Tales Of An Alien Invader

by Michelle Brown

  “Zero. The answer to number one is zero.” At that, Michael tugs out a piece of paper and scribbles down the correct answer. I go through three more problems, each time explaining how to reach the answer, only to be greeted with sulky silence. After prompting him to answer the fourth and receiving nothing in response, I feel a sudden flash of anger, and I dishonor my parents’ drilled teachings by acting on it.

  Throwing down my pencil, I lean back in my chair. “Listen, I know how to do this. You don’t. I am not going to sit here and do all of the work for you. So either you can actually try to understand what we’re doing here or you can leave and stop wasting my time.”

  Ned stops pre-flick and looks at me in surprise. Izzy smirks and gives Michael a haughty stare.

  Michael’s face purples and for a moment I think he’s going to sock me in the jaw. Instead he heaves a sigh and pulls the book toward him, actually looking at it for the first time since he sat down. “So, for number four,” he mutters, “negative nine minus negative seven, you’re saying it would actually be negative nine plus seven, which is…” He takes a moment, scrunching his face while making the calculations in his head. “Negative two, right?”

  “Right,” I say, breaking into a smile. Across the table Ned completes his flick, sending the “football” directly into my eye.

  “Sorry,” Ned says, getting up to retrieve the football from where it fell.

  “Now on to number five.” And together Michael and I lean over the textbook.

  * * *

  The next few weeks pass in blur of school, practice, tutoring and games. Michael comes over to my house every Tuesday and Thursday; so far, he has brought his grade up to a C. Though he’s perfectly tolerable during tutoring, outside of my house and at the baseball field he still finds ways to torment me, along with Curtis and Cameron. Their latest operation consisted of putting shaving cream through the slots of my locker, covering all of my stuff in a gooey white slime.

  Ned and Izzy come to my games when they can, along with another unwelcome fan. Old Tom sits on the bleachers, muttering as he watches us play, always dressed in an old plaid shirt and faded blue jeans. We are currently undefeated, thanks largely to Michael and myself. However, both Michael and I have a huge math test coming up, and Coach Pritchard has made it clear that if Michael fails, he’s sitting on the bench for the championship game, which is against our biggest rivals.

  After a particularly grueling three-hour study session, Michael closes his book with a groan. “I don’t know,” he says. “I still don’t feel like I’m ready.” Piles of notes are on the table in front of him, which I gather together to form a neat packet. Using a paper clip, I secure the packet together and set it back on the table.

  “Just take this,” I say, pushing the packet towards him. “You have all weekend to study. Keep going over what we have practiced, and I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Michael opens his mouth to say something else when Aunt Shirley walks in, brightening up when she sees Michael sitting at the table.

  “Michael, I didn’t know you were coming over today,” she says, tugging open the refrigerator door. “If I had, I would have bought some more of those pizza rolls I know you like.” Rummaging through the fridge, she emerges with some string cheese and juice. “Are you hungry?” She fills up a glass and places it in front of Michael without waiting for an answer. He reaches out and takes the string cheese from her hand with a weak smile.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Parker.” Michael chugs the juice in a matter of seconds, and Aunt Shirley refills his glass.

  “No problem. I’m happy to have you guys over. You, Izzy, Ned. We’re so happy Felix has made such good friends.” Aunt Shirley ruffles my hair and exits the kitchen just as quickly as she came.

  Michael shakes his head. “I can’t believe you never told her,” he says, pulling apart the string cheese. “About the stuff we do to you at school.” His voice has a twinge of guilt to it and he picks up his bag without meeting my eyes.

  “I didn’t see the point,” I reply, blood rushing to my face as I think about all the different things Curtis, Cameron, and Michael have done.

  “Well, thanks, I guess. Your aunt is pretty cool.” He heads for the door and leaves the house without a backwards glance.

