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Contents

CHAPTERONEMissing—OneSixth-GradeTeacherCHAPTERTWONoteofDoomCHAPTERTHREEAnUnearthlyNoiseCHAPTERFOURBroxholmCHAPTERFIVEHowStrongIsanAlien’sNose?CHAPTERSIXDraftingPeterCHAPTERSEVENNightExpeditionCHAPTEREIGHTTheAlien’sLairCHAPTERNINETheForceFieldintheAtticCHAPTERTENSoloEffortCHAPTERELEVENParentConferenceCHAPTERTWELVEThingsGetWeirderCHAPTERTHIRTEENRumorsCHAPTERFOURTEENWhatCanDuncanDougalDo?

CHAPTERFIFTEENHookeyforThreeCHAPTERSIXTEENDuncan’sDisasterCHAPTERSEVENTEENTeacherConferenceCHAPTEREIGHTEENConcertConcernsCHAPTERNINETEENPeter’sChoiceCHAPTERTWENTYPiccoloPowerCHAPTERTWENTY-ONEOutofThisWorld

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Tomysixthgradeteacher,

FlorenceCrandall,whotoldmetowriteastory

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Whatwould you do if you found out your teacherwasanalien?

As Iwatched,Mr.Smithpressedhis fingers against thebottomof hiseyes.Suddenlyheranhisfingertipstothesidesofhishead,grabbedhisears,andstartedpeelingoffhisface!

I gasped. Fortunately, the horrible noises coming from the roomdrowneditout.Iwantedtogetupandrun,butIwastooterrifiedtomove.

Istartedtoshakeinstead.WhateverMr.Smithwas,Iwasprettysurethefacehewasslowlyuncoveringwasn’tanythingthathadbeenbornonEarth!

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CHAPTERONE

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Missing—OneSixth-GradeTeacher

“Hey, Geekoid!” yelled Duncan Dougal as he snatched PeterThompson’s book out of his hand. “Whydo you read somuch?Don’t youknowhowtowatchTV?”

Poor Peter. I could see that he wanted to grab the book back fromDuncan.ButIalsoknewthatifhetried,Duncanwouldcreamhim.

SometimesIwonderifDuncan’smotherdroppedhimonhisheadwhenhewasababy. Imean,somethingmusthavemadehimdecide tospendhislifemakingotherpeoplemiserable.Otherwisewhywouldhespendsomuchof his time picking on a kid like Peter Thompson? Peter never bothersanyone.Heck,theonlythinghereallywantsistobeleftalonesohecanreadwhateverbookhehashisnosestuckinatthemoment.

Thatdoesn’tseemliketoomuchtoasktome.ButDuncantakesPeter’sreadingasapersonalinsult.

Sohereitwas,thefirstdaybackfromspringvacation—wehadn’tevengone into the schoolyet—and I could tell by the lookonDuncanDougal’sfacethatthespringfightseasonwasabouttobegin.

IclutchedmypiccolocasetomychestandwatchedasPeter’spalefacebegantoturnred.Peterblushedatalmostanything.Hewastallandthinandworethickglasses.AndhewasthesmartestpersonIhadevermet—grown-upsincluded.

Theproblemwas, itwasallbooksmarts.Peterhadabsolutelyno ideahowtodealwithacreeplikeDuncan.Actually,neitherdidI.IfIdid,Iwouldhavestoppedhim.ButtheonetimeIhadtriedtocomebetweenDuncanandPeter,Iendedupwithablackeyemyself.

Duncanclaimeditwasanaccident,ofcourse.“Susanjustjumpedrightin front of my fist,” he said as if I was the one who had done somethingwrong.To tellyou the truth, I thinkDuncanpunchedmeonpurpose.Mostguyswouldn’thitagirl.ButDuncandoesn’tmind.Itwashiswayofwarningmetokeepmynoseoutofhisbusiness.

As IwatchedDuncan squinting down at Peter, it occurred tome thatsixthgradecanbeadangerousplaceifyoudon’twatchout.

