Tales Of An Alien Invader

by Michelle Brown

  “Do you think there are a lot of people who try to control others, who hurt people just to make themselves feel better, who only think of themselves?”

  Her sad eyes meet mine for a second. “More than there should be,” she replies, heading up her driveway.

  Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.

  CHAPTER 8

  Walking up to the plate the following day, I still haven’t reached a decision.

  Curtis had looked at me in the locker room and slid his finger across his throat. The message was clear—strike out or you’re dead. Now, from his position as shortstop, Curtis locks eyes with me. Almost involuntarily, my left eye closes in an unmistakable wink. Connecting with the ball, I sprint to third base before skidding to a stop as the ball is thrown to home.

  Yep, I’m a goner.

  From the lineup, Izzy shakes her head at me, but her lips are tilted in a smile. Smiling back, I shrug. With the next batter’s hit, I slide into home. Brushing dirt off my pants, I avoid looking at Curtis as I return to the lineup.

  “Looks like someone’s going to need a bodyguard,” Izzy calls to me.

  “Huh?” Ned asks, confused.

  “Nothing,” I say, turning my attention back to the game. But Izzy is right; I will need protection if I’m going to escape Curtis’s wrath.

  Luckily, Izzy decides to take the role upon herself and walks home with me after school from that day on. We always leave right after the bell rings with everyone else, foregoing trips to our lockers on most days. Over the next week, what follows is a game of Trex and Lox, or in human terms, cat and mouse. Curtis approaches me in the hallway, and I scurry into a classroom. He waits for me outside the cafeteria, so I take the back door out. And no matter how many times he comes close, I always manage to slip out of his grasp.

  Man, does that bug him.

  He resorts to whatever forms of torture he can get away with in the classroom. Spitballs are shot at the back of my head in science class. Feet are stuck out into the aisle when I go to turn in an assignment. Cameron no longer bothers to pitch normally when I’m up to bat in gym class, but instead uses the opportunity to lob the ball at me as fast as he can.

  It’s annoying and, at times, frightening, but if I could go back in time would I strike out?

  Not a chance.

  At first, Ned finds my new alliance with Izzy somewhat bewildering, but after a few days he warms up to her, and the three of us take to eating lunch together, talking about how much Curtis resembles a wildebeest or how Cameron’s acne-ridden face looks like a cluster of tiny volcanoes waiting to explode.

  The day of baseball tryouts arrives. After gym class, Mr. Pritchard follows me out of the locker room and clasps my shoulder in an uncomfortable manner.

  “So, Felix, I’ll see you later tonight at the fields, right?” he asks, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Uh, I still haven’t decided. Maybe,” I say, wincing at the increased pressure

  “Nonsense. You’ll be there. Six-thirty sharp. Don’t be late.”

  He hails Michael over from the other side of the hallway, and Ned, Izzy, and I make a hasty retreat.

  “Why do I feel like Mr. Pritchard never actually listens to what I’m saying?” I complain. “It’s like the man only listens to what he wants to hear.”

  “Selective hearing, that’s Pritchard all right,” Ned says, his backpack bouncing up and down as he walks.

  “Are you going to try out?” I ask him as we cut through the cafeteria.

  “No. Baseball’s okay, but basketball is really my sport,” Ned says, pretending to shoot a ball.

  “What about you?” I ask Izzy hopefully.

  “Nah. I’m already in a league after school,” she says, bumping into Ned intentionally to get him to stop shooting imaginary baskets.

  “Really? What league?” I ask, curious. She never mentioned before.

  “It’s a rec. football league,” she replies nonchalantly as Ned sputters next to her.

  “Football? You?” he asks, eyes wide with his mouth opened in agape.

  “Yes, me. And I’m good, thank you very much,” she snaps, her eyes narrowed. I recognize the look she’s giving Ned; he had better watch what he says or he will end up with an elbow in the side.

  “No, I mean, that’s great,” Ned says, trying to recover. “I just don’t know a lot of girls who, you know, play football. But it’s great, really.” He gives Izzy an apologetic smile.

