Oddity

by Sarah Cannon

  Uh-oh. I back up quick so I don’t end up with a face full of baby alien. What happens instead is, despite everything that has gone on so far, the most interesting event of the day.

  “Stop!” Cayden shoves between the trolls, turning to face them. In the process, he puts his back to the flagpole alien, proving once and for all that he does not listen to a single word I say. It would serve him right if the darn thing peeled off there and attached itself to his neck like a tick.

  The trolls are puzzled.

  “You wanna … serve?” rumbles Delmar, drawing his head back to show his confusion.

  “What? No! Leave that thing alone. It’s little.”

  Even the trolls know that for flawed reasoning.

  “I know you’re new,” says Ralph slowly, “but you should maybe have figured out by now that there’s a lot of nasty stuff around here that’s little.”

  “It didn’t do anything to you.”

  “It’s been on the flagpole all day. It’s going to do something—it just hasn’t done it YET. I don’t like it—”

  “Hanging out?” I venture.

  Cayden scowls at me through the hair that has flopped over his eye. The devil made me do it. Or, you know, genetics. Whatever.

  “Leave it alone,” Cayden insists. “Find something else to do.”

  They glance at each other, and for once in my life I’m pretty sure the trolls and I are thinking the same thing. There’s no real reason why they should listen to Cayden. They could squish him like a radioactive slug, with less contamination. Then Delmar shrugs.

  “Forget it, Ralph,” he says. “If we’re going to get back before dark, we’d better leave now.”

  “Watch out for the Blurmonster,” says Raymond with a grin.

  Ralph rolls his eyes. “We had this discussion already. You can’t see it.”

  He and Delmar amble away from the flagpole.

  Cayden looks surprised that things didn’t end in a fight—though Delmar does throw his shoulder into Cayden as he passes, to make a point. I’m not sure saving the alien was a great idea, but it is really little. And cute in an ugly way, I guess.

  Those big flat choppers are a little unnerving, though—even more so when the thing lets go of the flagpole and drops to stand on four stubby little feet. I know its mouth was open really wide to bite the flagpole, but even with it shut, I can’t see eyes. Its whole round head is almost completely composed of those huge flat teeth, and his lips don’t completely close. At least, I think it’s a him. It’s not always easy to tell with aliens.

  He stands, swiveling his head slightly this way and that, and though I can’t say he’s looking, exactly, he certainly does seem to be seeing us. He homes in on Cayden and patters a few steps closer, then cocks his head.

  Raymond shifts uneasily. “That thing’s trying to figure out how we taste,” he says.

  “Maybe,” I allow. He does have the expression of a baby dinosaur trying to decide if we’re worth any trouble.

  Cayden’s starting to get nervous again. “It’s too small to eat anyone.”

  Raymond shrugs. “Shows what you know. You weren’t here for the carnivorous squirrel explosion.”

  “Listen, I have an idea that should not go to waste,” I say. “We don’t have time for this. Walk away, and he’ll probably go home.”

  Raymond and I turn. Behind me, Cayden says, “Okay, well, uh. No big deal. Glad you’re all right.” He follows us.

  Feet patter behind us.

  “Um,” says Cayden, “we’re going home. You go home, too.”

  I glance over my shoulder. The creature is nodding enthusiastically.

  “Okay,” says Cayden, confused. “Good. You go home. Great.”

  He starts walking again.

  Pattering.

  I shoot Raymond my most annoyed and long-suffering look, the one Pearl used to call “Our Lady of Perpetual Impatience.”

  “Cayden,” I say. “Can we please GO?”

  We start walking again, and this time, I fall back. When the pattering starts again, I grab Cayden’s arm and keep him from stopping.

  “Like a stray cat,” Raymond advises. “If we don’t feed it, it will go away.”

  Cayden pales a little at the mention of feeding.

  The alien follows us all the way home, then stands, confused, in our front yard.

  “Can’t you make him leave?” I hiss. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that,” says Raymond.

  I look around. From every corner of our overgrown yard, zombie rabbits are eyeing the alien balefully.

