I had to make a choice. Cutting across the park would get me home fastest. But I dreaded being caught out in the wild, with nobody to hear my cries for help. Going home by the usual road to the south would require going around the entire school building—and my enemies could be lurking behind any corner.
Detouring around the park to the north was not the most direct route. In fact, I had never walked it before. But I had seen it roll by through the windows of the transport. This route would keep me safely on surface streets. Also, part of my mission was, still, to explore this strange new world. Taking a slightly roundabout way home would help me feel as if I were accomplishing something.
So with a determined deep breath, I plotted a northern course, laid the coordinates in, and engaged my feet.
It turned out to be a nice little stroll. The sky was gray, but a tiny bit of white sunlight was filtering through, and much of the latest snowfall was melting. The breeze coming off the distant mountains was just cool enough to redden my cheeks. I was in a happy mood after talking with Ms. Beacon, and I felt almost invigorated.
I started thinking that this was not such an alien place, all the time. The houses looked like houses anywhere else. Although often, they looked like each other, clinging to every curve and roll of the hillside, except for the long, open ravine that was Sand Creek Park. As I walked, I envisioned a machine from a Dr. Seuss cartoon rolling down the hillside behind me, blurting out one identical dwelling after another, which would be rapidly inhabited by one identical family after another, with identical cars parked in identical driveways. I imagined that this was comforting if you fit in.
I thought of a book I once read about such a place, filled with boys who came out and bounced balls in sync and girls who jumped rope at the exact same time. Their lives were controlled by an evil giant brain, true, but that seems a small price to pay for not having to worry about being a lonely weirdo alien freak who has to dodge tormentors who could materialize at any moment—say, in the form of three figures emerging from the park and heading straight for me.
It wasn’t. Was it?
Aw, frak. It was.
Whether they planned it or not, it was a perfect spot for an ambush, right where the road cut through the park, which meant there were no houses for a hundred feet in either direction. I got that feeling in the middle of my chest where my heart melts into my stomach and starts pushing the contents up toward my throat.
But I could not retreat. I had no safe place to run. The only shelter was my home, which was through the three of them. I cast my eyes toward the ground and strode forward. My hands, inside the pockets of my parka, were clenched into fists so tight that my fingernails cut into my palms.
My enemies waited, three abreast, on the sidewalk.
I tried to walk around them. Ty blocked me.
“Where you been, friend?” The term he used was not actually friend, but rather something untranslatable that I assumed referred to a ball of tissue used to clean a personal area of one’s body.
I tried to go to his left. Sneeva and Pignarski closed ranks and blocked me.
“What’s the hurry?” Ty asked. “Rushing home for some play time with yourself?” He made a gesture that had some significance to his partners, who began to laugh.
I’m not sure what led me to do what I did next. I didn’t think of the possible repercussions. I was just scared and frustrated and a hot flash of anger came over my face and the tears were forming in my eyes and everything was getting blurry. And I wanted it all to go away.
So I took all that hurt and fear and shame and looked up at Sneeva and Pignarski and opened my mouth and the noise came from the deepest, most primitive part of my being:
“K’HAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
I lunged, palm-first. They were so taken aback that they jumped out of my way. I walked on, forcefully. Not running, just striding with a little more purpose.
I dared a quick glance back. They were not following. I had actually stunned them!
Then the shouting started. Out came all their favorite insults. But with each step I put between us, I gained confidence. Something I had done had actually worked! I had taken action—bold action, at that—and made my own success! This was a first. I felt strong. I felt proud. I felt—
I felt the projectile as it hit the back of my head and turned my field of vision into a red flash of angry neurons. I felt the ice shards shower down my neck. And with my fingers, I felt the spot where the welt would form as I realized that someone had just scored a direct hit on my skull with a rock-hard snow-and-ice ball from thirty yards away.
No wonder the coach liked Ty. It was quite a throw.
I looked back to see what their next move would be. I saw Ty packing his hands together and winding up.
I broke and ran. Not bold. Not proud. Just as hard as I could.
It wasn’t enough. The next iceball made impact between my shoulders, right on the RAF patch. I stumbled forward, trying to get out of range.
They kept firing and shouting until I rounded a corner, at which point they switched to just laughing. I sprinted another half-block, then paused to catch my breath. I ran my fingers along my skull again, felt the lump rising, saw the thin sheen of blood on my fingertips, wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand.
Once home, I went in through the garage and bolted to my room. I shook out the remaining ice from my shirt, combed the clotting blood from my hair and put on the one baseball cap that I owned—the one my aunt had sent from the Air and Space Museum—to hide the mess.
I didn’t want to cause a scene with the commander on duty.
I filled my favorite Luke Skywalker stadium cup with cereal and milk and parked myself in front of the TV and tried not to think for a long time. The welling tears made it hard for me to focus on the screen, but I had seen this episode before. And I knew I would again.
3.07.02
Of course the entire home base gathered for mealtime that evening. Which was the last thing I wanted.
Usually, we eat in waves; one command unit feeds the spawn, then me, then later the other command unit comes home and picks through whatever is left.
