Ned has an eye doctor appointment, so he’s going to be gone until lunch. Unsure of what to do, I retreat to the sidelines and wait for instructions. A couple of boys enter the gym, take one look at the balls, and slap their palms together. “Dodgeball! All right!”
Though I am familiar with the basics of most popular sports, dodgeball is not something I remember reading about. Mr. Pritchard, whose burly presence can silence even the most troublesome students, comes into the gym wearing red baggy pants with the white line down the side and a red t-shirt. Picking up a megaphone, he says into it, “All right, today is a special treat. Dodgeball. Curtis, you’re captain of Team A, and Izzy, you’re the captain of Team B.”
Curtis and Izzy go to the front and start calling out people they want for their teams. Before I know it, I’m the only one remaining on the sidelines.
“New kid, you’re with me,” Izzy says, marching over to the left side of the gym.
“My name is Felix,” I call out to her, remembering the way she lashes out at anyone who doesn’t say her name right.
“All right, Felix. Hurry up and get on the line.”
Everyone from our team is lining up on the far side of the gym, and the opposing team is lining up on the opposite side. Mr. Pritchard marches along the sideline, stopping at the center, directly perpendicular to where the balls are lined up. He raises his hand and everyone around me tenses.
“Ready, set, go!” he yells, throwing down his hand and blowing his whistle. Everyone starts running for the balls, so I do too—I should at least pretend I know what we’re doing. When I reach the line, all of the balls have been taken and the gym has become a scene of mass chaos. People with balls are hurling them at others, and everyone else seems to be either running out of the way or diving for stray balls as they are thrown. While I stand in the middle of the gym, Curtis comes up to the line and pelts me with a ball, hitting me square in the chest. It’s suddenly almost impossible to breathe, but I don’t let that stop me. I reach to retrieve the ball and someone else hits me in the side. Managing to pick up the ball, I throw it at Cameron and miss by a few feet as another ball flies in my direction. This one hits me in the face, leaving my cheek stinging as if a thousand needles are pricking my skin.
“You’re out, Felix! Get to the side!” Izzy yells at me, dodging a ball that sails at her head. I notice a group of students forming on the sidelines, cheering for one team or the other and shouting out warnings. Rubbing my cheek, I hurry over to join them, watching as more and more people are eliminated. Finally, it is down to Curtis and Izzy, each armed with a ball, with several reserves on the ground surrounding them.
Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, Curtis stays on the far side on the gym, out of dangerous territory. Izzy, on the other hand, stalks the line at the center of the gym, tossing her ball in the air and smiling.
“What’s the matter, Curtis?” she calls out. “Afraid to be beaten by a girl?”
That sets him off. Barreling forward, Curtis approaches the line and makes a wild toss, which Izzy easily avoids. Now that he’s in range, she launches her ball at Curtis with impressive speed, hitting him directly in the rear. Our team erupts in cheers while Curtis looks like he’s close to foaming at the mouth.
A few people try to congratulate Izzy, but she ignores them, going over to the drinking fountain and splashing some water on her face.
“Better luck next time, Curtis,” one of the boys on our team shouts out. Curtis throws him a murderous glance, then marches into the boys’ locker room, slamming the door in his wake.
When Ned arrives at lunch, I tell him about what happened in gym, leaving out the part where I got pelted with a million balls. Still steaming about his loss, Curtis comes over and knocks my tray off the table.
“Oops,” he says as he walks by.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there. After fourth period, Curtis pretends to trip, shoving me into a locker. In Math class, he takes my backpack when I’m not looking and shoves it into the trash bin. Then in sixth period, he sticks a piece of paper on my back that says “Loser.”
After seeing the sign, Ned seethes, saying, “Felix, you have to do something. He’s just going to keep doing stuff unless you do something to stop him. Maybe you should tell a teacher, or the principal or something.”
Though I admit I’m starting to experience what humans would call annoyance, Curtis’s behavior is something that needs to be studied. If his actions are any indication of the type of behavior humans regularly participate in, then it takes me one step closer to reaching a conclusion for my mission.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can handle it.”