  Weighing the pros and cons of Mr. Pritchard’s offer, I feel the pull of playing against other teams on a regular basis outweighing the con that Mr. Pritchard seems like a—what’s the word?—jerk.

  “You should try out though, Felix,” Ned says, echoing my thoughts. “Pritchard can be kind of a pain, but his team is really good. Last year, they won the championship.”

  I picture myself hitting the winning homerun of the championship game, running around the bases to a roaring crowd. My teammates lift me onto their shoulders and carry me around. “Who are you?” my father’s critical voice says in my mind. Feeling an inkling of shame, I ignore it. I can hardly hear him over the cheering, anyway.

  * * *

  Aunt Shirley drops me off at the fields early. I inhale deeply as I make my way to the group of students gathering around Mr. Pritchard, enjoying the smell of fresh cut grass. The field has freshly-painted white lines and the dirt is smooth, not yet trampled by runners’ feet. As I get closer, I glance at the faces of the students and realize I don’t recognize most of them, except for a few I have seen in the halls. They must be seventh graders. There are three other sixth graders, Michael being one of them. Luckily, Curtis and Cameron are nowhere in sight.

  I keep my eyes warily on Michael as I approach, wondering if he is going to make one of the comments Curtis manages to throw my way whenever he sees me. Michael, however, seems to make a point of not looking in my direction; instead he stares off towards the field, not speaking to anyone around him.

  Mr. Pritchard is talking to a tall man beside him. The man has cocoa colored skin and thick black hair that stands out in contrast to Mr. Pritchard’s bald head. I overhear two boys next to me talking about him.

  “Who’s the tall guy?” one of them asks.

  “That’s Barry Lenoy. He’s a legend on the field,” his companion replies. “Took the team at the high school to the state championship every year he played. I heard he went off to school on some sort of scholarship but got injured in a car accident and couldn’t play anymore.”

  “So what’s he doing here?”

  “He must be the new assistant coach. I heard Coach Pritchard drove away last year’s. He’s never had the same assistant coach two years in a row.”

  Mr. Pritchard blasts on his whistle to get everyone’s attention. A hush immediately falls over the crowd.

  “Now, boys, today is tryouts. I plan on having the best team in the league, make no mistakes, so some of you inevitably won’t make the cut. If you can’t take pressure, you should leave right now. If you can’t handle someone pushing you to your limits, you should leave right now. If you didn’t come here to win, you should leave right now.”

  He pauses and crosses his arms. No one moves a muscle as the moment stretches out. Finally, Mr. Pritchard claps his hands together.

  “Let’s get started!”

  * * *

  Warm-up consists of running around the field for ten minutes. It’s followed by push-ups and so many mountain-climbers my calves feel like they are full of acid by the time we have finished. Coach Pritchard stands with his arms crossed the entire time, surveying the groups with critical eyes. Coach Lenoy, on the other hand, shouts encouragement to various players, shooting us smiles here and there.

  Next, we throw the ball to each other in pairs. I make it through that exercise only dropping the ball once, a personal best. Coach Pritchard then divides us into two teams, sending my team to the outfield first. Luckily, no balls come in my direction in left field, which would have revealed my weak catc
hing. Not that Coach Pritchard is unaware; he has seen me in the outfield plenty of times in gym class.

  Michael and I are on the same team, so we have a clear advantage when it comes to hitting. For every solid hit I make, Michael follows up with one as good as mine. Most of the boys in the lineup talk about the game, the coaches, or something while they wait, but Michael just sits in stony silence, ignoring us all. I befriend a few of the other players, all of whom become a lot more enthusiastic about talking to me after they see me hit.

  Coach Pritchard never says a word to me during the entire process, but after a home run hit towards the end of tryouts, Coach Lenoy comes up to me and says, “Heck of a swing, kid. Heck of a swing.”

  Tryouts finish and I wait for Aunt Shirley in the parking lot behind the fields. Out of nowhere, a big, beefy hand comes down on my shoulder, giving it a familiar (and unwelcome) squeeze. I turn to face Coach Pritchard with a sense of foreboding and notice Michael at his side, his gaze sullenly fixed to the ground.

