by Jeff Norton
“Holy sea-cow,” Octo gasped. “She is.”
It felt like being on a rollercoaster. In summer. The day school finishes.
“You gotta bust out your opening moves,” Octo said. “You do have moves, dontcha?”
“Not really,” I confessed, hoping that maybe a simple, nonchalant wave might be the safest gesture, unless of course it meant something different to an alien deity. “I’m going to wave. How does that sound?”
“If that’s all you’ve got,” Octo whispered, “go for it, two-legs.”
I smiled back at her, looked into her crystal eyes and raised my hand. Cool as ice. I was so nonchalant I was anti-chalant. I was protesting the chalant regime. I was an enemy of the chalant state.
“Why, thank you for volunteering, Mr Capote,” Ms Teg cooed. “You’ll make a wonderful Romeo.”
Volunteering?
Romeo?
It took a few seconds for her words to sink in, for my brain to recalibrate from gushy-for-goddess to drama- class-drudgery.
“I’m sorry, Ms Teg – what?” I asked. “A wonderful what?”
“Yes, a truly captivating Romeo,” Ms Teg said. “That lovelorn expression is just perfect! A disciple of the Method, are we?”
Uh oh.
Please no.
“But he hates drama,” Jessica protested, striding over and grabbing me by my vintage Carl Sagan T-shirt. “Tell her! You hate drama. Cluck-cluck-cluck.”
My last major performance was as Chicken #3 in an off-off-off-Broadway production of Old MacDonald’s Farm. But when my big moment came for a cluck-cluck- here and a cluck-cluck-there, I up-chucked here, there, and everywhere. I covered the farm in puke, including Jess who was busy stealing the show as Mrs MacDonald, the brains behind the MacDonald farming empire. It was the beginning and end of my child-acting career and Jessica has never forgiven nor forgotten.
She continued protesting, and then punched me on the arm.
“Ouch!” I cried. “That’s my Nurse Anderson arm. What’s your problem?”
“Let’s keep the stage fighting to act three, scene one,” Ms Teg snapped. “Now to cast our Juliet. Any volunteers?”
“My problem is,” Jessica said, sneering at me behind her eyeliner overdose, “there’s no way I’m volunteering to play star-crossed lover to my own brother. Why’d you have to stick your stupid hand up? Drama is, like, the class I love at school and you know it! And you’ve totally sabotaged it for me. On the first day!”
Meanwhile, Octo slapped me on the back so hard I nearly toppled offstage. He pointed a tentacle at the teacher.
“Thank you so much for volunteering, my dear,” Ms Teg was saying, gazing up at the Icon girl. “You’ll make a simply exquisite Juliet. But forgive me – remind me of your name?”
“What’s in a name?” Icon-girl said. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Marvellous!” Ms Teg shrieked. “Divine! But, forgive me, I still need a name … for the playbill, you see.”
“Juliet,” Icon-girl said. “You can call me Juliet.”
“Wonderful,” said Ms Teg. “I trained with Strasberg and it’s a privilege to work with a fellow disciple. And I’m sure you and Sherman will be brilliant together – I can already sense the chemistry.”
I felt my face glow bright red and Octo nudged me. “Way to make an entrance, buckaroo,” he whispered. “Quite a debut.”
And it was.
CHAPTER NINE
Homework Bound
The air-raid siren started just as Octo, Jessica and I braved the hallway crowd outside the auditorium. The last time I’d heard that piercing sound, military police rushed me from all sides, pushed me from my launch pad and threw me to the ground.
“I didn’t do anything,” I shouted.
Octo put a reassuring tentacle around my shoulder and laughed.
“Don’t sweat it!” he shouted over the wail, “it’s just an alien invasion!”
“A what?” I yelled back, aiming for the little elliptical holes in the side of Octo’s head.
“Well, a drill for alien invasion, anyway,” he added. “They test it every Monday at ten.”
And then the siren stopped.
