Aliens on Vacation

by Clete Barrett Smith

  One day I was walking to the hardware store, looking down side streets and in every shop window for Amy, when I saw something a couple of blocks ahead that I did not want to find at all.

  The sheriff’s car was parked at the curb in front of the Pastime Diner. Tate stood beside it, gesturing angrily with his hands and shouting at a pair of very frightened-looking Tourists.

  My bloodstream filled up with adrenaline, and I just wanted to turn around and go straight back to the inn. But my annoying conscience knew better. I forced myself to jog right over to the trouble.

  When I reached Tate, he had stopped yelling and flailing around. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was chomping on his toothpick. Two squat and boxy Tourists sat on a bench in front of him, clutching each other nervously. I recognized them right away—I had just GRADEd them an hour or so before, and they were really nice. They came to Earth on their honeymoon, they said, “because it’s the one place in the universe where we have a zero percent chance of running into someone we know.” I could relate. I had felt the same way when I first arrived in Forest Grove.

  The sheriff turned and glared at me when I approached. I froze up for a minute. “Is there something wrong?” I finally said.

  Tate didn’t move, just stared at me. I looked around his wide belly and gave a little wave to the Tourists. They smiled and waved back, but then snuck a peek at the sheriff and looked back down at the ground.

  Finally, Tate stirred. “You bet something’s wrong.” He took the raggedy toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “And it’s something you could have helped to avoid, boy, if you had any sense.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You spend any time thinkin’ on what I asked you when you first showed up in town?”

  “About seeing anything strange or unusual?” I asked. He nodded slightly, then stuck the toothpick back in his mouth and pushed it around with his tongue. “I sure have, sir. And if I do see anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Sheriff Tate lowered his sunglasses down on his nose and stared at me. He didn’t blink for so long that he could have been one of Grandma’s customers, an alien from a planet where eyelids don’t exist. He made me uncomfortable, like I had no place to hide my thoughts.

  The sheriff nudged his sunglasses back up his nose and shoved a hand into his pocket. When he took it out again it was bunched into a fist, which he stuck in my face and then opened, palm up. He was holding a few coins. They were familiar-looking to me by now. I had a drawer full of them back in my bedroom at Grandma’s place.

  “These two,” he said, jerking his head toward the Tourists behind him, “tried to buy lunch with these coins at the diner. Now, you happen to know what country these come from?”

  I glanced at the coins. “No, sir. I’ve never seen anything like those before.” I swallowed heavily. I wasn’t used to talking to law enforcement officials at all, much less lying to them.

  “That’s funny, isn’t it?” he said. But his mouth was so thin and tight-lipped that it was hard to believe it had ever cracked a smile. “I got me a fancy computer right there in my rig, paid for by the good taxpayers of this county just last year.” He nodded toward his sheriff’s car. Deputy Tisdall sat in the passenger seat, squinting out the windshield and chewing on his upper lip, like a rat. “It’s got a hookup to the Internets and everything. I just looked up these coins, and it turns out that nobody’s seen anything like them before. So whaddaya think of that?” He continued to hold the coins out in his meaty palm, staring like he was trying to look right through me. The aliens cringed behind him. I had to think of something, fast. I remembered the calm, confident way Grandma had spoken to Tate on the front porch.

  “Maybe they’re counterfeit,” I said. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well…that sign says that the Pastime Diner serves the best meat loaf in the entire Northwest. I guess I can understand how someone might turn to a life of crime to get their hands on some of that,” I said.

  Sheriff Tate’s eyes narrowed and his lips shriveled into a scowl. “Don’t you get smart with me, boy,” he breathed. I didn’t feel so calm and confident anymore. I suddenly became aware of everyone else out on the street. People had stopped walking past us on the sidewalk so they could watch the little show. They were careful not to get too close, but I could feel them staring at us. My face got really hot and it became hard to breathe; it was that disaster of an elementary school play all over again. “I think I should call your grandma down here right now,” he said loudly. How embarrassing.