Ned shakes his head and goes back to drawing nonsensical images on his paper though he’s supposed to be writing a short story based on either a man vs. man conflict or man vs. nature conflict. I am certainly having no trouble writing mine, using what they call “real life inspiration.”
When the bell rings at the end of the day, I breathe a sigh of relief that it is finally over. I stop by the restroom, and the hallways are almost empty by the time I emerge. Most students have to hurry to catch their buses, but since I walk I’m able to take my time. Opening my locker, I hear voices coming in my direction.
“No, he didn’t come out yet. He must be somewhere inside.”
An uneasy feeling creeps into my stomach. That voice sounds familiar. Closing my locker, I turn around just in time to see Curtis, Cameron, and Michael rounding the corner.
“There he is!” Cameron says, and I forget all of my training on how to stay calm and collected in the face of a hostile situation. I run.
Aware of the footsteps pounding behind me, I run through the cafeteria and take a quick right. Though I’ve managed to put some distance between us, I can hear the boys behind me, still in pursuit. There are rows upon rows of open classroom doors, but no adult in sight.
Managing to increase the distance between myself and my pursuers, I see a door ajar that I have never noticed before. Throwing myself through its doorway, I close it behind me and find myself in total darkness. Listening at the door, I grow still as I hear Curtis and his friends approach, coming to a stop near the door.
“Which way did he go?” Curtis asks, sounding out of breath. They stop to listen for the sound of my footsteps.
“I don’t know,” Michael says. “Maybe we should just go.”
“No! I want to find that little punk. I have a surprise for him,” Curtis says, with a razor edge to his voice.
I try not to move a single muscle, but I have the terrifying feeling that I’m about to be discovered.
Then I hear them walk a few steps away. “You can just do it tomorrow,” Cameron says. “Let’s go to my house and play Doom Slayer IV.” Listening intently in the darkness, I silently plead for Curtis to take Cameron’s advice.
“All right,” Curtis relents, and I hear the sound of them retreating down the hallway. I wait long after their footsteps have faded before searching for a light switch. What is this room? My hand touches shelves as I search for the light switch. Finding it, my eyes take a moment to adjust as I circle around.
Wait, I must be hallucinating, I think, backing up against the door. I must be, because cut up and hanging against the wall are a bunch of different articles. And one in particular has a very familiar sight on it, a sight not meant for humans eyes.
But there it is, hanging up in what appears to be a custodial closet. A picture of my spaceship.
CHAPTER 6
Before leaving the custodial closet, I take a good look at all of the articles. The one thing they have in common? Aliens. Cut-up and pasted on the wall are old articles about the Roswell, Arizona incident (I actually was informed of that debacle once on Bopton, but that’s another story) and about various sightings all over the world of unexplained objects flying through the sky. There are articles that have stories from people claiming to have been abducted. And, of course, there are articles about the infamous Area 51, where—a
ccording to human legend—all alien evidence is stored.
The newest article is the one about my spaceship, titled “Mysterious Unidentified Object is Spotted over Africa.” It contains several eyewitness accounts, describing what one man called “a gleaming hunk of metal.” The cloaking device must have malfunctioned when the ship launched itself to head home. I wonder if the Boptons know, or if they care. This obviously isn’t the first time something like this has happened.
The next day at school, I decide to observe the custodian more closely. A grizzled old man, he walks through the halls hunched over his broom, muttering under his breath. Lean, with a wiry build, he is tall even when hunched over. The skin on his face sags as if invisible weights are pulling it down. While working, his eyes occasionally dart from side to side and he stops in place as if listening to something before resuming his slow march down the hallway.
“What do you know about the custodian?” I ask Ned at lunch, “He seems somewhat…unusual.”