StacyBenoitwasstandingafewfeetawayfromPeter,pressedagainsttheschoolwalland lookingnervous.Stacy is this incrediblygoodkid,whonevergetsintroubleever.ShehatesfightsevenmorethanIdo.

She had just started edging herway towardmewhenDuncan ran hisfootthroughapuddleandsplasheddirtywateralloverPeter’sjeans.

“Cutitout,Duncan,”saidPeter.“Cutitout,Duncan,”mimickedDuncaninawhiny,singsongvoice.AnyonewhoknewDuncancouldseehewasgearingupforafight.But

it wasn’t necessarily going to be with Peter, since Peter usually just tookwhateverDuncandishedout.IfiguredDuncanwasusinghimasawarm-up.SoIwasalittlesurprisedwhenhetossedPeter’sbookintothepuddle.

EvenDuncanshouldhaveknownthatwassomethingyoujustdon’tdotoPeter.

“Oops!”hesaidmaliciously.“Idroppedit.”IheardStacygaspasPeterlaunchedhimselfoffthewallandbashedhis

head intoDuncan’s stomach.Within seconds the two of themwere rollingaroundontheground.

“Ihate itwhen thishappens,”saidStacyas theboyssurroundedPeterandDuncaninashouting,cheeringcircle.

Thefighthadn’tgoneonmorethantensecondswhenatallblondmancame pushing through the crowd.Without saying anything, he grabbed thetwofightersandhauledthemtotheirfeet.

Wow!IthoughtwhenIsawhimliftthetwoofthemrightofftheground.Thatguyisreallystrong.

“Stop!” he said. Then he gave them each a shake and set them backdownontheirfeet.

“Peterstartedit,”saidDuncan.

He’ssuchacreepheprobablydidn’tevenknowhewaslying.Peterwipedthebackofhishandacrosshismouth.“Ididnot,”hesaid

sullenly.Icouldseethathishandwastrembling.“Nomore,”said the tallman,as ifhereallydidn’tcarewhostartedit.

“Doyouunderstand?”“Yes,sir,”mumbledPeter.Iwantedtoshakehim.Hemadeitsoundasif

thewholethinghadbeenhisfault.“Do you understand?” said the tall man again, looking directly at

Duncan.“Sure,”saidDuncan.“Igotit.”“Good,”saidthetallman.Thenheturnedonhisheelandmarchedback

intotheschool.Duncan made a face at the man’s back, then wandered off to find

someoneelsetopickon.“Whowasthat?”askedPeterasIhandedhimhissoggybook.“Whoknows?Ineversawhimbefore.He’sprobablyanewsub.Come

on—let’sgoinside.”Peter and Iwere usually the first ones into school—but not bymuch.

Our whole class went in early. That’s because our teacher, Ms. MarieSchwartz,was so totallygreat.The thing I likedbest abouthavingherwasthatshewastheonlyteacherinKennituckFallsElementarywhoalwaysdidaplaywithherclass.I’vealwayswantedtobeanactresswhenIgrowup.Butuntilsixthgrade,Ihadneverhadachancetofindoutwhatitwasliketobeonstage.Theplaywouldbeourlastmajorproject,andwehadplannedtostartrehearsalsrightafterspringvacation.

Unfortunately,whenwegottoourroom,Ms.Schwartzwasnowheretobeseen.Thetallblondmanwasstandingbesideherdesk,talkingtoashort,red-facedmanwhohadalmostnohair—ourschoolprincipal,Dr.Bleekman.

WherewasMs.Schwartz?PeterandIwenttoourdesks.Iwasn’thappy.Ihadabadfeelingabout

thiswholething.“Thesubishandsome,”whisperedStacy,whohadcomeinbehindus.“Isupposeso,”Isaidgrudgingly.“WheredoyousupposeMs.Schwartz

is?”Stacyshrugged.“Maybeshe’ssick.Ormaybeherplanedidn’tmakeit

backontime.Thathappenedtomythirdgradeteacheronce.”Inodded.ThatwasOK.Itwasdisappointingtocomebacktosomeone

besidesMs.Schwartz,butIcouldcopewithitforadayortwo.The other kids came into the room.BecauseDr.Bleekmanwas there,

everyonewassuperquiet.Thebellrang,andwetookourplaces.“Good morning, class,” said Dr. Bleekman. “I want to introduce Mr.

