by David Klass
“They roll in the mud and squeak.”
“I’m willing to squeak,” he says. “I’m not sure about rolling in the mud. Anything else, Tom?”
I look into his kind brown eyes. He is really trying very hard. I sense that over the past few days he has hit rock bottom, and somehow found the strength to go on. The courage of Earthlings to overcome their debacles and try to make a fresh start can be truly heroic. “You came back just in time to teach me something,” I tell him. “I need to learn to throw a spiral.”
“You mean with a football?”
“Yes. Mr. Curtis, my gym teacher, makes me do crunches and run laps because my spirals aren’t tight enough. In fact, they’re not really spirals at all.”
“Son,” he says with a smile, “there are many things about life I can’t teach you, but I can show you how to throw the tightest spiral in Barrisford.” He looks down and I see that he is still wearing his sweaty carpet-laying clothes and work boots. “There’s an old football in the garage,” he tells me, “near the bicycle rack. See if you can find it. I’m going to change and I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes.”
He heads upstairs, and I walk out the door and take a few steps toward the garage. A familiar voice stops me. “Hey, Alien. So this is where you live, huh?”
It’s Zitface. He gestures to a blue van parked near the curb. “My dad wants to talk to you.” There is a strange look on his face. He appears extremely uncomfortable. Perhaps he is a bit ashamed of how badly he once treated me.
“Your father?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think he wants to invite you to our summerhouse.”
I veer off toward the blue van. The back door is open. “My father’s moving some stuff around,” Zitface explains. He calls out, “Hey, Dad! He’s here.”
A muffed voice calls out from inside the van, “Tom Filber? Is that you? You’re a real hero. Come here for a minute.”
I step closer. “No, I’m not a hero . . .” I start to say.
Hands reach out from the back of the van and grab me. I am lifted off my feet and pulled inside by Jason Harbishaw. “Gotcha,” he says.
41
I struggle to escape but there are three of them—Jason,
Scott, and Zitface. They are too strong for me. They drag me into the van and shut the back door.
I open my mouth to scream, but Jason Harbishaw slugs me in the stomach. He has the size and muscles of a grown man, and the blow knocks the air out of my lungs. He pulls out a piece of rope and quickly ties my arms.
I glance at Zitface and gasp, “Why are you doing this?”
His small black eyes harden. “There’s no spaceship,” he mutters. “You were making fun of me.”
“The problem, Filber, is that you don’t know who to trust,” Jason tells me, finishing with a knot. “Still,” he says, “there’s something strange going on. Someone’s been helping you.” He orders Scott and Zitface, “Find that package of doughnuts he wrote about and get rid of it.”
They search me and soon find the stale sugar doughnuts wrapped in tinfoil that contain my wibbler. “We don’t need this,” Scott says, and flings it out a window.
Jason climbs through to the driver’s seat and switches the engine on. “Time for payback, Filber,” he growls. “Didn’t I warn you that what goes around comes around?”
The van pulls out and heads down the block.
I don’t need street smarts to understand that the situation is already dire and growing more dangerous by the second. I make one last desperate attempt to kick open the rear door, but Scott and Zitface grab me.
Through the small window in the back of the van I catch a fleeting look at my father, who has just stepped out of our house. He is dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and he appears to be whistling. He looks around for me, but I don’t believe he sees me as they wrestle me to the floor and the van takes off down Beech Avenue.
We drive very fast. Jason puts on some loud, pounding music with violent lyrics. Someone—I believe it is Shorty D. Long—is rapping about getting even. The chorus seems to be: “What goes around, comes around, I’ll bust you up, put you in the ground.”
Jason must have taken his new favorite expression from this song.
I access the consciousness of Tom Filber. What’s my next move?
You don’t have a next move, he tells me.
Give me some advice. I’m scared.
I’m petrified, he admits. Try begging for mercy. And if that doesn’t work, pray.
A Level-Five GC Evaluator should be able to keep a cool head at all times. Nonetheless, I am so afraid that I cannot think clearly. I hear myself begging for mercy but Scott and Zitface just laugh. Sandovinians have not worshipped a divinity for several million years, but I say a few quick prayers anyway.
God does not answer me. The only sound in the van is Shorty D. Long thundering from the speakers: “What gets lost doesn’t get found, gonna bust you up, put you in the ground.”
I feel dizzy, and I think I may have wet my pants. My wibbler is gone, I have been tied up and punched in the stomach, and my enemies have kidnapped me and now have me completely in their power.
My only hope is that the spaceship is back in Earth’s orbit and my comrades are monitoring my progress. But on a protracted mission like this, even top GC crewmen tend to get a bit lazy. They will glance at the screens at regular intervals, but they don’t watch me every second. I came to this van of my own free will, and I am riding with kids from school. Even if flight personnel happen to check up on me in the next few minutes, they will conclude that I am taking a trip with some friends. They may not realize my predicament till it is too late.
I should be constructing a plan of escape, but my mind is whirling in other directions. All I can think about is that I foolishly put myself in this position. I should have returned to the spaceship right after Michelle and I got back from the paint factory. I have gained sufficient insight into the human condition to finish my report. My father needs me on Sandoval. And the truth is I had no right to continue to appropriate the body of Tom Filber.