I prefer things that way. Because when we are all together, the commanders insist on talking about my efforts to establish peaceful communications with the natives at Festus.
As noted, I work hard to mask my failures. But even as I assure the commanders, they still want reports about my daily experiences and my feelings about them. They want to chart my entire psychological universe. They are really getting on my nerves.
I have attempted to spare everyone a lot of worry by simply saying as little as possible. But to them, this indicates something is wrong. And when they sense that, they want to tell me how to fix it. Particularly the male command unit, whose advice tends to be spooled out in long, impenetrable discourses.
I think of these monologues as conversational black holes. Their advice is so dense that even the optics in the room are affected. At least, that’s the only reason I can figure for why they start talking about me as if I weren’t there.
“He just needs to reach out and talk to people more,” the male commander said. “I mean, it’s not that hard. At work, I just met this guy, a few desks over, who works on the cops beat—big guy, a veteran, grew up somewhere in the Pacific, actually did training at a base I helped cover back when I was an intern. Anyhow, you wouldn’t believe how crazy he—”
The female commander mercifully cut him off. “I’m sure Clark will be fine and tell us all about everything whenever he feels ready.”
I wanted to ask them whether they had any advice for how I could make use of this invisibility cloak they had flung over me, and if maybe there were a magical boarding school they could send me to where I could learn more such techniques, because the place they had me enrolled in now stank worse than the spawn’s diaper pail. But I did not think it was the kind of remark that would lead to a positive outcome.
And I absolutely didn’t c
onsider telling them what my life was really like. Because if there is anything more humiliating than being a picked-on, put-down, insignificant carcass of weakling alien roadkill, it is being a picked-on, put-down, insignificant carcass of weakling alien roadkill who goes crying to mommy and daddy when things get rough.
I still had my pride.
Not much. But some.
So I just finished my meatloaf, cleared my dishes and went back to my room, where the books did not ask stupid questions.
EXPEDITION LOG
ENTRY 4.01.01
Principal Denton abducted me today.
It happened right before second hour. After a typically invigorating PE class, I walked all the way back to the office and was debating whether to approach Counselor Blethins when he stepped out.
“Sherman,” he said. “In my office.” He turned.
I obeyed. I would have preferred to have run outside, been picked up by the Fortitude and whisked into hiding in a nearby nebula immediately, but that seemed unlikely. So I meekly followed in his wake, watching the adult staffers make an extra show of how hard they were shuffling pieces of paper as he brisked past. The only being who did not move was a student aide in the corner, who was quietly reading a book. I recognized her from the cafeteria—she was one of the few Asian-American kids at the school, and I remembered how the Kaitlins had savaged her about her floral-print dress that day in the cafeteria right before they sank their fangs into me.
I shuddered at the memory, stepped into the principal’s office and sat down on the black chair across from his desk.
“Have a seat,” he said, before he turned to face me.
His eyes were the same steel marbles I remembered from Day One. But something was wrong with his face. His lips. They were oddly twisted. As if he had just swallowed an ice cube and did not want anyone to know it. Then I realized—he was trying to smile at me.
“How are things going, Sherman?”
Something did not compute. Not at all.
“Uhhh . . . fine, I guess.”
His face made that look again, which made me a little ill. “Good, good,” he said, looking over his shoulder and off into the distance. “You’ve been here—what, a couple of months now?”
“Just about six weeks, sir,” I said.
“Yes, I thought so,” he said. “And how is . . . your Independent Study class?” He spoke as if this were a casual topic of conversation that he had chosen to bring up for no particular reason. During one of our usual, regular, friendly chats.
“That’s fine too,” I said. After a too-long pause, I added, “Sir.”
His face snapped back to me. I think he thought I was being sarcastic. But he quickly realized that I was just scared out of my mind. This seemed to relax him.
“Good. Any . . . problems with that woman in the library?”
I paused, thought about what he might want to hear, what might release me to the halls the fastest. But what could I say? “No, sir. I think she’s doing excellent work.”
He gave a little grunt of disappointment, and my stomach gurgled in response.
He did not look at me as he began to pace behind his desk. “Sherman, you got off to a rough start here. But you’re aware that I’m here to help you, I assume?”
No, I thought, I was not aware of that at all. “Yes, Mr. Denton. I am aware. Thank you, sir.”
He drew himself up again. “Excellent attitude, Sherman. All together, on one team. Reminds me of my days in the Corps.”
“The Corps?” It came out sounding more confused than I would have preferred, but frankly, I could not envision him playing either drums or bugle.
He chuckled in a forced way and gestured to a shelf next to his desk. It held a large portrait of a young Marine, standing in front of an American flag. Next to it was a small framed case that held a dog tag, some colorful rectangular pieces of cloth and a red, white and blue ribbon with a bronze medal, showing an eagle, hanging from it.
“United States Marine Corps, son. The most excellent fighting force on the planet. And how did we do it?” He waited for a reply, but I had nothing. So he went on. “We did it with unity. And teamwork. Every Marine, from the top to the bottom, carries his load.”
