How to Sell Your Family to the Aliens

by Paul Noth

  “Wait!” I yelled as he reached down for me. “What about my dad? He’s your personal hero! You’re going to kill your own hero’s only son?”

  “Your daddy is my hero,” said Pete, pausing. “I have deep respect for all his hard work and innovation. And it couldn’t have been easy on him having a midget.”

  “Dwarf.”

  “But if your daddy himself was here right now, I would have to kill him too. I’m powerful sorry about it, but my nature’s become a hundred percent homicidal. Like a mighty hurricane. Beyond my or any earthly power’s control. The only one who can wrangle me at all these days is the boss lady.”

  “Grandma.”

  “She’s all that keeps me from killing every dang opponent who gets into the ring. She promised that when I reach the highest level of champion, she’ll give me my reward. An invention that will free me from my own brutality forever.”

  Strange, I thought. Florida Pete was already the world champion. How could there be a higher level than that? But then the mention of the “reward” gave me an idea. If I could promise Pete the thing he most wanted in life, maybe he wouldn’t kill me.

  “Reward?” I said. “What reward?”

  “Aw, it’s too complicated to explain,” said Pete. “Easier just to kill you.”

  Pete lunged his hands down at me. I twirled away, imitating once of the dance moves that the Masked Flamenco had used to evade him.

  “Hey!” yelled Pete. “Stop that now, ya hear?”

  He ran, clawing down at me like a tiger after a twirling rabbit. I tried to dance to the little door, which I hoped was a dumbwaiter, but Pete caught me. His hands clutched around my rib cage and felt like a tightening vise. Then the floor spun away as Pete lifted me high above his head. He bent me slightly at the waist in preparation for his famous double-suplex body slam, which would snap my spine like dental floss.

  “Hold up!” yelled Pete, pausing mid-suplex. “Look! That’s IT! Right there!”

  Lowering me slightly, he pointed at the muted TV that I had turned on earlier.

  “That’s my reward,” he said, carrying me toward the television, which now showed an old fomercial for Hap Conklin’s Perfect-O-Specs. It must have predated the FBI’s involvement with that project.

  “Your reward’s Perfect-O-Specs?” I asked Pete, who nodded happily.

  In the ad, a series of miserable, unattractive schlubs put on the green Specs and looked at beautiful, fit people. Model types. In a flash of green light, the schlubs’ bodies became shapely just like those of the perfect people. The model types would look briefly annoyed at having their identities stolen, but then they’d befriend the former schlubs for fun activities of the sort enjoyed by twins in gum commercials.

  I recalled how just yesterday I had wished for a pair of Perfect-O-Specs, so I could have a body like Florida Pete’s.

  “Pete,” I said. “I have to ask . . . Who are you going to look at with the Specs? I mean, who do you want to turn yourself into?”

  Pete smiled wistfully.

  “Something that will free me from my violent nature,” he said. “Something sweet and gentle and lovin’ that can live a hundred and fifty years without hurting a soul. Yup. A beautiful sea tortoise.”

  “What?” I said. “Really? You want to be a turtle?”

  “A beautiful sea tortoise! And live to be a hundred and fifty years old!”

  Pete whooped happily.

  “But you wouldn’t have hands,” I said.

  “I’d have flippers.”

  “But . . . have you thought about this, Pete? You couldn’t even walk upright.”

  “I could swim and eat sponges.”

  “You could do that now!”

  “Look, they ain’t no comparison. Pete the sea turtle would never visit harm upon a nice feller like you. But Pete the man is about to snap your ding-dang neck.”

  “Wait!” I said, sensing my last opportunity. “If you just want the Perfect-O-Specs, I have a pair of them on me.”

  “You HAVE THEM?” Pete gasped.

  “Right here in my pocket, unless you crushed them with those big mitts of yours.”

  Looking horrified, Pete released his grip on me, dropping me to the floor.

  “They’re right here . . . ,” I said, going through my pockets.

