Only Alien on the Planet (2 page)

“Okay, people,” the teacher was saying, and I remembered where I was. I glanced at Hally apologetically, suspecting I'd just made a total fool of myself. She was watching me, the smile gone. She narrowed her eyes slightly and gave her head this ghost of a shake. It was not an unfriendly look. More like a concerned warning. The whole thing was very disconcerting.

The noise in the room had now settled to a soft rustle. Hally smiled at me once more, and gave me this little shrug.

The teacher finished writing MS. STERN on the blackboard and turned to face us, all hard, bright business—obviously your very dedicated kind of woman. With something like a collective spiritual sigh, we all slid back in our seats and let her start the year.

I really tried to listen, but once you've heard the
This is English and You're Going to Take it Seriously
spiel, it's hard to get excited for the reruns. My mind began to wander, and so did my eyes—back to
that far corner of the front row. Back to the most beautiful human being I'd ever seen.

The interesting thing about it was, the more I looked at him, the less I understood what I was seeing. At second glance, he really wasn't physically all that remarkable—medium-sized body, medium length, light brown curls—squeaky clean but not especially groomed. (I always check out a person's hair right off; I think you can tell a lot about somebody, looking at the way they have their hair. All this hair said to me was “neat and clean and not particularly concerned.”) His clothes were okay—on the conservative side, but with a little bit of style.

It was something in his face that got to you; he had a sort of angelic air, clear and distant and pure, like he'd never had a bad thought in his life. And strange—there was something really strange about him.

The room had gotten very quiet.

“I'll make sure she picks one up,” Hally was saying.

I came to myself and realized that everybody was watching me. My cheeks started getting hot, and I caught this
You have only minutes to live
look from the teacher. Great way to start out.
This girl's an idiot.
Right then I was sure I was doomed—but then Hally gave me this little wink. It was kind of her. And that single, insignificant, kind act suddenly shone like a tiny sun in the dark void that had been looming in my future. All of a sudden, I knew Hally was going to be my friend. It was like finding my center of gravity.

“I'd forgotten how pretty he is till I saw your face this morning,” Hally was saying as she dug for a book in the bottom of her locker.
“I guess I should have warned you, but I really didn't even think of it.”

“Is there—” I asked, trying to read her attitude, “—something wrong with him?”

“Some people think he's autistic,” she said, pulling the book out and shoving everything else back in. She stood up, trying to balance all the books she had stacked up on her notebook. “Myself, I wouldn't know.” She slammed her locker shut. “Mr. Leviaton—I think you've got him—fifth period, World History. Yeah, you do, see? Smitty's kind of a pet of his. He says it's no way autism.” She gave the lock an absent spin.

“Smitty.”

“Smitty Tibbs. Sounds like a name you'd give a puppy or something, doesn't it? Come on.” She started off down the hall. “Anyway,” she went on, “
something's
seriously wrong with him.”

I considered that, dodging a couple of freshmen who were chasing each other down the middle of the hall. “Like, what is it he does that's weird?”

“Smitty Tibbs has never said a word to anybody.” Hally waved at a kid down the hall. There must have been about fifty people who said “Hi” to her on our way to second period. “And he never smiles, and he never frowns, and he never cries. He's always been that way. If you talk to him, he doesn't react—it's like he doesn't hear you. It's really like he's not aware there's anybody else in the universe.”

She stopped and readjusted the books.

“So what's he doing here in this school?” I asked. “Is it some kind of social integration program or something?”

She laughed. “That's a better question than you know. The really weird thing is, he's totally brilliant. Top honor roll, every semester. There's this story around that Mr. Leviaton secretly had Smitty sit down and make up an exam for him—questions, answer key, the whole thing—and then Mrs. Fliecher, the principal, gave the test to the whole faculty in faculty meeting one day, without telling them what it was. They hated it.”

“And that really happened?” I asked, doubting it.

She shrugged and pointed. “Down those stairs. No, to the left. The thing is, it
could
be true. So I don't know what he's doing in this school. He should probably be at MIT or Johns Hopkins or something.”