I watched the mass of extraterrestrials bustling down the hallway, making their way from first period to second as if the siren were as normal as a PA announcement about the cancellation of Chess Club.
“Surely it’s too late for sirens,” I quipped, looking around at the swarm of alien life moving between classes. “It feels to me like you’ve already invaded.”
“But you can’t assume every space-schlepper who shows up in a star-cruiser wants to join our friendly desert melting pot,” Octo explained, earnestly. “It’s the Bureau’s job to be ready in case anyone or anything turns up with more butt-kicking intentions than enrolling their kids in Groom Lake High.”
“The Bureau?”
“Yeah, you know, the Bureau for Alien Affairs. All of our parents work for the Bureau, including your dad now, right?”
“He used to be a four-star general,” Jessica said. “Now he’s working for aliens?”
“With aliens,” said Octo. “All of the adults work for the Bureau, and by Nevada State law, all of us offspring have to attend school until we turn eighteen … in Earth years, that is.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “So extraterrestrials can cross all the time and space of the universe but can’t get out of homework?”
“Nope,” said Octo. “And we’d better not be late for next class or Mr Orson will assign us plenty.”
“Oh, great,” Jessica said. “It’s my class too. Just promise me you won’t ruin my life again.”
Given what happened next, I was glad I didn’t make that promise.
* * *
My timetable told me that the curriculum at Groom Lake was a blend of basic Earth stand-by subjects (Math, English, Science, Drama, Home Economics, PE) plus stuff these guys might need to get into colleges throughout the universe; subjects like Intergalactic Physics and Astro-Mechanics, Galactic Languages, and Planetology – our next class.
The teacher, Mr Orson, was a rock.
Literally.
He looked like a sandstone take on a snowman, and when he moved he made a sound like bricks being rubbed together. He wore a sharp suit, bow tie, and green handkerchief in his breast pocket – like he’d rather be a university professor than a school teacher.
From the look of the lab, it was pretty clear that Planetology was the kind of subject Groom Lake High did like to spend its money on. A new-carpet smell, the same super-flash computers as Mr Meltzer’s, tables that were little baby versions of the cafeteria’s hexagons … this was school in style.
Jessica took an empty seat at the back, near the row of windows overlooking the manicured front lawn and row of beige Groom Lake bungalows. I followed Octo to a table on the far right. We were soon joined by Sonya and a silver robot who seemed to be sulking as he slid into his seat.
“You survived your first class,” said Sonya. I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.
“Survived and thrived,” laughed Octo.
“Who’s the newbie?” the silver robot asked in a disinterested, digital voice.
“His name’s Sherman,” said Octo, “and I’m being nice to him to get to his hot sister.” He pointed to Jessica at the back, and that’s when I spotted NED seated two tables over from her. Oh, great.
“There is so much wrong with what he just said, I don’t even know where to begin,” I said. “But nice to meet you.”
“Whatever,” the robot muttered.
“Don’t mind Houston, he’s been in a perma-grump since he came to Groom Lake,” said Sonya. “At least you’re not the new kid any more, Metal Man.”
Houston was sleek like a brushed-steel Japanese car, but teenage-boy-shaped, with little camera lenses for eyes. His voice, although fully digital, somehow seemed very sad.
“You’re different from
the other robots,” I said, thinking back to the yellow-and-black techno-playing bots from the cafeteria.
“And you’re different from the model of perfection that my television tells me to expect from the human race,” he said.
“Do we have a problem, Houston?” snapped Mr Orson.
“No, sir, just introducing myself to the newest minnow in the shark tank.”
“No more interruptions then,” said our sandstone instructor, returning to the surprisingly old-school chalkboard and diagraming a volcanic system using his finger as the chalk. The low-screech sound gave me shivers.
“I’m not originally of robotic form,” Houston said cryptically. I wanted to ask what he meant but Octo cut in.
“You guys’ll never believe what happened in Drama this morning. Two-legs here got cast as Romeo and guess who he’s star-crossed with? The Icon!”