  Chapter 9

  Punkball

  To understand why the situation in our front yard matters, it’s important to know more about two sorts of creatures here in Oddity: little aliens, and zombie rabbits.

  Little aliens are not at all like the big ones, who are pretty responsible. (I should point out here that it’s possible to be responsible and still be evil.) There are the tall, glowing ones who do things like save random people from life-threatening injuries, or reverse natural disasters at the last possible moment in a dramatic, peaceful show of power, like when that volcano erupted on the south side of town when I was four. There are the green-and-beige ones with the big, black almond-shaped eyes, who disobey traffic laws and know all the best Chinese restaurants. There are the guys with the tentacle chins who like to wear pinstriped suits and fedoras even when it’s a hundred and ten degrees outside.

  You know. All the standard aliens.

  The little ones are something else again. There’s always one kid in every group, right? The biter. The one who tells kids every gross or private thing their parents never wanted them to know. The one who breaks all the toys … over someone else’s head.

  That’s what the little aliens are like. Like every alien from every culture on every far-flung planet packed up all their brattiest offspring and left them at the Oddity fire station.

  Like the Pied Piper does parents a favor, and Oddity’s his dumping ground.

  Like the first bully guffawed for the first time, and the guffaw broke into a thousand pieces, and they all started trying to swagger.…

  You get it.

  Could be they’re the interstellar version of pigeons (though most of them don’t look a thing alike). Maybe Oddity is some sort of free-range alien day care. Either way, it seems the little aliens are here to stay. The only good thing to say about them is that they’re entertaining. But the truth is, it’s perilous to laugh too hard, because the tiny mob that ties your neighbor to his clothesline today will come for you tomorrow. Daddy thinks they’re funny, which I guess makes sense when he spends his days dealing with coyote gang violence and sludge monsters at the waste treatment plant, but they’re getting to be a problem. There’s a huge posse of them in our alley. They hide in storm drains and pop out at people. There’ve been a bunch of WUT meetings about how to get them to stop moving manhole covers. Fortunately, they do have one main focus for their delinquency.

  Zombie rabbits.

  Like I said, zombie rabbits aren’t really rabbits and they’re not really zombies, either. But whatever they are, they’ve got rabbit ears, and they aren’t strictly alive. They’re short, walk on two little stumpy legs, and have stubby arms. They wear footie pajamas that go all the way up over their heads and become long pockets for their ears. They make the jammies out of basically whatever they find, and zombie rabbits must live a long time, because some have things like FLOUR and SUGAR printed on them. They don’t have rabbit teeth, either. More like baby teeth. I can see them even when their mouths are closed, like they all have tiny overbites.

  They’re the perfect nemesis for the little aliens.

  And that is why the situation in our yard is such a problem.

  From the bushes and gutters and basement stairwell come shrill cries, like birdcalls. “Punk! Punk! Say that to my face, you little punk!”

  I grab Cayden by the elbow.
r />   “Oh no. They’re going to play punkball.”

  It’s a sport. And it’s a war. Every game of punkball is different. We’re going to be lucky if the house is still standing tomorrow. Piping shrieks begin in the alley, and then a rock with a panic-stricken bird plastered to the front of it goes whizzing past my head so fast there’s no time to duck.

  There’s maybe a very small chance I could get the rabbits to stage the war in the side yard instead. I’m their primary marshmallow distributor. I’ve still got one hand on the doorknob, so it’s worth a try.

  “Guys!” I say. “Rabbits, hey! GUYS!” There’s a slight break in the din. Raspy little voices confer in the weeds.

  “You like marshmallows?”

  More whispering.

  “Yes!” a voice calls back after a pause. “Bring some now.”

  I go inside, and return a minute later, the brightly colored bag clutched tightly in my hand. Sure enough, the second I’m out, I see a blur to one side, and a zombie rabbit tries to skunk me and grab the bag. I hang on tight, glaring. The little punk (all players of punkball are, by definition, punks) dangles grimly from the stretching plastic.

  “Gimme!” he yells, widening his beady little eyes at me.

