Tales Of An Alien Invader Page 3

  As long as my mission goes well, I won’t even be staying that long, but they don’t know that. I nod, mustering another smile. “I’m used to traveling light. You know, because I move around so much.”

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense. We’ll just go shopping for whatever you need.” She places her hands on her hips as she scans the conveyor belt. “Do you see your bag?”

  “Yes, there it is.” I point and Uncle Matt retrieves it from the conveyer belt. They lead me to their car, a small silver vehicle with four doors, and we begin the drive towards my temporary home. Looking out of the window, at first I see tall buildings spaced close together, but it doesn’t take long for the buildings to give way to trees. I want to ask how much farther, but since I probably visited this place a few years ago, the question may seem odd.

  Pulling off at an exit, we seem to be in what humans call “the suburbs.” Sturdy houses with lush green yards appear out the window, along with a few retail stores placed here and there. Pulling onto a side street, my uncle turns into the driveway of a modern (well, according to Earth standards) house, made mostly of a red-brown brick, two stories tall.

  Directly across the street, a girl who must be around my age is kicking a ball in the front yard of a house that looks similar to Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt’s. Wearing shorts that sag and a white shirt, the girl’s wind-blown hair is a deep brown in the sunlight. Strands of it blow across her forehead as she stops kicking the ball and stares in our direction. Exiting the car, I feel her eyes upon us as we go inside.

  Inside the house, a window set into the ceiling allows light into a large foyer. The foyer leads into the kitchen, where white cabinets with glass windows display plates, pots, and other food-related items, some of which come in the most bizarre shapes. The counter is a dark gray, which reminds me of the rocky hills on Bopton. A bowl of fruit sits on the counter next to a small rectangular box, which Aunt Shirley picks up. Opening it, she extends the box in my direction. Circular pastries of some sort are lying in neat rows inside.

  “It’s not breakfast, but I remember how much you love doughnuts, so I got you some.” Aunt Shirley smiles brightly at me, looking pleased.

  Doughnuts… Since Aunt Shirley is looking at me expectantly, I can’t exactly turn her down, but the airplane food has made me a bit wary of human concoctions. Extracting a doughnut from the box, I take a small, hesitant bite, and my eyes widen in an all too human reaction. Now this is the type of food I could get used to! Taking a huge bite, I savor the doughy sweetness of it.

  Perhaps Boptons were a bit hasty in reducing all of our food to shakes and pills. After all, it would be worth wasting a little bit of time if all food tasted like this.

  After eating the doughnut and asking for another, Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt grant my wish and then show me to my room.

  “It’s the same room you stayed in before, though we added a desk for you to study at.” Uncle Matt opens the door, revealing a small, square room, complete with a bed, a stack of shelves stocked with books, and a desk. A sign hanging on the wall over the bed reads “Welcome home, Felix!” A hulking brown thing that resembles a glove is lying on the center of the bed. It looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember where I came across it in my research.

  Picking up the glove, Uncle Matt throws it to me. “I thought once you got settled in, we could throw a ball around a little bit.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say. This sounds like sports-related activity, more specifically baseball—I knew I recognized the glove thing—which is out of my realm of experience. Sports aren’t played on Bopton. We spend our time devoted to academics and practical activities. There’s not much time for recreation, which Boptons view as an indulgence. And as I’m still adjusting to my new body and its movements, I’m not exactly eager to make a fool of myself in front of my pretend uncle. I’ll try to think of an excuse to get out of it later.

  “Let’s help you unpack,” Aunt Shirley says, unzipping my bag. Immediately, I grab my books. I can’t risk them looking inside the one that contains the Helomax.

  “I’ll put these away,” I say, adding them to the bookshelf. I make a mental note to find a better hiding spot for the Helomax. Instinctively, I touch the globe hanging safely at my throat, thinking of the precious contents contained inside the metal. Six more days until my next dose.

  “Your clothes,” Aunt Shirley says, picking up a few of the shirts, “they’re awfully bright.”

