Only Alien on the Planet

by Kristen D. Randle

  For a millisecond, I considered showing her the poem. She was the only other person I knew—except, maybe, Charlie—who would be able to hear the spaces and the speed and the release of passion that I felt in it. And she would probably know where it had come from, what age of sudden, wild vision. But I found I didn't want to show it to her. I didn't even want to sit around and chat just then. I had this quiet feeling inside of me, the way you do when you've been in a church or something. Mixed with guilt.

  I told myself I would show her. Eventually. Just—not for a little while yet.

  We took our trays and picked a place away from the heat of the south windows. It was an incredibly warm, brilliant afternoon, and the trees outside the building were like glowing clouds of lemon yellow and scarlet.

  When I looked up, I saw Smitty, sitting by himself across the room. The sight of him gave me a tremendous jolt.

  “You're not listening,” Hally said, following the direction of my stare. “Oh,” she said with some kind of meaning I didn't understand.

  “I'm trying,” I said absently—but that wasn't true. The little paper in my pocket was burning. I put my hand over it and, totally on impulse, said, “I've got something that belongs to him. I'll be back in a minute.”

  As I made my way across that cafeteria, my chest started closing up on me. Suddenly I was heart-riven and hard of breathing, and I honestly didn't understand why. I guess I should have listened. I guess I should have trusted my heart.

  I came up behind Smitty's chair and glanced over at Hally, who was watching me curiously over the rim of her cup. Then I hunkered down beside the chair, sitting on my heels, and peered up at him. He, of course, took no notice of me at all. My hands went cold.

  “Hi,” I said on no breath at all. “Listen,” I said. “Caulder gave me your Machiavelli paper. This was stuck in it—”

  His body went rigid.

  “I thought you might want it back,” I went on lamely. And then stopped. Something was wrong here. Incredibly wrong. “Anyway…” I murmured, and I pulled the poem out of my pocket and put it on the table in front of him.

  He pulled in a breath and sat, frozen, for a fraction of a second. Then he shoved the chair back, nearly knocking me over. He swung around, pulled himself out of the chair. For just one breath of a moment, his eyes glanced across mine. And connected. Like an electric shock. Then he was gone.

  I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything. His eyes were blue. Why didn't I already know that? And I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just seen Charlie inside of them.

  Things had gotten very quiet on this side of the cafeteria.

  I glanced up—people all around the table were looking at me with profound surprise. But I didn't see any more than that; the truth had finally come to me. The truth about the poem. I glanced across the faces and found Hally's. It was like looking into a mirror, seeing the shock on her face. She canted her head sideways sharply. You better follow him, she was saying.

  I had the presence of mind to snatch up the poem, and I tucked it back into my pocket as I ran out of the cafeteria. I made it out of the door just in time to see him disappear around the corner, down the causeway toward the classroom building. I had to run to cover that ground before he had a chance to disappear completely.

  I followed him down an empty corridor, around a corner, and down another corridor, trying to keep far enough away, so he wouldn't see me, but close enough not to lose him—all the time hoping I wouldn't run into some stray teacher who'd definitely want to know what I was doing in the halls without a pass. Then down the stairs, down one more hallway, and out the back.

  This particular back door was taboo. The building was blind here, nothing beyond the door but grass and woods, and the principal didn't allow kids in that area for obvious reasons.

  The door was standing open. Smitty had gone through that door and out.

  I did not go through the door.

  I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and listened. At first, I couldn't hear anything but my own breathing and the blood pounding in my ears. I didn't want to move; I was scared I'd run right into him if I went out there.

  I pushed away from the wall and drew close to the lintel, checking to make sure the hall was still clear. The classroom just to my left was empty. I felt like I'd fallen off the edge of the world.

  That's when I heard him. Somebody outside the door was in terrible trouble, sucking for air as though there wasn't any left in the world. I pressed my hand over my heart and leaned out just enough, I could see around edge of the doorway.

  Smitty was straight-arming the wall, not seven feet away from me, his face down between his arms, gasping and grabbing for air. Asthma? I wondered frantically. Is that what asthma sounds like? I could feel the bricks under his hands prickling against my own palms. Smitty was smothering out there in the bright, clear autumn afternoon. I couldn't get my own breath, listening to him.

  While I watched, his near arm gave way on him, and he folded up, his back to me, his shoulder against the wall, leaning heavily against the bricks.

  I looked around wildly, thinking I should go get somebody. Get some help. But I couldn't leave. And what good would it do? Bringing somebody else into this would only make things worse.

  Please, I prayed, deeper than I'd ever prayed anything. Please.

  I peeked around the corner again, my own legs gone to rubber.

  He was squatting on his heels, his back to the wall and his head in his hands. His breathing had slowed down a little. After a minute, he put his head back against the wall and took one long, slow, weary breath.

  I fell back against my own side of the wall.

  So, he was all right.

  Or he would be until he found me standing here, spying on him. I didn't dare look around that corner again. I just left. I walked back toward the lunchroom, feeling cold all over. What was I going to tell Hally? There was no question, she was going to ask—how could she not? The poem was obviously and absolutely not my business, and I didn't know how I was going to explain what had happened without having to explain that too.