  “Not gonna happen,” I say. I’ve found I have to be firm with them, treat them like Mason all hyped up on cold medicine.

  “Yes! Marshmallows! You will provision the troops!”

  “That’s fine,” I say, “as long as you move the game over there.” I lift my bag hand with the rabbit still dangling at the other end, and motion to the common area between our yard and Cayden’s.

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “No cover! Tactical disadvantage!”

  Indignant cries of “Offsides!” drift over from the alley. The aliens have wandered out from behind the trash cans to watch, snickering. Our purple refugee sidles over to them right away. A zombie rabbit lingers too close to the newcomers, and is kicked across the yard with a squeak as if he’s a blow-up toy losing air. A nasty chorus of jeers rises from the alien … um, team.

  “Cheeky monkeys!” screeches one of the rabbits, and there’s a near rush as the aliens and zombie rabbits start to engage.

  “No!” I say, brandishing the bulk bag of marshmallows with a shake that makes the zombie rabbit lose his hold and fall with a dull thud to the ground. He emits a sullen “Hey!”

  “Move the game,” I say. “More marshmallows in the morning.” I eye them beadily. Bets has taught me well. “No move, no marshmallows.”

  The rabbits are muttering and nudging one another. Raymond and Cayden are on the front porch, eyeing the situation nervously. I gauge the distance to the front door. Then a lone rabbit breaks away from the pack and heads over to the side yard, like I asked. I recognize him immediately, with that derpy little gait and yellow and green flowers on the ears on his pajamas. He’s actually listening to me? Well. No good deed goes unpunished. I tear open the bag far enough to pull out a fat marshmallow.

  “Hey!” I yell. “Derp!”

  He turns around when he hears my voice.

  “RUDE!” he yells.

  My cheeks heat up. Schooled by a zombie rabbit.

  “Well, what’s your name, then?”

  “Snooks!”

  Because of course.

  “Catch!” I say. The marshmallow sails through the afternoon air.

  “Ohhhhhhh,” hums the morass of zombie rabbits.

  Snooks catches it. With his ears.

  I’m kind of impressed by that.

  I keep my promises. I grab the bag front and center and shred it. Marshmallows soar across the side yard like shooting stars, and there’s a stampede of zombie rabbits, their striped and flowered ears flapping as they run. They start fighting over the marshmallows before they’ve even reached them, ramming one another sideways, head-butting one another, and screaming. Always, always screaming. I’m pleased to see that Snooks has already stuffed his face. I can see his creepy mouth full of baby teeth chewing and chewing away.

  Something moves in my peripheral vision, and I press my back against the house instinctively. It’s the aliens from the alley, of course, ambushing the distracted rabbits. I don’t really have a dog in this fight, but something impels me to yell, “HEADS UP!” Then I practically fall in the front door before slamming it behind me.

  * * *

  When we pull up recent posts on Nopes, every one is about our find in Sunset Ridge.

  Brush fires everywhere. Can’t get in.

  Why bother? Freaked got the shot.

  No way that’s real.

  Emblazoned on the screen is our photo of the Sunset Six, complete with Mason mugging for the camera.

  “Nice photobomb, kid,” says Raymond.

  I don’t love that Mason’s in the picture. Still, his presence adds to our credibility, making it less likely to be a fake. Heck, I saw it in person and still don’t quite believe it, so I’m glad to have some evidence, however slim.

  Raymond went back in and geotagged the pic last night. I’m surprised. He never normally admits he’s been anywhere. But there’s his handle, SomeoneElse.

  I smirk at him.

  “Someone had to swagger,” he says. “You were MIA.”

  “Chargerless phone upstairs, murderous aunt downstairs.”

  He nods.

  “One thing about your aunt,” he says. “Nothing else is quite as scary in comparison.”

  I grin at him, real big. “Oh, good, then our next mission should be no problem.”

  Cayden groans and flops back in his beanbag chair.

  I wait.

  Raymond breaks first.

  “Are you going to tell us?”

  “We are going out to Casa Grande.”

