Stuck on Earth

by David Klass

  No, this is not going to work. I may be marooned on Earth indefinitely. It’s even possible that Miss Schroeder is right and this is—and always has been—my permanent home. I’ve wasted a beautiful fall day cowering in fear.

  Mr. Stringfellow said the mark of a man is how he deals with adversity. It’s no use slinking from hiding place to hiding place and hoping that I’ll be rescued. If I’m stuck on Planet Earth, for a day or a lifetime, then I might as well step up to the plate and try to act like a man. And suddenly I know just what to do to honor Mr. Stringfellow’s memory.

  I get some gear together: dark jeans, a black shirt, a camera, a flashlight, and a length of rope. As the sun sets, I dress in my ninja outfit, stow the stuffin a small bag, and head downstairs.

  32

  My mother is on the phone in the kitchen, calling various friends of my dad to see if any of them have heard from him. From the drained look on her face, I can tell that there is no news.

  I slip by her, out the back door, and head for the garage to get my bicycle. A creaking sound makes me stop. Michelle’s swing is moving back and forth in the evening breeze.

  For a moment I hesitate. I’m pretty sure she wants nothing more to do with me. But I have decided to be brave tonight, and this seems like the logical place to start.

  I find the path through the hedge and walk over to her. “Greetings, Michelle,” I call out. “Do not be alarmed. It is not a stranger, come to harm you. It is only me, Tom Filber.”

  “You already hurt me,” she says.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I should not have written to the Preceptors about you. It was not a Galactic Confederation matter. What happened between us should have stayed between us.”

  She glances at me and then quickly away. “Nothing happened between us.”

  “Yes, you are right,” I agree, and lower my voice. “But I would still like to apologize for going for tongue action. As crazy as I know this sounds, it was not my idea. Tom Filber has had a crush on you for many years. In a moment of weakness, I listened to his foolish advice.”

  How dare you tell her that? Tom’s furious voice demands from the Ragwellian Bubble.

  Because it’s true, I respond. You did have a crush on her.

  I can feel him hurling his consciousness against the sides of the bubble in a rage. You have no right to talk to her about me! This is a low-down betrayal. I’ll get you back for this!

  I’m just trying to be honest, I tell him. Now shut up.

  “Who are you telling to shut up?” Michelle asks. Apparently I have mumbled a few words out loud.

  “I was talking to myself,” I tell her quickly. “I was telling myself to ‘step up’ and take the blame for my own actions. I may be stuck on Earth for a while, so I have decided to live by a human code of conduct and try to act like an honorable man.”

  She peers up at me. “You really believe that stuff, don’t you?”

  “What stuff?”

  “The letters you wrote, about being from a sand planet.”

  “It’s called Sandoval, but there’s not much sand. It’s swampy. And very beautiful.”

  She studies my face in the moonlight. “This isn’t just a joke? In your mind you really think it’s true?”

  “I hope it’s true,” I tell her. “Sometimes I don’t know myself. My spaceship is not answering my calls. I’m confused and scared right now.”

  She seems to like me when I’m honest and vulnerable. “Climb up on the swing for a minute. Sit over there. Don’t try to touch me or I’ll scream.”

  I climb up on the swing and sit across from her. Our feet push the swing back and forth.

  “You sounded a little scared today, when you read that speech in class,” she says.

  I nod, and recite the line: “ ‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’ “ For an intense moment Michelle and I look right into each other’s eyes. “I was realizing that it’s pretty hard to be true to my own self, if I don’t know who I am,” I tell her. “Maybe that’s one reason I didn’t treat you the way you deserved to be treated. I’m very sorry.”

  “It does feel like you’ve changed a lot in the last week,” she replies softly. “I’ve lived next to you all my life, and I sense that you’re very different. But it’s more likely that you’re just crazy than that you’re really an alien.” She smiles. “No off ense.”