  Aunt Shirley is pretty cool. Unlike me, apparently. Staring off into space for a minute, I go to put Michael’s glass in the dishwasher and see that he’s left the study packet. Grabbing it, I run outside, but Michael is nowhere in sight. I hurry upstairs to my room and dig out a blue contact information sheet for the baseball team. It contains everyone’s phone number and address and is supposed to be used to pass along information, such as a rained-out game, but Michael’s possible benching seems like as good of a reason as any.

  Typing his address into the navigation system on my tablet, I see his house is about three miles away. Michael never got a ride or rode a bike, so he must walk. Three miles is a long way to walk several times a week.

  Bolting down the stairs, I rush for the front door. If I jump on my bike, I can catch him along the way. I’m halfway out the door when I feel a gentle tugging on my collar. Uncle Matt pulls me back inside and closes the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

  “Michael forgot his study packet. He needs it or he is going to fail our test on Monday.” I start for the door again, but Uncle Matt has other plans.

  “Well, you can take it to him after dinner, then. We’re about to eat,” he says, gesturing towards the kitchen.

  Protests well up in my head but die on my lips. I sit down at the table with Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt, scarf down two slices of pizza, and wait expectantly for them to finish. It’s one of their rules: no one is excused from the table until everyone else is finished. Uncle Matt chews his food at an infuriatingly slow pace while Aunt Shirley stops in between every two bites to tell a story about a student in one of the college classes she teaches.

  Tapping my feet on the floor, I use every sign of human body language I know to convey my anxiousness to leave. I strum my fingers across my chin. I exhale heavily. I bounce up and down a little in my seat. But apparently my message is not being received because Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt continue their leisurely bites, dawdling over bits of crust and refilling their drinks.

  After an inordinate amount of time, Uncle Matt gives me a pointed look. “You can stop those miserable sighs. If it’s so important to you to deliver that packet, you can be excused early just this once.”

  I thank him and nearly knock my chair over as I throw it back. Snatching the packet off the counter, I shove it and my tablet into my backpack. I race to the garage, jump on my bike, and begin pedaling towards Michael’s house, stopping every once and a while to refer to the tablet for directions.

  I notice as I get closer to his house that the buildings begin to look more run-down. I turn a corner and an abandoned, dilapidated warehouse stares back at me. Most of its windows are broken, like jagged teeth, and a sea of broken glass shines on the ground underneath them. Graffiti is splashed along the side, a picture of a snake coiled around a rabbit next to the words HOOD FOR LIFE.

  Nothing looks familiar—I don’t think Aunt Shirley has ever driven us out this way. It’s weird how different neighborhoods can look only three miles away from one another. I locate Michael’s street and find myself at the entrance to a trailer park. Pedaling a few hundred yards down, I stop in front of the trailer with Michael’s address on the side.

  It’s a faded blue hunk of metal with weeds growing in abundance in front of it. A discarded tire lays in the yard with a wrench beside it. Two rickety lawn chairs are by the door, empty cans surrounding them. Getting off my bike, I navigate my way through the lawn and knock on the door. A man in a stained shirt opens it and squints at me as if the sunlight burns his eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, his speech slightly slurred.

  “I’m looking for Michael. I’m his math tutor,” I
say, peering over his shoulder.

  “Math tutor, huh.” He twists his head and calls over his shoulder. “Michael, some math tutor is here to see you.” Opening the door so I can enter, the man shuffles over to the couch and lies down, throwing an arm over his eyes.

  Glancing to my left, I notice a tiny kitchen, the sink overflowing with used plates and glasses. Several boxes of food are left out on the small counter, and a cat sniffs at one of them. A can sits on the very edge of the counter, nearly falling off. Roughly, a hand grabs me from behind and spins me around.

  “What are you doing here?” Michael demands, crowding me so I have no choice but to back into the front door. Reaching into my backpack, I grab the packet and shove it at him wordlessly. Understanding enters his eyes and he takes it from me begrudgingly.

  “Let’s go outside,” he says, opening the door. I follow him out onto the street, where Michael picks up a rock and throws it as hard as he can down the road.

  “Was that your dad?” I ask awkwardly.