JohnSmith.Mr.Smithwillbeyourteacherfortherestoftheyear.”Therestoftheyear!Icouldn’tbelievemyears!WhathappenedtoMs.

Schwartz?Withoutintendingto,Iaskedthequestionoutloud.

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CHAPTERTWO

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NoteofDoom

Dr. Bleekman glared at me. “Susan, if you have something to say, Iexpectyoutoraiseyourhand.”

Well,ex-cuuuuseme!Ithought.Buttherewasnosenseinmakingthingsworse than they already were, so I raised my hand. When Dr. Bleekmanpointed at me I said—as politely as I could—“What happened to Ms.Schwartz?”

“Thatisaprivatematter,”repliedDr.Bleekman.Whatwasthatsupposedtomean?Wasshepregnant?Didshehavesome

horrible disease? Did she get fired? Andwhatever it was, why hadn’t shewarnedus?Whyhadn’tshesaidgoodbye?

WithoutthinkingaboutwhatIwasdoing,Istoodupandsaid,“Iwanttoknowwheresheis!”

Dr.Bleekmanlookedatmeinsurprise.Hischeeksgotredder.“Doyouknowthemeaningofthewordprivate,MissSimmons?”heasked.

“Yes,sir,”Isaidquietlyandslippedbackintomyseat.WhileIsatthere,fuming,Dr.Bleekmanblatheredonabouthowheexpectedustobehaveforournewteacher.ThenheturnedusovertoMr.Smithandlefttheroom.

AsIwatchedhimgo,IwonderedifDr.BleekmanhadsecretlyfiredMs.Schwartz. I had always suspected he didn’t like her—mostly because shedidn’tdothings“bythebook.”IhadheardthemarguingaboutitoncewhenIcamebacktoschooltogetsomepapersIhadleftbehind.

“Ms. Schwartz, I must ask you to show more respect for thecurriculum,”Dr.BleekmanhadbeensayingwhenIwalkedintotheroom.

Boy,didthatsetMs.Schwartzoff.“Can’tyourespect thefact that thekids are learning?” she asked angrily. She grabbed the sides of her head infrustration. Clumps of her frizzy black hair stuck out between her fingers.“Listen,Horace.Thekidswillgetmoreoutofsixweeksofdoingaplaythansixmonthsofdittosandworkbooks.”

Suddenly Iwondered if havingMr. Smithmeant thatwewouldn’t bedoingourplay.

Ibeganwavingmyhandintheairagain.“Yes,MissSimmons?”askedMr.Smith.MissSimmonsagain.Werewegoingtohavetotalklikethatfortherest

oftheyear?“Arewestillgoingtodoourplay?”Iasked.Mr. Smith lifted one blond eyebrow in astonishment. “Play?” he said.

“Ofcoursewe’renotgoingtodoaplay.We’reheretowork!”Isankbackintomyseat.Sixthgradewasgoingbadfasterthanadead

fishonahotday.I could hear the other kids start to murmur their protests. Mr. Smith

slappedhisruleragainsthisdesk.“Dr.Bleekmanhiredmetostraightenthisclassout.Icanseenowthat

whathetoldmeaboutyouwascorrect.Thingshavegottencompletelyoutofcontrolinthisroom.”

Actually,thatwasonlyhalftrue.Ourroomwasn’toutofcontrol;itjustwasn’tunderDr.Bleekman’sthumb.Sincemostofushadalreadyspentfiveyears inroomswhere the teachersdid thingsDr.Bleekman’sway,weknewverywellwhathewantedaroomtobelike.

Noquestionaboutit:Ms.Schwartz’sroomdidn’tfitthebill.Butasfaraswewereconcerned,thingsweregoingjustfine.Andnotjustbecausewewere having a good time. We were also learning more than we ever hadbefore.