  “No, don’t do that. She’s, um, she’s really busy. I’m sorry.”

  I just wanted to get away from here, get away from that man, and most of all, get away from the heat of all of the people staring at us.

  Tate seemed perfectly at ease. “Well, then, what are you going to do about this?” I couldn’t think of anything to say. “Nothing? I guess I better get in touch with your grandma, then, little fella.” He was talking much too loudly, for the benefit of the crowd. Tate turned and called to his deputy through the open window. “Tisdall, get me my—”

  “Look, I’ll just pay for their meal myself,” I said quickly. I fished through my pockets, searching for money. Earth money.

  Tate turned back to face me. “You’re durn right you will.”

  “It’s all just a misunderstanding,” I said. “They’re not from around here.”

  The little crowd broke up, people started walking by again, and the sheriff leaned forward so he could speak to me without anyone else hearing. His voice was soft, but his tone was not. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come clean about what’s going on at that Space Place, you hear me? Before it’s too late—too late for your grandma, and too late for you.” He straightened back up and sneered in the direction of the aliens. “Pay their check and hustle them back to the bed-and-breakfast. I don’t want to see ’em again.” And with that, Tate squeezed into his sheriff’s car and took off.

  I had walked the honeymooning aliens halfway to the bed-and-breakfast before my heart stopped pounding. When I made sure they could make it the rest of the way on their own, I turned and walked back into town.

  And then I walked past the hardware store, right through town, and out onto the highway that led up to the mountain. I didn’t feel like running any errands, and I certainly didn’t feel like going back to the bed-and-breakfast. I started kicking rocks as hard as I could, then picked some up so I could nail road signs with them as I passed.

  My face was still hot from being humiliated in town, all of those people watching Tate harass me. Why was I always the one getting embarrassed around here? Why did Grandma have to put me in these situations? This would never have happened if I were still at home. I should be hanging out on the beach, not working fourteen-hour days.

  I stomped down the highway until my legs ached. I threw rocks until my shoulder got so stiff I couldn’t throw anymore. I said some nasty things about Grandma, out loud, to all of the trees that surrounded me; things that I didn’t really mean but that felt good to say anyway.

  I finally realized this was pointless—it’s not like all my problems would be solved once I reached the top of Mount Baker. I sighed, turned around, and plodded back toward Forest Grove.

  When I got back into town I looked up at the big clock by the bank. I was going to be two hours late getting to the B and B, but I didn’t really care.

  I stopped at the pay phone by the diner. If I was already this late, a few more minutes weren’t going to matter, and besides, I needed to hear a familiar voice. I dialed the number to Tyler’s cell.

  “Hello?” It was hard to hear him; there was a ton of background noise. It sounded like he was in the middle of a parade.

  “Hey. Tyler?”

  “Hello? Someone there?” He was yelling over the noise.

  “Tyler. It’s me, Scrub.”

  “Oh, he
y, Scrub. I’m down at the pool.” The noise started to make sense now. I could pick out the sounds of splashing, people screaming, and the lifeguard yelling into his bullhorn, “Stay off the rope!” for probably the thousandth time that day. The dull ache of homesickness became a sharper pain. But it was still good to talk to someone I knew.

  “How’s your summer going?” I said. “Mine’s been kind of crazy. I’m working for my grandma. She owns this bed-andbreakfast, and it’s really busy. There’s a lot of crazy guests.” I suddenly smiled, thinking of what Tyler would say about some of the things that came walking out of the transporter. He was always good for a laugh. “It would be great if you were here. I know you’d make fun of some—”

  “Scrub? You say something? Didn’t hear any of it. Some girls walked by and I had to say hey. You know how it is.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “So, what’s up? What are you doing out there?”

  “Well, I’m—”

  “Just a sec, bro.” He must have set the phone down on a towel, because the background noise got all muffled. He was gone for so long that I had to pump more quarters into the pay phone. I almost hung up.

