My Teacher Is An Alien Part 9

He shrugged. "That still doesn't mean they're bad. They may be so far above us they think of us like we think of ants or something."

I didn't say a word. But he could tell by my expression that I thought that was stupid.

"Maybe they're scared of us," he continued.

That made me laugh.

"I'm serious," said Peter. "Think of that conversation you had with him yesterday."

"I can't," I said. "It still scares me."

"No, think about it," said Peter again. "Maybe these people are really peaceful. Maybe they've seen how much we fight, and they're afraid if we get much farther into s.p.a.ce, we'll cause some huge war."

"You don't know that," I said stubbornly. "Anyway, maybe we won't have to worry about it. Let's go to the drugstore to get our pictures."

It took all our money for the pictures. I thought about explaining to the girl behind the counter that we were trying to stop an alien invasion, but I figured she probably wouldn't buy it.

We forced ourselves not to open the envelope until we were in the park.

"You open it," I said, handing the envelope to Peter.

He hesitated for a moment, then tore the envelope open and pulled out the pictures.

His face fell.

"What is it?" I asked.

Without saying a word, he handed me the photos.

My heart sank as I flipped through them. Peter had done a good job. The beams and timbers of the attic showed up perfectly. The focus and exposure were fine. But the force field with Ms. Schwartz in it had come out as nothing but a blue streak-that was all, just a blue streak down the middle of each picture. It looked like a flaw in the film, or maybe some trick of the light. You couldn't see Ms. Schwartz at all.

"These aren't going to do us any good," I moaned.

Peter nodded. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not your fault," I replied. But I knew he didn't believe me.

By Thursday the whole school seemed to be on the brink of nervous breakdowns. Stacy got caught drawing dirty pictures on the blackboard. Mike tried out a new word he had learned from his uncle, who was a sailor. And Peter waved his hand like crazy every time Broxholm/Smith asked a question.

The ones who were really having a hard time were the kids in the middle. See, by this time, everyone was starting to believe the rumor about our teacher being an alien. I think the fact that Peter and I knew it was true, combined with the fact that we weren't trying to convince them was what really did convince them. They figured if it was a joke, we'd be trying to fool them. Since we weren't, it had to be for real. Or something like that.

Anyway, the kids in the middle were going nuts because they knew Broxholm wanted the three most average kids in the cla.s.s. But what was an average kid? No one knew. So none of them knew how to behave to keep from being kidnapped. Most of them just acted the same as usual, except that they were really nervous. Every time one of them answered a question, you had the feeling they were trying to decide whether they should answer it right or wrong. It was like they were asking themselves: "Will a right answer get me a one-way trip in an alien s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p?"

"I'll be glad when this is over," I said to Peter that afternoon during recess.

"Me too," he said. But I didn't like the kind of dreamy way he said it.

"Aren't you scared?" I demanded.

"I'm terrified," he said. "But that doesn't change my mind."

School just got wackier as the day went on. By the time the last bell rang I got the feeling every kid had heard there was supposed to be an alien invasion at the concert that night.

If I wasn't so worried, it would have been funny. "Did you hear about the invasion?" kids would say. "Did you know that the aliens are coming tonight?"

I wanted to say, "No, the aliens aren't invading. They're just coming to kidnap some of us." Although, for all I knew, the reason they wanted to study us was so that they could invade sometime in the future.

I felt sorriest for Mr. Bamwick. He had hoped to have the best spring concert ever. Now it was beginning to look as if it would be the biggest disaster of his career.

"I'm cutting 'The Stars and Stripes' from the program," he told me that afternoon. He was trying to be nice about it, but I could tell that he was really disappointed.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I just couldn't get that trill."

"No, it's not just you," said Mr. Bamwick sadly. "The whole band has fallen apart. I don't know what I've done wrong."

How could I tell him that he hadn't done anything wrong-that his concert was just another casualty of the alien invasion.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Piccolo Power The alien-invasion rumors hid reached the adults, too-as I found out that night at dinner.

"My goodness, Susan," said my mother as she was dis.h.i.+ng up my broccoli. "I hope you don't believe any of this nonsense."

Believe it? I 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. Just 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 across 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 chorus 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s.

"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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.