by Bill Myers
Begin Transmission:
Have assisted subject through first day of school. For some reason, she’s not grateful. Still unable to find time pod fuel. Other equipment fritzing from exposure to saltwater. Majorly questioning Tuna’s engineering skills.
End Transmission
Ever since their mom died, Dorie, Violet, and TJ made the meals. Dad used to, but after eight weeks of hot dogs, cold cereal, hot dogs, mac and cheese, and hot dogs, the girls decided to take turns cooking. Well, Dorie and TJ took turns cooking (if you call throwing a frozen dinner in the microwave cooking).
But TJ’s middle sister, Vi, did things a little differently.
Since Vi was a vegetarian, health-food fanatic, and all-around germ freak, the family was lucky to get anything that didn’t taste like boiled cardboard topped with sawdust sprinkles. For dessert it was usually overcooked water (as long as it was prepared in hypoallergenic pans that had never been exposed to animal by-products).
“So how was everybody’s day?” Dad asked cheerfully. Even on his bad days he tried to be cheerful—another reason the girls loved him so.
Their answers were pretty much what you’d expect.
Dorie went on and on, and then on some more, about a ladybug she found on the windowsill of her kindergarten classroom. (Good ol’ Dorie. Give her a paper clip to play with and she’d be content for weeks.)
Violet talked about how she’d been elected class secretary, become chess club president, and scored 110 percent on her first math quiz.
And TJ? Well, she dropped into the safe and secure Fine mode. It makes no difference what you’re asked; nothing is safer than answering with the tried and true “Fine.”
“And, TJ, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“How are you fitting in?”
“Fine.”
“How are your teachers?”
“Fine.”
Yes, sir, nothing beats the Fine mode . . . especially when you don’t exactly feel like shouting, “IT WAS TERRIBLE! THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE! AND I THINK I’M LOSING MY MIND!”
But Dorie knew something was up. She probably figured TJ was still nervous about last night’s voices. (And TJ would have been, if it wasn’t for the rest of the day’s migraine makers.)
So, trying to help, little Dorie asked, “Dad? Are there such things as ghosts?”
“Why do you ask, sweetheart?”
TJ threw her a don’t you dare go there look.
Dorie caught it and answered, “Oh, I don’t know. I was just wondering if rooms and stuff can be haunted.”
“No, sweetheart,” he said. “There are no such things as ghosts. Vi, would you pass me the pencil shavings? They’re exceptionally tasty this evening.”
TJ sighed quietly in relief. Dad had enough on his mind. He didn’t need to worry about haunted rooms. Besides, TJ doubted it was her room that was haunted. After all that happened in school today, she was beginning to wonder if she was haunted.
Unfortunately, she was about to find out.
That’s right, Chad was back in his room pretending to listen to his girlfriend (while secretly wishing the new kid had broken Hesper’s phone instead of her nose).
For about the hundredth time, he rubbed the back of his head, wondering about his own accident in Mr. Beaker’s class. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt. (If you count getting knocked unconscious by a flying dictionary as unhurt.)
And when he came to and looked up, there was the new kid kneeling beside him.
“What happened?” he asked her.
But looking into his eyes, all she could do was answer, “I . . . uh . . . er . . . um . . .” And when she got tired of that, she tried another approach: “Um . . . er . . . uh . . . I . . .”
Poor thing—she really did have some mental issues.
He didn’t know which was worse, a girl who never stopped
or a girl who didn’t know how to start.
Anyway, he was at his desk in his room, once again bruising his brain over that same book report, when a silvery reflection caught his attention. It came from inside the new kid’s house. At first he thought it was a mirror or something. Until he realized that mirrors or somethings don’t usually look like . . . two guys in silver suits crawling out of a large, glowing egg.
(That’s for any readers who forgot their glasses.)
Immediately, Chad turned and shouted into his phone. “Hesper! Hesper!”
But of course Hesper was too busy talking to hear.
Now, the way Chad figured, he had three options:
OPTION #1: Explain to Hesper that he had to hang up and go save his neighbor’s life.
OPTION #2: Hang up without explaining and go save his neighbor’s life.
OPTION #3: Leave the phone open and go save his neighbor’s life.
Since Hesper really didn’t need him present to carry on a conversation, he chose Option #3. He left the phone on his desk and raced out of the room as Hesper continued to
Meanwhile, TJ trudged up the stairs to start the evening’s torture (better known as homework). Vi was on Dad’s computer figuring out the cure for world hunger, and Dorie was helping Dad with the dishes. That just left TJ and the two teenage aliens wearing space suits who were standing in the middle of the hallway.
(That’s for the same forgetful readers).
Great, TJ thought. Space invaders; that’s all I need.
“Shh,” the taller one said to his partner. He was a surfer type with long blonde bangs hanging in his eyes. He sounded like he was right out of the seventies. “Here she comes, dude.”
“Quickly,” the shorter, chunkier one replied. He had short red hair and sounded kind of snooty. “Remove the pod before she borks into it.”