  Looking at the neon green, orange, and yellow, I nod. Aunt Shirley’s dressed in blue shorts and a white shirt, and Uncle Matt is wearing khaki pants and a dark green polo. How boring.

  Uncle Matt makes no comment on my clothing—though he does raise his eyebrows—and takes the computer tablet from my bag. He places it on the desk and explains about a keyboard they have on hand, as well as an alternate computer in their office that is always open to my use.

  After a few more minutes, the contents of my bag have all been dispersed throughout the room. “So,” Aunt Shirley says, “we’ll let you get settled in. I’ll be fixing dinner in the kitchen if you need me.” She pokes Uncle Matt in the side. “And I believe there’s a lawn outside that needs mowing.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Uncle Matt replies in a tone that makes me believe he’s making a joke, and they both go to leave the room.

  Aunt Shirley pauses in the doorway. “We can go shopping this weekend for any school supplies you may need. School starts on Monday, and they mailed a copy of your schedule to the house earlier this week.”

  School. Excitement mixed with nervousness courses through me in a cold wave. School is a large part of the young human’s experience, and it’s crucial to my observations.

  “We’re really glad you’re here, Felix,” Aunt Shirley adds with a small smile before closing the door.

  Alone, I remove the book containing the Bopton technology from the shelf and hide it under my mattress. Perhaps I can get myself some sort of safe to lock the Helomax in, but that will have to wait. I don’t have any of the little green bits of paper needed to buy things. Money, that’s what it’s called. Lying on the bed, I stare up at a blank ceiling, thinking about the holograms back home that always greeted me in the morning. For the first time since I landed, I start to feel homesick.

  A motor starts outside, and I go to the window to watch Uncle Matt mow the front yard. The girl across the street is still kicking the ball around her yard, and after a moment, she turns toward my window and meets my stare. Though I’m no expert in human facial expressions, I swear I see something in her eyes that makes me uneasy. I think it’s called dislike.

  CHAPTER 4

  Aunt Shirley insists on driving me to school on the first day, though normally I’ll walk because it’s not far from Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt’s house. Dressed in a neon orange t-shirt and neon yellow shorts, I pause a moment at the car door to say good-bye.

  “Thank you for the ride, Aunt Shirley,” I say when we have reached the front of the school grounds, grabbing my backpack off the floor of the car.

  “Do you remember the way home?” she asks, worry shining in her eyes. Her gaze has been drifting to my “bright” clothing since we left the house.

  “Yes. Go down two blocks and make a right. Down three more blocks and make a left, and your house is on the right.”

  “It’s your house too, now,” Aunt Shirley says, but I don’t respond. Her statement is inaccurate; it is neither my house nor my home.

  Stepping out and closing the door, I enter the throng of students walking into the building. Most are walking in groups, shouting out greetings to one another and talking noisily about how they spent their summers. Inside the building, lights shine brightly overhead, their glares reflected in the waxed floors of the hallway. Signs are hanging up, some declaring “Bearcat Pride” and “Proud to be a Bearcat,” which Aunt Shirley told me is the school’s mascot.

  Mascots. A bit absurd, if you ask me. Why call yourself an inferior, beastly creature when as a hum
an you are already on the top of the food chain? What traits could a bearcat possibly possess that are admirable in comparison?

  Other signs in the hallway promote various clubs and teams, such as the Spanish Club, whose first meeting will be held next Monday, or the football team tryouts, which will be held after school tomorrow. Some signs feature quoted phrases and lines, such as “‘Believe you can and you are halfway there.’ — Theodore Roosevelt.” That is, of course, a lie, because if I think I can fly, I won’t be any closer to sprouting wings.

  I look at the numbers on the rooms I pass until I locate my first class, Earth Science. The room is cluttered with posters explaining the water cycle and the process of erosion and things of that nature. Along the walls are various cages, mostly aquariums, containing different species of fish, turtles, and lizards. I hope we don’t have to conduct any experiments on those, I think to myself, moving hastily away from the cages. There’s no adult anywhere in the room.

  Sitting at a seat in the front of the classroom, I set out a notebook and pencil. I have practiced using a pencil during my research and I’m eager to use it in the classroom.