  “Yeah,” Michael answers. “He works at night so he sleeps during the day.”

  “Is your mom home?”

  “Nope. My mom died when I was two.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Michael doesn’t say anything more but just keeps picking up rocks and throwing them. I want to say something to him, but I don’t know what. Giving up, I go over to my bike.

  “Well, now you can study. You can call me if you have questions.”

  “Hey, Felix.” I look back and Michael’s eyes are shining with an emotion I haven’t seen in them before. Embarrassment? Shame? I’m not sure what it is. “The other guys, you know, Curtis and Cameron, they’ve never been to my house before. They live across town and…” He cuts off and pauses for a moment. “You won’t tell them, will you?”

  Humans and their material possessions. Bopton isn’t perfect, but there isn’t poverty like there is on Earth. Boptons don’t care what kind of house others live in or what type of transporter they drive. Those details are too trivial to warrant attention, or worse, cause embarrassment. I feel a flush of pride for my species before I respond.

  “No, I won’t tell them anything,” I say. I wish I had the words to convince Michael that he didn’t need to be embarrassed. That it didn’t matter where he lived or what his father was like. That all that mattered was who he was as a person. I think of the spitballs I’ve pulled out of my hair and the reeking darkness of that dumpster. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be comforting to him after all.

  I get onto my bike and give him a halfhearted wave before taking off.

  “See you,” I say, pedaling down the road.

  “See you.”

  I look back once when I am about to turn the corner. Michael is still standing in his yard, watching me leave, a ray of sunlight shining down on his head.

  CHAPTER 10

  “It’ll be fun. You’ll see,” Ned reassures me as we walk into the dimly lit gym. Warily eyeing the blue and white paper streamers that hang above me, I come to the conclusion that Ned and I must have different definitions on what qualifies as fun. Other students are entering in groups, talking excitedly and looking around. School ended two hours ago, so Ned, Izzy, and I hung out at my house until it was time to come back. Izzy agreed to come with us in a bemused sort of way, saying something about how it was amusing to watch, in her words, “idiots pretend they know how to dance.”

  It’s now twenty minutes since the dance started, and although the room has filled up quite a bit, one fact is glaringly obvious, not to mention confusing, to me.

  No one is dancing.

  Instead, groups of guys are horsing around by the back wall; one of them even managed to get a hold of a basketball, and they are dribbling and passing it around to one another. The girls, on the other hand, are either standing by or sitting at the tables. Occasionally, a group will look at the boys along the wall longingly, or even shout something at one of them. The dance floor remains empty though, and I begin to wonder what exactly it is we came for.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be a dance?” I ask Ned, confused.

  He nods and leads us over to a long table draped in white and set up with punch and cookies. Enthusiastically stuffing a cookie into his mouth, he turns to me. “Yeah, it is,” he responds with his mouth full. Seeing my confusion, he continues, “Oh yeah, you’ve never been to one of these before. This is what they’re like.”

  “But isn’t the whole point of a dance to, you know, dance?”

  “People will eventually. First, groups of girls usually get up and start dancing with each other. Then a slow song will come on and a few couples will dance. By the end, everybody just sort of dances with each other in groups. Of course, some people just sit or stand the entire time. You don’t have to dance; it’s not a requirement or anything. I usually don’t.” A look of concern suddenly washes over his expression, and he looks at Izzy like she might drag him onto the dance floor at any moment. Izzy returns his look with one of disdain and exasperation.

  “I usually don’t come to these things, but when I do, I definitely don’t dance,” she says firmly, pouring herself a glass of punch and taking a small sip.

  Though still baffled by this bizarre social custom, I feel a sense of relief that I won’t actually need to dance. I had spent all of last night researching various dancing videos on the Internet with increasing alarm. Some of the people in the videos had been able to bend their bodies in positions that I’m quite sure my human body is not capable of.

  “Look, there’s an open table. Let’s grab it before someone else does,” Izzy says, moving quickly towards the table. Ned and I trail behind, arming ourselves with napkins full of cookies before following Izzy to the table. She makes it there just before a group of three girls and sits down triumphantly. The girls shoot her dirty looks before heading off to the side to stake out another table.