“You mean Old Tom. Yeah, he’s crazy all right,” Ned says, chomping on his sandwich. He continues to speak with his mouth full, chunks of meat, condiments, and vegetables visibly swirling in his mouth. “Last year, I heard he almost got fired because he wouldn’t shut up about some so-called spaceship he saw. He scared a bunch of kids and was put on leave for a while. But this year he came back and now he just mutters his crazy theories under his breath, though who knows who he’s talking to.”
Last year… Before a Bopton scouting mission, the planet in question is visited multiple times in preparation. I wouldn’t be overly surprised if a spaceship had come here sometime before I arrived. Maybe Old Tom isn’t as crazy as people think—though that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous, especially to me.
My hand goes to my throat, where the globe is lying against my skin. As long as I take three drops a week, there is no way that Old Tom, or anyone else, will be able to figure out what I really am. In fact, I took my first dose since landing this morning, in the privacy of the bathroom at Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt’s. Good thing, too, because I wheezed like a cat trying to cough up a hairball for about five minutes. With a sigh, I turn back to my lunch, making sure to chew with my mouth fully closed, giving Ned a pointed look.
Rolling in his mop, Tom cleans up a spill close to our table. Listening closely, I manage to catch a few of the words he is muttering.
“Going to be back…among us for sure…got to be prepared…be prepared.” He finishes and wheels his mop away, no doubt still rambling about his preparations.
My eyes follow him for a moment, until something else catches my attention. Curtis and Cameron are creeping behind an unsuspecting girl, and it looks like Curtis is holding something in his hand. He drops whatever it is onto the girl’s tray, causing her to scream and jump up. “Spider!” she yelps, stumbling back. Curtis and Cameron laugh.
So far today, they have left me alone, though I’ve caught them looking at me and whispering from time to time. I haven’t forgotten about the “surprise” Curtis said he has for me. Part of me just wishes he would get it over with. Waiting for something awful to happen can sometimes be as bad as the awful thing itself. But I guess it depends on what it is. Shaking my head, I don’t allow myself to imagine the possibilities.
The rest of the day goes by in a relatively uneventful fashion. After school, I hurry to my locker with all of the other students. I’m determined not to be caught alone and off-guard again. Clutching the note I was given that morning that gives me permission to ride the bus home with Ned, I make my way towards the front doors, where Ned and I are supposed to meet. Ned is waiting there with an interesting little toy called a yo-yo, making it do some sort of whirling trick. We head onto the bus, and as it’s pulling away, I see Curtis, Cameron, and Michael burst through the front doors and look around wildly. Curtis catches my eye in the window, and I can’t help but smile. It seems that whatever surprise he has for me is going to have to wait until Monday. Such a shame. As I wave brightly at him, Curtis scowls and kicks at the pavement, his mouth spitting out words that are most likely curses.
“What’s that all about?” Ned asks, watching me wave.
“Nothing,” I reply. I had told Ned about the boys chasing me after school, but I hadn’t mentioned what I had overheard about Curtis’s surprise. He’d just worry and insist I go talk to a teacher again.
Ned’s house is one of the few furthest from the school. As I look out the window, the landscape changes from streetlights and stores to woods and more woods. Slowly, the bus rumbles up to and stops at each student’s individual house to drop them off. Ten minutes pass. Twenty minutes. Finally, we pull in front of a large home built in the style of American colonial, set far back from the road. The porch wraps around the entire house, with a few wicker chairs placed out front. Huge columns frame the front door, which is a deep, cherry wood. The rest of the house is white, with a ridiculously large amount of windows. Though older than my aunt and uncle’s home, there’s something about the building that I find appealing. It has character.
After walking at least a half of a mile down the driveway, we reach the house. Opening the door, Ned throws his backpack on the floor and yells, “Mom, we’re home.” He leads me into the kitchen and we find Ned’s mother taking a tray of cookies out of the oven. She seems older than most parents I’ve seen at the school, with wrinkles crinkling the skin around her kind eyes. Her blond hair is beginning to fall out of its bun, with stray pieces falling down to her shoulders.
