Tales Of An Alien Invader

by Michelle Brown

  But what catches my attention most of all is the glass case against the far wall. It stretches from floor to ceiling and it’s full of only one thing—guns. Lots and lots of guns.

  Ned follows my gaze. “Dad loves to hunt,” he says, “in case you couldn’t tell.” He points to the animals hanging on the walls.

  “He killed all of these animals himself?” I ask, swallowing hard.

  “Yep,” Ned says proudly. “He’s always looking for something new to hunt.”

  Though I know I shouldn’t think this way, part of me is glad Ned’s father is not home. I’m not too fond of hunting. Unwillingly, an image of my head, my real head, mounted on the wall appears in my mind. No, I’m not fond of hunting at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gym class. It has become the bane of my existence. I can’t dribble a basketball down the court without tripping over myself. I’m always whacked in the face during dodgeball. My serves for volleyball go rocketing towards the ceiling. I get picked last. I deserve it.

  Walking into the gym, I notice bags of equipment lined up against the wall and Mr. Pritchard standing near a door leading outside. Ned and I join the rest of the students, who are chatting excitedly. Mr. Pritchard stands with a whistle hanging in his mouth, waiting for the last few stragglers to arrive before delivering a piercing blow. His bald head shines, reflecting the lights above and, as always, he’s wearing baggy pants and a t-shirt.

  “Today, we’re going to start baseball. As you know, I coach a boy’s baseball team over at the recreation center and tryouts are next week. The team will mostly be made up of seventh graders, but a few talented sixth graders might just make the cut. Now, there are plenty of other teams that will let anyone play, so those of you that can’t bunt a ball to save your life are welcome to join one of those. Let’s head out!” He picks up one of the heavier bags and motions for the students to pick up the rest.

  Baseball is something I actually understand fairly well. It came up in my research as one of America’s favorite pastimes. Unfortunately, understanding a sport does not mean you’ll be good at it. But who knows? I think hopefully, imagining myself diving to catch a ball.

  Our group reaches the fields and Mr. Pritchard assigns Ned and Cameron as captains. Ned is chosen to pick first. He would be wise to pick Izzy or Ted Matthews; they both have excelled at every sport we’ve played so far.

  “Felix,” Ned calls out. A few students snicker behind me. Startled, I join Ned on the field.

  “Why did you pick me? You know I won’t be any good,” I say, wondering what type of strategy Ned could possibly have for his choice. Next to us on the field, Cameron calls out Curtis’s name.

  “You’re my friend, idiot. Of course I’m going to choose you,” Ned says. “Izzy.”

  From that point on, all of his choices seem logical, but I’m happy he picked me first. One of the few games my kind play on Bopton is based on war strategy. It’s a simulation, taken very seriously, and leaders chose competitors for their teams based on their abilities. Thinking back to all of the times I never chose Roctin, I feel a bit guilty. He always managed to get himself blown up in the simulations though, and I wanted to win. My choice seemed perfectly rational at the time, but now…

  Cameron’s team wins the coin toss and chooses to bat first. Everyone on our team grabs a glove and Ned assigns people to various positions. Izzy volunteers to pitch and Ned assigns himself to first base.

  “Uh, Felix, why don’t you head to right field?” Ned says.

  I trot out to right field, the glove already causing my hand to sweat. Squinting, I look towards the first batter, which is Cameron. Izzy throws her first pitch, which sails swiftly past Cameron’s swing, into Ted Matthews’s catcher’s mitt. Strike one! After two more perfect pitches, Cameron strikes out, giving Izzy a venomous look as he throws down his bat.

  Curtis is up next, squeezing the bat as if he’s trying to wring its neck. Izzy’s first pitch smacks into the catcher’s mitt, and Curtis spits at the ground. Izzy’s next pitch sails perfectly over the plate, but Curtis’s timing is off, so he misses it. He hits the dirt a few times with his bat, his face turning red. Izzy throws the ball up in the air a few times as Curtis takes position. I can’t see her face, but I am sure she’s loving every minute of this, relishing Curtis’s frustration. Izzy’s last pitch flies over the outside of the plate. Curtis swings violently and misses, his body twisting around from the force. Too bad, Curtis. It looks like you keep getting bested by a girl.