  Finally, he came back on the line. “Hey. Those girls were over at the ice cream stand. Amanda Peterson was with them. I had to offer some manly assistance, you know? I made all of this money working at one of Coach’s little kid hoops camps last week, so now I can afford to buy her stuff. Nice, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing, sure. I think I know what’s the matter. You know what that bitter taste is in the back of your throat? Let me tell you. It’s jealousy, baby. Coach made the roster for the tournament this weekend, and I’m playing point with the starting five. I hope you have that allowance saved up for our bet.”

  I leaned against the pay phone. “Oh, yeah? Well, there’s a park close to here with some hoops. I’m going to work on my three-ball and then—”

  “Whoa! Gotta go, Scrub. The ladies are coming over here and I’ve got some seats saved. Talk to you later.”

  Click. The line went dead.

  I just stood there with the receiver in my hand. I felt like staying out for hours so that Grandma would worry about me and feel terrible for working me so much. I felt like taking the rest of the day off and doing whatever I wanted.

  But after I stood there for a few minutes, looking around Forest Grove, I finally realized that I didn’t have anything better to do.

  I hung up and trudged back to Grandma’s place.

  A couple of days later I got postcards from both my mom and my dad. That would seem like a coin-cidence to anyone who didn’t know my parents. But I could just see them coordinating their e-calendars before they went off on separate business trips. Monday: Check stock market and adjust portfolio as needed. Tuesday: Conference call regarding the homeowners’ associa-tion meeting. Wednesday: Communicate with only child via postcard; remember to include term of endearment.

  But I was still feeling a little down, so it was nice to hear from them. I read Dad’s first.

  Scrub—

  I hope the weather is behaving for you up there. I remember one summer, I must have been about your age, when it rained almost every day and barely ever got to 70 degrees (aren’t you glad I moved to Florida before you were born?). Give Mother my best and stay out of trouble.

  —Dad

  P.S. I’m sure you are meeting lots of your grandmother’s “eccentric” guests. Has that been the most interesting part of your trip so far?

  I read that P.S. over a few times. How much did he know? Everything? Had he ever told Mom? And are there other things going on that I don’t even know about yet?

  I was really looking forward to having a serious talk with Dad when I got home (and I can’t remember ever thinking something like that before).

  Then I read Mom’s postcard.

  Dear Scrub,

  I hope you are enjoying your visit to the Pacific Northwest. I have always heard that it’s beautiful up there. The seminars are going well here in Jacksonville, but I am eager to be reunited with you and your father. Take care of yourself and I will see you soon.

  Much love,

  Mom

  P.S. I hope that you are getting a chance to throw your basketballs. I know that’s important to you.

  I smiled. “Throw your basketballs” was such a Mom thing to say. But she had a point. I had been so busy lately that I had almost forgotten how badly I needed some practice. I knew that Tyler had all the advantages this summer and probably had the starting spot wrapped up, but I needed to put up some kind of a fight at least.

  And I actually had a couple of free hours this morning. I hadn’t said much to Grandma when I got back so late the other day, but I think she figured a few things out, because she told me she would handle all of the GRADE jobs before noon today. With the morning off, I decided to head down to the park and shoot some hoops.

  I went out to the backyard first and found Mr. Harnox playing croquet with a newly arrived family of Tourists. I stood on the porch and watched for a minute. Mr. Harnox was trying to play the right way—or at least the Earth way—using his croquet mallet and taking his shots in turn. But the other aliens were putting the heavy croquet balls in their mouths, puffing up their cheeks really big, and then spitting the balls twenty or thirty feet through the air. Nobody was taking turns, just firing those balls out of their mouths whenever they felt like it. It looked kind of fun.

  I walked out on the lawn, careful to avoid the flying croquet balls, and invited Mr. Harnox to the park. I tried to tell myself that I was doing it as a work-related obligation, but that wasn’t entirely true. I mainly invited him so I wouldn’t have to go down there alone.