  From behind, a crumpled piece of paper hits me in the back of the head.

  Turning around, I see a group of three boys leering at me from two rows back. “Hey, new guy,” one of them says, a heavyset, unattractive fellow with curly brown hair and beady eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Felix. Felix Winters.” I reply, facing them with my notebook and pencil in hand.

  “Felix. Felix Winters,” the boy with the curly hair says in a high, falsetto voice. But I don’t sound like that at all, I think.

  “Hey, Felix, nice outfit,” another one of the boys says. This one is skinny, with greasy blond hair and a face covered in pimples. The other two boys laugh.

  To say something is “nice” is to give a compliment, though if he shares the same opinion about my clothing as Aunt Shirley, I’m certain he didn’t it mean it as one. Unsure of what to do, I turn back around in my seat. Another wad of paper hits me from behind.

  “We weren’t done talking to you,” the one with the curly hair says. I’m starting to get the impression that he may be their leader. “So, where did you come from?”

  For a split second, I panic, thinking that somehow he knows I’m not from here, that I was born and, up until now, lived on a planet that makes Earth look like a grain of dirt. But then I realize he must mean where did I move from, here on Earth.

  “Africa. My parents are archaeologists,” I say, hoping the lie sounds natural.

  “You go to school there?”

  “No, my parents homeschooled me. We moved around a lot.”

  “So you’ve never been in a real school before?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “What a freak,” the curly-haired one says, and the two others laugh at his side.

  “Hey, why don’t you ju-just leave him alone,” says a voice from my right. Turning, I see a small boy with green eyes and hair the color of sand clutching a binder to his chest.

  “Wh-Wh-Why don’t you make us?” the curly-haired boy says, snorting with derision.

  Just then, the bell rings and a teacher walks in, closing the door behind him. Tall, with a muscular build, he commands the attention of everyone in the room. “Now who wants to learn about Earth Science?” he asks with enthusiasm.

  A bunch of girls in the class raise their hands eagerly, their eyes glazed over with an expression I’ve never seen before as they stare at the teacher. The boy with the green eyes lowers himself into the seat next to me as the teacher begins to pass out a set of papers.

  “Thank you,” I say to the boy, not knowing what else to say.

  “No problem,” he replies, opening up his binder. “Those guys are jerks. I’m Ned, by the way.”

  “Felix. Felix Winters,” I say, and I glance at the paper placed before me. “Classroom Rules and Procedures” is written in bold print at the top.

  “What are their names?” I ask Ned. I don’t need to point; it’s pretty clear who I mean.

  “The fat, ugly one is Curtis Jenkins. He’s been pushing people around since kindergarten. I guess he figures if he looks like a troll, he might as well act like it. The skinny one is Cameron Dolton. He pretty much does anything Curtis says. And the big dude with the shaved head is Michael Hughes. Doesn’t have much going on upstairs, if you know what I mean.”

  We stop talking as the teacher, who introduces himself as Mr. Blair, begins to read the handout aloud. According to the paper, there are two bathroom passes per quarter, 5% off a day for late work, and each student must sign a pledge saying they will treat others with respect—a rule that would have come in handy five minutes ago. Though I have a feeling Curtis and his friends aren’t exactly rule followers.

  Mr. Blair hands out an “icebreaker” assignment, which consists of going around the room to find someone that fills certain categories such as “Has a birthday in July” or “Was born in a different state.” Does a different planet count? I figure it should, so I decide I’ll sign for that one.

  Ned and I travel around together, handing our sheets to various people to sign. I learn countless mundane facts about my classmates in the process—I also learn Ned’s last name: Holton. This activity provides the perfect opportunity to practice my English signature, which, though I practiced countless times on Bopton, still needs a little work. Since part of my mission is to understand human behavior, I decide to ask Ned why he stood up for me, a person he has never met. “So, why did you help me with those guys?”

  Ned shrugs. “My dad is in the army. He’s a Ranger, actually. So he’s gone most of the time. Anyway, one of the things he always tells me is to stand up for myself and for others. I was just following his advice.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he speaks.