  “Hi, Coach,” I say hesitantly, willing Aunt Shirley’s car to arrive.

  “Hey, Felix,” Coach Pritchard replies, the grip on my shoulder tightening. “Now I don’t like to advertise this fact, but usually I come to tryouts with a pretty good idea of who’s going to make the cut. You and Michael here have proven in class that you have the stuff winners are made of. For that reason, I took the liberty of looking into your grades. Being an educator, I hold my players to certain academic standards. And Felix, your grades are impressive, particularly your math grade. Michael, on the other hand, is failing math.”

  Michael kicks the ground in front of him, still refusing to raise his eyes. It’s obvious he is not enjoying this conversation any more than I am.

  “So, I figure since you’re going to be teammates and all, Felix, you could tutor Michael in math and help him bring his grade up.”

  I blink once, twice. I open my mouth and close it. Michael looks up for a moment and seems on the verge of protesting, but Coach Pritchard silences him with a surly stare.

  Excuse. I need to come up with a valid excuse. I have an after-school job. No, he would ask me where. Or worse, he would have me and Michael come in at lunchtime for the tutoring. I’m already busy tutoring other people. No, he would just ask why Michael couldn’t join us. I’m really not smart. I’m just a really lucky guesser. Statistically impossible, however, considering I’ve received an A on every assignment. How about the truth? Since the first day I arrived at school, Michael and his friends have done everything to make my life miserable and I would rather go back to Bopton in a shipping crate than help that arrogant punk with anything.

  “What I’m asking, Felix, is if you’re a team player. Because I only want team players on my team.” Coach Pritchard releases my shoulder and crosses his arms, staring down at me with calculating eyes.

  “I’m available on Tuesdays,” I mumble, and Coach Pritchard’s face breaks into a smile.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Wait. Michael, Michael Hughes, the guy who threw you in a dumpster, is coming over to your house today?” Ned’s incredulous eyes search mine, his hand holding a piece of pizza halfway to his mouth.

  “Yeah,” I say unhappily. I had avoided telling Ned and Izzy about the whole tutoring situation, figuring some spectacular excuse to get out of it would come to me in my sleep or something. But two practices (where Michael didn’t bother to look at me, much less talk) and several dream-free nights later, Tuesday has arrived.

  “Well, maybe this could be a good thing,” Izzy says optimistically. “Maybe since you’re helping him, he’ll stop harassing you.”

  I shake my head, holding up my neon orange binder. Someone (aka Michael and his friends) had gotten their hands on it in Social Studies and written DORK! across the front in permanent marker.

  “Why did you agree to help him, then?” Ned asks, now chewing a big bite of pizza. “I would’ve told Pritchard to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  “Yeah, well, insulting the head coach didn’t seem like great idea. I want to play, and if helping Michael is the only way I can, then I just have to deal with it.”

  “There are other teams. Ones that don’t have bald-headed coaches or people on the team who want to kill you.”

  “I looked into that. All of the other teams are already full.” It’s true that I had looked into it, but what I don’t say out loud is the other reason for staying on Coach Pritchard’s team—I want to win.

  A group of girls sits down next to us at the table, giggling over something. They all are wearing some shade of pink, which is peculiar. Did they call each other up and plan that? Are they in some kind of club or gang? Though I feel like I’ve gained a quite a bit of insight into human behavior, some of their social customs still baffle me. One of the girls looks over at Izzy and starts whispering to the girl next to her. After a moment, they both look over at Izzy again and laugh.

  “Izzy, why don’t you hang out with other girls?” I ask. It’s a question I have been wondering for a while. After all, socially speaking, females and males in adolescence seem to prefer the company of their own gender. Except, of course, to partake in the first attempts of courting, more commonly called dating. However, Izzy is what scientists on Bopton would call an anomaly. She seems to reject most of the social norms and customs of her gender, instead asserting her own individual identity regardless of any social ramifications.