I realize now that I resisted leaving because I wanted to bask in the glory of my triumph at the factory. I wanted to enjoy the newfound respect of my schoolmates. And I especially wanted to spend more time with Michelle Peabody. In my terror, I admit to myself a strange truth: in many ways it is more fun to be a human, living a wacky, unpredictable life on Planet Earth, than to be a GC evaluator cruising the stars. Needless to say, as Jason’s van speeds along, I now regret some of my rash choices.
I lift my head a few inches and glimpse trees out the window. We have left the town of Barrisford far behind. I want to ask where we are going and what will become of me, but I am afraid I will be punched again. Earthlings are unpredictable and violent. Anything might happen.
The van pulls off the main road onto a rough path. I feel the tires grind over gravel and bump over rocks. Finally we jerk to a stop.
Jason opens the back door and I see that we are in some thick woods, near the Hoosaguchee River. He grabs me by my left arm and hauls me out. “Any last words, Filber?”
42
I face him and attempt to sound calm. “If what goes around comes around, you should be very careful what you do to me,” I tell him. “I am protected on Earth by the laws of the United States of America, and in space by an interstellar ship of the Galactic Confederation equipped with technology far beyond your feeble imagination.”
He does not look particularly impressed. “You trespassed on my family property and scared my mom. Then you snuck into our factory at night like a little rat. And now our whole operation is going to be shut down because of your meddling. I don’t care who’s protecting you. You’re going to get what’s coming to you.” He grabs the loose end of the rope that he used to tie my wrists and begins dragging me toward the river.
I dig my heels in to stop him but the bank is sandy and he has a full head of steam. I trip and go down to my knees, and J
ason drags me along so quickly that I can’t get back to my feet. Stones and sand scrape skin off my legs and arms. Soon Jason wades out into the cold river and I flounder along a few feet behind him. I swallow mouthfuls of water and cough it back up.
I see Scott and Zitface standing on the bank. Scott is smiling but Zitface looks a little scared. “I think he’s had enough, Jace,” he says. “You said you were just going to scare him.”
“He’s got to pay for what he did,” Jason growls, stepping closer to me.
Suddenly a loud boom echoes over the treetops. It could be the sound of a plane breaking the sound barrier, or of an interstellar spaceship swooping overhead. For a second the tree branches rustle and bow down, and even Jason looks a bit spooked.
“What the hell was that?” Scott asks.
“Just a plane or maybe a helicopter,” Jason says, trying to sound matter-of-fact, but I hear doubt in his voice. “They take off from Fairfield Airport and like to buzz these woods sometimes.” The three of them crane their necks, searching for the plane.
I take advantage of the distraction to try to escape. A rock officers my feet some traction. I lunge away from Jason, and at the same time yank the rope with all my strength. He keeps hold of it and staggers. For a moment we’re both off balance. I kick out with my legs, and my foot connects with his ankle. He falls into the Hoosaguchee face-first.
I stagger away, but he’s on me in a second. He grabs me by the hair and yanks so hard it feels like my scalp may come off. I scream.
“This is what happens to people who mess with the Harbishaws,” he snarls. He puts his big right hand on the crown of my skull like he’s palming a basketball and forces me under the surface.
I hold my breath and fight back with every ounce of strength that I have, but I can’t break his grip. My mouth finally opens, and river water pours in. I feel myself start to black out. Consciousness dwindles to a rope, then frays to a single thread, and that thread stretches taut.
So this is what it feels like to drown. It is not a pleasant way to die. It is slow and agonizing. I hear Tom Filber bellowing in pain and fear from the Ragwellian Bubble. He is not giving me advice or even speaking words. He is just making a terrible, scared, pitiful wail.
The realization that I am about to die gives me one last desperate surge of energy. I push off the bottom of the river with my palms and force my head up, and somehow I find the strength to shake Jason’s grip. I explode above the surface and try to suck in a breath, but it feels like I have swallowed half the river. All I can do is puke and retch and try to stumble away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Jason demands.
And then my dad’s voice rumbles from very close, “If you touch him again, Jason Harbishaw, I promise you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
43
I see and hear everything that happens next in fragmented bits and pieces as I try to recover from nearly being drowned.
Jason Harbishaw forgets all about me. He yells, “I don’t let old washed-up drunks tell me what to do,” and charges toward my father.
My father is a blur as he runs into the river toward Jason.
Out of the corner of my eye I register that someone else is crashing through the bushes toward the riverbank, issuing loud orders for everyone to stand still.
I am fixated on the collision that is about to take place, and I fear the result. Jason is only eighteen, but he must weigh more than two hundred pounds and he’s a broad-shouldered bull of a teenager. My father is tall and gaunt and more than two decades older. I’m afraid that Jason will run right over him.
As they get close, Jason draws back his right fist and throws a whistling roundhouse punch that tears my father’s head off. Or at least it would decapitate my dad if the blow connected. But my father ducks under the sweeping punch, lowering his center of gravity at the last second.