“Have a good day, honey?” she asks, setting the tray on the counter. The cabinets in the kitchen are made of cherry wood like the front door, though they seem to be more modern than the rest of the house. Ned nods and goes to grab a cookie, but his mom turns off the oven and slaps his hand away.
“Wait until they’ve had a chance to cool. You’ll burn your mouth.”
Ned backs off and peeks inside of the pantry. “Mom, this is Felix.”
“Hi, Felix,” she says and she smiles at me.
“Hi,” I say, catching a fruit snack pack that Ned throws to me. “It is nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she says. “Now, I’ll let you boys get settled, but no cookies.” She shoots Ned a warning look, which he returns with a sheepish grin.
However, as soon as his mother leaves the room, he carefully removes one of the cookies and takes a big bite. “Ow,” he hisses, fanning his mouth. “They’re really hot.” He offers me one, but I shake my head. With a shrug, he eats it himself.
“Let’s go upstairs to my room.” He wipes the crumbs into his hand and throws them away.
His bedroom is at the end of a long hall. A large ceiling fan circles overhead inside, and there’s a spacious wooden desk in the corner. Going over to the desk, Ned turns on a computer and sits down in a swiveling chair.
“You’ve got to see this video I found,” he says. “It’s hilarious!” After typing rapidly on a keyboard for a moment, he pulls up the site with the video. On the screen an overweight, bald man is attempting to ride a bicycle up a ramp. Somehow, he manages to go over the handlebars, landing on his head.
Ned cracks up, shaking with laughter. I join in a second too late, and my laughter sounds forced, even to me. Ned continues to click on various videos—one where a girl falls off a trampoline, one where a boy miscalculates his jump off a diving board and gets whacked with it, and one where a baseball hits a man in a very sensitive area.
Ned howls with laughter at each one, and I pretend to as well, wondering if my only real friend on Earth is, in fact, a sociopath. Did all humans find each other’s misfortunes so hilarious? And if so, why? Perturbed by this latest insight into the human psyche, I’m relieved when Ned finally swivels around in the chair, his face red from laughing so much.
“Whoo,” he exhales, and then laughs one last time. “Okay, that was good. Hey, if you want, I’ll show you the rest of the house.” He jumps off the chair.
Most of the house is pretty standar
d, based on the diagrams and descriptions of middle class housing I have seen: bedrooms, bathrooms, an office. All the rooms possess the old-fashioned characteristics which reflect the house’s age and style: rich wood molding, original hardwood floor, architectural beams in various places for stylistic appeal.
Their telephone rings as we are about to head downstairs into the basement, and Ned pauses to listen as his mother answers the call in the kitchen.
“Hello?” Mrs. Holton says. “Honey! How are you? It’s so good to hear your voice.”
Ned perks up and bounds into the kitchen, with me trailing behind him. He waits by the counter while his mother talks, grabbing another cookie off the plate. After a few minutes she hands him the telephone.
“H-Hey, Dad,” Ned says. It’s the first time I have heard him stutter since he stood up to Curtis for me on the first day of school.
“S-School’s good. I-I’ve actually got a friend over right now—Felix.” Ned listens for a few moments and then tells his father all about his first week of school, stuttering periodically as he speaks. Eventually his mother puts out her hand, signaling for the telephone. Ned holds up his hand in response.
“Dad, when will you be coming home next?” His hopeful expression dims as he listens to his father’s answer. “Oh, okay. Well, Mom wants the phone back, so I’ll talk to you later. Uh-huh. Love you, too. Bye.” He hands the telephone back to his mother and trudges back to the basement door.
“Downstairs is actually my dad’s room. He decorated it himself.” It isn’t until we reach the bottom of the steps that Ned turns on the lights. Hanging all over the walls are the heads of different animals, mostly deer, bucks, and bears. Though I know they are not alive, they all seem to stare at me with their blank eyes. In the center of the room are a brown leather couch and two over-stuffed brown chairs.
Tales Of An Alien Invader Page 4