by Ruth White
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Ruth White
Jacket art copyright © 2011 by Zdenko Basic
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Memory Lane Music Group for permission to reprint lyrics from “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” written by George David Weiss, Luigi Creatore, Hugo Peretti & Solomon Linda, copyright © 1961, copyright renewed 1989 and assigned to Abilene Music LLC c/o Larry Spier Music LLC. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Reprinted by permission of Memory Lane Music Group.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
White, Ruth.
You’ll like it here (everybody does) / Ruth White. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Although Meggie Blue seems to be an average sixth-grader she is abnormally frightened when residents of her small, North Carolina town become fixated on aliens and soon she and her family are forced to flee, making it clear that all is not as it seems.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89860-0 [1. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Interplanetary travel—Fiction. 4. Science fiction.] I Title. II. Title: You will like it here (everybody does).
PZ7.W58446You 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010032153
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
To: Bill, Kathy, and Anna
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
• 1 •
Meggie Speaks
When I was in the third grade on the California coast, a crazy man came into my classroom one day and started waving a knife around. He said he was an alien hunter. He had a purple blotch on his face that was shaped exactly like Mexico, and his eyes were wild. Help came before he could hurt anybody, but he left scars all the same.
I was so petrified I don’t remember a thing after that, until I saw Gramps holding out his arms to me. He lifted me from the couch in the principal’s office, where I lay curled up, and held me close. He smelled like freshly baked bread.
And that was the day my nightmares started.
At the end of that school term, Mom quit her job at the university, where she taught astronomy, and found a new one at another university, in North Carolina. A moving van carried our belongings across the country, but Mom, Gramps, my brother, David, and I spent five amazing days and nights traveling in our car, taking in the sights of America.
In North Carolina we were thrilled to pieces with our own seven-acre plot of land surrounding the farmhouse Mom had bought for us. Locally it was called the old Fischer place, for the family who’d lived there for years and years before us. There were apple trees and lots of blackberry bushes, a grape arbor, a weeping cherry tree, and I don’t know what all.
I barely remember Daddy, who died when I was three. From then on, Gramps, who is my mom’s father, tended our house and took care of us. David and I never knew Grandmama, because she died before we were even old enough to have a memory. Gramps, in his sixties, was still as energetic and feisty as a boy. He took good care of himself through a healthy diet and exercise, and because of that, he seemed much younger than he was. At times, in fact, when asked his age, he actually fibbed, subtracting five years or so, and he got away with it.
My mother was the best mom in the world. She was strong like a rock, sweet, smart, and pretty too, but it was Gramps I turned to when I needed help or comfort or affection, probably because he was always available. Gramps was also a wannabe artist. In California he stayed at home and happily painted his pictures when Mom, David, and I were at school. Sometimes he sold his stuff at arts festivals for a few dollars each. But now that we were older, and living in a new place, he wanted to walk out into the world a bit, as he put it. So that first September he began teaching art to high school students in the small town near us. Next door to the high school were the lower schools, where David and I enrolled. Mom’s new job was only thirty minutes away. So there we were, a happy bunch of campers in our new home.
The next spring we sowed our seeds in the ground and watched them sprout and grow into living plants that made tomatoes and cucumbers for us, along with green peppers, corn, and melons. We got good vibes from the earth and spent every hour possible outside. Another planting season flew by, and now it’s spring again. David and I are practically all grown up, as I am finishing the sixth grade and he the eighth.
The nightmares that started for me in the third grade eased up over the years, but at certain times I still feel like that little girl who was so scared and helpless, she wet her pants. I see things in the shadows, and when I round a corner, I halfway expect something hideous to jump out at me. I also hear noises under my bed and in my closet.
Some shrink told Mom that it’s common for a person to carry a thing like this forever. That doesn’t exactly make me feel any better. It doesn’t help either having a brother who is perfect—one who works out complicated math problems just for the fun of it, and beats the computer in chess. Yeah, David’s so middle-aged he makes me sick, and do you think he’s ever been afraid of anything at all? I don’t think so.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m sure about only one thing in my life, and that is that I want to be able to do something—anything—that my brother can’t do. At least, I want to do it better than he does. Will that ever happen?
Now at school a new buzz has started. You know the way things go around. One year you’ll have stories about witchcraft, and who might be a witch and who might be a vampire or a werewolf. One year there’s a ghost in somebody’s house, or at one of the umpteen cemeteries in our little town. Everybody has a hair-raising story to tell you at lunch break. And this year, wouldn’t you know? It’s UFOs.
