“Well,” Bob Sled replied, “I’m expecting a new shipment tomorrow . . .”
Tomorrow. Well within Grazer’s forty-eight-hour deadline. And given the new evidence, Grazer might even pitch in a little more manpower. Tomorrow. How nice.
“Ask me what’s the secret of comedy, George,” said Matt.
George peered at his partner strangely, but complied. “What is the secret of co—”
“Timing,” Matt interrupted.
C H A P T E R 9
IN HER HEAD it was perfect. In her head it would be almost like some movie musical. She’d lead the way, the others would get into the groove and follow; and soon enough, with choreographic precision, everybody would be in step.
Doing the step.
It would be beautiful.
It already was beautiful. In her head.
As Emily Francisco smiled her way through the junior high school day, entertaining twelve-year-old notions of success and renown, she looked more and more forward to the gym club. It was generally a good day because her spirits were so high, but every hour or so, she’d entertain the fantasy of What It Would Be Like when she taught her clubmates the great new step she’d devised, and the vision would divert her attention. She was caught daydreaming by her math teacher, but being a good student, she was not too embarrassingly rebuked. Scary moment, though, and she overcompensated the rest of the afternoon, sitting up straight and forcing herself to be especially alert.
But then, at the end of social studies (a misnomer she never understood; really, it was only history), the class bell rang, and she bolted out of her chair.
She ran all the way to her gym locker, hearts pounding with anticipation. The run seemed to take forever, and then once she was at her locker, she barely remembered it at all as she dialed her combination, opened her locker, and proceeded to change into her gym duds.
Her other clubmates trickled in, their energies varied, depending upon the kind of day they’d had, good, bad, or indifferent. They exchanged greetings, and it disappointed Emily that they weren’t picking up on her rush of energy, and that some had even forgotten it was her turn to teach a routine to everybody. But that was okay, she consoled herself. How could they know how way-cool this thing was until they actually saw it? After all, only Emily had been living with it all these hours. When the full grandeur of it was unleashed upon them . . . then they’d know.
There were two gyms in Emily’s junior high school; her gym club assembled in the smaller of the two, which also doubled as the cafeteria. Great, long tables and benches were hinged and folded up in wall recesses behind collapsible doors at regular intervals. The residual smells of lunch—macaroni and cheese, baked chicken, mole strips, vegetarian plate—lingered pleasantly in the air. Despite the obligatory jokes, the food here wasn’t bad, really, not at all.
Ms. McIntyre, the gym teacher who usually supervised, had left word that she would be late due to a faculty meeting, and that they should just begin without her. Emily felt a bit let down; she would’ve liked Ms. McIntyre to see her nifty new dance routine, but she quickly adjusted her fantasy. Ms. McIntyre would come in late, see Emily leading the pack, and, awed by the sight of fourteen girls looking tight as a kick line, praise her ingenuity.
They gathered around in their usual semicircle and arranged to do things alphabetically. Two other girls besides Emily were also scheduled to teach dance steps that day, both of whom had last names that came before Francisco. It was only right to acknowledge this as fair procedure, but again, Emily felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d wanted to burst upon the scene and wow ’em. However, the fantasy adjusted itself easily enough. Save the best for last, she thought. Why burden anybody with having to top her creation?
The next twenty or so minutes crawled by for Emily as she dutifully joined her clubmates in learning two routines that seemed particularly bland and uninspired. At one moment, her best friend, raven-haired Jill Molaskey, caught Emily rolling her eyes heavenward with impatience.
“What’s the matter?” Jill whispered as they went through the same dull step for the tenth dull time.
Bo-ring, mouthed Emily, and as they turned in unison, Jill said something that startled her a little.
“Watch that.”
At long last it was Emily’s turn to strut her stuff.