My father claimed we were learning and having a good time for thesamereason—Ms.Schwartzknewhowtomakethingsinteresting.

Forexample,onthefirstdayofschoolMs.Schwartzstoodatthefrontof the room and held up the sixth grade reading book,Rockets and Flags(popularlyknownasRodentsandFleas).

“This,”shesaid,“isnotagoodbook.”Shehelditawayfromherwithtwofingers,likeasoggytissue,anddroppeditintothebottomdrawerofherdesk.“Iknowabetterone,”shesaid.“Infact, Iknowhundreds.”Thenshepulledahugecardboardboxfromunderherdeskandstartedpassingaroundstacksofpaperbacknovelsforustochoosefrom.

Wespenttherestoftheyearreadingrealbooks.Sometimesweallreadthe same one, sometimes we all read something different. I remembermorningswhenwespent theentirereadingperiodarguingaboutwhatsomecharacter should havedone.Kidswhohadnever liked readingbeforewerereallygettingintoit.

Unfortunately,Mr.Smithdidn’tbelieveinthatkindofthing.Infact,thefirstthinghedidaftertakingattendancethatmorningwaspassoutcopiesofRocketsandFlags.

Ms.Schwartz always readout loud tous, sometimes twice aday.ShereadwonderfulbookslikeTheHobbitandTheSwordintheStone.

When someone askedMr. Smith if hewas going to read out loud, he

gavehimafunnylookandsaiditwas“awasteoftime.”Well, you get the picture. Over the next few weeks Mr. Smith

straightenedusoutallright.Butyouknowhowboringastraightlineis.Wehadnomore surprises.Weprettymuch stopped laughing in school.Thingsweren’tterrible—justawfullygrim.

Eventheplaygroundwasn’tsomuchfunasithadbeen.Oh,Mr.SmithdidkeepDuncanDougalfrombeatingkidsup.Buthealmostwentnutsthefirst timehecaughtoneofusplayingaradio.Radiosandtapeplayerswerebannedfromtheplayground.Mr.Smithdidn’tjusthaterockmusic;hehatedallmusic!IcouldseehimshivereverytimeIpickedupmypiccoloandlefttheroomformymusiclesson.

After the third week of this I said something about it to my musicteacher,Mr. Bam-BoomBamwick. (Actually, his first name isMilton. Buteveryone calls him Bam-Boom because of his preference for thunderingmarches.)

Mr.Bamwicksighed.“Susan,youhavetounderstandthatnoteveryoneappreciatesthefinerthingsinlife,”hesaid.

I guess that was as much support as I could expect. You know howteacherssticktogether.

WhenIgotback to the roomthatday, itwas time forourmath test. Ifinishedthetestearly.IwasstillfeelingcrankyaboutMr.Smith’sreactiontomypiccolo,soIdecidedtowriteanoteaboutittoStacy.

“Mr.Smithisatotalcreepazoid,”Iwrote.ThatfeltsogoodIdecidedtokeepgoing.“Hehastotallyruinedthisclass.Ourwholeyearhasgonedownthetubes.Themanisatotalphilistine!”

Philistine was a word I had just learned from my father. It meanssomeonewhohasnoappreciationforartandbeauty.Ithoughtitwasaneatword,andIwasusingiteverychanceIcouldget.

AfewmoresentencesandIwasreallywoundup.Thisnotewasturningintoahumdinger!AtthebottomIdrewanextra-tall,extra-skinnyMr.SmithholdinghisearswhileIplayedthepiccolo.

It wasn’t a very nice picture. But when I was all done I felt better. Islippedthenoteundermytestandwaitedforachancetopass it toStacy.Ibeganthinkingabouthowshe’dreacttomypicture.Iimaginedherlaughingsohardshefelloffherchair.

Unfortunately, while I was daydreaming,Mr. Smith started collectingourpapers.BythetimeIsawhimwalkingupmyrow,itwastoolatetomovethenote.AsIwatchedinhorror,hesnatchedupmytest—andmynotealongwithit.

Awaveofterrorwashedoverme.IwatchedMr.Smithwalkawaywith

mynastynote.Iclosedmyeyesandswallowed.Iwasdoomed.