“There are aliens among us,” the kids whisper, because teachers don’t want to hear junk like that.
“They are here to take over the earth.”
“If we don’t get them first, they’ll get us.”
My
very best friend is Kitty—short for Kathryn—Singer, a tiny, sparkly African American girl who always wears purple. I love her to pieces, but I gotta tell you she has an imagination that won’t quit. Maybe it’s because both her parents are librarians, and the whole family reads tons of stories, sci-fi and otherwise. They also watch every movie that comes along, no matter how far-out.
On a golden Saturday in May, Kitty and I are picking strawberries from our patch when she says to me, “Did you know the aliens come in the middle of the night when you’re sleeping, and suck your soul out through your big toe? Then you become one of them, and you don’t even know it. You go on living regular until one day they make you do evil things.”
“Suck out your soul through your big toe? Kitty, you’ve been watching way too much sci-fi.”
She stands up and wipes her hands on her purple shirt. “Meggie B., I’m serious as a heart attack!” she says. “And when you wake up some night with one of them tugging at your foot, don’t come crying to me! I warned you.”
Then we both bust out laughing. Kitty always makes me laugh. We whisper secrets and share dreams. We like the same music. We both like Taylor Swift better than Miley Cyrus. We love pretty clothes. Kitty’s slogan for life is “All good things start with a dream.” We’ve been working on a slogan for me, but nothing seems to fit yet.
That same afternoon, as we sit in the grass and eat our strawberries, she tells me she likes Corey Marshall, who’s in our class.
“I like him too,” I say, not getting her drift.
“No,” she says, “I mean I don’t just like him. I like, like him.”
“Oh,” I say. “You like him?”
“Yeah, and if you ever tell a living soul, I will put a curse on you. I do voodoo.”
“You do?”
“Who do?” she squeals.
“You do voodoo?” says me.
“Voodoo doo-doo,” she comes back.
This could go on all day, so I get to the subject at hand. “Corey Marshall, huh?”
She claps a hand over my mouth, and I mumble through her fingers, “I won’t tell.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she says, and removes her hand.
“That’s exactly right. There’s nothing to tell. But …” I lean over and whisper in her ear. “He sure is cute.”
She grins.
I know Kitty and my other classmates don’t even believe their own stories about the aliens, but those creepy dreams start crawling around in my head like they used to. In my sleep I see the man with that purple Mexico on his face. I hear him growling, “I’m an alien hunter. I’m an alien hunter.” And once again his words echo … echo … echo … through my nights and sometimes through my days.
From the first of May until the last of September, Mom, Gramps, David, and I like to sleep on cots on our screened upstairs porch under the stars. I really love those nights. The radio plays low while Mom points out the constellations to us, and I drift off to sleep with the sound of music and Mom’s sweet voice.
“There’s the Southern Crown.”
In the jungle, the mighty jungle
“There’s Ursa Minor.”
The lion sleeps tonight.
“There’s Lupus, the wolf.”
Near the village, the peaceful village
“There’s Sagittarius, the archer.”
The lion sleeps tonight.
Sometimes I wake up in the wee hours to see Mom standing still with her hands on the screen, looking up at the sky. Tears glisten in her blue eyes. Her lips are moving like she’s speaking to God, but she doesn’t say anything. My mom is so pretty with the moonlight shining on her pale hair. I know at these moments, without being told, that she’s thinking of Dad, and is searching for him in the stars.
At school the rumors become more grotesque and bloody with each telling. In my nightmares, yucky creatures climb up the outside wall of our house and onto the porch where we lie sleeping. They have the wild eyes of the madman, and they carry knives.
Other times I wake up crying. David groans and throws a pillow over his head, but Mom holds me while Gramps says comforting things.
“There’s nobody out there,” he says. “Nobody’s going to get our Meggie. We’re here to take care of you.”
Hush, my darling, don’t fear, my darling
The lion sleeps tonight.
Then I go to sleep again under the stars that shine over the North Carolina countryside, far away from the shores of California, where a madman wanted to hurt me.
• 2 •
On the last day of school, Mom, Gramps, David, and I sit around the table in our shabby-chic kitchen.
“Where do we want to go this summer?” is the question put to us by Mom.
It’s a favorite ritual—the choosing of the next family adventure. We usually pick some awesome natural place in the United States. We’ve seen the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, the giant redwoods of California, and more. But it doesn’t have to be a famous touristy place. We are just as thrilled with simple things, and sharing our memories afterward is almost as good as the event itself.