  I smile back. “None taken. Miss Schroeder agrees with you. She thinks it’s just an empowerment fantasy. I’m a little worried that she could be right, and I might really be Tom Filber, stuck here forever on Planet Earth, and driven over the edge by bullying and my lousy home life. But deep down, I know where I’m from, Michelle.”

  “You’ve never said my name like that before,” she whispers.

  “Like what?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her blue eyes glint.

  I get up and slide over to her side of the swing and sit down next to her. “Like what?” I repeat.

  “Where are you from, Tom?”

  I raise a finger heavenward. “There’s the constellation humans call Orion, the Hunter. You see those three bright stars in a row? Those make up his belt—Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka. To the right of Mintaka, can you see a very faint gleam? Sandoval’s sun is midway in that nebula.”

  She has followed my finger and is staring up at the stars. “You do seem to know an awful lot about astronomy,” she breathes. She slowly lowers her gaze to look back at me and it must be an illusion, but for a moment the red suns of Sandoval seem to be gilding her face. Her blue eyes flame dark purple and her cheeks are flushed.

  I am tempted to kiss her again. But I do not. When I got on the swing she warned me not to touch her. I stand up very fast and try to control myself. “I should go now.”

  “Where?” she asks.

  “The river.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I am tired of hiding in my room, waiting for the world to leave me alone,” I tell her. “Clearly that is never going to happen. I want to take an action. I am going on a quest to honor Mr. Stringfellow’s memory. I promised him I would do it, and I will.”

  She stands up. “No, we promised him we would do it.”

  “Isn’t it late for you?” I ask.

  “The Goth concert will probably last another hour, and the drummer looks a little drunk.” She hesitates. “I really want to come. But what exactly are we going to do?”

  “I think the paint factory may be dumping chemical waste into the river,” I tell her. “I want to get proof.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “My plan is to slip in quietly, now that everyone is gone, get the proof, and slip out.” I would love her to come on this trip with me, but I have pledged to be honorable and responsible. I remember the guard who woke me from my Flindarian Lapse on the bank of the Hoosaguchee. He claimed dogs patrolled the property. I do not believe this. There were also supposed to be dogs at the Harbishaw mansion, but it was just a blu?. I never heard so much as a bark. “The truth is I can’t promise it will be completely safe. And I don’t want to get you into trouble or put you in danger.”

  “You won’t be getting me into trouble,” Michelle says. “I’m making this decision for myself. Mr. Stringfellow was a cool guy. And I don’t like sitting out here on a swing any more than you like hiding in your room. Anyway, I’m already dressed perfectly for the occasion.” I see that she’s wearing black jeans and a dark top. “Do you want my company or not?” she asks.

  I climb off the swing and officer her my hand, and she takes it. Her fingers feel warm in mine. She hops off after me, and we head away together.

  33

  The streetlights stop where the houses do, and we ride on, side by side, in the moonlight. It is a cool fall night, but the excitement of a shared adventure keeps me warm. We are really going to do this! I have a strange sense that this is what it means to be young and human—to take a risk and try to accomplish something, even if there are very real dangers crowding in fr
om the shadows.

  The river soon gleams ahead of us, a glittering black band that catches starlight like cosmic flypaper. Its musky throat-clogging stench grows stronger, and when we turn onto River Road I can hear it trying to crawl up the bank in an endless scurrying of tiny wavelets.

  “Where to now?” Michelle asks.

  “This way,” I tell her, and we head northward. Factories loom on both sides of the river. In the moonlight I can just make out the K of Kinderly Plastics Works.

  We reach the end of River Road and I show her the spot beneath a tree where we can conceal our bikes. “You’ve been here before?” she whispers.

  “Once,” I tell her. “We just follow the river.” I lead her along the muddy bank. Our sneakers make little sucking sounds as they rise and fall.

  “It sure is dark,” she whispers.

  “Darkness is our friend,” I tell her. “As long as we’re in our ninja outfits.”