  Curtis intentionally knocks Ted over on his way back to the lineup, but Mr. Pritchard is oblivious, deep in conversation with Michael, who is up next. Michael steps up to the plate and hoists the bat over his shoulder. Izzy’s pitch is early and fast, but Michael still manages to crush the ball, sending it rocketing over the fence at the far end of the field.

  Curtis yells so loud you would think it was him that shredded the ball. “Take that, butch!” he yells at Izzy. The comment once again escapes Mr. Pritchard’s notice, as he is busy whistling through his fingers.

  The next player is a short girl named Hannah Brown. She pops up a fly ball in my direction. Watching it come closer and closer and closer, I feel a momentary thrill. I can do this. But when it’s directly overhead, the sun blinds me, causing me to see spots as the ball smacks the ground next to me. Picking it up, I throw it clumsily towards second base, overshooting the baseman and sending the ball to the pitcher’s mound. Izzy picks it up and flings it back to second, but a moment too late. Hannah runs over the base and Mr. Pritchard shouts, “SAFE!”

  Shooting me a glare, Izzy catches the ball easily when the second baseman throws it back to her. Luckily, she strikes out the next batter and we go to bat only down by one run. I’m put fifth in the lineup, and Izzy is up first.

  Ned is up fourth and he’s attempting to give me last minute pointers before we’re up. “Just visualize yourself hitting the ball. Picture yourself smashing your bat into it, launching it right at Curtis’s face. It hits Curtis in the nose and blood splatters all over the place. Curtis starts crying, calling for his mom.”

  Somewhere along the way, Ned seems to have got off track. He continues to describe Curtis’s black eyes and chipped teeth as Izzy hits the ball to right field, easily making it to first base. The next batter also hits a base run, and Izzy slides into second. As my turn gets closer, Ned’s voice fades into the background, and I find myself focusing on one silent plea. Just a base hit. That is all I want. Just a simple base hit.

  However, the third batter for our team isn’t so lucky, and Cameron (who is pitching for the other team) manages to strike him out. Ned is up next. He strolls up to the plate, picks up the bat, and gives Cameron a big grin. Cameron’s pitch comes in soft and high, and Ned switches his hold on the bat at the last second and bunts the ball a few feet in front of him. Running as if there is fire licking at his heels, he only just makes it to first base.

  Now the bases are loaded. I take some comfort in the fact that, so far, we only have one out—even if I strike out, our team still has a chance. Picking up the bat, sweat drips down my forehead and into my eye, blurring my vision. I rub my eyes furiously and curse my human body as Curtis jeers from the field, “Come on, Felix, we don’t have all day.”

  Resuming my position, the bat feels heavy and awkward in my hands. Cameron’s first pitch comes in on the outside corner of the plate. Swinging wildly, I come nowhere near hitting the ball. I hear laughter coming from the field; Curtis’s guffaw is the loudest of all. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, and I attempt to suppress the irritation bubbling inside me.

  Cameron’s next pitch comes in fast and wild and I barely have time to jump out of the way as the ball grazes my legs. Mr. Pritchard calls out, “BALL ONE!” and Cameron grins at me from the mound.

  The next pitch comes in squarely over the plate. I swing hard and make contact, the impact of the bat reverberating through my arms. To say I hit the ball would be an understatement. I murdered that ball
. For a moment, I watch it soar through the air, along with everyone else. Ned is the first one to snap back to his senses. “Drop the bat and run!” he yells out happily.

  Taking my time, I jog leisurely around the bases, my teammates cheering me on. Mr. Pritchard changes the score on his mini-scoreboard to 1-4. Pride swelling in my chest, I wonder eagerly if I will have another chance to bat this inning. Energy is racing through me; I feel lightheaded (which worries me briefly, but I quickly begin to enjoy it—out of the sensations my temporary body has experienced, this one by far is the best).

  Humans and sports.

  I guess I get it a little.