“Did she actually talk to you?” asked Houston, suddenly more animated.
“She’ll never stick around for opening night,” said Sonya. “Better get used to performing monologues.”
Mr Orson scratched his rocky fingers across the board, assaulting our ears and calling for silence.
“If you have time to chinwag,” he said, “you have time to spare. Congratulations – your table has won the privilege!”
His fingers tapped keys on his computer until, in the air above us, a breathtaking 3D hologram of the Earth pixelated into existence – continents, oceans, clouds – with a dazzling red sphere glowing at its center.
“Next session,” he announced, “these four talkative folk will give a presentation to the class about the Earth’s magma core. A golden opportunity to investigate the geology of this remarkable planet.”
“Nice one, thanks, Octo,” Sonya said.
“Great,” Houston declared flatly.
“It’s his fault,” Octo said, waving a tentacle at me.
But I just grinned. “Did I mention that I’m playing Romeo opposite an Icon?”
“Kiss my excretion valve, two-legs,” he said, smiling with all three beaks.
“Mr Orson?” piped up a familiarly sickening voice from the back. NED. “Did you say magma?”
The teacher nodded – it sounded like stones grinding.
“Then I volunteer to join their homework assignment.”
“That’s very granite-like of you, NED,” said the rock. “I wish everyone in this class was so enthusiastic about planetary geology.”
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Sonya.
“Beats me. The only thing NED ever volunteers for is insulting people.”
* * *
At the end of class, NED sidled up to our table with a creepy grin.
“Why don’t we make this homework assignment less theoretical and more practical?”
“You mean like throw you into a volcano?” snapped Sonya.
“Sure,” said NED, with a snide giggle. “I thought a field trip might be a lark. We could visit a real volcano and report back with photos and first-hand knowledge. You know, really dazzle Mr Orson with our initiative.”
“Who says we weren’t going to do that anyway? But I’m not driving you nowhere, NED,” said Octo.
“Grammatically,” he replied, “you just offered to drive me anywhere.”
“Double negative,” cursed Octo under his breath. “Why does human-talk have to be so complex?”
“But, anyway, who said anything about driving?” NED continued. “How ’bout it, lizard, I hear you’ve got a spaceship.”
My jaw dropped. “Really?” I asked Sonya.
“Why don’t you take us on a little trip,” suggested NED, “down to Costa Rica? Robo-boy here could take holographs and you could show off your piloting skills in front of the human.”
“I’m in if we can get drive-thru,” Octo said. “Or fly- thru.”
“Why should I, NED?” asked Sonya.
“Well, you don’t have to, but maybe I’ll call my father and ask him to summon your family to perform a little dance number for the elders. And you know what the punishment is for even a single misstep.”
“Yes,” she sighed, lowering her eyes.
“Tell Sher-man,” he said with malice.
“Death,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.
NED pulled out a super-slick neon phone and started tapping digits.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said. “Meet us in the scrapyard at eight. Don’t be late.”
“Tootles,” said NED, strolling off to his next class.
“Um, Sonya,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Look, the dance thing is an ancient tradition,” she said defensively. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
And with that she huffed off, shaking her head.
“I can’t go,” I said to Octo and Houston. “I’m not allowed to touch rockets.”
Octo chuckled. “You’ll be fine then. You’ll just wish her ship was a rocket. Catchya later, buckaroo.”
CHAPTER TEN
That Lunchtime Feeling
After third period – Math for me, English for Jess – the lunchtime cafeteria was packed with hungry extraterrestrials. The fungi kids struggled to heckle above the roar of aliens gossiping in unintelligible languages, but it didn’t stop them from narrating my arrival.
“The cumin bean survived the morning!”
“Eeewww – what’s he gonna eat? Is that really food?”
“What do you think of our circus so far?” asked Nancy as she scooped some perfectly cooked, golden french fries onto a plate. She poured steaming gravy on top and slid my lunch onto my tray.
“It’s pretty mind-boggling how quickly you start to get used to things,” I said, looking around nervously, happy not to spot Graz.