  If I have one real talent, it’s the ability to pat myself down pretending to look for something that I don’t actually have. Unfortunately, you can only keep this up for so long before people grow suspicious. “Here they are,” I said. “No, wait . . . I put them over here . . . No, wait . . . ​ Hmm. Oh, I got them now! Right here,” I said, pulling the frozen Clocko from my pocket.

  “Catch!” I yelled, tossing the Clocko between Pete’s legs into the darkness behind him.

  Pete spun around and ran after it.

  I bolted for the little dumbwaiter door in the wall.

  “Hey!” I heard Pete yell from behind me, but he was too late. I flung open the small door and, diving into darkness, reached out both hands to grab the elevator cable.

  In the next fraction of a second, I realized several things at once:

  There was no elevator cable because this was not a dumbwaiter. It was an empty chute that fell straight down forty feet into orange fire. Pete’s words came back into my mind, I threw the rest of him into the incinerator. Grandma had equipped her room of secrets with a means of destroying evidence in an emergency—an incinerator chute.

  And I was falling straight toward the fire.

  CHAPTER 13

  GIFT HORSE

  Falling toward a jagged black shape silhouetted above the flames, I held out both hands instinctively to block it from hitting my face. Thwack! The thing swatted hard into my palms. I gripped my fingers around it and held on.

  I now hung, with both hands, from a long strip of metal—a torn piece of the chute itself, peeled down like the skin of a banana. Illuminated by the light of the fire below me, I could see how something had ripped the chute open here. Not “something,” but “someone.” All around the dark opening were small handprints in what I knew must be dried blood.

  I remembered what Pete had said about the FBI agent. How he had “put up one heck of a fight.” It looked like he wasn’t done fighting. The man had somehow caught himself here, ripped open the metal chute, and escaped.

  As scary as his dark exit appeared, it looked a lot more inviting than the fiery incinerator below. Pulling myself hand-over-hand up the strip of metal, I crawled into the small space. I had to stand up and walk sideways to fit along a narrow path between two walls.

  For once, I was glad to be such a shrimp. The passageway would have been too tight for a normal adult, but not for . . . What had Pete said his name was? Detective Frank Segar. I still had his wallet, I realized. Silently, I thanked Detective Segar for the gift of this escape route. Then I realized that somewhere in this dark passage I might encounter the injured FBI man in person. The thought did not comfort me.

  A thin crack of light appeared to float in midair up ahead. As I approached it, I began to hear something . . . ​ classical guitar music. When I reached the light, I saw that the glow crept in from below a hinged flap upon the wall. It looked almost like an old mail slot. When I lifted the flap, two beams of yellow light pierced the darkness from two small holes about an inch apart. Eyeholes? Without thinking, I pressed my eyes up to the two openings and peeked through.

  My mouth fell open in horror. Below, not three feet away, stood Grandma herself!

  In a beautiful lavender bedroom, Grandma stood balanced on one leg, doing some sort of Tai Chi exercise. She wore a sporty black-and-red outfit.

  Scanning the room, I spotted an antique clock, which read 11:00.

  I had fifteen minutes to get to the Azure Parlor and steal the Golden Hoop. But the sight of Grandma, inches away from me, froze me to the spot. I couldn’t even breathe.

  The view, through a gorgeous wood-paneled bay window, showed we were on the second floor. But I alrea
dy knew that Grandma’s bedroom was on the fourth floor. Did Grandma have two bedrooms? No, I decided, this room could not be hers. It was far too innocent and girly—all lavender and peach with a big satin-canopied princess bed. A large, framed photograph on the wall showed wild white stallions running through a river.

  Grandma’s arms weaved slowly above her head, her fingers tracing delicate little patterns in the air. While I didn’t recognize what sort of martial arts, or dance, or witchcraft she might be doing, there was something familiar about it. Especially when she snapped her fingers.

  A loud knocking at the door almost gave me a heart attack. Grandma clapped twice above her head, and stomped her foot. The music stopped on command.

  “Come in, Mr. Ricky,” said Grandma.

  Chip Ricky entered, clutching his leather clipboard, and bowed.

  “Ms. Conklin,” he said. “I’ve brought the ones you wished to see.”

