Stuck on Earth

by David Klass

  But it’s true. Her eyes are indeed glowing. “You have the prettiest eyes,” I hear myself say.

  She replies by just whispering my name. “Tom.”

  “No,” I whisper back. “Ketchvar.”

  “That’s a silly name. I prefer Tom.”

  “Whatever.”

  I do not want to destroy the camaraderie and good feeling we’ve built up on this night by misreading the signals and trying to kiss her. But my lips are being drawn to hers by a force stronger than our spaceship’s suction beam. It takes all my GC training to resist it.

  She looks up at me and asks softly, “Tom, what happened at the factory? I remember fainting, and you carried me through some kind of door. Then there were steps, and a wall. The dogs were closing in on us. How did we escape?”

  “I wibbled my spaceship . . .”

  “I remember you pleading for help. But there was no answer.”

  “They were in deep space,” I tell her. “But they turned on their antigravity beam.”

  Our faces are now so close that I can feel her breath on my lips. “I don’t recall a magic beam,” she says. “I remember you carrying me on your back up the steps.”

  “How could I possibly climb a flight of steep steps with you on my back?”

  “And then I remember you somehow getting us over that wall,” she continues. “You told me to hold on tight, and I did. I trusted you. And you came through. I don’t remember any spaceship. I just remember you.”

  The next thing I know, we’re kissing. This time Michelle doesn’t seem surprised or freaked out. I think she might even be the one who made the first move.

  The night wind blows our swing slowly back and forth. Crickets chirp in the tall grass. Michelle’s lips feel soft and taste sweet.

  Go for tongue action, comes the advice from the Ragwellian Bubble. This time I guarantee you’re golden.

  I warned you that was your last chance. I will the Ragwellian Bubble out of Tom Filber’s parietal lobe. It passes quickly through the blood-brain barrier into his circulatory system, is washed through the celiac artery into the stomach, and from there slips into the colon.

  Get me out of this stinking cave, his voice pleads. I was just trying to help.

  But I don’t need his help, and I couldn’t care less about tongue action. I’m enjoying being this close to Michelle. And even while I lose myself in the moment, part of me is remembering Romeo and Juliet, and the way Shakespeare based the end of his greatest love story on the power of a kiss. I may have to re-evaluate my opinions about Earth’s great artists. I recognize now that Shakespeare may actually have understated things!

  Michelle finally breaks away. Her cheeks are red, and she is breathing in excited little gulps. “I’d better go in,” she says. “Even the Goths must have quit by now.”

  “Probably,” I whisper. “Good night. Sleep tight.”

  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she whispers back, and she kisses me one last time. “Oh, I forgot, you are a bedbug.”

  “Snail,” I tell her. “Not even close.”

  38

  Michelle goes into her house, and I hear the door swing shut behind her. I stay out on the swing, alone, looking up at the stars.

  It’s been a wild night of adventure and romance, and I admit I have felt more human than Sandovinian. But I know what I have to do next.

  I take out my wibbler, and whisper, “Come in. Ketchvar here.”

  The Preceptor Supervisor’s voice answers immediately. “Ketchvar! We’ve been so worried about you. We were in deep space, beyond communication range. We’ve read all your messages. What a time you’ve had! Are you okay?”

  “Yes. It has been difficult. But I’ve managed to survive and I learned a great deal about humans.”

  “It sounds like they’ve treated you terribly. The species should be terminated. Shall we extract you right away? We have the reverse gravity beam ready.”

  I look over to the empty part of the bench where Michelle was seated barely five minutes ago. “No, let’s not do anything rash. Things are under control now. And I need a little more time to complete my evaluation and wrap up a few loose ends.”

  “Are you sure? Some of your messages sounded pretty desperate.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I tell him. I hesitate for a second. “Is there any news about my father?”

  “A search party located him in a deep mud hole. The temperature had dropped low, and he was nearly frozen.”