“This is weird,” I said.

“Tell me about it. He's definitely one of the Great Mysteries in our lives.”

I shook my head, thinking it over. “I'm amazed he's made it this far alive. You guys must be very civilized. It's sad, but he probably wouldn't have lasted five minutes in my old school.”

“Yeah, well,” she said. “He really had it hard for a while here, early on.” She jumped. “Knock it off, Jesperson.” She slapped at somebody behind us. “One day in the first grade” —she shifted her notebook—"a whole bunch of kids had pushed him down on the playground. It was really awful—they were kicking him, and it was just—” She clenched her teeth. “I was really furious.” Then she grinned fiercely. “But along came Caulder Pretiger, like an avenging angel out of heaven, and within about thirty seconds, those kids were scattered like spit in the wind. It was wonderful.
Nobody messed with Smitty after that because they were all too scared of Caulder.” Her eyes were flashing.

Then she shrugged, shifting gears. “They probably wouldn't want to try anything with him these days—he's not exactly your defenseless little wimp anymore. The worst they do now is make stupid jokes. And they call him 'The Alien' sometimes, which is not totally inaccurate considering he definitely
is
from another planet. It's just kind of ironic they'd call
him
that, like they're all so normal themselves.”

She sighed. “Actually, I don't think anybody really notices him that much anymore. I mean, he looks normal enough, doesn't he? And you get used to people after a while. And I don't know,” she grinned. “Maybe they're all still scared of Caulder.”

She stopped in front of a classroom door. “Now you know everything I know.” She pulled the door open. “Pre-Calc Logic,” she announced, looking anything but excited. “Welcome to the math class from hell—”

That afternoon, the Christiansons had a little family council. We sat on scavenged stools under the one overhead light in the new living room, surrounded by piles of boxes and mounds of books and other stuff we hadn't organized yet, feeling like intruders in that empty, echoing house. There, our folks told us about the beautiful old Victorian building they'd found downtown, the absolutely perfect new home for Christianson Graphic Design.

“The only thing is,” my mother said, “it's going to take a lot of effort, getting that place in working order. A lot of work. And
it's not like we've got a lot of money lying around just now"— here, she sent my father a pointed look— “so your dad and I are going to have to be doing a lot of the work ourselves. Wiring and painting and stuff.” Then she looked at Dad like she wasn't real convinced about the thing she meant to say next.

“And the point of all this?” James prompted.

“The point is,” my father responded, “you guys are going to have to be pretty much on your own for the next few weeks.”

“Maybe this isn't such a good idea,” Mom said to him.

Dad looked at us. “Understand, it means we're going to be down there all day every day—and probably into the night, trying to get this thing going before we all starve…”

“Are you suggesting that this is going to be a problem?” Charlie asked.

Mom looked at him like he'd just proven her point. “You're going to be cooking for yourselves,” she said, ticking things off on her fingers, “doing the laundry, the unpacking, the housekeeping, fielding any problems that come up—and it means that you're going to have to get along, which may be harder than you think, considering the circumstances. And you're going to have to be responsible. Nobody's going to be here to pull you out of trouble, or yell at you for not doing your homework. Getting the picture?”

“I do all my own laundry anyway,” James sniffed. Mom gave him one of her
yeah, sure
looks.

“You taught us all about nutrition, Mom, remember,” Charlie said consolingly. “It's not like we're going to die of rickets or something.”

“Yeah, well—one of the responsible adults in this house will get a lunch made for you people every morning before we leave for downtown. That'll be one halfway intelligent meal a day anyway. And you will be able to call us there once we have the phones in. But till then, you're going to be pretty much orphans.”

Wonderful. Another great stride for my sense of inner peace and security.

“Just remember,” my father said, “the sooner we get this building done, the sooner we'll be in business. The sooner we're in business, the sooner you can start asking us for money.”

“We had a business back home,” I said. A little flicker of anger had come up from someplace way down under, a place that should have been shut up tighter than it evidently was.