  “Show them in and go away,” said Grandma, dismissing him with a weary gesture.

  Chip Ricky exited and, to my astonishment, one of the twins entered.

  I knew it was Eliza, first from what she wore, the purple sweater she had on this morning, and second by what she carried in her arms, Baby Lu. It was still her turn on Baby Lu’s Safety Schedule.

  Eliza, looking dumbfounded and terrified, averted her eyes from Grandma. Baby Lu gazed around in wonder—oohing and aahing at surroundings more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. When Lu caught sight of Grandma, she grinned lovingly—a smile of perfect innocence, from someone who had not yet learned about all the evil that existed in this world.

  Do something! I screamed at myself. But what?

  Follow Kayla’s plan. Go to the Azure Parlor. Steal the Golden Hoop. I looked back at the antique clock. It still read 11:00! Why wasn’t it moving? Why wasn’t I moving? I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight of Eliza carrying Baby Lu straight toward Grandma.

  “Eliza, my dear,” said Grandma, smiling. “How good of you to come. Oh, and look at this little angel.”

  Grandma reached out for Baby Lu, but Eliza pulled the baby away from her grasp.

  “No,” said Eliza. “Sorry. I mean, uh, it’s just that it’s my day to watch her. You know?”

  A look of fury flashed across Grandma’s face, but then she forced a smile. “Of course,” she said. “I understand completely.”

  “Uh . . . ,” said Eliza. “Why did you want to see me, Grandma?”

  “I wanted your opinion,” said Grandma. “One thing I’ve noticed about you, Eliza, is that you have excellent taste. I can see it in the way you dress and carry yourself. You have a natural eye. So, as one woman of taste to another, tell me, what’s your opinion of this?”

  “My opinion of what?” asked Eliza.

  “Why, of this room, of course,” said Grandma. “What do you think of it? As a bedroom, I mean? What’s your general impression?”

  As Eliza looked around, she swayed a little, as though lightheaded. I realized now that room had reminded me of Eliza from the moment I saw it. It looked like what she might have been trying to picture in her fantasies but could never quite visualize.

  “It’s so . . . exactly . . . perfect,” Eliza said.

  “See, I knew you had good taste,” said Grandma. “It’s so pleasant and peaceful here. The view is perhaps the most splendid in the manor, after the solarium’s. That canopied bed belonged to the home’s original owner. As did the bureau”—now, to my horror, Grandma turned toward me and swung her hand up so close I felt the wind of her gesture upon my eyes—“as did this charming oil portrait of Man o’ War, history’s greatest racehorse.”

  Eliza looked up at me. Paintings of horses didn’t blink, so I tried not to either.

  “Wow,” said Eliza. “It is so . . . alive.”

  “Quite,” said Grandma. “And of course there are the excellent Persian carpets.”

  “It’s all wonderful,” said Eliza.

  “So glad you think so,” said Grandma. “I’ve often thought it must be difficult to be a twin and have to share everything, including a room, with your sibling. So please accept this bedroom as my gift to you.”

  Eliza gasped. I thought she might faint. Her greatest wish was being granted.

  “You may come and go in Conklin Manor as you please,” continued Grandma. “Make use of our excellent domestic staff and kitchen services. You’ll find Chef Van Dop to be among the finest in the world.”

  “Oh,” said Eliza, panting and smiling uncontrollably. “Oh, oh! Thank you, Grandma. Thank you so much.”

  “Of course, my dear,” said Grandma. “There is one little favor I must ask of you first. A very small favor, but one that must remain a secret, even from your parents. I’ll need an hour or so to become better acquainted with darling Baby Lu here. It will give you the chance to get accustomed to your new room, and to get better acquainted with your new things.”

  “Bapy,” said a little voice.

  I saw now that Baby Lu was staring straight up at me.

  “Bapy,” she said again.

  “What is she saying?” asked Grandma.

  As Baby Lu lifted her arm to point, I shut the eye flap and stepped back into the darkness.

  Run, I told myself.

  But I took quiet sideways steps at first, until I could no longer hear the voices in the room. Then I ran—well, a sideways version of running, more like a gallop really—through the narrow path between the walls of Conklin Manor.