  I sit there on the swing, staring up at the stars, and it feels as if the cold night wind of Planet Earth is blowing right through my body. I ask in a low voice, “Could they save him?”

  “The best doctors on Sandoval are taking care of him. He’s resting comfortably now. We relayed your concern to him through GC channels. Your father sent a message back that you should finish your mission. But after you finish it, he said, you should come home.”

  For a moment it feels like I am floating off the swing, dizzy and delirious, somersaulting high into space. “Tell him I got his message and I will be home very soon,” I say. “I’d better go in the house now. Even in the crazy Filber household, if I stay out too late somebody may eventually notice.”

  39

  The two articles appear on the front page of the Barrisford Gazette. The first is the lead story of the day. A banner headline in the upper right-hand corner screams: paint company caught dumping waste into hoosaguchee. A subheadline in smaller print proclaims: “Student Film Exposes Environmental Crime.”

  According to the article, the factory will be shut down for several weeks while the authorities investigate the circumstances and extent of the toxic dumping. There’s a quote from Stan Harbishaw professing shock that such things went on in his factory and promising immediate action and the funding of a river cleanup effort.

  A GC evaluator should be free of personal vanity, but I read the article over and over, and each time I feel a surge of pride. There is a photo captioned “Hero Student—Tom Filber.” The photo was taken outside, and I am smiling so widely that the sunlight glints off my braces.

  I told the reporters that I had been inspired to take action by one of my teachers. It’s nice to see Arthur Stringfellow mentioned by name in the article, and called a “longtime teacher and environmental activist.” I think he would have been proud of that description.

  The second article is smaller and lower down: “Experts Confirm Endangered Fish in Town River. Division of Fish and Wildlife to Set Up Immediate Study.” There’s a file photo of a brown speckled mucker swimming just above a gravel bank.

  I walk to school that day with more than the usual trepidation. My brief time as a freshman in high school on Planet Earth has taught me that each time you step outside the norm you are taking your life in your hands. Several of my fellow students at Winthrop P. Muller High School have parents who work at the paint factory, and I suspect they will not be overjoyed at the temporary shutdown.

  I use my earth street smarts to dodge and weave my way to school, but once I enter the front door there is no place to hide. Several students glare at me openly, and one girl I don’t know walks up and tells me that I should mind my own business. I don’t blame her for being angry—I understand she’s worried about her parent’s job.

  I pass Jason Harbishaw in the hall between classes, and he stares at me with smoldering fury. “Didn’t I warn you what happens to people who mess with my family?” he demands, his fingers clenching into fists.

  “This wasn’t about your family,” I tell him. “The river belongs to all of us.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he growls, stepping toward me as if he intends to exact revenge right away, even though the hall is crowded with students and teachers.

  “Here comes Miss Schroeder, our school psychologist,” I sing out loudly. “Since you seem so upset, you might want to have a talk with her.”

  Jason controls himself with an effort. “What goes around, comes around,” he whispers and stal
ks off.

  Miss Schroeder beams a big smile in my direction. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. Then she surprises me by stepping closer and giving me a congratulatory hug.

  Several of my fellow students also surprise me. Sue Ellen walks up to me outside our English class trailer and says, “Hi, Tom. It was so cool of you to give credit to Mr. Stringfellow.” It sounds strange to hear one of my classmates call me anything but Alien.

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “How’s your swamp project coming? Are you finding more cats?”

  “We found a litter of kittens and I took one home,” she says. Then she asks, “Weren’t you afraid to go into that big factory all alone at night?”

  I notice that Michelle is listening from a few feet away. I give her a quick glance to see if she wants to share the credit. She shakes her head.

  “To be honest, I didn’t feel like I was alone,” I tell Sue Ellen. “It felt like someone who cared about me was helping me every step of the way. Maybe it was Mr. Stringfellow’s spirit. Or it could have been my comrades up in the spaceship.”

  Sue Ellen treats it as a joke and laughs. “I guess it’s not so bad to always have little green men watching out for you.”