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CHAPTERTHREE

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AnUnearthlyNoise

TheonlythingIcouldthinkaboutfortherestofthedaywashowIwasgoingtogetthatnoteback!

Whenwewentoutsidefor recess, IpulledStacyaside to tellherwhathadhappened.

“WhatamIgoingtodo?”Iwailed.“Idon’tknow,”shesaid.“Butyou’dbetterdosomethingbecauseifthat

notehasmynameonit,Mr.Smithwillgetmadatme,too.”“Maybehewon’tseeit,”Isaid.Stacy snorted. “Areyoukidding?He’s checkedevery singlepaperwe

everhandedin.”Stacywasright.Shealwayswaswhenitcametothatkindofstuff.Actually,theheavy-dutycheckingwasprobablythebestthingaboutMr.

Smith:healwayshandedbackourpapers.Ofcourse,theyneverhadanoteorcommentonthem,justlotsofredcirclesaroundthemistakesandagradeatthetop.Ididn’tmindthatonmathpapers,butitreallyannoyedmewhenitcametomywriting.WhenMs.Schwartzmarkedourstoriesandessays,shehadalwayspenciledincommentsthatshowedshewaspayingattentiontoourideas.

WhenMr.Smithhandedbackanessay, it lookedas thoughhe’dbeensitting next to an axmurderwhile hewasmarking it. Themanmust haveboughtredpensby thecase.Butallheused themforwas tocirclemissingcommasandmisspelledwords.Hetreatedouressayslikespellingtests.

I ask you, what’s the point of writing something if that’s the onlyresponseyouget?

Finally I decided to try to get back into the building to see if I couldsnatchmynotewhileMr.Smithwasstilloutside.IfithadbeenMs.Schwartz,IwouldhavejustaskedifIcouldgotothebathroom.ButMr.Smithdidn’tbelieveinlettingyouofftheplaygroundforsuchafrivolousreason.Hesaidbythetimeyouwereinsixthgrade,youshouldknowenoughtotakecareofthingslikethatinadvance.ThefirstthreedaysafterMr.Smithcamewehadalineofworried-lookingkidsstandingatthedooreachtimerecessended.

Thesecond-bestmethodforgettingofftheplaygroundwasgettingsick.“I’ll see you inside,” I said to Stacy. Then I clutched my stomach,

squinchedupmyface,andstaggeredovertowhereMr.Smithwasstanding.Later, I remembered that hewas looking straight at the sun.But right

thenIwastooworriedaboutthenotetopayattentiontothefactthatwhathewasdoingshouldhaveburnedouthiseyeballs.

“Unnnyh,”Imoaned,tryingtosoundpitiful.Mr.Smith lookeddownatme.“Issomethingwrong,MissSimmons?”

heasked.“Idon’tfeelgood,”Isaid.“Iwanttoseethenurse.”Mr.Smithhesitated, then lookedathiswatch.“It’s time togo innow,

anyway,”hesaid.“Lineupwiththerestofus.YoucanseeMrs.Glackaafterwegetin.”

Nowwhat?IfIclaimedIwasabouttothrowup,he’dprobablyletmego inside right away. But if he was bringing everyone else in anyway, Iwouldn’thavethetimeIneededtogothroughthepapersandfindthenote.

“Allright,”Imoaned,tryingtosoundpitiful.Ihopeditwouldmakehimfeelguilty.IalmostwishedIwasgoingtothrowup.I’dmakesuretohithisshoes!

Ofcourse,oncewewereinside,Ihadtogotothenurse’soffice—eventhoughIactuallyfeltperfectlyfine.Mrs.Glackatoldmetoliedown.Iwasn’tsurprised.Thatwasherbasiccureforeverything.SoIlaythere,staringattheceilingandworryingaboutthatnote.

Finally Idecided to followMr.Smithhome.MaybeIcouldfindsomeway toget thenotebackbefore itwas too late. I didn’thaveanybigplan,mindyou.Iwasjustdesperate.

