. Smith is an alien. He's come here to kidnap a bunch of kids and take them back to outer space."

  I held my breath to see what Peter would say. I thought he might laugh, or tell me to get lost, or— and this thought really scared me—shout it out to everyone else. To my astonishment, he didn't do any of those things. He just looked as if he was going to cry.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "You should know," he said. He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his nose.

  What was going on here? I had a sudden thought that maybe he was an alien, too. That was stupid, of course. But I had aliens on the brain, and I couldn't figure out what else it might be.

  "I don't know," I said. "Honest I don't."

  He looked at me, and his eyes were so sad they made me want to cry, too.

  "I always thought you were the one kid in this class who was on my side," he said. "Like that time you tried to stop Duncan when he was beating me up. I expect everyone else to tease me. I just never thought you would do it."

  Now it was my turn to be mad. "I'm not teasing!" I yelled. Then I lowered my voice. "I'm not teasing!" I hissed. "I'm serious."

  Peter stared at me. "Is this some kind of game?" he asked.

  I hesitated. If I told him the truth, he probably wouldn't believe me. If I told him it was a game, he might at least help me think things through.

  What a fix! The only way I could get him to believe me was to lie to him.

  "Yeah," I said. "I thought you were the one guy in this class with enough imagination to play. But now you've ruined it."

  "No!" said Peter. "No, we can still play. Just pretend you had to tell me it was a game to get me to believe you."

  My head was star
ting to spin. Peter was using my reason for lying as a reason to pretend that what he believed was a game was for real. Or something like that. This was getting too complicated for me.

  This is going to be one of those weeks, I thought. The only person I can count on for help stopping an alien invasion thinks the whole thing is a game!

  Well, as my grandmother always says, you make do with what you've got.

  And Peter was what I had. I decided to stop worrying about who was believing what and just tell him what had happened.

  "Well?" I said when I was done. "What do you think we should do?"

  Peter stared at the sky for a minute. He rubbed his chin as if he was thinking really hard.

  Then he gave me his answer.

  "We've got no choice," he said. "We'll have to break into Broxholm's house to look for evidence."

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Night Expedition

  Peter was right, of course. That was the worst thing about it.

  And what did I say? Now that I had someone who was willing to help me and had actually given me some good advice, did I say, "Thank you very much?"

  Are you kidding? I looked at him and said, "You have got to be out of your mind!"

  "I am not!" said Peter indignantly. "If we're going to do anything about Broxholm we have to have proof. And the only way to get proof is to get into his house and find some."

  I thought about that. I couldn't come up with any way around it. How else could we find proof that we were telling the truth?

  Then I thought of something else. "I don't think it will do any good," I said. "There's not much in there. He doesn't have any furniture or anything."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I told you, I was in there yesterday."

  "Oh, yeah," said Peter. "I forgot."

  I could tell he still thought I was making this up.

  "Did you see the whole place?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Well, maybe there's something in his bedroom," he said. "Or the attic. Or the kitchen." His face lit up. "That's it!" he said. "The kitchen. Who knows what they eat on the planet he comes from? I bet we'll find all kinds of gross alien slime in his refrigerator!"

  "Peter, you're brilliant!" I said. I was actually starting to feel hopeful. All we needed was just one thing that would prove I wasn't making all this up.

  "Now, when can we do it?" I asked. "We can't let him catch us!"

  Peter thought for a minute. "There's a PTA meeting tomorrow night," he said. "I heard Dr. Bleekman say that all the teachers have to be there. That's the only time we can be sure Broxholm will be out of his house.

  "Tomorrow it is," I said.

  That was Wednesday. By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, I was a wreck. I had spent two full days sitting in that classroom, staring at

  Mr. Smith and knowing his handsome face was only a mask—a mask that hid the terrifying face of an alien.

  While none of the other kids were crazy about Mr. Smith, they didn't think there was anything really wrong with him. Only Peter knew the secret—and he thought it was a game I had invented.

  "What about Dr. Bleekman?" he said to me during afternoon recess.

  "What about him?" I asked.

  "Do you think he's in cahoots with Broxholm? They seem pretty chummy."

  I shook my head. "My mother told me Dr. Bleekman was really angry with Ms. Schwartz for quitting so suddenly. He wouldn't have been upset if he'd been wanting to put Broxholm in her place."

  Peter looked at me in astonishment. "Don't you know a cover story when you hear one?" he asked. "Of course he acted like he was upset! If he hadn't, it would have been suspicious. The way I figure it, Broxholm asked Dr. Bleekman which teacher he wanted to get rid of the most. Then he zapped Ms. Schwartz so there would be a spot for him to fill."

