My Teacher Is an Alien (8 page)

I looked around the room, but the others were all bent over their desks, working busily away.

I turned back to my work, trying to figure out what was going on. But even the weird stuff that had happened so far hadn't prepared me for what came next.

"You pig-faced baboon!" yelled a familiar voice.

Stacy? Stacy Benoit? The girl most likely to be declared a saint while still living?

I turned around and saw Stacy standing beside her desk, shouting at Mike Foran—the only kid I had ever heard of who had never, I mean NEVER, gotten in trouble with a teacher.

"Shut up!" yelled Mike. "Shut up, you creep!"

When Stacy slapped him across the face I almost fell out of my chair. Of course, Stacy couldn't slap that well, having never done it before. So it was kind of a wimpy little slap. But this was
Stacy Benoit,
for heaven's sakes.

"Stacy!" yelled Mr. Smith, who was sitting at the back of the room with a reading group. "Michael! What is going on up there?"

He started for the front of the room. But he was too late. When Stacy slapped Mike, he jumped up so fast he knocked his desk over. His face was red. I didn't realize until later it was from stage fright.

"You mother wears—uh, uh—your mother wears—"

I wanted to prompt him. It was pathetic to see the nicest kid in the class try to come up with a withering insult, and even more pathetic when he finally finished up with, "your mother wears polyester!"

But it seemed to do the trick. Stacy began to shriek in outrage.

"Stacy and Mike did a good job, didn't they?" said Peter, when we got together on the playground at recess.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Stacy and Mike. Didn't you think that fight they put on was pretty good?"

"The fight they
put onl"
I echoed.

Peter sounded impatient. "Stacy and Mike are afraid Broxholm will decide one of them is the best kid in the class and then try to kidnap whichever one he chooses. So they decided to fake a fight— you know, mess up their reputations a little."

All of a sudden everything came clear.
"That's
why Duncan brought Mr. Smith an apple this morning!" I said.

Peter giggled. "Pathetic, isn't it? But it might work. Right now Duncan is a sure pick for worst

kid in the class. But if he works really hard, he might actually manage to pull himself off the bottom of the list. Since he knows that no matter what he does, he's never going to push himself into the most average category, if he can improve at all, he's probably safe. The problem is, he's been so bad all year that it's going to take a major effort to get out of the bottom spot."

Peter paused, then added, "I intend to have some fun with him over the next three days."

Three days! That was all the time we had before Broxholm was scheduled to kidnap five of us into space.

"That's not very nice," I started to say.

But then I remembered the way Duncan had tormented Peter for the last six years. I decided I couldn't blame .Peter if he wanted to get a little of his own back while he could. Any decision to be a nice guy about this was going to have to come from inside himself.

I decided to change the subject. "Tell me," I said. "Just how did they know about all this?"

"I told them," said Peter.

"And they believed you?"

Actually, it made sense. If they were going to believe anyone, it would be Peter. He had a reputation as being the most honest kid in the class, which was one of his problems. He didn't know

how to tell the kind of "little white lies" that keep people from getting mad at you.

But I doubted that even his reputation for honesty would convince people this story was true.

Peter smiled. "Actually, you're the reason anyone believed me. It started with Stacy. She just didn't believe you had really fainted—or that if you had, you would have tried to grab the teacher's ear on the way down. So she knew something was going on. Later she cornered me on the playground and demanded to know what you were up to."

"Why you?" I asked.

Peter blushed. "You're going to hate this," he said. "There's a rumor going around that you're my girlfriend because we've been spending so much time talking on the playground."

"Yuck!" I yelled. "Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!"

Suddenly I realized what I had just done. "Don't take that personally," I said.

"I won't," said Peter. "Since I feel the same way."

Hey!
I thought.
What do you mean, you feel the same wayl

But we didn't have time to work that out right then.

"Anyway," said Peter, "Stacy was convinced I must know what was going on. And since I did, I told her."

"The whole story?" I gasped.

Peter nodded. "She didn't believe me at first, of course. But when she talked to you on Saturday and you told her there was nothing actually wrong with you, she figured it must be true." He laughed. "That was all it took. By Saturday afternoon, the phone lines were humming all over Kennituck Falls."

"How come you know all this?" I asked. "How come no one asked me?"