By now TJ had frozen in her tracks. She wanted to scream and run away, but she had this thing about getting zapped in the back by photon guns or whatever they’re killing earthlings with these days. Instead, she watched in terror as they pushed a giant silver egg (the perfect size for two aliens visiting planets) down the hall.
“What is she staring at?” Chunky Guy whispered. “She cannot possibly see us, can she?”
“Quick!” Tall Dude whispered. “Hide!”
They raced to the nearest wall, pressed their faces against it, and covered their eyes.
TJ just kept standing and staring in disbelief.
“What’s she doing?” Tall Dude whispered.
Chunky Guy sneaked a peek. “She is standing and staring in disbelief.”
“Maybe she actually does see us,” Tall Dude repeated.
“Don’t be toyped; we’re invisible.”
“Who you calling toyped? You’re the one who’s toyped!”
“I certainly am not.”
“Are too!”
“Well then you’re toyped times the square root of pi.”
“Yeah, well you’re—”
TJ knew it was rude to interrupt, especially with out-of-town (or out-of-galaxy) guests. But she figured it was time to speak up. So, opening her mouth, she shared a brave and very courageous
This must have frightened Tall Dude because he answered with an equally brave and courageous
“What is she screaming at?!” Chunky Guy cried.
“Aliens!” TJ screamed. “I see aliens!”
“Where?!” Tall Dude shouted, looking around in fear.
TJ screamed.
Tall Dude screamed.
And not wanting to be left out, Chunky Guy joined in the chorus:
“TJ?” Dad called from the bottom of the stairs. “TJ, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“Quickly,” Chunky Guy shouted, “the morphing device!”
“Got it!” Tall Dude cried. He pulled out a large, red object that looked like a Swiss Army Knife and immediately dropped it.
“Oh, brother,” Chunky Guy sighed. “Open the Morphing Blade; open the Morphing Blade!”
“TJ?” Dad started up the stairs.
Tall Dude picked up the knife, opened
a special blade, and
turned himself into Abraham Lincoln (complete with that cool hat, though the beard looked a little fake).
“No,” Chunky Guy cried, “morph into her; morph into her!”
“I’m trying, dude!” He opened another blade and
turned himself into the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz.
“No, no, no!” Chunky Guy yelled.
“It’s shorting out!” Tall Dude cried. He tried again and
turned himself into the Beatles. All four of them!
They were just getting ready to play “Yellow Submarine” when suddenly
TJ was standing in front of herself. Well, at least someone who looked an awful lot like TJ was standing in front of herself.
“TJ?” Dad was halfway up the steps, almost in sight.
“And her!” Chunky Guy shouted. “Morph her! Morph her!”
The fake TJ opened another blade, and
the real TJ was turned into (hang on, this is going to get weird) . . . a floor lamp.
(Hey, I warned you.)
Of course, she wanted to scream, “A floor lamp?! What am I doing as a floor lamp?!” But she couldn’t. Apparently floor lamps don’t have mouths to scream with. (They do, however, have very attractive shades with cute little tassels along the bottom, not to mention nifty three-way switches.)
Meanwhile, Chunky Guy raced to the giant floating egg, pushed it through the nearby bathroom door, and hid with it out of sight . . . just as Dad arrived.
“TJ?” Dad asked the fake TJ. “What’s all the screaming about?”
“I’m sorry,” Fake TJ said in a high-pitched voice. “I was just practicing for the talent show.”
“Talent show?” Dad asked.
“Yes, I’m trying out.”
“Well, that’s great. I’m glad you’re working to fit in.”
“Thanks,” Fake TJ said, his voice cracking slightly.
Dad tilted his head. “Are you okay? You sound strange.”
“Oh, that.” Fake TJ coughed slightly. “I might be coming down with a cold.”
“Well, go to bed early tonight,” Dad said. “I don’t want you getting sick before your big audition.”
“Good idea. Thanks.”
He gave a nod and headed back down the steps. Only then did he notice the real TJ (who was now a floor lamp standing next to the wall). “Where’d you get that lamp?”
“Oh, that.” Fake TJ pretended to giggle. “I found it in my closet. Can I keep it?”
He scowled. “I don’t know. It’s pretty ugly.”
Hey, Real TJ thought, even us floor lamps have feelings!
“Please?” Fake TJ begged. “I know just the place for it.”
Dad hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, it’s your room. Why not?”
“Great.” Fake TJ beamed.
Dad nodded and headed for the stairs. “I love you, TJ.”
“I love you too, Poppsy,” Fake TJ said.
Poppsy? Real TJ thought. What person on earth calls their dad Poppsy? (Then she remembered Fake TJ wasn’t exactly a person from earth.)
Dad shook his head in amusement and continued down the steps.
As soon as the coast was clear, Fake TJ pulled out another blade from his Swiss Army Knife and
morphed back into his tall, surfer self.
“That was close,” Chunky Guy said as he came back into the room.
“Fur sure,” Tall Dude agreed. Then, turning to the floor lamp, he said, “I don’t know how you can see us. Must be something majorly zworked with our cloaking device. But if we turn you back into you, do you promise not to scream again?”
TJ tried to answer but ran into the same I can’t talk without a mouth problem.