  “Do you even need to ask?” Izzy replies, looking hurt. “Most girls our age only want to gossip about boys and stab each other in the back. I don’t fit in with them.” She takes a moment to survey the girls at our table, who are now staring at a group of boys at the table next to us. “I’m glad I don’t fit in with them.”

  I keep my mouth shut, though I’m sure there must be some girls out there that do other things, perhaps there are some that like to play football, like Izzy. Either way, seeing the downcast expression on Izzy’s face, I realize I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. She stares off into space across from me, leaving the food on her tray untouched. Perhaps she doesn’t fit social norms, but I’m glad to have her as my friend.

  “So why is Michael coming to your house? Couldn’t you find somewhere here to tutor him?” Ned asks, taking a big swig of his milk.

  “I figured that would give Curtis a perfect opportunity to ambush me. The dumpster is a place I’d rather not visit again.”

  “True. But your house, it’s like inviting a cannibal to dinner.”

  I flinch. “I like to think of it more like a home field advantage,” I say, chancing a look in Michael’s direction. He, Cameron, and Curtis are all laughing uproariously at something, probably a diabolical plot they have hatched to ruin someone’s day, or week, or year.

  Ned turns to see what I’m looking at and shakes his head. “Well, I don’t like it. I’m coming over too, just to make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

  “I hardly think he will do anything in my own house with Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt there.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Izzy chimes in. “This way he’ll know you have people that, you know, have your back.”

  Have your back. It’s an interesting expression, like most slang I’ve come across. A warm glow spreads inside my chest.

  “Yeah, we’re your people,” Ned says, stealing some food off of Izzy’s tray.

  My people. The warm glow fades and I feel the weight of the globe around my neck. No, these aren’t my people. And the more I remind myself of that, the better.

  * * *

  Ned and Izzy walk home with me after school, and we are in the midst of eating some mozzarella sticks (another Earthly favorite of mine) when the doorbell rings. Our laughter abruptly stops and we look towards the door, as if it somehow is going to magically open itself.

  Filled with trepidation, I walk to the door with heavy-laden steps. Michael is standing outside, his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. I open the door and stand aside for him to pass without saying a word
. He hesitates for a moment before shrugging past me, his backpack slung over his shoulder. Stopping in the foyer, he looks back at me expectantly.

  “We’re going to study in here,” I say, leading the way into the kitchen. Michael follows and his eyes widen slightly when he spots Ned and Izzy, but he does not say a word. In fact, no one greets one another, and for a few dragging moments the air fills with tense silence.

  I join Ned and Izzy at the table, pulling my math book over to me. “Why don’t we start with today’s assignment?”

  Michael continues to stand by the refrigerator, staring at the empty chair next to me as if he expects it to get up and begin doing the math for him. Eventually he sits down, takes out own his book slowly, and turns to the page I am on.

  “In order to do this assignment, you need to understand how to add and subtract negative numbers, which is pretty simple.” Immediately, I see I’ve said the wrong thing. An invisible barrier seems to slam shut in Michael’s eyes and he makes no move to see what I am writing on the paper in front of me. Staring dejectedly at his book, he crosses his arms.

  “What I meant was that adding and subtracting negative numbers is not that bad once you get the hang of it.” It is becoming clear I am going to need to coax Michael into making any sort of effort, so I scoot my chair in his direction. Across the table, Izzy and Ned start playing a game of paper football in silence, making faces at one another. After successfully making his first shot, Ned makes mock cheering noises and Izzy rolls her eyes.

  I, on the other hand, attempt to keep Michael’s attention on the assignment. “So in this first problem we need to figure out what negative six minus negative six is. Whenever you are subtracting a negative number from another negative number, it’s like adding a positive.” In my head it makes perfect sense, but I have the feeling I’m not explaining it well. Michael starts doodling on the corner of his book.

  “So,” I continue doggedly, “in this case, it really becomes negative six plus six, which is…?” I draw out the “is” until it’s clear Michael has no intention of answering me.