  Now that we are taking a decisive action, my mind is clearer and sharper than it has been for two days. I could probably muster the concentration needed for a Flindarian Lapse, but I can’t ask Michelle to wait on the mud bank while I search the stars. There is, however, something I can do to show her why this night mission is so important.

  “Take this camera for a second,” I tell her. “It’s time to film some wildlife.”

  She looks around. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Not yet.” I point to the river. “Keep watching.”

  She peers out. “What’s out there? The Loch Ness Monster?”

  “Something even better,” I tell her. I clear my mind, but instead of throwing my essence skyward in a Flindarian Lapse, I use the Schusterfong Summons to call upon a fellow living creature. Since I’ve seen this river dweller before, I know exactly how to try to reach out to it.

  To accomplish the Schusterfong Summons, I plug my ears with my index fingers and open my mouth as wide as possible. My tongue lolls out, and I begin to softly ululate. I realize I must look ridiculous.

  The camera dangles down from Michelle’s wrist as she stares at me. She asks very nervously: “Tom, what’s going on? Are you having a fit?”

  It’s difficult to answer her while I am Schusterfonging. “The camera,” I ululate.

  “What about it?”

  “Raise. Aim. There!”

  A tiny sparkle of reflected moonlight threads its way through the shallows. “What is it?” she asks.

  “A brown speckled mucker,” I ululate. “Get a shot.”

  She raises the camera and starts filming. The mucker swims to the surface and does a half roll. The moonlight reflects off the sequinlike scales on its belly. It’s very close now. Michelle hits the flash, and for a moment I can see its entire three-inch shape, from its tapered mouth to the brown speckles that begin near its gill cover and run down to its bluish caudal tail fin. Then, as if deciding that we’ve all had enough fun, it disappears into the deeper water, and I snap out of the Schusterfong.

  “Did you get it?” I ask her.

  “See for yourself.” She plays it back for me on the camera’s small screen. The fish can be seen clearly, turning on its back and reflecting light back at us with its belly scales. “What’s the big deal about it?”

  “The brown speckled mucker is highly endangered,” I explain. “It’s on state and federal lists. If the Harbishaws are dumping stuffinto the river near an endangered species, they’re in really big trouble.”

  She nods, and we turn to look at the giant paint factory. Its twin smokestacks tower above us like black pillars holding up the dark clouds of the night sky. “How are we going to get in?” she whispers.

  “Hop the fence. I brought pliers to bend down the wires at the top. Ready?”

  “One question first,” she says. “If that fish is so rare and endangered, how did you know it was going to be here?”

  “This is where it lives,” I tell her. “I saw one swimming in this bend of the river the last time I came.”

  “But how did you know it would swim up to the bank? You started making that strange sound and then it came right to us.”

  I smile at her. “That was one of my special alien powers. Or it could just have been good timing and dumb luck. Take your pick.” I’m trying to turn this into a joke, but Michelle is studying my face and she’s not laughing. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m starting to like you,” she confesses, “and I’m not sure whether I’d rather have you turn out to be a crazy boy or a perfectly sane snail creature.”

  “Either way, I like you, too,” I whisper back. “And I’m real glad you came. It wouldn’t be much fun to do this alone.”

  She nods. “Yeah, it’s dark and creepy. Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

  34

  The wire fence that surrounds the Harbishaw paint factory is fifteen feet high. We follow its curving perimeter, passing signs that warn: private property. no trespassing. keep out.

  “I don’t think we’re going to find a hole,” Michelle says.

  “We don’t need one,” I tell her. “We’re going to go over it, not through it. But we do need a little privacy.”

  We soon come to a cluster of trees that screen a section of fence from the factory. I take the pliers out of the bag, clench them between my teeth, and start climbing. The chinks in the fence are the perfect size for handholds and footholds, and I reach the top in seconds.

  Needle-sharp spikes poke up every few inches. I grab the pliers and start bending the spikes down till I’ve flattened out a two-foot section. “Come on up,” I whisper.