  We spend the next half an hour or so talking about our science presentations and Izzy’s upcoming art show.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Izzy insists when Ned eagerly brings it up, staring determinedly down at the table.

  “Oh, come on,” Ned exclaims, spraying bits of cookie into the air. “Your work is going to be in an actual gallery, hanging up with real professional art and everything. It’s a huge deal.”

  “Other students are going to have their art displayed, too,” Izzy says weakly as she picks apart a napkin.

  “Yeah, like five,” Ned counters. “And the rest are from the high school. Yours is the only middle school work that was selected.”

  Mrs. Taylor, the art teacher, had submitted a few of her students’ work into a local art competition for amateur artists. Izzy had just received the results earlier in the day, and the principal had made a special announcement about it during the afternoon announcements. In fact, that was how Ned and I found out; Izzy hadn’t told us yet. She insisted she just had not had time, but I wonder if she would have told us at all, considering how shy she is about her art.

  “I’m sure my mom will drive us,” Ned says to me. “She loves going to the gallery.”

  Izzy looks up in surprise. “You guys are coming?”

  “Of course we’re going to come. We’re your friends, right?” Ned says loudly. Though I can’t be sure because of the dim lighting, I’m almost certain Izzy blushes in response. I remember that it has been a while since Izzy has actually had friends, and that our support probably means a lot to her.

  “Yeah, we wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and Izzy beams brightly at the both of us. Then she shifts her gaze to the dance floor, which finally has some actual occupants.

  “This is why I don’t dance,” she says, nodding her head towards a group of girls crowded close together on the dance floor. Each girl has their hands raised towards the ceiling, moving their hips side to side in rhythm to the music. A new song comes on and they all let out an enthusiastic, “Whoo!”

  “I don’t whoo,” Izzy says flatly.

 
“Yeah, I can’t really picture you whooing,” Ned says, watching the girls on the dance floor.

  Observing the rest of the people on the dance floor, I realize that the videos I watched last night must have been on a different type of dancing. The dancing taking place here actually seems manageable, though that doesn’t mean I’m going to get up and go out on the dance floor. There are still very few boys dancing, though occasionally one bravely approaches a group of girls and attempts to dance with one of them. Sometimes one of the girl’s friends laughs and pulls her away in response. It’s kind of brutal.

  My eyes wander to the back wall, and I see that Curtis, Cameron, and Michael have arrived. Having gotten a hold of a basketball, Curtis is flinging it at unsuspecting victims that happen to walk within his range. A shriek rings out as Curtis knocks a glass of punch out of the hand of a girl from our grade. Finally, a chaperone marches over and takes away the ball.

  “Look who’s here,” I say, and Izzy and Ned follow my gaze.

  “The Goon Squad,” Ned mutters, watching as Curtis and Cameron start play-wrestling, knocking into nearby bystanders who quickly move out of their range.

  “Did Michael tell you how he thought he did on the math test?” Izzy asks. Michael is standing against the wall, his arms crossed.

  “I asked, but he just shrugged,” I say. In fact, Michael had seemed bound and determined to avoid talking about the test when I asked him. Our teacher hadn’t handed them back yet, which was annoying. I mean, how long does it take to grade a couple of simple tests? All right, more like 175 tests, but still. I hope Michael passed; I know he’s still supposed to be one of my mortal enemies and everything, but I have put in a lot of time and effort helping him. Not to mention our team needs him for the championship game.

  My view of Michael is obscured by someone’s sudden arrival at our table. The music in the gym had slowed down to a smooth melody that made me feel at peace. Looking up, I see Jake, a boy with dark skin and matching brown eyes from our grade; he stands nervously at our table, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he stares awkwardly at Izzy. Izzy stares back at him with a slightly startled expression, while Ned looks at Jake with an open mouth, as if he’s about to witness a car accident happen in slow motion.