  I felt like there were ants crawling on my skin. Peter was just playing a game. But what he said made sense—too much sense. I still couldn't believe that Ms. Schwartz had just quit without saying anything to us. Something must have happened to her.

  My head was whirling. Was Dr. Bleekman really in on the whole thing? Had Broxholm really fried Ms. Schwartz? If so, what would happen if he caught Peter and me in his house? If Broxholm found some way to get himself excused and came home early to catch us rummaging through his house would he zap us, too?

  That last question really terrified me.

  But if the ideas Peter was spinning out were true, it was more important than ever that we unmask Broxholm.

  "How are you going to get out tonight?" I asked Peter.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "What do you mean, what do I mean? How are you going to get out of your house tonight?"

  I had no problem myself. My parents were officers in the PTA, and they always went to meetings. They had decided at the beginning of the year that I was too old for a baby-sitter, so as long as I was back before they got home, it wouldn't make any difference. I didn't really like sneaking out on them, but this was a matter of life and death.

  Peter looked at me in surprise. "Are you really planning to break into Mr. Smith's house?" he asked.

  "His name isn't Smith," I said. "It's Broxholm. And, yes, I'm really planning to search his house." (I couldn't bring myself to call it a break-in). "I have to have some way to prove what he really is."

  Peter looked troubled. He rubbed his hands over his skinny face. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "This isn't a game, is it?"

  I shook my head.

  Peter's eyes got wide. He swallowed a couple of times. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Don't worry, I'll be there."

  I could have hugged him.

  That night I met Peter at eight o'clock on the corner of Pine and Main. He was carrying a flashlight, which made me feel stupid, since I had forgotten mine. It was nearly dark. The crickets were singing, and the moon had already risen. Even though it was May, it was cold. Or maybe I was just cold because I was scared.

  "Ready?" I asked.

  Peter nodded. "Ready," he said.

  We each took a deep breath.

  Then we set off for the alien's house.

  "I was afraid you might not come," I said after we had gone a few blocks.

  Peter shrugged. "I didn't want you doing this alone," he said. "For a while I was afraid you were trying to pull a joke on me. I thought when I got to the corner, you and some of the others might jump out and start laughing at me."

  "Hey!" I said. "I wouldn't do something like that!"

  "I didn't think so," said Peter. "That was one reason I came. The other reason was, I figured if you really were going to break into Mr. Smith's house, this must be for real. You're not the kind of kid who would do something like that unless it was serious."

  "Believe me," I said, "this is serious."

  "I believe you," he said nervously.

  We didn't say anything else until we got to Broxholm's house.

  "Well," said Peter. "Here we are."

  "Here we are," I echoed.

  But neither of us moved. We just stood there looking at the dark empty house. I don't know about Peter, but I was trying to talk myself into taking the next step. To tell the truth, I was so scared I thought I might wet my pants.

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Alien's Lair

  I don't know how long we stood there, trying to build up enough courage to go in. I do remember looking up at the sky. It was as dark as black velvet, and the stars were like diamonds scattered across it.

  Which one of them did you come from, Broxholmi I thought. And why did you have to come hereI

  I heard Peter sigh beside me. "Isn't it wonderful?" he asked, swinging his arm up and out to indicate the entire sky. "Don't you want to go there?"

  "You've been reading too much science fiction," I said. "Come on—let's get this over with."

  Sharp leaves scraped against our faces as we pushed our way through the hole in the hedge. On the other side we dropped to our hands and knees and crawl
ed across the lawn. Even though we were

  pretty sure Broxholm wasn't home, we didn't want anyone else to see us and interrupt our mission. The lawn was drenched with dew. By the time we reached the porch the knees of my pants were soaked through and I was freezing.

  "How are we going to get in?" whispered Peter.

  Good question! It may sound stupid, but I had been so worried about what we were doing that I hadn't thought about how to do it.

  "I don't know," I hissed back. "How do people usually break into places?"

  Peter looked at me in disgust. "How would I know?" he asked. "I'm not a burglar."

  "Well, neither am I!" I snapped.

  I closed my eyes. Fighting wasn't going to get us anywhere. "Let's circle the house," I said. "Maybe we'll find an open window or something."

  We crept along the side of the house. As Peter played his flashlight over the windows I felt thankful for the hedge that masked us from the street.

  "Nothing on this side," he whispered.

  "Check down low," I said. "Maybe one of the cellar windows is open."