“Okay,” she announced, “I call this the Emily Seven, because it took six previous versions before I could get it right.” She had expected laughs or smiles of appreciation at this. But the few smiles they sported were polite; the rest of the faces were impassive, a few even vaguely uncomfortable. Jill, looking right into her eyes, mouthed Emily Seven? as if to say, “Oh, come on!” Well, it was true . . . no one else had actually given a name to her step, let alone a name that announced how much work had gone into it. Maybe that information should’ve come after they’d learned the Emily Seven and seen how great it was; maybe she’d been a bit too—what was that big new word?—pretentious in making a show of it before the fact.
Right, Jill, you’re right. Just get on with it.
“Anyway, this is how it goes,” Emily said.
She crossed to the right wall, leaned against one of the huge doors behind which a lunch table was stored, and then she
took a single hop, bounded up several feet, landed
Thump,
deep bending at the knees, arms up, uncoiling like a spring, arms at the side now, pirouetting full in midair, landing,
Thump,
kick-starting a forward tumble,
de,
landing on her hands,
thump,
bending at the elbows, uncoiling again, pushing herself into the air, somersaulting backward until she was again erect and landing,
Ka-flump!
with a flourish, arms outflung, breathing hard, a big smile on her face as if to say, “There! Now, how did you like that?”
Thirteen faces stared at her in stupefaction.
Emily’s smile hung there and died.
Some of her clubmates were shifting their feet; and Jill, of all people, was shaking her head slightly.
This was not the fantasy. This was not even close.
“What?” Emily said, finally, through her deep gulps of air, breaking the interminable silence. “What?”
A girl with long brown hair, Leslie DiMeo, was the first brave enough to speak.
“We can’t, like, do that, Emily.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re, like—human, Emily.”
Emily had stopped gulping air to compensate for the exertion. But breathing was suddenly just as difficult.
“Hey, now, Leslie, I’ve seen humans do stuff like this!”
Mei-Mei Harada, an Oriental clubmate, said, “Where? Where’ve you seen humans pull that off?”
“Don’t you guys ever watch the Olympics on TV?”
Responding as a collective for the first time, the thirteen human girls groaned.
Jill said, “Emily, those are the exceptions. Those athletes train for years to get that kind of dexterity. But this is a gym club, for godssake, not a professional training program. We’re just a bunch of kids here, trying to have a little fun.”
“But it is fun!”
“No,” said Joannie Delahanty, a redhead, “it’s fun for you because you’re a Newcomer. For us it’s work. It’s more than work. Frankly, it looks a little dangerous.”
Boldly Emily strode over to Joannie and took her wrist. “No, it’s not at all,” she said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“I don’t think I want to do this, Emily . . .”
“What, are you chicken?”
As soon as it was out of her mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to have said. Her fantasy scenario had long since expired, but with that choice phrase, she had pounded the final nail into its coffin. The discomfort in the air coalesced into a faint but unmistakable haze of anger directed at her. And in the back of her mind she felt it. But Emily was twelve, concerned with
peer pressure and being right; and the dare had been articulated. It was out there in the ether. And, fighting her instincts, bowing to her frustration, she stood by it.
Joannie was twelve too. And nobody’s chicken. She said so, and followed Emily to the starting position against the wall.
“Okay,” said Emily. “Just do what I do.”
She did the initial leap, bounding several feet in the air, landing bent at the knees. She looked over her shoulder as Joannie took a running start, bounded up, not quite as high, and landed clumsily, one foot shooting out from under her, causing her to land hard on her rump.
“Ow!” she said, and there was a frozen moment in which everybody, including Emily, thought Joannie had done something serious, twisted an ankle or something. The other girls started to inch forward as if to offer aid, but then Joannie rose, rubbing her hindquarter, clearly not in much pain. Even Emily had to breathe a sigh of relief.
Jill stepped forward. “You know what I think the thing is, Em?” she said.
Emily looked at her by way of response.
“I think,” Jill said, “that maybe you’re right. We can do this, but you’re just so good at it we’ve become self-conscious. Why don’t you show it to us once more and then leave us alone to practice it for a while, okay?”