  And being there with Mr. Harnox was better than shooting hoops alone. Maybe he couldn’t dribble, or shoot, or really understand defense, but because he was over seven and a half feet tall, he did serve a purpose. My sixth-grade coach used to hold a broom over his head and make us shoot over it. He said it helped us put arc on our shots, and got us used to playing against taller defenders. So, while Mr. Harnox meandered happily around the court with his hands over his head, I followed, dribbling, and shot over him whenever he happened to wander between me and the basket.

  And I even developed a pretty sweet new move, kind of a running, spinning, half-hook shot. I used it to drive the lane and create contact with Mr. Harnox (which would earn me a foul call and a free throw in a real game), and I was still able to get the shot off over his long arms. I worked on that one again and again until I could hit it eight or nine times out of ten.

  We were practicing my new move when the high schoolers—Brian, Eddie, and Greg—walked into the park. As they made their way over to me and the tall gray alien, I got so nervous so suddenly that it felt like I was going to throw up.

  “Let me do the talking,” I said to Mr. Harnox.

  “Let you…do…?” he said, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “Just don’t say anything,” I whispered as the guys approached.

  “Hey, it’s Astronaut Scrub,” Brian said, bouncing his faded leather basketball. “And he’s squidless this time.” The three of them stepped from the grass to the asphalt court.

  “But he brought a ringer,” Eddie said, walking right up to Mr. Harnox. I had thought Eddie was big when I met him the first time, but he looked dwarfish next to Mr. Harnox. “You ever play in the NBA?” Eddie craned his neck back to look straight up at that gray face. The tall alien looked at me and then just shrugged and tried to smile at Eddie. “Nah, you’re too old. NBA probably didn’t exist when you were young. My great-grandpa has skin that color, and he’s ninety-four.”

  Greg was a few paces behind the others. “Hey, Scrub,” he said. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”

  “Yeah, I’ve mostly been working at the bed-and-breakfast. We’ve been really busy.” I looked at my watch. “In fact, we
should probably be getting back, because pretty soon—”

  “Nah, let’s play ball,” said Eddie. “You wanna play, dontcha, big fella?” Mr. Harnox grinned his hideous grin and bobbed his head up and down. “All right, us three versus you two. That’s fair, because he counts for at least two by himself.”

  “Is that cool?” Greg asked me.

  I didn’t really have much of a choice. Eddie and Brian were already passing the ball back and forth, playing keep-away from Mr. Harnox, who wandered around in between them. Eddie took a pass, slipped by the alien, and laid it in the basket off the backboard. “Two to nothin’,” he said, tossing me the ball and trotting to the other basket.

  The game did not go well at first. Mr. Harnox knew enough to run up and down the court, following us from basket to basket, but that was about it. He was so tall that he was sometimes able to keep them from getting a shot off, but mostly that was by accident. I couldn’t pass him the ball, either, because he wasn’t very good at catching it. I worked myself free to drain a couple of fifteen-foot jumpers, but after about ten minutes Brian announced that the score was twenty-two to four. Eddie laughed. “Is that all? Seems like we’re up by way more than that.”

  After that I planted Mr. Harnox in the middle of the key on defense and told him to just keep waving those long arms in the air. He was a big enough distraction that he forced the teenagers to shoot from the outside, and they went on a cold streak.

  On the other end of the court, I used my new offensive move. I drove the lane, jumped, twisted in the air, absorbed the contact from Eddie’s leaping body, and then flipped the shot up and over him. I hesitated before my release, making the most of my minuscule hang time, as Eddie swung his arms to try and block my shot. He missed every time. It was way easier than shooting over Mr. Harnox, and I made five in a row.

  “Twenty-two to fourteen,” I called as I jogged backward down the court to set up on the defensive end. “Looks like we got a game.”

  Eddie glared at me before he turned to Greg. “Pass it here,” he said. Greg waved him off, but Eddie planted himself in front of Greg at half-court. “Give me the ball,” he demanded. Greg flipped him the ball and then headed downcourt.