  Driven out of first lunch. Now exiled from second.

  What else could I do? I skulked around library until I was nearly late for my next class, and I hid like a fugitive for the rest of the day.

  “You're going to have to tell me,” Caulder said. “I had to haul your purse all the way from chemistry to choir—and don't think I'm not going to hear about it for the rest of my life—”

  “I thought she was being pretty weird,” James said, looking at me appraisingly. Actually, they were all sitting around the dining room table, looking at me appraisingly.

  “Hally wouldn't tell me anything,” Caulder said severely. “So I know it's got to be something cataclysmic.” He sighed. That sigh was just one thing too many.

  “Sorry I'm such a trial to you,” I said, my voice gone all throaty.

  “Come on,” Caulder said with a disgust that did nothing but make things worse. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or not?”

  “Not,” I said. Then I started to cry.

  He groaned. “Ginny,” he said, and he took my hands down from my face. “Come on.” He dragged me out of the dining room, down the hall to the den, stood there while I dropped myself on the good old couch and cried some more. He sat down beside me, perched on the edge of the cushions. “What did you do?” he asked, gently now, but still with an edge of weariness. Enough of an edge to light me a nice little flare of righteous indignation.

  “Where did you get that paper?” I asked him.

  He sat up straight. “Which paper?” I gave him this disbelieving look, and he gratified me by looking a little ashamed. He got up and went over to sit in my mother's chair.

  “I got it out of Leviaton's trash,” he said.

  “Caulder.”

  “Well, I saw Smitty chuck it, and I was curious.”

  I just looked at him.

  “So, okay,” he said. “It was an immor
al thing to do.”

  I was glaring at him.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “It was sneaky as sin,” I said, sniffling.

  “I know,” he said.

  “He didn't expect you to do that,” I said, wiping at my cheeks with the butt of my palm. “It was a violation of his privacy. It was a violation of his trust.”

  “I know,” Caulder said again, beginning to sound appropriately miserable. “So,” he said warily. “What happened?”

  I had to tell him. I started slowly, and I told him a lot of it, leaving out things I couldn't have said if I'd known how—about Smitty's eyes and my own final conclusions. I didn't do a very good job with any of it; I'm not that good with words, so the story came out sort of dry and plain, and left me feeling unfinished.

  Caulder had closed his eyes.

  “I was afraid he was going to die, Caulder,” I said. “You should have heard it.”

  He shook his head.

  “You know how you said we ought to push him?” I said softly. “Caulder, listen to me. He's a real person. I'm really scared. Whatever this is, I don't think we have a right to be messing with it.”

  He was studying me in silence. “May I see the poem?” he asked after a minute. I didn't want him to ask that.

  “I know,” he said, not knowing. “But, please?”

  In the end, I got it out for him. He handled it very gently, read it through—first quickly, then again slowly, and again, working out the words. He looked up at me. “Where do you think he got this?”

  “What do you think?” I said, sidestepping him.

  He frowned. “I don't recognize any of it.”

  “Maybe he copied it. Maybe he found it. Maybe somebody gave it to him. Maybe his mother wrote it.”

  “Maybe not,” Caulder said wryly. He looked over the poem once more, his face changing, and then he looked up at me wonderingly. “You think he wrote this himself don't you?”

  I didn't answer.

  “Which would explain why he came so unglued when he found out you had it. Except not. Why? Why would he write something like this and then throw it away? If he does stuff like this, why haven't I ever seen any? Why hasn't his mother ever said anything about it? Seems like, the way she is, she'd have had this published in the New Yorker by now.” He looked at me again. “If she'd known about it. Which she evidently doesn't.”

  He sighed, looking down at the poem. Then he handed it back to me, reluctantly, I thought. “We're over our heads,” he said, for once agreeing with me. “So…maybe we ought to go talk to that shrink.”

  Now he'd gone way beyond agreeing. “It's none of her business,” I said.

  “What if she just wants to help him?”

  “Maybe he doesn't want help.”

  “Maybe he needs it,” Caulder said. “Geez, Ginny.”

  I folded my arms and stared at the rug.

  “What's wrong?” he asked. “I mean, what's really wrong? He's sick, Gin. There's something wrong with him. He writes stuff like that, but he never talks to anybody. He needs help.”

  “Whose help?” I flashed. “And once it starts, is anybody going to remember to ask him how he feels about any of it? He doesn't want to talk to her. Don't you think he's been very clear about that? If he wanted her to know anything, he could write it down like this and send it to her. But he doesn't, does he?” I just couldn't bear it. “Look at him. What if she hurts him?”

  “Why would anybody hurt him?” Caulder asked me softly.

  “We did. We have. I have. Me, personally.” I was crying again, but it was different this time, strange. Tears were just welling up in my eyes and spilling over and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

  “Just keep in mind,” I told him, “we shouldn't have known about this in the first place. I mean, do you think he expected somebody to go around resurrecting his trash?”

  “I said I was sorry,” Caulder pointed out.

  “What I'm saying is—I don't even know what I'm saying.”

  Caulder shrugged unhappily, maybe agreeing.

