Earth Geeks Must Go! 1 page

PARACHUTE PUBLICATIONS

A normal guy.

At least, I've always thought of myself as a normal guy, with a normal family and normal friends. My life has never been exciting or special.

I guess you might say there's nothing special about me, either. I'm about average height for a sixth grader, and average weight. I guess I look okay. I have short dark hair and brown eyes. And some people say I have a nice smile.

I'm interested in normal things. I'm into sports. I play soccer and softball. I'm a pretty good swimmer. I hke action movies, and I like to read books about baseball and about people who have wild adventures. You know. Like people who spend six months in a raft on the ocean, or people who cUmb Mount Everest and barely survive.

I get pretty good grades — not perfect, but mostly A's and B's. I guess if I worked harder, I could be a better student. But I'm pretty happy the way I am.

I have a few really good friends. They are nice, normal guys, and when we hang out after school or on weekends, we just mess around or go to the movies at the mall. Ordinary things.

I don't have much of a temper. I almost never get depressed or angry or down on myself. Mom and Dad say I'm "easygoing," whatever that means.

I guess you get the picture.

I'm a normal guy.

Totally normal.

So why has my life suddenly turned so weird? Why has everything turned upside down and inside out?

Why does my life depend on a guy everyone calls Crazy Old Phil?

Why isn't my life normal anymore?

Can anyone explain what's happening?

Maybe I'd better begin at the beginning.

I'm sitting in my new classroom at school.

It's the first day of school.

It feels like the first day of school.

Lots of nervous chatter Giggles and shrill laughter.

It sounds like the first day of school.

Chairs scraping. Lockers slamming. Kids shouting and greeting each other. Everyone asking questions — a million questions as they try to find their new classrooms, try to figure out where to go and where to sit.

I'm feeling nervous too, very jittery, a heavy feeling in my stomach. That feeling is weird for me because I'm usually pretty calm, even on a first day of school.

Fm sitting at a desk in the third row, on the aisle. I'm staring at a stack of books on my desktop. Textbooks. Very shiny and new.

I open the top one, and it crackles. It's never been opened before. It has that new book smell.

The teacher enters. He's a short, stubby man with a thick nest of red hair on top of a thin, serious face. His eyeglasses have heavy, square black frames. He's wearing baggy brown trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt that shows off his pudgy pink arms.

He leans forward as he walks, as if leaning into a stiff breeze. His red hair appears to fly behind his bobbing head. His expression is stern, solemn.

He doesn't look at the kids settling into their seats, still laughing and talking. He stomps up to his small gray desk in the front of the room and drops a stack of papers on top of it. Then he pulls off the heavy black eyeglasses and wipes them with a handkerchief.

The bell rings loudly. An electronic buzz that echoes off the tall windows along the side of the room.

A few kids keep talking. Others quiet down and turn to face the teacher.

"I'm Mr. Kray," he announces. His voice is deep. A surprising voice. It's the voice of a much taller person.

I still feel nervous, jittery. I glance around.

I focus on the kids around me.

Whoa. Hey — wait a minute.

My eyes dart from face to face.

I have a cold feeling at the back of my neck.

Who are these kids?

How come I don't recognize any of them?

Every year, there are several new kids in the school. But I know that at least a few of my friends should be here. The school has only two sixth-grade classes.

All of my friends can't be in the other class. That's impossible.

And these kids can't all be new to the school. But I keep going from face to face — and they are strangers, all strangers!

Am I in the wrong room?

Panic sends another chill down my back. I pull my class assignment card from my pocket: jacob

MILLER. MR. KRAY'S 6TH GRADE.

No. I'm in the right room.

That's a relief. I don't have to get up in front of all these kids and say, "Excuse me. I'm in the wrong room."

That would be too embarrassing. Too geeky for words.

So why don't I recognize any of these kids? Not one.

I gaze dovm the row at a girl vdth straight blond hair She's very pretty. Sunlight through the window makes her hair glow like gold. She has her head down. She seems to be scribbling a note to somebody.