“Remember the wheat fields of Nebraska?” one of us says.
“Remember the wild horses of Chincoteague?” says another.
“Yeah,” we all murmur as we remember together.
“And how can we ever forget the Great Smoky Mountains?” Gramps adds. “They remind me of other mountains I saw when I was a boy. I’ve tried to paint them several times, but I’m never entirely satisfied with the result. I can’t seem to find the blue that’s in my head—in the mind’s eye of my memory.”
“Anyhow …” Mom jolts us back to the present. “Where to this summer?”
“Niagara Falls!” The words burst out of Gramps, like he’s been holding them in forever. Nobody has a better suggestion, so we agree on Niagara. We begin planning immediately—when to leave, what to take, what to wear.
On Saturday Mom takes me and David into town with her. She has errands to run, and she suggests that David and I walk to the video store while she’s in the supermarket. She wants a travel video about Niagara Falls.
“Rent something fun too!” Mom calls as we leave her in the parking lot.
I’m in high spirits as we walk down the street. There’s a hint of lilacs on the air. A brilliant sun dances on display windows. Some of the townspeople speak to us. A large floppy-eared dog grins at us.
“Meggie! David!”
We turn to see old Mr. Bleep sitting on a bench across the street in front of the post office. Kids started calling him Mr. Bleep because his real name sounds like a bad word that’s off-limits to us. Over time, the adults have picked up the nickname too.
We like Mr. Bleep. You might call him our local character. He hangs around town and strikes up conversations with anybody who will talk to him. A few years back he suffered a stroke, which left him with a weird vision problem—he sees dead people, or so he claims.
“Come sit,” he invites us, patting the bench beside him.
“For a minute?” I ask David.
“Why not?”
We cross the street and sit on the bench beside Mr. Bleep.
“Such a day for aliens!” he says in his friendly way, before we can ask how he is.
Oh, no. Aliens again? My high spirits take a nosedive.
“Aliens?” David says, and glances at me. “What about them?”
“One of my little friends, Kitty Singer—you know Kitty, don’t you, Meggie?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, a few minutes ago she was talking to me about the aliens.”
I try to laugh. “That Kitty! And did she tell you how they suck your soul out through your big toe?”
But Mr. Bleep does not laugh. He nods slowly and looks toward the sky.
“I don’t know how they do it,” he says in all seriousness. “But they do steal souls. They want to take over the earth. It’s no laughing matter.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched?�
�� David teases Mr. Bleep. “People from outer space?”
“Not far-fetched at all,” Mr. Bleep responds.
All three of us turn our eyes to the sky.
Mr. Bleep adjusts his glasses. “Did I ever tell y’all about my vision problem?”
We nod.
“It’s not that I can’t see,” he insists. “I can see as good as I did before the stroke—just about, anyhow—but now I can also see spots everywhere, and glare, and clouds floating about the edges.” He moves his hand around his head as he speaks.
“That must be aggravating,” I say.
“It is, child. It’s definitely aggravating. That’s the word, all right.”
“Do you still see ghosts, Mr. Bleep?” David asks.
“Yeah, I saw my dear mom and dad only yesterday, and them dead these many years. But that ain’t all,” he adds.
“What do you mean?” David says.
“Well, most folks laugh at me, but I’m used to it by now,” Mr. Bleep says sadly, and I understand that he really is not used to it at all. “Nobody believes me. They think I’m just a senile old man. Maybe I am.”
“We’ll believe you, Mr. Bleep,” David says.
“Just lately I’ve been seeing aliens,” Mr. Bleep goes on. “I don’t see them all the time, and they don’t talk to me or nothing like that. They’re just there.”
“But not really there?” I say hopefully, twisting my hands nervously.
Mr. Bleep shrugs. “Who knows? I’ve read up on strokes and how they sometimes affect your eyesight. It’s the brain, see, and not the eyes, that’s damaged. If they could find a way to fix the brain after a stroke, it would take care of the vision problem. Anyhow, I started seeing these aliens in the clouds floating around in my field of vision.”
“What do they look like?” David asks.
“Some of them are tall and skinny with big liquid slanting eyes. Others look just like you and me.”
If some of the aliens look like us, then how can he be sure they are aliens? I start to ask Mr. Bleep that question, but something is happening to the conduit between my brain and my vocal cords, and I suddenly find myself babbling insanely in a screechy high-pitched voice.