  * * *

  I hit one more home run before class is over. For the first time, gym class goes by far too quickly. Since we don’t have a chance to play all nine innings, we are picking up the game tomorrow. Right now, my team is up 10-5, and we will resume play in the sixth inning.

  After the game, a few of my teammates hit me on the shoulder and say things like, “Way to go, Felix!” Ned, smiling from ear to ear, asks why I never told him I was good at baseball. I get the feeling he doesn’t believe me when I tell him I have never played before, but he shrugs and lets the subject drop. As I’m leaving the locker room, Mr. Pritchard corners me in the hallway, slaps me on the back and insists I try out for his team next week. I tell him I will think about, though I’m not sure he heard me correctly, because he replies with a merry “Good! See you there.”

  As the bell rings and I head out with the masses, I allow my mind to wander, imagining crowds cheering as I smash a ball into the sun, raising my hand to my hat as I jog around the bases. Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt are on their feet in the stands, Uncle Matt proudly saying to the man next to him, “That’s my nephew, you know.” As I round third and trot to home base, a swelling chant rises from the crowd: “Felix! Felix! Felix!”

  Absorbed in my thoughts, I accidently bump into Izzy and the contents of her arms go spilling across the hallway. She shoots me a deadly glare and heat rushes to my face.

  “Sorry,” I stammer, kneeling down to help her. See, this is where vanity gets you, I scold myself. You were so busy fantasizing about your own pretend accomplishments that you became totally unaware of your surroundings. You’re a Bopton. You must always be aware.

  On the other hand, a different, more soothing, voice says in my head, a good researcher immerses themselves in all aspects of what they are studying. Humans are notoriously vain after all, so maybe it’s okay to be vain while I’m here. You know, in the name of research.

  Picking up a few stray pieces of paper, I notice bold colors splashed across the pages. Looking at one more closely, I see it’s a picture of a human female warrior, adorned in an outfit that looks almost like a bathing suit of blue and gold. The warrior holds a sword in her right hand, an elegant weapon. In her left hand is a shield, covered in intricate designs that resemble the runes of ancient Earth. Her hair is a mass of blood red curls, wild, whereas the rest of her body is poised, ready for battle.

  Surprised, I hand the picture back to Izzy. She hastily shoves it into a notebook, not meeting my eyes.

  “Your drawing, it’s very good,” I say, rising back to a standing position.

  “It’s nothing,” she says, also standing up. “It’s just something I do when I’m bored.”

  “Maybe you should do it more often,” I say. “My parents always tell me a talent should not be wasted.” Though my parents were always referring to academic talents, or what they would call “useful talents.”

  “Whatever,” Izzy replies. “I have to go.” She retreats down the hallway and disappears around the corner.

  By now, the hallways are emptying out. I head towards the front doors, and Old Tom is sweeping a few yards ahead of me. As always, he is muttering under his breath, talking to his imaginary audience. Looking up, his bloodshot eyes meet mine and he stares, starting to mutter more quickly to himself, though I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  Edging over to the lockers, I try to put as much distance as possible between myself and Old Tom as I get closer. His eyes don’t leave mine as he clutches his broom and moves slowly down the hall. When I’m only a few feet away, I finally get close enough to hear what he’s saying. At first it sounds like gibberish, but when I’m within arms-reach he stops for a moment and says, as clear as day, “Alien.”

  The side doors are immediately to my right, so I burst through them, eager to place as much distance as possible between myself and Old Tom. I stumble out into the sunlight and hear a low laugh off to the side.

  “Well, look who it is. Just the person we’ve been waiting for.” I recognize the cold, mocking voice before I even see his face.

  Curtis.

  In all of the excitement of the game, discovering Izzy’s hidden talent, and hearing the all-to-accurate ramblings of the custodian, I forgot that a big-headed buffoon and his lackeys are stalking me in an apparent mission to ruin my life. In my mind I can see my father shaking his head. “It’s because you were not aware,” his imaginary voice says, thick with condemnation.

  Well, it looks like I’m about to pay the price.