“Tell me about it,” Nancy laughed. “Spoiled brats are spoiled brats the galaxy over. Fangs or no fangs. Antennae or no antennae. Keep the line moving, kiddo.”
I laughed too, because it was true. And then I stopped laughing because it was time to find a seat.
This was always my least favorite part of the school day; the time when the universe reminded me I had no one to sit with. In Germany and Korea I went home for lunch, where Mom would have left me a sandwich or some rocket-shaped pasta to heat up, but here I was under strict lock-in until the three-thirty bell. I flicked my eyes around the cafeteria, hoping to find my Planetology crew, or at the very least Jessica.
“Would you look at that,” Nancy whistled. “Looks like you’ve got yerself a blue admirer.” She pointed towards a corner table at the far side of the cafeteria, one of four on a raised platform overlooking the plebs below.
Juliet was smiling at me and waving me over to the empty chair next to her.
Rollercoaster.
Sunshine.
Birds singing.
I gave a small wave back (careful not to volunteer for anything else) and, with my heart thumping out of my chest, made my most casual approach.
She was mesmerizing. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She looked stunning, surrounded by her translucent blue glow as she surveyed the chaos of the cafeteria. It was only when I stepped up onto the platform, two feet above the rest of the lunch room, that I noticed Graz and NED were sitting at her table.
“This table’s invitation only, Sher-man,” announced NED.
“He’s new,” said Juliet. “He can sit with us.”
Graz stood up, towering over me menacingly while drooling at the sight of my tray. The last thing I needed was a repeat of the garbage can incident – this time in front of Juliet.
“This is the cool seniors’ table,” NED oozed as he put his arm around Juliet in a possessive, “don’t look at my super-smokin’, translucent blue girlfriend” kind of way. “And the Sher-man is neither cool nor a senior.”
By this time the entire cafeteria was watching my attempt at social climbing, and I heard pitying laughter from all around the room. I backed down. I would have blamed it on the rapidly cooling fries, but the truth was
I really didn’t want to be hung upside down twice in one day.
As I retreated backward down the steps with my tray, I felt a tickle on the back of my neck. I turned round to find Octo’s tentacle tapping me.
“C’mon, newbie,” he said. “So long as you’re not having the calamari, you dine with me.”
I followed Octo to an empty table at the other side of the cafeteria, in a kind of lunch room hinterland. When I looked back, Juliet had vanished.
“Where’d she go?” I wondered aloud, sitting opposite the ventitent. He held his bowl up to one of his beaks and slurped something black and slimy through a thick straw.
“I told you,” he said, gulping down the goo. “That’s what she does. A thousand places at once. The Icons are like gods – they’re expected to be watching over the universe all the time.”
“So is NED the same?” I asked. “He says he’s a deity – he certainly acts like he thinks he’s a god but—”
“He’s a minor deity who wants to be major,” explained Octo. “You see, the Icons let the NEDs have some free rein because they go back a long way. They’re like the aristocracy of the universe, and they all take care of each other.”
“So maybe I shouldn’t have backed down in front of Juliet?” I wondered.
“Listen,” Octo began. “You’re at Groom Lake High School now, not a fancy-pants school in Euroland. There’s a hierarchy to this place. And you just tried to crash the cool seniors’ table. That’s like upsetting the balance of the entire universe. It’s just not done.”
Without looking up from his slime, Octo used a tentacle as a pointer and gave me the lowdown, one table at a time.
The raised platform housed four tables: the cool seniors (“jerks”), the cool juniors (“jerks-in-waiting”), the yearbook committee (“harmless but plugged in”) and the cafeteria monitors (Ms Teg and another praying mantis lady who were picking at salads and marking papers).
Below them were the mere mortals who wished they were eating above the rest.
The AJABots: “Sturdy, dependable, hard-working, good taste in techno.”
The Aristox: “The pink-lizard family with a cultlike devotion to their traditional dance ritual.”