  Get to the third floor, I told myself. Azure Parlor. Golden Hoop. Maybe I wasn’t too late.

  I had galloped maybe thirty yards when something collided with my thigh, and my body spilled forward into daylight. I tumbled out of a broom closet on a second-floor landing.

  Leaping to my feet, I sprinted up the stairs to the third floor. There, I found myself back in the yellow hallway where I had earlier encountered Chip Ricky. Racing through it, I doubted that even the real Man o’ War could have run any faster.

  Finally, the Azure Parlor came into view. I crossed a blue carpet and walked up to the marble table where Kayla had said the Golden Hoop would be.

  The table was empty.

  Behind me, I heard someone clear his throat.

  I spun around and found myself facing the zookeeper, Mr. Abernathy. Frowning at me from a blue chair beside a blue-tiled fireplace, he clutched protectively at something in his pocket.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE ZOOKEEPER

  “Ah, Mr. Abernathy,” I said, as butlerly as I could. “Madam Conklin sent me here, uh . . . to see if you require anything. Refreshment-wise or such.”

  “No she didn’t,” said Mr. Abernathy, scowling.

  “Oh . . . I assure you—”

  “What are you supposed to be, anyway? A butler? Where’s your name tag?”

  “My what?”

  “All the staff here wear ID tags. Everybody but you.” Mr. Abernathy stood up.

  “Ah,” I said. “I seem to have neglected to put on my name tag.”

  “No you didn’t,” said Mr. Abernathy, stepping toward me. “You don’t even look like one of the butlers here. You look like some kind of . . . strange little dwarf-man who’s up to no good. Sneaking around. Poking his nose into other people’s business.”

  Abernathy grabbed the poker from the fireplace and swung it at me like a cutlass. He bared his teeth as he stepped forward with the poker, as though eager to impale me. To my left there was an open window, and for a moment I considered leaping out of it.

  “Tell me who you are,” said Abernathy. “Or so help me, I’ll crack your little skull.”

  “I’m sure I have my ID here somewhere,” I said, patting myself down. As I mentioned earlier, I have a great talent for going through my pockets pretending to look for items I don’t actually have. This time, however, as I mimed searching for an ID I didn’t have, I found I actually did have one! A new inspiration dawned.

  “Last chance,” said Abernathy, jabbing. Then he paused a
nd looked confused.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s so funny? What’s the joke?”

  “You’re the joke, Abernathy,” I said, laughing deeply. “But maybe you’re not quite as dumb as you look.”

  “What!” he said.

  I lifted the wallet, flipped it open, and showed him the badge.

  “Detective Frank Segar,” I said. “FBI. Now drop the weapon.”

  All the color drained from his face. As he stumbled backward, the poker fell from his hand onto the rug. His bugging eyeballs began flicking around the room.

  “Gonna make a run for it?” I said. “We have a team at every exit.”

  He let out a small yip, and his legs began to buckle underneath him.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Before you hurt yourself.”

  He sank back into the blue chair. Wow, I thought, he sure looks guilty of something.

  “Hey, man,” he said, breathing heavily. “I have nothing to do with these Conklin people. I don’t even know what’s going on here.”

  “Save it, zookeeper,” I said, stepping closer. “We got it all on tape.”

  “Oh no,” he cried.

  “We got digital,” I said. “Video. Reel-to-reel. We got DNA, Abernathy. D-N-A. Yup . . . it looks like you’re headed for a different kind of zoo, to live with a different kind of animal.”

  He lurched forward, clutching his gut and covering his mouth as though he might be sick.

  “Now, I’m only going to ask you this once,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “I can give you things,” said Mr. Abernathy, looking up desperately. “I don’t have money right now, but I can give you very valuable things.”

  “I only want one thing,” I said.

  “How about a panda?” said Mr. Abernathy. “A young, healthy panda. Worth a fortune.”

  “I don’t want a panda.”

  “Snow monkeys,” he said. “If you make this go away, I’ll give you seventeen brand-new snow monkeys. Do you know how much those go for?”