  “He's not going to get over this one,” I finished miserably.

  Caulder sighed. “He gets over it, Ginny,” he reminded me.

  I shook my head. “Not this time. If you'd been there, you'd know. Caulder, I thought he was going to die.” I shrugged, and did this little laugh that had absolutely no humor in it. “So, I guess it's no big thing about the doctor anyway, since he'll never let me get within miles of him after this.”

  Caulder cocked his head. “This is all my fault,” he said.

  “You're right about that.”

  He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. He stood up. “See you in a few minutes.” He started off down the hall.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, starting up off the couch.

  He stopped and turned to me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He shrugged. “I'm going to talk to him.”

  “Oh. Uh-huh.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I'll be back.”

  “Caulder,” I said, following him halfway down the hall. “And just what do you think you're going to say to him?”

  He shrugged again and grinned at me, pulling on his coat. “What does it matter?” he said. “You know he's not even going to let me in the house.”

  As it turned out, we were both wrong.

  chapter 9

  Caulder would never be quite sure what it was he'd said right. But then, if it hadn't been for Mr. Tibbs, Caulder might never have had a chance to say anything. As it turns out, Mr. Tibbs has no problem with letting kids run around his house unescorted— as long as the wife is out on business—so Caulder had surprised Smitty in his upstairs inner sanctum, and said whatever it was that he said. “Now we'll just have to see what happens,” Caulder told me afterward. And then promptly forgot about the whole thing in a fit of lovesick nerves, enduring the hours until Hally's party.

  I was thinking about Hally's party too. About how I wouldn't know anybody there. About how I'd been spending all my time and energy on Caulder's world without building anything of my own. Not that I was sorry about being with Caulder. It's just I missed having friends—our parties back home, tame as they might have seemed to some people, had been pure adventure: you never knew who you'd meet there or what might happen. Maybe something wonderful.

  They only give you a little time to live, Paul used to say to me. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be going somewhere, I want to be driving the bus.

  I sat out on my lawn that afternoon, looking up at my trees, thinking the whole thing over. The trees had finally gone completely yellow. Their trunks were still damp and dark with last night's chilly rain, black against those clear yellow leaves. I looked up at them, feeling like I was seeing reality, distorted through ultraviolet eyes. It all depends on the spectrum, I thought. On what you're used to—what you expect. I hadn't expected anything good for a long time. And I had to admit, these trees were a kind of beauty I'd never have been able to imagine on my own.

  “They're almost done,” James said. He jumped the fence into Caulder's yard, a cheese sandwich in one hand, sweater over his arm.

  “Who?” I asked him, squinting into the late afternoon light.

  “The folks. Dad told me, this morning. Have fun tonight. We're not going to be late.” He gave me a wave and disappeared up Caulder's front steps.

  Almost done.

  Now there was an idea—parents and children in the same house again. People to talk to. Normal life.

  Suddenly I was tired of sitting there. I was tired of just sitting around, waiting for my life to happen to me. I had a party to go to. I didn't even know who I was anymore—I hadn't even seriously looked in a mirror for months.

  So I went inside and I looked, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to bring the image back up to standard. When Caulder finally showed at my door, he had on a new sweater, deep green, with a plaid shirt under it, and his hair was all perfect; he w
as radiating joy and nerves. But in the midst of all that, he looked at me and dropped his jaw. “Geez, Ginny,” he said. “I never saw you wear that before.”

  “It's just a dress, Caulder,” I told him. I cinched up the belt another notch and did a little turn to make the skirt ripple. “See? Nothing exciting.”

  “But you look like you did it on purpose. I mean, you look—I mean, your hair—”

  I smiled at him. “Same to you, Caulder,” I said. And then I turned him around, gave him a push and followed him out to the car.

  He held the door for me, still staring. “I want you to watch who you talk to tonight,” he instructed me. “I mean, you never know who's going to show up there—” Now I was grinning. This was doing me a lot of good. “What about Smitty?” I asked him, though tonight, for the first time in weeks, it was not my consuming concern.

  “Don't know,” he said, belting himself in. “I told him we'd stop. I guess we'll have to see.”

  Smitty wasn't waiting on the walk. “Oh well,” Caulder said, and tapped the horn a couple of times, just for the heck of it. The door opened, and Smitty came out. Caulder looked at me, giving me a silent well-what-do-you-know? I got out of the car, pulled the front seat over for Smitty the way I always did, and he slipped into the back. But he was not as he always had been—his face was the same beautiful blank, but he had lost balance somehow. The air was crackling with it all the way up into the hills; I could feel the kinetics in the hair at the back of my neck. Caulder didn't seem to notice a thing.

  It was a longish drive up to Hally's. The house was perched up on the shoulder of the hills, surrounded by trees, tucked back away from the street. As you started down the long driveway, you could see how huge the place actually was. For the second time that night, Caulder's mouth was hanging open, and he was looking distinctly uncomfortable. The party was downstairs in the back, where the bottom floor opened onto a patio and a bunch of little decks. The door stood open, light pouring out of it onto the patio, and the windows glowed like Christmas. We could feel the music when we got out of the car.