My mother looked at me. “That's true,” she said. “But we're here now. And we want to make this work.” She was still looking at me. “On every possible level. Things are a little different right now, I know. But you've got to keep in mind—nothing important has changed.”

So Paul not living with us anymore wasn't important.

“So, you guys going to support us in this?” Dad asked. “Can we depend on you?”

My mom was studying us. Studying me. “Is this a realistic expectation?”

James rolled his eyes. Charlie grinned.

“Of course,” I lied, not looking at anybody in particular.

“Fine,” she said. “James, you're in charge of laundry, since you're such an expert. Charlie, the kitchen. Ginny, you're in charge of
making sure Charlie gets off that piano often enough to eat and sleep, okay? Okay? All right. I'm really proud of you guys. In advance. Thank you for being willing.”

I hate being thanked for stuff I definitely cannot take credit for.

“Now get out of here,” Dad said. “Your mom and I have to discuss finances.”

The man knew how to clear a room; my parents' financial “discussions” were the stuff of legend. Great friends as they were, money had a way of heating the both of them up, and you never wanted to get caught in that cross fire.

So we found ourselves sort of ganged together on the front stoop, dismally surveying the yard. We didn't have a whole lot of options. Things could have been worse; it was an absolutely gorgeous day, the lawn was nice, and the trees were of a respectable size. “Baseball,” Charlie said, brightening, and disappeared back into the house. He emerged a few moments later, triumphant, but “Lucky,” he informed us, “to have escaped with my life.”

“You wanna play?” Charlie asked me. “Or you want to read?” He dangled a book in front of me most enticingly.

“What a nice boy you are,” I said, snagging the book. James and Charlie jumped down onto the lawn and started tossing the baseball back and forth, pausing every so often to trade cheerful insults. I took the book over to the side and stretched out on the grass under one of the trees. I just lay there for a moment, the sun warm on my legs, and the grass cool under my arms. I sighed. It felt cleansing.

“Science fiction?” somebody asked.

I blinked into the sunlight and saw this boy leaning lazily over the side fence. I looked down at the cover of my book. “Yep,” I said.

He straightened up. “I thought you'd be more into the classics.” He smiled at me.

“Really,” I said. “And what would make you think that?”

“Rumor,” he said. “My mother told me you were a very serious family.”

“And how would your mother know?”

“Your mother told her.”

“Ahh,” I said, and I put the book down.

“My name is Caulder,” he said. “We have some classes together.”

“I'm Ginny,” I said, and I stood up.

“May I come and sit?” he asked.

I could hear the faint voices of my parents, discussing at each other.

“Sure,” I said, and I sat back down on the grass.

He came over the fence.

“Caulder is your last name?” I asked.

“No,” he said, standing there, squinting at the boys. “It's a family name. My whole name is Caulder McKay Pretiger.” He grinned down at me. “My family has a terrific sense of humor.” He sat. He was a kind of normal looking boy, with a wide mouth that seemed used to smiling and tousled brown hair that didn't say a thing about vanity. His eyes gave everything important away—there was mischief in them.

“I heard something about you today,” I said, remembering suddenly. “What was it? Something Hally told me.”

“Hally,” he said, and he seemed a little surprised.

“I know what it was. It was about that guy in my homeroom—”

“Smitty,” he supplied, no question.

Now I guess
I
looked surprised.

“It's my claim to fame,” he shrugged. I couldn't read his tone, but I imagined he sounded a little bored, maybe even a little disappointed. So I changed the subject.

“How long have you lived here?”

“All my life,” he said. “And Smitty lives just on the other side.”

“He lives over there?” I asked, staring. There was an immaculate, gray Cape Cod house on the far side of Pretiger's neat white picket fences. A large man in gray coveralls was standing in the driveway by the back of the house, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

“Smitty has a driver's license,” Caulder said, almost dreamily. He had his eyes closed, holding his face up to the sun. My eyes popped open. “They'd let somebody like that
drive?
”

Caulder looked at me and smiled. “Not really. So, how did your first day turn out?”

I shrugged. “Hally was about the only person who really talked to me,” I said. “I'm her friend for life.”