There’s the smacking sound of a bone-jarring collision, and I hear Jason cry out in surprise and pain as he flies backward and disappears into the river. It occurs to me that my father was once a defensive end on an undefeated state champion football team, and he can still hit pretty hard.
My father turns to me. His expressive eyes are filled with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I swallowed a lot of water, but . . . WATCH OUT, DAD!” I shout.
Jason has surfaced, and something dark and heavy gleams in his hand. It’s a sharp-edged rock he’s pulled off the river bottom. He tries to bash my father’s head in with it, but Dad ducks out of the way at the last second.
“DROP THE ROCK,” a voice commands from the bank. “WALK OUT OF THE RIVER WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.”
I look over and see Sergeant Collins standing on the bank with his gun drawn.
Jason glances at him, and then back at my father. His baby face curls up with a look of all-consuming rage. “DAMN YOU,” he growls. Instead of dropping the rock, he steps toward my dad again, drawing back his arm for another swipe.
A gunshot rings out. I have never heard one before. It is a piercing whine, a shocking and unmistakable sound. I believe Sergeant Collins has just fired a warning shot over Jason’s head.
“This is your last warning,” the policeman shouts. “Drop the rock and walk out now!”
The shot gets even Jason Harbishaw’s attention. His big right hand opens and the glittering black rock splashes back into the Hoosaguchee. He slowly raises his hands and starts walking toward the bank.
“Did he hurt you?” my father asks.
“No,” I tell him. “You came just in time.”
Meanwhile, Jason has reached the bank. He begins to mutter something about my father attacking him, and says that Scott and Zitface will back up his story.
But the two younger boys look scared and keep silent, and Sergeant Collins cuts in and says he saw the whole thing. He tells Jason to lie flat on the bank, and begins to handcuff his hands behind his back. “You’re under arrest for suspicion of kidnapping, attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and a whole lot of other things we can get into later,” he says. “You have the right to remain silent . . . “
I don’t hear the rest because my father puts his arms around me. “Thank God I found you,” he says. “I followed the van and called the police. But when he turned off the highway I lost you for a second . . .”
I hug him back. “We’re both okay. That’s the important thing.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, and I feel his body shiver as he hugs me even more tightly. He is trembling now. I remind myself that he’s been through a lot in the past few days. “We’re going to be okay from now on,” he whispers. “We’re going to be just fine.”
We stay like that for a minute or two, holding on to each other, knee-deep in the river. Finally I tell him, “Dad, I think it’s time to go home.”
44
The stars are bright in the cloudless night sky, blazing like fiery beacons that summon me homeward. “So what’s your final conclusion about Planet Earth and species Homo sapiens?” Michelle Peabody whispers.
We are sitting in her swing, beneath a blanket because the autumn night has a chilly bite to it. We have just spent more than two hours doing absolutely nothing except cuddling and talking and listening to the crickets. It is nearly time for her to go into her house, and I am contemplating a homeward journey of my own. The thought makes me happy, but also fills me with regret.
“I think humans are the most misunderstood species in the known universe,” I tell her. “Observed from a far vantage point, they manifest cruel, illogical, and self-destructive behavior. But when one actually inhabits a sensitive and vulnerable human body—especially a fourteen-year-old body—and has to deal with all of the unpredictable, crazy, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching things that can happen to you on Planet Earth—most humans are doing the best that they can. And some of them are among the nicest organisms I have met in all my travels through this vast galaxy.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully a
nd then smiles and kisses me softly on the lips. “I’ve never been called an organism before.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not particularly.”
I trace my hand through the tiny blond curls near her ears. I bend close and inhale her—the fragrance of her hair, of her clothes, of her body. I run my finger along the rim of her lips, and she nips me with her teeth and giggles. “I’m going to miss you terribly,” I tell her.
“You’ll always know where to find me,” she says. “I’m just the earth girl next door, 332 Beech Avenue, Terra Firma. Come and see me whenever you get the space blues. Or stay here a little longer. There’s lots more that needs to be evaluated.” Her hand finds mine under the blanket, and our fingers intertwine.
“You don’t really believe anything I’ve told you about my mission, do you?” I whisper.
She looks back into my eyes. “I believe you’ve been through something difficult and unusual. You’ve grown and changed a lot. And I’m so glad you’re okay. I keep thinking of those boys grabbing you. If your father hadn’t come . . .” She stops whispering and a tear squeezes out of her blue eye and runs down her cheek.
I wipe it away. “It’s getting late,” I tell her. “We should probably both be heading home.”
She nods and stands. “Bye, Alien. I think I’m falling in love with you a little bit.”
I stand also, and give her a farewell embrace. GC evaluators are supposed to have tight control over their emotions, but I am blinking away tears of my own. “Bye, earth girl next door,” I whisper back. “You may have redeemed your entire species.”
She grins. “You’re just a snail who’s a sucker for a blonde.”
“Can I help it?” I ask her. “You’re a very special organism.”
She leans in, so that our lips are almost touching. “How special?” she whispers.
“Exceedingly special,” I whisper back.