His eyes rested on me again. “Semper fi. All for one.”
I nodded, uncomprehending.
“Several years ago, when the school board urged the superintendent to hire me away from the private sector and put me in their new fast-track principal program, they looked at my military record and said, ‘Denton, we need your help in restoring values at this school. Values like honor. And discipline. And teamsmanship.’ ”
I stared.
“You would agree that those are important values, would you not, Sherman?”
“I guess . . . yes. Yes, sir.”
“Indeed. But unfortunately, as we pursue these values, there are people who would . . . challenge us, aren’t there?”
“You mean enemies, sir?”
“Yes!” he said, a little too excitedly for my comfort. “Enemies. They abound. Even a decorated combat veteran such as myself can sometimes feel surrounded. But you know how we fight them?”
I did not. “How’s that, sir?”
“Together!”
“Together.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I need your help to keep an eye on . . . enemies in our midst. It’s not as easy as when I was in the Corps, when all I needed to set things right was my wits and my gun.” He chuckled as he held an invisible rifle up to his eye, squinted and pulled the trigger. “So I need your help in watching our . . . enemies.”
Given the number of enemies I had, this would not be a problem at all. I always had my eye on them—often right before they threw something at it.
“And if you’re doing that for me,” Denton said, lowering his voice and leaning on his desk, “I can keep an eye on things for you. Is that clear?”
Wait a minute, did he just make some kind of offer to me? Because I think that’s what he did, and I had no idea what he meant.
“Yes, Principal Denton. Very clear.”
He smiled again. This time it did not look forced. It was the smile of a man who had just achieved something that made him feel smug.
“Good,” he said. “Anytime you have anything to report, my door will be open. As far as I’m concerned, from now on, we’re a fighting unit—two buddies, sharing a foxhole. Together!”
This sounded a little gross. But I told him, “I appreciate it, sir.”
“Dismissed, soldier,” he said in a way that made me think he was going to chuck my chin and call me his Little Buckaroo.
I walked out. The staff looked my way, saw that I was not the principal and went back to chatting among themselves. The girl in the corner kept reading her book. Counselor Blethins averted her eyes. I didn’t bother asking her anything.
4.01.02
One advantage of sitting alone at lunch every day is that you get time to think. Today I was thinking about how the other lunch tables had greeted my efforts to make contact. In short, I had not succeeded. At all.
I wasn’t welcome at the table closest to the entrance because I cannot catch a ball, nor am I particularly speedy.
I cannot go near the tables occupied by clusters of females. When I approach, I definitely feel a deadly negative-ion force field being generated.
The inhabitants who are skilled with the blowing of wind into tubes, producing a primitive type of music, seem pleasant enough. But the one time I attempted to join the conversation, I suspect that I passed through a radiation zone en route to the table, because I was clearly invisible to them.
Each table is its own planet. Each planet has its own defenses. The tables of people who seem ready to hire on if a rodeo should suddenly set up outside. The tables of people who seem ready in case a rock festival does the same. There are planets within these planets, and absolutely none of them are described in any astronomy books I can find. I’m perpetually pushed to the periphery�
�unable to maintain an orbit anywhere.
At one point, cruising toward the dead space among the empty tables, I looked for the girl in the flower dress, the one I had seen in the office, but she hasn’t been around the cafeteria lately. Come to think of it, she disappeared soon after Judgment Day.
That’s the day, maybe two weeks ago, when a group of males situated themselves so as to monitor people exiting the serving line. The males armed themselves with index cards, upon which they had written numbers. As females walked past with their trays, the males would assign them a numerical value from one to ten. There was much laughter among the males, who enjoyed showing their appreciation for Stephanie Spring and the Kaitlin-Kaitlyn-Katelyn axis, and seemed to have even more fun assigning low values to isolated individual females. Some of the greatest laughter was reserved for the girl in the flower dress, who was not given a number, but rather a series of scribbles that looked like an attempt at Chinese characters. They discussed her appearance in a series of remarks that included the sound of a dog barking.
It was not fun to watch.
And I haven’t seen her since.
EXPEDITION LOG
ENTRY 5.01.01
It had been such a terrible week that I almost forgot how Les had told me to find him on Saturday. The command units exchanged glances when I said I was going out to meet someone at the park. I slipped away before they could interrogate me too thoroughly.
I should explain more about Sand Creek Park. Park in the local dialect does not mean the same as what it meant back home. There, a park was a place with swings, mowed grass, a few trees, and people. Sand Creek Park is something they call open space, which I think means that after the developers realized they couldn’t build houses on its steep, scrub-covered slopes, they put a sign out front and called it a park.
It is wedged between two hills. To the east, Festus towers like something Sauron built. To the west, clusters of identical homes line curvy streets with identical names: Beechwood Street, Aspen Leaf Lane, Ponderosa Pines Drive. Also, Beechwood Drive, Aspen Leaf Circle and Ponderosa Pines Court. I wondered where all those pines, beeches and aspen had gone.
Revenge of the Star Survivors Page 6