  Michelle climbs as I swing myself over the top and head down. A tree has fallen over inside, so that its broken trunk leans against the fence and makes a nice landing pad. From the tree trunk I hop to the ground, and in a few seconds Michelle joins me there. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she marvels softly.

  “Let’s go finish the job,” I whisper back, and lead her toward the dark factory.

  We cross the deserted parking lot. As we approach the back of the building, I spot a loading dock. The door suddenly opens, and a man appears holding a flashlight. I pull Michelle behind one of the few cars left in the lot.

  I steal a peek around the side of the fender and spot a security guard in a brown uniform. The beam from his flashlight darts around the parking lot and for a long moment shines right on our hiding place. “He’s seen us,” Michelle gasps.

  “I don’t think so,” I respond. “He’s just looking around.”

  His footsteps approach our car from the far side. “He’s coming,” she whispers. “Let’s run for it.”

  “We’d never make it. Better to hide,” I tell her and squirm under the car. She follows my example, and we’re soon lying side by side beneath the chassis, watching the security guard’s boots approach.

  He stops so near to us that I can hear his breathing. If he shines his flashlight under the car he’ll find us for sure. I take Michelle’s hand in the darkness and give her a reassuring squeeze. She squeezes back. We’re both holding our breath.

  The guard circles the car and then slowly walks off. We listen to his footsteps recede until they fade into the silence of the night.

  “He might come back,” Michelle whispers.

  “No, he’s gone,” I tell her, rolling out from under the car. “But that was a close call. Why don’t you head back out and wait for me outside the fence?”

  She gets to her feet next to me. “Who said anything about heading back? We just need to be careful.”

  We hurry toward the building, and I feel a surge of self-doubt. What is a Level-Five GC Evaluator doing breaking into a guarded factory? Come to think of it, it’s probably not smart behavior for a fourteen-year-old boy, either. But we’ve come too far to turn back. For Mr. Stringfellow and also for myself, on some deep level I know I have to see this through. Michelle doesn’t seem inclined to turn back, either. So on we go, step by step toward the back of the enormous building.
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br />   We reach the loading dock and see a parked tanker truck. Red letters on its side warn: central jersey filtration plant. danger—hazardous materials. The side of the truck is labeled with HAZMAT and EPA insignias. Could I be wrong? Does this factory send its chemical waste to a treatment plant and pay for it to be filtered?

  I remember the chemical stench I smelled the first night I came to the river, and how badly the security guard wanted to get me out of there. And I recall how the river itself seemed to cry out to me. All my instincts tell me we’re on the right track and should keep going.

  A thick black hose runs from a pump on the tanker truck through the loading dock door. “I’m gonna see where that hose leads,” I tell Michelle. “If anybody comes, give a whistle. Try to make it sound like a birdcall.”

  I dart out of hiding, and Michelle stays right with me. “I’m not great on birdcalls,” she explains, and pushes in the door ahead of me. The door swings shut behind us, and we enter the bowels of the giant factory.

  The low-ceilinged corridors are lit by fluorescent lights set far apart. We follow the hose around dark twists and turns to a basement level that opens into a storage chamber. Warnings are posted: danger—toxins.

  “There!” I whisper. Several dozen giant containers sit shoulder to shoulder on wooden pallets, arranged in rows. Each container is more than ten feet high and must weigh several hundred pounds. They are labeled danger—hazardous waste.

  I raise the camera to film them, but Michelle touches my arm and whispers: “I hear something.”

  Men’s voices ring out. We duck into a corner of the storage chamber, behind some wooden crates. The voices get louder—they’re heading our way. I poke the camera lens through a hole in a crate and peer at the viewfinder.

  Two men appear, one tall and the other broad-shouldered and squat. They take the black hose that runs down from the truck and attach it to a container in the front row. I can hear the liquid being sucked out by the pump. The waste is going into the tanker truck. The two men repeat this procedure a dozen times. Soon, all the containers in the front row are empty.