Chunky Guy rolled his eyes. “She is not capable of answering us.”
“Oh, right,” Tall Dude said. “I knew that.” He turned to TJ. “Okay, then, blink once for yes and twice for no.”
TJ tried to nod, but without a head, nodding can also be a little difficult. So, concentrating with all her might,
she imagined turning on her lightbulb. And sure enough, after a few more grrrrs, errrrs, and arrrrs, it came on! But only for a second before it went off.
“Great.” Chunky Guy smiled.
TJ was so impressed with herself that she did it again.
“That’s two times,” Tall Dude said. “So you are going to scream?”
No, no, no, TJ thought. She blinked the light a third time. Then a fourth.
“What’s she doing?” Tall Dude asked.
“As you may recall, the history holographs say her math skills are somewhat limited.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Let us proceed to the room,” Chunky Guy said. “Perhaps if we sit down and explain everything, she will cooperate.”
Tall Dude nodded and walked toward her.
Of course TJ blinked again and again, hoping Dad or Violet or little Dorie would hear—er, see her. Unfortunately, no one did. No one except the two aliens who she was about to discover weren’t really aliens at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Blink, Blink, Blink,
Blink, Blink, Blink,
Blink, Blink
Time Travel Log:
Malibu, California, October 10—supplemental
Begin Transmission:
Cloaking device has failed. Subject sees and hears us. Must now brief her on project . . . while trying not to flush her next-door neighbor down the toilet.
End Transmission
Tall Dude picked TJ up and carried her into her room, where she listened carefully. Well, as carefully as a floor lamp with fancy trim around the shade can listen.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Chunky Guy said. “My name is Thomas Uriah Norman Alphonso . . . the third.”
“We call him Tuna, for short,” Tall Dude said as he pushed the floating egg through the doorway and into the room.
Tuna nodded toward Tall Dude. “And we call him Herby, which, unfortunately, is short for—”
“Herby,” Herby said, flipping his blond bangs out of his eyes.
TJ blinked her light off and on.
“What’s she saying?” Herby asked.
“Do I look like I speak lamp-ese?” Tuna said.
“Hang on, Your Dude-ness,” Herby said. “Let me get out the translator.”
Once again he pulled out his Swiss Army Knife and opened another blade. And once again he fumbled it, dropping it to the floor. Only this time, instead of people turning into presidents or famous rock-and-roll bands, TJ heard:
“Hm, this is interesting; can I eat it? Hm, a nice shiny blade; can I eat it? Hm, a nice red handle; can I eat it? Hm, a nice—”
Then she saw the cockroach scurrying up and over the knife.
Great! she thought. Not only is my place infested by space aliens, I’ve got cockroaches, too!
“Zweegs,” Tuna cringed.
“Zweegs to the max,” Herby agreed. He raised his foot over the insect as the translator continued to translate:
“Hm, a nice foot up there; can I eat it? Hm, a nice shoe coming down toward me; can I eat it? Hm, a nice—”
Zweegs.
Tuna and Herby both shuddered.
Blink-blink, blink-blink, TJ blinked.
“All right.” Herby, the surfer dude, turned to TJ. “I’m not sure why you can see us. I’m guessing my partner here hasn’t totally fixed the cloaking device.”
“Or,” Tuna argued, “my partner doesn’t know the first thing about using it.”
“I’d know how to use it if you knew how to fix it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
TJ looked on in amazement. It was hard knowing which boy had fewer brain cells. But since you can’t get much lower than one, she figured it was a tie. To get their attention, she started
again.
Tuna was the first to spot her. Straightening his suit, he cleared his throat and start
ed over. “First of all, despite our appearance, we are not spacemen.”
“Or bodybuilders,” Herby said, sucking in his stomach and sticking out his chest, “which some folks mistake us for.”
Tuna gave him a look, then continued. “Actually, we are time travelers.”
“From the 23rd century,” Herby added.
“And we have traveled back through time to observe you for our history project.”
Blink-blink? TJ blinked.
“That’s right.” Herby nodded. “You. And not just ’cause we think you’re, like, a major babe. OWW!”
(The “OWW!” came after Tuna stomped on his foot.)
As Herby was busy hopping up and down on one foot, Tuna calmly continued. “We have returned to your time because when you grow up, you will become a great world leader. In fact, one day you will—”
“TJ?” Dad suddenly called from downstairs. “You’ve got company.”
TJ blink-blinked in concern.
“What do we do?” Herby cried.
“How should I know?”
“Hey, dude, you got us into this quod-quod!”
“Why must you always blame me?”
“Because you’re always wrong.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am—”
“TJ?” Dad called from the bottom of the stairs.
TJ blink-blink, blink-blinked faster.
Tuna frowned. “Permit me a moment to think.”
“TJ?!”
But Herby had no time for moments (or thinking). He took a deep breath and gave the world’s second-worst imitation of TJ. (The first was back on page 43). “Send him on up, Poppsy.”
“Send him on up?” Tuna cried. “Are you toyped?!”
“It’s better than us going down there,” Herby said.