  “Nice game, dipstick,” Curtis says, taking a few swaggering steps forward. Before I even have a chance to think, Michael swiftly circles around me, blocking the doors back into the building. I consider running to the side for a moment, but they’re already too close. As Ned would say, game over.

  Curtis’s eyes drink in my every movement, and he seems to understand that I’m not going to run. His expression fills with sinister delight as he moves forward. He is a snake that’s coiled its body around his prey; now all he has to do is squeeze.

  “I don’t like losing,” Curtis says slowly, balling his hands into fists, “especially when that girl, Izzy, is on the other team.” He spits out her name as if it is poison, contempt heavy in his voice. “So here’s the deal. Tomorrow, you’re going to go up to the plate, swing your little bat, and strike out like a good boy.”

  “No.” I blurt out the word before really thinking.

  Curtis’s eyes darken, his lip curling up in a sneer. “No? Okay. Well why don’t you take the night to think about it? I’ve got the perfect place for you to think.”

  Curtis strides forward quickly and pushes me with savage force. Losing my balance, I fall to the ground as hands grab me by the legs and by the arms. Writhing furiously, trying to break their viselike grip, the world becomes a shaky blur of color. My heart hammers in my chest, and, despite all of my training, I lose the cool rationality that’s supposed to dictate all of my decisions. A more primal instinct has taken over—fight or flight—though despite my best efforts, I’m unable to do either.

  I hear a squeaking sound and feel myself being raised higher, my attackers grunting from the effort. From a distance, a voice shouts, “Hey, stop that!”

  It doesn’t stop. After a moment, all at once, the hands drop me and I fall onto a pile of something. Something slams shut overhead with a tremendous clatter, and I’m left in darkness, my body bruised and my chest heaving from the struggle. The sound of footsteps smacking the pavement fades into the distance, along with Curtis’s snide laughter.

  Ugh, it smells. I push on the solid surface above me, but nothing happens. I realize where I must be. The dumpster.

  Starting to panic, I push harder. Why can’t I get out? How long am I going to be stuck here?

  After a long, slow moment, a scratching noise slices through the unsettling darkness and the door above my head creaks open, spilling light onto piles of black bags containing lunch leftovers, Kleenex, and who-knows-what-else. A fly buzzes in my ear as I look up at my savior. Izzy looks back at me with wary eyes and holds out her hand.

  Struggling to stand on the bags, I use her hand to wade over to the side of the dumpster and hoist myself out. Though dull aches are throbbing at various parts of my body, I don’t seem to be badly injured. For a moment, I wish for my old body back; it would have never lost in a fight against hu
mans.

  I shake my head and banish the thought from my mind. I can’t think like that. I have to focus on my mission.

  Izzy hands me my bag, which I must have dropped when I was knocked down. “Thanks,” I say, putting it on.

  “What was that all about?” Izzy asks as we begin to walk towards Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt’s house.

  “I don’t know,” I say. Only then do I realize how exhausted I am. “Those guys have had it out for me ever since I came here.”

  “Well, those guys are morons and I’d pound them in the face if it wouldn’t get me suspended.” Izzy narrows her eyes, and in that instant she reminds me of the warrior in her picture.

  “Yeah. Well, they want me to strike out on purpose tomorrow.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said no. They put me in the dumpster to give me a chance to reconsider.” I swat at my ear; apparently my friend from the dumpster decided to follow me.

  “Well, maybe you should. It doesn’t seem worth it.”

  My father would say the same thing. “It’s only a game. Why would you put yourself in harm’s way for a silly game?” But it’s not just about the game. It’s a matter of pride. “Pride is a foolish quality,” my father’s voice echoes in my mind. “A self-indulgence beneath creatures of intelligence.” But it’s also a matter of control. I can’t let Curtis control me. I won’t.

  “Would you?” I ask Izzy, searching her face closely as she answers.

  She hesitates before shaking her head slowly. “No, no I wouldn’t.”

  We walk rest of the way in silence. Finally, just before we reach her house, I stop on the sidewalk.

  “Izzy, do you think there are a lot of people out there like Curtis and Cameron?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, seeming confused by my question.