  “No way,” says Raymond. “That’s Blurmonster territory.”

  To be fair, Blurmonster territory basically rings Oddity all the way around. But after our freaky encounter, I can understand Raymond’s caution.

  “Look, we see the wreckage from Blurmonster attacks on the news. Smashed-up buildings, that kind of thing. But does anyone ever see one of these attacks happen?”

  Cayden snorts. “See is maybe not the best word.”

  “You’re not wrong. But can we all agree the Blurmonster is large?”

  Raymond nods. Cayden thumps his head against the beanbag chair in despair.

  “It’s a little bit strange that the Blurmonster is doing all this damage without any witnesses, don’t you think?” I ask.

  I pull up the latest map of Oddity, and point.

  “Casa Grande is overdue for an attack. The trolls wanna get all skeptical about our picture? Fine. This time let’s score some video footage.”

  Chapter 1O

  Signal Boost

  When Raymond goes home for dinner, Cayden leaves, too, but my head is churning with plans for this new sneak. I want company. Daddy’s “working late” again. Aunt Bets is reading Kids Who Didn’t Hide to Mason in the living room. I could go to Raymond’s, where it’s tamale Tuesday and I could stuff my face till my cheeks puff out like a prairie dog’s, but I’m still on thin ice with Bets, and shouldn’t go too far from the house this close to nightfall.

  So I chase Cayden down, which turns out to be the easiest thing I’ve done all day. He’s still crouched on our back stoop, looking for a way through the punkball melee.

  “You had to move them to the side yard, huh?” He scowls at me.

  “You’ll be thanking me when you need to use your doors.”

  His scowl dies back to a frown but he’s not convinced. “You say that, but I can’t go through the alley.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “The cans! Do you want me to get eaten like your aunt?”

  “Oh gosh, Cayden, the trash cans are harmless. It’s the dumpsters you have to watch out for.”

  He stares. “You know normal dumpsters don’t eat things, right?”

  “Hey, we’re a zero landfill town because of
those dumpsters. Didn’t they have wood chippers or anything in Chicago? You have to treat certain stuff with respect.”

  He shoots me this look, almost like he has a spine. “I don’t find that very comforting.”

  “I will show you how to get home, mister. It’s not that big a deal.” I lead him around the far side of the house, through the xeriscaping in the front yard, to his door. I can tell he’s been staying out of the tall grass out of fear, because he’s looking around all nervously. I keep this little trail of ours pretty clean, though. There are a couple of zombie rabbits and an alien dangling from my snares, which aren’t as good as Raymond’s, but do the job. The rabbits cuss as we go by, taking little swings at us, but nothing connects. Their friends will let them down later.

  At Cayden’s front door, he hesitates with his hand on the knob. I don’t say I want to come in, but I don’t leave, either.

  Finally, he sighs. “Just … could you try to act normal, please?”

  I bug my eyes at him. “Excuse me, now?”

  He hunches his shoulders. “Look, it’s just different here from anyplace else we’ve lived. I don’t think my parents really get it yet. If you say anything about the stuff we’ve been doing, I won’t be allowed to go anywhere, so maybe try not to talk too much?”

  Before I can open my mouth and reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, he opens the door and calls, “I’m home!”

  I walk in slow, just in case.

  “Cayden!” his mother says. She sounds delighted to see him. “How was school, sweetie? Did you give your report on President Washington?”

  “Yep.”

  Cayden tries to walk us through the room quickly, but his mom is really enthused. “Did you tell them the part about how he didn’t even want to be president?” she asks, with the tone of someone who helped him write his report the night before.

  “Sure.”

  “And the part about how his mother wrote to the Continental Congress demanding butter and totally embarrassed him?” She beams, obviously loving that little tidbit.

  I’m so surprised by these things, none of which I’ve ever heard before, that I blurt without thinking, “You didn’t say any of that. You told about how he was a Freemason, and how he secretly tried to stop the American Revolution to maintain a state of transoceanic Masonic brotherhood, and how he left secret instructions for the design of his memorial—”