It sounded odd to Emily . . . but it also sounded reasonable. And after all, Jill was her best friend.
“Okay,” she said.
And back to starting position.
Grimly this time, the joy of it seeming to have vanished, Emily took a single hop, bounded up several feet . . .
. . . and went through the motions of the routine again, ending, as always, with a flourish. But no smile. No, her expression was very serious now.
“Should I . . . do it . . . again?” she breathed.
“It’s real clear. I think we’ve got it,” Jill said. “Right, girls?”
There was a general mumbling chorus of assent and accompanying nods all around.
“Give us about five minutes,” Jill added.
“Five?” asked Emily. “Really? That’s all?”
“We’re quick studies, I think.”
Emily crossed to the exit, thick silence following behind her. She turned at the door, tried to smile encouragingly. The faces looked back, unresponsive.
With a cheer she didn’t feel, Emily said, “It’s easy. You’ll figure it out.” And then she left to wander the halls for a while.
It was after class hours, so she didn’t need a pass, didn’t have to justify herself to a hall monitor, just strolled around, occasionally peering into the windows of empty classrooms, trying to process a general feeling that was . . . ungood, somehow. Trying to true up the sequence of events that had just transpired with the fantasy she’d harbored all last night and all day today.
Maybe, she thought . . . maybe it’s all happening the way it’s supposed to. Maybe the step was too hard, maybe they did need to practice without her eagle eye on them every second.
She liked the reasonableness of that, and her optimism grew from there. Yeah, sure, they just needed time. And when she got back, she’d open the door and . . . there they’d be, doing the Emily Seven and having the time of their lives. It was the latest configuration of the fantasy, and it was the best one of all.
Just to be a good guy about it, she waited an extra minute before making her way back to the cafeteria-gym. And when she pushed the door open . . .
They had left. All of them.
Only Ms. McIntyre was there, holding a piece of ruled notebook paper in her hand. At Emily’s entrance, she lifted her blond head and held the paper out at arm’s length.
“Emily,” she said soberly, “I believe this was left for you. Do you think you can explain it to me?”
With mounting dread, hearing nothing but her pulses pounding in her ears, Emily Francisco took the longest walk of her life to where her teacher stood. She reached for the paper. She had to read it twice; the first time it was so hurtful she couldn’t truly believe her eyes.
The handwriting was Jill’s, the note printed with meticulous neatness.
Emily,
it’s easy.
You’ll figure it out.
And they had all signed it.
Meanwhile, in another part of the school district . . .
The teachers would ask questions, Buck’s hand would go up; maybe they’d call on him, maybe they wouldn’t. If they did, he’d have an answer—the right one or at least a good one. After he volunteered a response once per class (twice if the instructor was an especial hardass), it was just amazing how content his teachers would be to leave him alone for the rest of the period. He was barely conscious of any individual question he might’ve been asked, or any individual answer he might’ve given; only aware that by paying the ritual this little bit of homage, he was buying more time to be with himself.
To concentrate on the important matters.
Today to the outside world he was Buck Francisco, participating high school student; but secretly . . . he was Buck Francisco, Senior on Autopilot.
In a way, it was like operating on two different levels of consciousness at once. Before beginning his studies with the Kewistan Masters—an enclave of Elders whose philosophy marked them as distinctively as if it were one of the many Tenctonese religions—it might have been a difficult feat to pull off, being partly in class and mostly in his own head. But one of the first things the Kewistans had taught him was Kewisto, the essential skill of abstraction, which allowed one to live in the moment and observe it at the same time. Buck was by no stretch an adept—that came with years and experience—but he applied the basic philosophical principles and was able to affect a rudimentary posture. Which was okay. Today it was all he needed.