  “Yes, it feels very nice not to be completely alone on Planet Earth,” I reply. Michelle smiles and gives a tiny nod of agreement, and I see her blue eyes sparkle.

  The most surprising conversation of the day occurs in the dreaded locker room as I am about to head out for gym. I change near the door so that if I am attacked I can run out or shout for help. When I see Zitface striding over, I tense up. But instead of threatening me, he waves and says, “Hey, Alien. You’ve got your shorts on backward.”

  I glance down. “Thanks.”

  “I saw your picture in the paper,” he continues. “My family has a summerhouse about ten miles downriver. It kinda sucks because we can’t swim or fish anymore. Some days the water stinks so bad we can’t even wade in.” He stops and hesitates for a second. “My father asked me if I knew you. He said to tell you that you’ve got balls.”

  I look back at him. “What kind of balls does your dad think I have?”

  Zitface appears confounded. “Big ones, I guess.”

  “I have a basketball that’s pretty big,” I tell him. “And I have a golf ball that’s much smaller.”

  “Forget it, Alien,” he says. “The point is, my dad thinks what you did was pretty amazing.” He hesitates, and looks a little embarrassed. “You know, when we kid around with you and roughhouse, we don’t mean anything bad by it. You kind of brought it on yourself with all the alien stuff.”

  I look back at him. “Yes, as you know from reading my letters on the Net, I come from a civilization far more advanced than anything ever seen here on Earth. Our mastery of science is particularly advanced, which has led to great progress in the field of medicine.”

  Zitface is staring at me as if he regrets coming over. “What are you talking about?”

  “Of course, many terrible diseases and plagues still exist in the galaxy,” I continue quickly. “For example, there was a recent outbreak of microtic plague on Bubos VII. The good news is that a vast number of health scourges have been completely eradicated by our super sophisticated doctors and scientists.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Alien,” Zitface says, glancing at the wall clock. “But we’d better get out to gym before Mr. Curtis makes us do penalty sit-ups.”

  “For example,” I tell him in a slightly lower voice, “Confederation scientists have been remarkably successful with skin problems.”

  Zitface’s hands rise to his face self-consciously. He manages to look dubious but intrigued at the same time. “They have?”

  “Through a combination of diet and ultra effective cleansing creams, they have stamped out the ravages of acne throughout the known universe.”

  Zitface blinks back at me. “Look, Alien, we both know there’s no spaceship up there . . . But at the same time I . . . How exactly did they stamp it out?”

  “Eat less junk food,” I suggest softly. “Avoid anything that’s fried or has sugar. Fish, broccoli, and whole grains are good. I might be able to get the spaceship that isn’t there to beam down some ultra special cream. Of course, since the spaceship doesn’t exist, the cream won’t be real either, so if I get it for you, I will not have gotten it for you, and you can’t tell anyone. Is that clear?”

  Zitface is trying so hard to follow this that his eyes roll around in his head like someone is playing marbles with his pupils. “I think I got it,” he says. “Since you’re not really an alien, there won’t be any miracle cream, even though if it works I’ll be really grateful, but I won’t tell anyone, because it could never have existed. Right?”

  “Spot on,” I agree.

  He runs out, and I follow him through a short hallway and out a door onto the sunny athletic field. The smell of the grass and the leaves is sweet. For a moment I drink in the beautiful autumn afternoon and remember Miss Schroeder’s hug and Sue Ellen’s good wishes. It is a strange feeling to be smiling while at school.

  Mr. Curtis hurries over and puts an end to my moment of joy. “Filber, stop grinning like an idiot! You think just ‘cause you got your picture in the newspaper you can show up late to my class? Drop down and give me twenty stomach crunches! I’d better see you throw a decent spiral soon or you’re going to be running penalty laps till your legs fall off!”

  The crunches make my stomach burn, and put pressure on otherparts of my anatomy. Get me out of this reeking tunnel, Tom Filber pleads from my colon.