Peter shrugged. "That's not the way rumors work. People never check with the source. They always ask someone else. Don't ask me why, but it's true. Lots of stupid things are true. Anyway, Stacy told Mike, and Mike told someone else, and that was it. It's the kind of story that travels fast."

"And they all believe it?" I asked.

Peter shook his head. "I don't think so—at least not yet. Except for Duncan. He's so dim he'll believe anything—especially if Stacy and Mike believe it. He thinks they know everything. That's why he hates them so much."

"I see," I said, though some of this was coming a little too fast for me. "Well, do you suppose if enough of us start to believe it, the adults will pay any attention to us?"

Peter looked as if I had just suggested Mickey Mouse was likely to be the next president of the United States. "Get real, Susan," he said. "They'll

say it's just another crazy kid rumor. Do you remember last year, when half the people in this school were convinced that the president was coming to Kennituck Falls to make a speech?"

I nodded. I had almost believed it myself—half because so many of my friends did, half because I wanted it to be true. I also remember how my father had laughed when he heard about it. "Just because a thousand idiots believe something, that doesn't make it true," he had said.

Which was true, I guess. But it certainly didn't help us now.

That was when Peter decided to complicate things with a new problem.

"What are you going to do about this yourself?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, since one of the things on Broxholm's shopping list is the best kid in the class, if we can't unmask him you've got a good chance of being picked yourself."

That was the best laugh I'd had in days. "You're nuts," I said. "There's no way I could be picked for top kid in the class!"

"There is too. It all depends on how he's making his choice. The way I see it, there are four of us that might be considered best in the class—Stacy, Michael, you, and me."

"You're nuts," I said again.

"Listen to me! Stacy and Michael are your basic perfect students. But they just did a good job of taking themselves out of the running—though to tell you the truth, I don't think Broxholm would have chosen either of them, anyway. They're real bright, but they don't
think
that much. They believe everything the teacher tells them. I'm sure Broxholm is bright enough to know that doesn't make a great student."

He paused. "Then there's me," he said. "I'm real bright. But I'm not motivated. And I'm not very social. You know how it goes: 'Peter is a good student, but he's not very well rounded.' I hear it every year. That leaves you, Susan. You get good grades. You get along with everyone. You're in all kinds of activities. Let's face it, you may not be the best in any one thing, but when you look at everything together, you make a pretty good pick for top of the class."

I stared at him in horror. "You're not kidding, are you?"

He shook his head.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had been worried that Broxholm might want me for one of his "average" slots. It never even crossed my mind that I could be considered the top student in the class.

"Peter, what am I going to do?" I wailed.

Peter shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got a plan."

I thought he meant the camera. He didn't, but I didn't know that then. The plan he actually meant was so weird I never would have thought of it.

I took a deep breath and tried to settle down. "I'm glad you mentioned that," I said, referring to the camera. "I think I've figured out the best time for me to get back into Broxholm's house."

"You mean
us,"
said Peter.

I shook my head. "I mean
me,"
I said. "I'm going

to do it tomorrow morning, during my music lesson time. That way Mr. Smith won't suspect anything when I leave the room. I figure if I use my bike, I can make it to his house and back before I'm really missed. I'll get in trouble later, but at least I'll have the proof we need."

"You're not going alone," said Peter.

"Yes, I am," I said. "If we both take off, it's going to look suspicious—especially considering the amount of time we've spent together lately. Maybe suspicious enough that Broxholm will pretend he's sick, just so he can check up on us. We don't want him walking in on us while we're taking the photos. I doubt we could manage to sneak out of his house without getting caught a second time—especially if he's actually looking for us."

"Then I should go instead," said Peter. "You might not have enough time. I'll just skip school altogether."

"Now, how can you do that?" I asked.

Peter sighed. "I keep trying to tell you, it doesn't make any difference what I do. As long as I don't get in trouble with the law, no one cares."

"Peter, that's not a very nice way to talk about your parents," I said.

"I don't have parents," he snapped. "I've got
a
parent. Period. And he doesn't care what I do, as long as I don't get in trouble."

82

I felt stupid. Here I had known this kid for six years, and I didn't even know he only had one parent.

"All right," I said. "We'll go together."

"Why don't I just go alone?" said Peter.

I shook my head. "I got this whole thing started. It's my job."
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