Next to her, a tall, athletic-looking boy with a red baseball cap turned sideways on his head grins at me.

Do I know him? Is he grinning at the kid next to me?

I twist around in my seat and check out the kids in the back rows. Do I know any of them? It would sure be nice to see a familiar face.

But, no. They're all strangers too.

"Welcome back to school," Mr. Kray booms. He stands behind the short desk, leaning forward, his fists on the desktop.

I chuckle to myself. He looks a little like a gorilla, leaning over like that. A red-haired gorilla.

"I hope you had a good summer," he continues. Behind the glasses, his eyes move from face to face. "And I hope you're ready to settle down and begin the trelth grade."

The what?!

What grade?

I raise my hand. "What did you say?" I ask. "What grade?"

*COUGH*HACK*

It's a kid chewing gum or something. He coughs and sputters and drowns out my question.

I see a few kids turn to look at me. But Mr. Kray is busy slapping the choking kid on the back.

"I can see you're all choked up to be back in school," the teacher jokes.

A few kids laugh. Most don't.

The boy's face is as red as a tomato, but he's fine. He drops back in his chair, embarrassed, and pretends to study the floor.

I realize I'm gripping the sides of my desk tightly with both hands. I loosen my grip, let out a long breath, and try to relax.

Why am I so stressed out?

Jacob, there's nothing to worry about, I tell myself.

Mr. Kray turns and starts writing on the chalkboard. The chalk squeaks, making a lot of kids cry out. He writes rapidly, making short stabs with the chalk, which squeaks with each stab.

What is he writing?

I lean forward and squint between the two kids in front of me.

Wait a minute. Wait... wait...

I can't read any of it.

Is he writing in a foreign alphabet? It all looks like crazy squiggles to me.

Is he making up a new language or something? Is this some kind of game?

I blink several times, thinking maybe I can get the squiggles into focus. Get them to make sense.

But I really can't tell if Mr. Kray is writing letters or numbers.

My heart is racing. I can feel the blood pulsing at my temples. That heavy knot in my stomach grows tighter.

I turn to check out the other kids. They all seem to be reading the chalkboard. Some of them are copying it into their notebooks.

How come they can read the strange scrawls and I can't?

Mr. Kray stops. He erases the last section he wrote. He checks a paper on his desk, turns back to the board, and starts scribbling again.

SQUEAK SQUEAK.

The squeak of the chalk sends shiver after shiver down my back.

Why can't I read what he is writing?

Am I dreaming this?

Yes. That's the only explanation, I decide.

This is a dream.

I pinch myself. Just like in cartoons. I pinch the back of my hand really hard.

It hurts. I don't wake up.

I'm not dreaming.

I still can't read a thing on the board.

Mr. Kray stops writing and turns around. He brushes chalk dust off the front of his shirt with a chubby pink hand. He glances down at a paper on his desk. Then he turns to us.

He stares directly at me. "Jacob Miller," he says in his deep, ringing voice. "Would you please come up here and solve this for us?"

I can feel my face turning red.

I stare one more time at the strange letters and numbers, praying they will come into focus.

"Please —" Mr. Kray holds out the chalk. "Finish the equation for us, Jacob."

"Uh ... Well..." My whole body is trembhng.

The first day of school, and all these new kids are going to think I'm an idiot.

"I can't do that one," I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "We didn't study that in Mrs. Palmer's class."

"Who?" a girl whispers somewhere behind me.

A few kids laugh. I see that the pretty girl with the shiny blond hair is eyeing me curiously.

"Anybody?" Mr. Kray swings the chalk in a wide gesture. "Does anybody want to solve it? I thought we'd start with an easy one."

An easy one? Is he kidding?

An easy one would be in real numbers!

A girl in the front row with curly brown hair raises her hand. She takes the chalk from the teacher, steps up to the board, and starts writing funny squiggles under Mr. Kray's squiggles.

She writes three lines of squiggles, then hands the chalk back to him.

