My Teacher Is an Alien (11 page)
Read My Teacher Is an Alien Online
Authors: Bruce Coville
Tags: #Humorous Stories, #Action & Adventure, #Extraterrestrial beings, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #General, #Science Fiction, #Substitute teachers, #Education, #Teachers, #Life on other planets, #Schools, #Fiction, #School & Education, #Professional Development
CHAPTER TWENTY
-
Piccolo Power
The alien-invasion rumors had reached the adults, too—as I found out that night at dinner.
"My goodness, Susan," said my mother as she was dishing up my broccoli. "I hope
you
don't believe any of this nonsense."
Believe it!
1 thought.
I started it!
But I didn't say that. Instead, I put down my soup spoon and looked at her. "What if I did believe it?" I asked. I tried hard to sound like I was interested, not like I was challenging her.
"Well, I suppose we'd have to get you counseling," she said.
I could have cried. Obviously, there was no point in asking my parents to help out with this mess.
I went upstairs to get ready.
Which ones will it be!
I wondered as I slipped into my dress,
fust who is the alien going to steal!
I looked in the mirror and crossed my fingers, praying that it wouldn't be me.
My parents drove me to the school. They dropped me off and went to find a parking place.
I wonder how he's going to do it,
I thought as I walked through the door.
Will he just freeze everyone here on the spot{ Will his ship use some sort of tractor beam to
lift
up
his targets! Or will he wait until later, when everyone is asleep, and then sneak into their homes and snatch them?
The school was fairly zinging with nervous energy. The rumors about the alien invasion had spread to all the grades. The third graders were walking around in pairs, checking over their shoulders every other step. If I hadn't been so scared myself, I would have laughed. I wanted to grab them and say, "Stop worrying. The alien's not after you."
"Hey, Susan," called Peter. "Wait up!"
Peter was in the chorus. The chorus was bigger than the band; almost every kid in the sixth grade was a member. They would be singing last of all.
Peter looked very nice. He had on a white shirt and a red tie. His pale blond hair was slicked down.
"Is your father here?" I asked.
He just stared at me. "Are you kidding?" he asked.
We walked on until we came to a private place. "What are we going to
do!"
I asked.
Peter shrugged. "What
can
we do? Keep our eyes open. Be ready to call for help when there's something we can prove. Other than that, I can't think of anything. Is Broxholm here?"
I nodded. All the teachers had to come to the
concert to
keep us under control while we were waiting to perform. I figured Broxholm wasn't ready to blow his cover yet.
Peter glanced at his watch. "We'd better get into the gym," he said. "No sense in getting in any more trouble than we have to."
The gym was where we had to wait for our turn to perform. It was across the hall from the combination cafeteria and auditorium where we put on our concerts. The third-grade chorus was about to go on when Peter and I walked in.
"Get over here, you two," hissed Miss Tompkins, the world's oldest living fifth grade teacher. "They're ready to start."
As we walked ac
ross the gym I heard the third-
grade chorus begin to sing. They had only gotten through about three notes when the music stopped. I grabbed Peter's arm. Had it started?
Not actually; as it turned out, Cindy Farkis had fainted. The choru
s teacher, Miss Binkin, stopped
the program while two parents helped Cindy out. Then the singing began again.
"False alarm/' said Peter with a grin.
I nodded. But I didn't feel like smiling.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice. "Band members. Band members, over this way."
It was Mr. Smith. He was standing at the far end of the cafeteria, holding up his hand. "Band members, over here!" he shouted. "We're going down to the primary wing. Mr. Bamwick wants you to meet there to tune up."
"You can bet Broxholm won't stick around for that," said Peter. "Not the way he hates music."
Well, that gave me an idea. I might not have done it if I hadn't been feeling so crabby. But between the fact that we hadn't figured out any way to stop Broxholm from kidnapping some of our class and the fact that he was still holding the best teacher I had ever had prisoner, I was pretty mad. I decided if I couldn't beat the alien, I'd settle for annoying him.
So before we started down the hall I took my piccolo out of its case and put it together. Most of the other kids already had their instruments ready. Everybody was nervous. And it wasn't just preconcert jitters. About half the band was made up of sixth graders. They were the
most
frightened, of course—especially the ones from our class.
"All right, follow me," said Broxholm as he started down the hall.
Holding my piccolo behind my back, I positioned myself at the front of the group. When we got about halfway down the hall, I started to play a scale.
"Stop that!" shouted Broxholm before I had played three notes.
"Just practicing/' I said.
"Well, don't," he snapped.
I had never heard him sound so cranky before. I must have really gotten to him!
I began to wonder if I could break through his false front, get him to show himself for what he really was. I put the piccolo to my lips and began to play again.
"Miss Simmons, stop that!" he ordered again.
But this time I didn't stop.
"Please!" he said, clapping his hands over his ears. "Miss Simmons, please stop!"
I couldn't believe it. He was in agony.
I began to play louder.
"Susan," he howled, bending over. "Stop!"
I took the piccolo away from my lips for just an instant. "Not on your life—
Broxholm/"
Then I started to play again, the best piccolo music I knew—the solo from "The Stars and Stripes Forever."
"Stop it!" shouted Broxholm, stumbling down the hall ahead of me. "Stop, stop, stop!"
"Help me, you guys!" I said. That was a big mistake. As soon as I took a pause from playing Broxholm spun around and snatched at my piccolo. But I pulled it back to safety before he could tear it from my hands.
"Take this, you alien creep!" I cried. And then I trilled him with a high C.