But his thoughts were too big, too consequential, to remain in his head, unarticulated. He knew things. Since studying with the Elders, he had learned things; and he hadn’t yet come anywhere near mastering the discipline it would take to hold in the dilemma that now plagued him. He needed to speak his mind. He’d once read a name for this condition: Information Compulsion. It was apparently one of the most powerful and least understood drives of sentient beings. Knowing that, he knew he had to do something about it.
So when his free period at long last came, he made straight for the one person he’d be able to talk to, who would give him unconditional tolerance, unconditional love, and free rein to unleash the bubbling cauldron of thoughts inside his head. Without consequence or compromise.
This person was to be found in the school’s day care center.
Babies and small children were tended to here; some were the offspring of teenage students who were determined not to let premature parenthood stop their secondary education; others, like Buck’s baby sister, Vessna, were the offspring of working families who could not afford private home care.
It was Wednesday, Buck’s day to be responsible for the baby. Other days she’d go with her mother to the day care center at her workplace, less often with her father to the day care center at his.
Buck approached Marlene, the middle-aged volunteer worker at the center.
“How was she today?”
The question was more than just an amenity. Vessna could be cranky when too long away from her supply of Yespian . . . but today, apparently, there was no such problem, because Marlene replied, “She was gold. Precious gold.”
Buck scooped Vessna out of a playpen and informed Marlene that he was going to take her outside for a while.
“Beautiful day for it,” Marlene said, adding, “Make sure you keep her head in the shade.” Buck didn’t have to be told, but he was fond of Marlene for caring enough to remind him, and nodded as he took the burlap bag with the baby’s supplies.
Buck exited the school, emerging with Vessna into the fine, bright, warming sunlight. He walked with Vessna snug against his chest, periodically stopping to hold her out at arm’s length and lift her high into the air, keeping eye contact with her. Then
he’d smile at her, she’d smile back in response, maybe even squeal, and then he’d bring her back down into his embrace. It wasn’t much of a game, there was no winner, no loser, but neither of them ever tired of playing it.
He walked with her out past the sports fields and parking lots to a slightly wooded area just on the fringes of school property. And there, under a lushly leafy tree, the better to keep the baby’s head in the shade, he settled.
He spread a small blanket on the grass, and over that a disposable paper sheet. Over that, in turn, went Vessna, and then began the routine of checking to see if she needed changing (she did), and dealing with it: disposing of the disposables in a sealable plastic bag, wiping the baby down with special damp nappies, and preparing her anew for the next onslaught. Throughout it all, Vessna was quiet and cooperative in a way she usually wasn’t, even with her parents.
Somehow she connected to Buck. For all his rebelliousness, for all the anger he sometimes held within him, she found him fascinating; and even Buck had to admit that he could be tender and gentle with Vessna in a manner that most who knew him would find uncharacteristic.
But he knew a secret about that.
A secret he shared only with Vessna.
He was most naturally, comfortably himself when Vessna was near. Tender and gentle were the things he liked being above all else.
Until recently, it had been his most intimate secret.
He knew he could trust her to keep it; and he knew, therefore, that he could trust her with the bigger one he now held, that he felt compelled to share.
“Neemu,” he began softly, “I’m not sure, but . . . I may be going away.”
Vessna, crawling toward a rattle, looked up at him and cooed inquisitively.
“It’s not that you’ll never see me again, but . . . I’ll be different. I’ve been studying with the Kewistan Elders, you know that, and they’ve taught me the basics of Kewisto. I guess you know that too. But . . . have I told you why Kewisto as a philosophy is so important?”
Rattle now in hand, Vessna banged it soundly against the ground and looked up proudly.
“It’s the basis of everything the Kewistans do. They’re the collectors of knowledge for our people. They observe the progress of our race from a remove, never getting directly involved, save to offer advice when asked. They feel it’s their mandate to keep a historical perspective at all times, apart from extremes of emotional involvement. I don’t mean to say that they’re unemotional. Actually, they’re not, but—”
Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy Page 11