Mr. Kray nods, and a smile crosses his solemn, round face. "Very good, Myrna." He glances at me and his smile fades.

I see other kids looking at me.

I feel myself blushing.

What's wrong with me? I wonder. Should I know how to read that problem?

Did he really say trelth grade?

Did I just hear him wrong?

I'm so busy thinking about how strange everything is, I don't hear what Mr. Kray is talking about.

Suddenly, all the kids are jumping up. They climb out of their seats and go to the computers hned up on the counter against the back wall.

"I know it's a boring topic," Mr Kray says. "But write it anyway. It's a good warm-up practice."

Write what?

I didn't hear the assignment.

I climb up unsteadily. My legs are trembling.

I'm not getting off to a good start, I realize.

Pull yourself together, Jacob, I order myself.

I usually don't have such a hard time. I usually get right into things.

I've been looking forward to school starting for weeks. So why are things going so badly?

I accidentally bite my tongue as I make my way to the last free computer at the end of the table. "Ouch!" I cry out.

A few kids turn away from their computers to stare at me. I pretend I don't see them.

It really hurts when you bite your tongue. My whole mouth is stinging as I sit down at the computer.

I turn to the boy next to me. He is already bent over the keyboard, typing away with both hands. "What are we supposed to write?" I whisper.

He doesn't lower his hands from the keyboard. He turns to me. "The most exciting thing that happened to you last summer," he says. He sighs. "The same old thing every year. Can't they think up anything new?"

I chuckle. "What if you had a really boring summer?"

But he has already started typing away again, staring into the white glow of the monitor.

I turn to my screen. I try to think of something exciting that happened to me last summer I can't think of a single thing.

Think, Jacob — think!

I glance down at the keyboard — and nearly fall off the chair!

The letters ... The letters on the keys ...

I don't recognize them.

They're in an alphabet I've never seen before.

Triangles and curly lines and rows of big and little dots.

I stare at the keys. My mouth hangs open. I suddenly have trouble breathing.

The other kids type away.

I gasp when I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder.

I turn to find Mr. Kray behind me. He glances at my empty monitor screen, then frowns at me. "Having a problem, Jacob?" he asks softly.

"Uh ... yeah," I choke out. "I... uh ..."

"Can't think of anything to write about?" he asks. "Did you go on a family vacation this summer?"

I nod. "Yes, we did. But —"

"Where did you go?" he asks.

Before I can answer, he reaches over my head and pulls down a large wall map. "Show me where you traveled, Jacob."

I raise my eyes to the map.

"Oh, no ..."

What kind of a map is this?

None of the countries look familiar. Where is North America? Where is South America? Europe?

So many oceans ...

Is the map sideways? I tilt my head. No. That doesn't help.

This map can't be right. It's not like any map I've ever seen before.

Mr. Kray narrows his eyes at me behind the black-framed glasses. "What's wrong, Jacob?"

Should I tell him?

Should I tell him the problems I'm having?

Will he understand? Or will he think I'm totally messed up?

Finally, I blurt it out. "Mr. Kray, I think I'm going crazy. Nothing is right."

The bell rings. Right above my head. I jump a mile.

"Lunch, everyone!" Mr. Kray calls. "I'll see you back here after lunch."

The scrape of chairs. Laughter. Loud voices.

Mr. Kray didn't hear me. He turns and walks back to his desk.

I stand up, feeling shaky, in a daze. I have that light-headed feehng I sometimes get after swimming for a long time.

I take one last glance at the strange squiggles on the chalkboard. Then I wander into the hall.

What is happening to me? I wonder.

Will anyone help me figure this out?

I don't feel hungry. But I grab the paper bag containing my lunch and make my way to the lunchroom.

As I walk down the long halls, I realize they don't look familiar. Were the walls always green? Where are the lockers? Didn't the music room used to be next to the language lab?

I know I'm in the right school. There's no way I could have wandered into the wrong building. But why does it look so different today?

In the lunchroom, I search desperately for my friends. But I can't find them.

Other kids are laughing and talking happily. They seem to know each other.