  Curtis, Cameron, and Michael are roaming around the room, with Curtis shoving their papers in students’ faces, demanding that they sign. As he approaches me and Ned, Curtis peers at the sheets he’s holding. “Nope, I don’t see ‘Weirdo’ and ‘Stuttering Fool’ categories,” he says nastily. Seeing no possible benefit from continuing this exchange, I walk away without bothering to respond. Ned follows my lead.

  Once we’re on the other side of the room, Ned looks back at Curtis angrily. “They’re always making fun of my stutter, though it’s gotten a lot better. It only happens when I’m nervous now! Usually when I have to give a presentation or something.” Ned’s shoulders droop, but after a moment he straightens them again. “One day, I’ll be out of this school, running a big company or something, and those guys are going to be picking up my trash or making my food.”

  I introduce myself to a few more people as we go, but I don’t manage to say more than a few words to anyone but Ned for the rest of the class. Socializing with humans is turning out to be harder than I thought. I think of my best friend Roctin, somewhere on an unfamiliar planet far away. I wonder if he’s feeling as out of place as I am, if he’s also wondering what he has gotten himself into.

  Mr. Blair collects our sheets at the end of the hour. “Tomorrow, we’ll start learning about the huge floating plates that influence most of the natural processes on Earth. They’re called tectonic plates.”

  Tectonic plates are huge plates that make up the Earth’s lithosphere. Long ago, all the land on Earth formed one large continent called Pangaea. However, the tectonic plates moved and the continents broke apart, which is summarized as continental drift theory. Tectonic plates are responsible for volcanic activity, mountain-forming, and earthquakes, among other things. I could go on, and on, and on about the physical makeup and operations of Earth’s geologic factors—as well as those of other planets. Though I have the feeling my knowledge is not the sort of thing that would impress Curtis and his companions. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  CHAPTER 5

  The rest of the school week passes by in a blur. My situation with Curtis does not get better. Though so far I’ve managed mostly t
o observe Curtis’s behavior with the detached objectivity that Boptons are trained to maintain, when Curtis smacked me in the back of the head and left behind a chewed up piece of gum in my hair, I felt the slightest inkling of a new emotion. Rage.

  Which is unacceptable, of course. It’s important that I suppress any other emotions that crop up. I can’t decide the fate of Earth based on a grudge I have with a pug-faced bully. So when sometimes late at night I imagine using a high-energy beam on Curtis, reducing his leering face to a pile of ash, I try to remember that Curtis is just a specimen. His actions are merely pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to figure out.

  On the bright side, Ned is in most of my classes. I am especially lucky to have him in gym class because he’s willing to explain the rules of various games that the teacher assumes we already know. He has also invited me to his house after school tomorrow. It’s the perfect opportunity to observe another example of human family interaction, though it’s only Ned and his mom at home. His dad is away in the country of Afghanistan, but Ned doesn’t say much about that.

  The girl from across the street is in a couple of my classes as well. Her name is Isabelle Martin, though she demands that everyone call her Izzy. Ned explained that Izzy doesn’t really have any friends, so I guess her dislike for me is nothing personal. She doesn’t pick on anyone like Curtis and his friends do; she only chooses to separate herself from everyone, walking in the halls alone, eating in the cafeteria alone, etc. Ned says she is “into” sports and used to spend most of her time with a group of boys that go to our school. But apparently last year one of the boys, Jeffery Harris, said Izzy had tried to kiss him on the soccer field. She was teased mercilessly for it by other students for a week, and after that Izzy started doing things by herself.

  Walking into gym class on Thursday, I zero in on a cluster of balls in the center of the room. I touch my throat nervously out of habit. Gym class is the only time the globe isn’t hung safely around my neck. Mr. Pritchard, our teacher, yelled at me on the first day I came into class with it on, as if I had violated some sacred gym class code. Relax, I tell myself as I try to ignore the phantom sensation creeping over the skin where the globe usually rested. The globe is safely locked up in your locker…there’s nothing to worry about.