He backed away, holding his hands to his ears.
I went back to "The Stars and Stripes," starting at the beginning. I heard Mike Foran join me on his saxophone. Then Billy Gootch brought in the trumpet. We advanced on Broxholm, playing for all we were worth. He retreated down the hall, his handsome face twisted with pain.
Now the clarinets were coming in. And the rest of the trumpets. Then came the drums. And finally, deep and low and powerful, the sousaphone.
We sounded fantastic.
Mr. Bamwick came running out of the room where he had been waiting for us. "They're playing it!" he cried in joy. "They're playing it!"
But now I heard Dr. Bleekman charging down the hall behind us. "What's going on out here?" he roared. "Smith! Bamwick! Can't you keep those kids under control?"
"They're playing it!" cried Mr. Bamwick joyfully. "Seven years I've been waiting for this."
"Stop that!" roared Bleekman.
"No!" cried Mr. Bamwick. "Don't stop now! Let me hear it!"
We couldn't stop. We were on a roll. We had never sounded so good. And Broxholm was crumbling before us. "Stop," he pleaded. "Stop, stop!"
Adults were crowding out of the auditorium and into the hall. "What's going on?" they shouted. "What's happening out here?"
We reached the big finale. I played that trill like I had never played it before. We kept advancing on Broxholm. Soon the new Kennituck Falls Elementary School Marching Band had the alien cowering in a corner.
"What do you want?" he pleaded.
I didn't dare stop playing. I knew my piccolo was keeping him at bay. But Mike stepped in. "Take off your mask!" he shouted.
"Your mask!" cried the others. "Take off your mask!"
"Anything!" said Broxholm. "Just stop that noise."
"First your mask!" cried the band.
Even Dr. Bleekman could see that there was something weird about his favorite teacner now.
He waited in silence.
I played my trill again.
Broxholm reached behind his head, and began to peel off his face. Behind us people started to scream. Someone cried "What is it? What's happening?"
"Oh, my God!" yelled someone else. "It's Mr. Smith—he's—he's—an
alien!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
-
Out
of This World
I thought it was over. But I was wrong. Broxholm was still crouched against the wall, about two feet from the doors to the outside. The rest of us were about ten feet away from him, staring in horror at his strange alien features.
Suddenly the door to the left of Broxholm opened. It was Peter. He must have run out the front doors and circled around.
"Broxholm," he shouted. "This way. Run!"
The alien jumped to his feet and took off as if he had rocket-powered roller skates. As soon as he was through the door, Peter slammed it shut.
The rest of us started to run, too. Then Broxholm pulled something that looked like a thick pencil out of his pocket. He pointed it at the doors and fried them shut.
I started to tremble. He could have pointed that thing at me if he had really wanted to! He probably could have melted my piccolo to my lips.
Maybe old Broxholm wasn't so bad
after
all, I
thought as I stood with my face pressed against the window, watching the alien and my best friend disappear into the night.
My best friend!
I thought in surprise. But I knew it was true. Peter
was
my best friend.
And now he was gone.
Someone had called the police. Pretty soon their cruisers came screeching into the school yard. My mother was flapping her hands and worrying that I might have some alien disease.
With all the yelling and shouting, it took the police a while to figure things out. But soon they put me in a patrol car and we hightailed it out to Broxholm's place.
We were only a block from his house, when we heard a roar, followed by a high whine. Then this thing—this beautiful huge silvery sphere with a wheel of lights spinning around it—lifted into the air ahead of us.
"Stop the car," I said.
I don't know why, but they did—probably because the ship was so amazing. I pushed my way past the policeman on my right and stood in the road, watching the ship rise on a column of purple light into the black night. "Goodbye, Peter," I whispered. "Have a good trip!"
I felt as if something hard had become stuck in
my throat as I watched the ship soar higher and higher, until it was lost among the twinkling of the stars.
The police sealed off the house, just in case there were any aliens left inside. When they finally decided it was safe, I took them to see where Ms. Schwartz had been held prisoner.
I was afraid Broxholm might have taken her along. But when we climbed up into the attic, we found her sitting on the floor saying, "This is the worst headache I have
ever
had!"
"Ms. Schwartz!" I cried. I ran to her. She held out her arms and I fell into them. The two of us cried for a long time, which I think kind of confused the policemen.
The rest of the house was empty, except for a note from Peter we found stuck to the refrigerator door. He asked us not to worry and said that he would probably come back again someday.
And that was that. Things are back to normal now—at least, as normal as they ever get around here. Duncan has been picking on everyone he can. Mike and Stacy have regained their angelic reputations. (Though to tell you the truth, I wouldn't be surprised if they decide to get into a little mischief now and then just for the fun of it.)
As for me, I'm doing fine—except when I play my piccolo. That's when I think of Peter.
Sometimes I go outside at night to look at the stars. I try not to think about how far away Peter is. I only remember how much he wanted to go there. I do wonder where he is and if he's seeing all the wonderful things he used to imagine when he was reading those crazy science fiction novels.
Of course, I never
really
wish I had gone with him. After all, I've got a family that loves me. I like my life here on Earth.
But I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to travel the stars with aliens.
Or maybe with
earthlings.
I've been studying my math pretty hard lately. I've kind of changed my mind about being an actress. I'm thinking maybe I'll be a scientist when I grow up.
I'd like to invent a ship—a ship that would take us right out of the solar system—out to explore all those distant stars that fill the sky at night.
Worlds where
we
would be the mysterious aliens.
Wouldn't that be something?