But they are all strangers to me.

I can't find a famihar face in the lunchroom, either.

I sit at a table near the back. I stare at my lunch bag without opening it.

At the next table, three girls in cheerleader uniforms are singing a song I don't recognize. Across from me two guys are trading lunches.

I keep picturing the weird map — all those strange countries and oceans. And I think about the keyboard with the weird, foreign alphabet on it.

My stomach growls. I decide I'd better eat.

I pull the sandwich from the bag and unwrap it. Some kind of lunch meat. Not very appetizing.

But I pick up a sandwich half and raise it to my mouth. I'm about to take a bite — when I see several kids staring at me. Such startled expressions on their faces!

I lower the sandwich half to the table and glance around from table to table.

Hey — what is going on?

To my shock, the kids have all pushed up their shirtsleeves.

And they are stuffing food into their ARMPITS!

I blink. And blink again.

This isn't happening.

It can't be.

I try not to look at them. Instead, I raise the sandwich half to my mouth again.

"Oooh, gross!" I hear a girl exclaim.

Once again, I lower the sandwich half. My heart is pounding. I start to feel sick.

Two girls at the end of my table are staring at me in disgust. "Were you really going to put that sandwich in your mouth?" one of them asks.

"Yuck," the other one adds. "Totally gross."

I force a smile to my face. It isn't easy. I feel like puking. Or hiding. "Uh .. .just joking," I manage to say "Ha-ha. Dumb, huh?"

"Just gross," one of them replies, making a face. "Why do guys think it's such a riot to be gross?"

The girls go back to their lunches. They raise their arms, and I can see big holes in their armpits. And pointed white teeth going in a circle inside the holes.

One girl shoves an apple into her armpit hole.

I hear horrible chewing sounds.

Now I really feel sick!

Her friend shoves a bunch of grapes into her armpit. SQUISH SQUISH.

All around the room, kids have their sleeves up, and they are pushing food into their armpits.

A chubby boy in a bright yellow T-shirt is dumping a container of yogurt into his armpit. A boy across from him holds a milk carton with the straw poking into his armpit. The armpit tightens around the straw, and I hear loud slurping sounds as it drinks.

At a table near the window, a boy is feeding potato chips to a girl. He slides them one by one into her armpit. They laugh and talk as they eat.

Some boys have taken their shirts off completely and sit bare-chested at the table. One boy is eating with two hands, shoving food into both armpits. Kids laugh and point at him.

"Piggy! Piggy!" Someone starts a chant, and several other kids pick it up. The boy doesn't seem to mind. He keeps shoving tuna salad into both pits.

I swallow hard to keep from gagging.

At the next table, I see a girl watching me. She has dark eyes and dark brown hair cut very short and straight, with a row of bangs across her forehead.

Why is she staring at me like that? I wonder. Does she suspect that I'm different?

Does she think I'm weird because I haven't pulled my shirt down? Because I'm not stuffing my lunch into my armpit?

Suddenly, I reahze I don't want kids to know. I don't want them to see that I am different.

Not until I figure it all out.

I turn away from the girl. I shove my lunch away and jump to my feet.

I can't take it anymore.

I'm going crazy. That's the only answer.

I've lost my mind. I'm a total crazy person.

My chair falls over as I lurch away from the table. I see kids staring at me, but I don't care.

I start to run. My legs are shaky. My stomach heaves.

I clap a hand over my mouth and keep running.

As if in a dream, I see faces floating all around, faces watching me, staring at me as I run.

I see arms raised high. Open armpits. Chewing armpits.

Chewing ... chewing...

I lurch into the hall, still holding my hand over my mouth. I turn the corner and nearly run into two teachers, chatting, slapping each other's shoulders.

They stop when I run past. "Hey—" one of them calls out.

But I keep running, my shoes slapping the hard floor.

I reach the back of the school building and shove the door open with both hands.

I'm out in the fresh air now. A sunny, warm day that feels more like summer than fall.

I keep running. Across the teacher parking lot. Over the practice field.