  Sorry, I can’t trust you, I tell him.

  You can. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never advise you to go for tongue action again. You are not just a highly evolved galactic diplomat, but also a major stud here on earth. Now please release me or excrete me. I can’t stand this anymore.

  I spot Mr. Curtis glaring at me. I might let you have another chance, I tell Tom. But your job is to help me during my mission.

  I’ll do my best.

  Any advice about throwing a spiral?

  Grip it across the laces. Spin it out of your hand.

  I try to follow his directions, but the football floats out end over end.

  My spiral still sucks.

  Don’t blame me. I’ve never been able to throw a decent pass, either.

  “Filber,” Mr. Curtis barks, “that’s a pathetic attempt at a spiral. You look like you have your head up your ass.”

  “Close,” I tell him. “I’m having a discussion with my colon.”

  “Five penalty laps for having a wise mouth!” he growls. “Start running.”

  40

  When I get home, I see my father’s old car parked in the driveway. He is in the kitchen, talking to my mother. I do not mean to eavesdrop, but I find that if I stand near the kitchen door and hold my breath I can almost hear what they’re saying.

  Crouch down, Tom Filber suggests helpfully. Even though he is still lodged in my colon, I can tell that he is very happy that his father has returned. Put your ear to the keyhole.

  I take pity on him. Thanks for the tip. I suck him back up through my intestine with a reverse flatus, allow him to re-enter the bloodstream, guide him up through the blood-brain barrier, and soon he is once again lodged in the parietal lobe. Better? I ask.

  You have no idea.

  I put my ear to the keyhole and hear my mother say, “Sure, I remember Brad Murcer. He was a punk.”

  “He’s got a carpet-laying business over in Millgate.”

  “Since when do you know anything about carpet laying?”

  “Since he hired me and I just about broke my back for the last three days,” my father tells her. “Here, count your money.”

  She is silent for a few seconds. “Well, this will help, Graham. But Millgate is pretty far away. Driving back and forth will be hard . . .”

  “Who said anything about driving back and forth?” he asks. “Brad’s renting me a spare room so I h
ave a place to crash four nights a week. I’ll come home Fridays and stay through the weekend.”

  “What kind of husband and father can you be if you’re away all week?”

  “The kind who helps pay the bills,” he tells her sharply. “Take the money. Put some food on the table and get the braces off our son’s teeth.”

  “Okay,” she agrees. “We’ll do this your way.” And then her voice softens. “I’m glad you came home, Graham.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did I,” he admits. “That first night I just drove and drove. I kept thinking about how we started out so young and in love, and the bitter place we ended up. Ruth, we have to try to make things a little more pleasant around here. Now where is that son of mine?”

  I take a few quick steps backward, just in time. He bursts out through the kitchen door and sees me, and his face lights up. “So there’s the big hero.”

  “You read the newspaper?”

  “Saw it first thing this morning when I was getting a cup of coffee at the Millgate Diner. I let out a whoop and people looked at me like I was crazy. I told them ‘That’s my boy. He’s striking a blow for his old dad.’ “

  “I wasn’t trying to get revenge for you,” I tell him. “I was just trying to protect the river.”

  “Good,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, which seems to have turned much grayer in just a few days. “Because I’ve decided I can’t go through the rest of my life blaming Stan Harbishaw for everything. Of course, I can blame the bastard for a lot of things. But I dug myself a hole, and I’m the one who has to crawl out of it.”

  I nod. “Yes, the inability to take responsibility for one’s own actions is a prevalent human failing, and at the root of much earthly misery.”

  His eyes widen. “Where are you from? Mars?”

  “Sandoval IV. It’s three hundred thousand light-years away.”

  He stares back at me, and then bursts into a loud laugh. “Oh, sure, that place,” he says, finally recovering. “And what do fathers and sons do on Sandoval IV when they want to have a good time and get reacquainted?”