Into the woods behind the school grounds.

I push my way blindly through weeds and bushes, between the tangle of old trees. I've got to get away from there. Got to find a place where I can think. Where I can try to figure this out.

I make my way through a clump of tall reeds, creaking and bending in the soft wind. On the other side of the reeds, I stop to catch my breath.

And hear the scrape of footsteps behind me.

And realize I'm being followed.

Who is chasing after me? Teachers?

Kids who have figured out that I'm not like them, that I don't belong?

What do they want?

Why are they chasing me?

My heart pounding, I turn and try to peer through the tall reeds.

But they're too thick. I can't see.

The footsteps are rapid and steady. Just on the other side of the reeds now.

I suck in a deep breath — and take off.

My shoes slip on soft dirt.

My side aches from running.

I turn sharply, into a line of pine trees. I duck under low branches, holding my arms out like a shield.

I stumble over a blanket of pinecones.

My feet slide out from under me.

I start to fall. "Whoa!" I grab the rough, gnarled trunk of a tree.

And hear the steady footsteps coming. Closer...

Closer...

Past the pine trees, I see a low mound of gray stones. I dive behind them and Hsten.

The pine trees shake as someone hurtles through them, moving fast.

I need to find a better place to hide.

But where?

I spot a field of tall grass, crackling and bending in the wind.

The crunch of footsteps comes closer.

I lower my head and run frantically into the tall grass. Into the cool, dark safety of the grass.

Panting like an animal, I lower my hands to my knees and struggle to catch my breath.

I listen for the footsteps.

Silence now.

The CAW of a bird in a nearby tree. The whisper of the wind through the grass.

But no sound of shoes pounding the ground.

I did it!

I lost whoever was chasing me.

But something is wrong.

My legs suddenly itch.

I bend. Pull up my jeans to scratch.

And gasp in horror.

I gape at the insects up and down my legs. Stuck to my skin. Attached to me.

Fat, round insects. Dozens of them. CKnging to my legs. Up to my knees.

Faceless insects. Legless.

"Ohhhh." A sick groan escapes my mouth. They look like bubbles, bubbles the size of quarters — bubbles covered with spiky black hair.

I stare at them. They pulse and quiver.

They make low grunting sounds. Like pigs at the trough.

They're drinking my blood!

I grab at one. Squeeze it between my fingers.

And pull.

Its hair is sticky and wet. It makes a SQUISH as I try to tug it off my skin.

It won't budge!

I tug harder.

My legs throb and itch! The itching spreads up my whole body.

I can't help it. I open my mouth — and scream.

A shrill scream of horror.

Then I bend over and tug at the sticky, bubbly bugs with both hands. Tug frantically.

They loosen with a sick sucking sound.

I toss them wildly into the trees.

My chest heaving, the trees spinning in front of my dazed eyes, I work frantically.

Only a few left now. I pull one off my knee and heave it to the dirt. It makes a sick SPLAT as it hits.

And then I take off.

My legs still itching, my whole body prickling, I run through the trees.

Toward the school? Away from the school?

I don't know. I've lost all sense of direction now.

I'm just running. Trying to escape the sight of those fat, hair-covered bugs. Trying to escape the feel of them stuck to my skin.

I run ... run away from everything that happened to me that morning, the first morning at school.

And I run right into my pursuer.

We collide. My lowered head hits Her shoulder. Her arms fly up.

The force of our collision sends her sprawling to the ground.

We both cry out.

I fall beside her on the grass.

She jumps to her feet first. She brushes off the back of her red-and-white tank top and her black jeans.

She stands over me.

I scramble to my feet.

"Hey!" I cry out as I recognize her.

The girl from the lunchroom. The girl with the short dark brown hair who had been studying me so intently.

Her eyes narrow coldly. "I've been watching you, Jacob."

I glance quickly from side to side, searching for an escape route. "Why?" I shout. "What do you want? What do you want?!"

She shakes her head to straighten her short dark brown bangs. Her dark eyes bum into mine.

"I — I don't know what I want," she stammers. She lets out a long sigh.

A stab of pain makes me cry out. I pull up a jeans leg and find another fat, hairy bug attached to my ankle. With a groan, I tug it off and toss it away.

I turn back to the girl. "What's your name? Why did you follow me? Why were you watching me?"

"Calm down," she says sharply. "I'm not going to hurt you. Why are you so afraid?"

"Because," I answer. Brilliant. "I have a lot of reasons," I add.

"My name is Arlene," she says.

"Answer the rest of my questions," I say. "Why were you watching me?"

"Because you're different from the others," she replies.

She's found me out, I reahze. I'm caught.

"And I'm different too," she continues. "I'm like you, Jacob."

Is she lying?

Is she trying to trick me?

I cross my arms over my chest. My T-shirt is soaked with sweat. "Prove it," I say. "Prove you're like me."

She doesn't hesitate. "Okay. Look." She pushes up the sleeve of her sweater. She raises her arm.

No food hole in her armpit.

"I'm not like them," Arlene says softly, still holding her arm above her head. "I eat with my mouth. Like you."

I still don't trust her. "Maybe I don't eat with my mouth," I say. "Maybe I think that's gross and disgusting."

"I saw you," she insists. "You started to put that sandwich in your mouth, but that girl stopped you."

I shove my hands into my jeans pockets. "I haven't seen you in school before, Arlene. Where are you from?" I ask.

She lowers her eyes to the ground. "I — I don't remember." She says it in a whisper.

I stare hard at her. "You're kidding, right? You have to remember where you're from."

"N-no," she stammers. She raises her eyes to me. I see tears ghsten in them. "I really don't remember. I don't even remember my last name."

"Huh?" I continue to stare at her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. "Are you from here?" she asks, wiping it away with one finger.

"I — I —" My mouth drops open. I can't remember where I'm from.

What's going on?

Why can't I remember where I'm from?

"I — I don't know, either," I say.

My legs are trembling too hard to hold me. I suddenly feel so dizzy. I drop down onto the grass. I lean my back against a tree trunk.

And shut my eyes, trying to remember.

Where do I live? Where do I come from?

Why can't I remember?

"It's so frightening," Arlene says. "I don't know any of the kids in this school. And I can't read their language."

"Me, neither," I whisper.

"But I came to school the normal way this morning," she continues. "Everything seemed the same. But then the school was totally different. The teachers were all different, and so were the kids. And — and —" The words catch in her throat.

"Do you think we're the only two?" I ask.

Before she can answer, I hear a loud SPLAT.

Arlene lets out a shriek. She grabs at her hair. She pulls off a fat, hairy bug. "Yuck. What is this?"

"They're horrible bugs. They —"

That's all I get out.

Another SPLAT. A hairy bubble lands on my shoulder. Another one SPLATS onto my head.

I tug at it. It's attached to my hair. Another one rolls down my back. Another...

The tree is raining bugs.

The bugs attach to my hair, my forehead, my cheeks, down my back.

They're grunting... pulsing... quivering over my skin.

Arlene slaps at them. Pulls them from her hair with both hands.

She opens her mouth to scream — and a hairy bug drops onto her tongue.

She slaps it away, gagging and choking.

Too many of them. Too many ...

They are covering us ... drowning us. Grunting and sucking, sticking to our faces, our backs, our chests...

We both scream. Scream at the top of our lungs.

"Help us! Somebody — please! Help us!"

I hear voices. Shouts. The thud of running feet.

Kids appear, five or six of them, red-faced from running, their hair blowing wild. I recognize the girl named Myrna and the boy from my class with the red baseball cap.

They circle us quickly.

Arlene and I are slapping at the bugs, pulling them from our hair, our skin.

"Splatters!" Myrna says.

"Splatters!" other kids repeat.

That's what these disgusting bugs are called, I realize. Splatters.

"Help us —" Arlene pleads.

"What can we do?" I ask, ripping a Splatter from my eyebrow. "Help!"

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 827