Iwasn’tsurewhereMr.Smithlived.ButIfigureditcouldn’tbetoofar,sincehealwayswalkedtoschool.SoafterthelastbellIhungaroundontheplayground,waitingforMr.Smithtocomeoutofthebuilding.

IwasconcentratingsohardIalmostjumpedoutofmyskinwhenPeterThompsoncameupbehindmeandsaid,“Hey,Susan,whatareyoudoing?”

“Noneofyourbusiness!”Ihissed.“Leavemealone!”Peter’sskinnyfacekindofcrumpled,andhelookedlikehewasgoingto

cry.“Look,”Isaid.“Thisisprivate,OK?”“Sure,” saidPeter. Iwon’t bother you.”He tuckedhis bookunder his

arm and walked away, trying to whistle. It was a pretty pathetic sound. IthoughtaboutPeterandrealizedwithashockthatIwasprobablytheclosestthinghehadtoafriend.

Thatmademekindofsad.Notthatthere’sanythingwrongwithhavingmeforafriend.ButI’vegotalotoffriends,andIdidn’treallythinkofPeterasbeingoneof them. I likedhimall right.He justwasn’t someone I spent

muchtimewith.Iwonderediftherewasanyonewhodidspendtimewithhim.My thoughtswere interruptedwhen I sawMr. Smith come out of the

building.Iwaitedforaminuteortwo,thenbegansneakingalongbehindhim.Itriedtostayahalfablockorsoaway.WheneverIcould,Iduckedbehindatreeor abush sohewouldn’t spotme. I probably lookedprettyweird.Butthat’sonenice thingaboutbeingakid:youcanget awaywith thiskindofstuff.

Mr.Smith’shomewasfartherawaythanIhadexpected.Helivedattheedgeof town, inanoldwhitehousewithblackshutters.Thehousewassetway back from the street. A thick hedge completely surrounded the lot onwhichitstood.

Istoodoutsidethehedgefeelingstupid.WhathadIhopedtoaccomplishbyfollowingMr.Smith?

But Iwas in luck.As Iwatched from a hole in the hedge, I sawMr.Smithsethisbriefcasedownontheporchandgoinside.Sinceitwasawarmafternoon, I figured he planned to get something to drink, then come backoutsidetositontheporchandcorrectourpapers.

Thiswasmychance!Iscootedthroughaholeinthehedgeandontotheporch. I was working up the nerve to open the briefcase when I heard anunearthlyhowl.Itsoundedlikesomeonewastryingtoputacatinablender.

Hotasitwas,Ifeltmybloodturntoice.Whatwasgoingoninthere?HadsomeoneattackedMr.Smith?Iwasn’tcrazyabouttheman,butIdidn’twanthimtobetorturedoranything,whichiswhatthissoundedlike.

ShouldIrunforhelp,orgoinside?ButwhatkindofhelpcouldIget?AllIcouldsaywasthatIhadhearda

terriblenoise.Nobodywasyellingforhelp,oranythinglikethat.Ididn’tthinkIcouldgetanyonetocome.ThenitoccurredtomethatmaybeMr.Smithreallywasputtingacatin

a blender, or something awful like that. If so, he certainly shouldn’t beteachingourclass.

Idecidedtofindout.

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CHAPTERFOUR

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Broxholm

Thedoorwasunlocked.Tryingnottomakeanynoise,Iturnedtheknobandpushed.

The door openedwithout a sound. I hesitated for just amoment, thensteppedin.

Iwasstandinginahallway.TomyleftIsawanemptylivingroom—andI do mean empty. Except for curtains, there wasn’t one bit of furniture ordecorationintheroom.Thewallsandfloorweretotallybare.

Iflinchedasanotherburstofhorriblesquawkingandgrowlingsoundedaboveme.

Takingadeepbreath, Ibegan to tiptoeup the stairs. Iwasglad Iwaswearingsneakers.

AbouthalfwayupIstoppedandthought,WhatamIdoing?IshouldgetoutofherewhileIcan!

Youmaynotbelievethis,buttheonlyreasonIdidn’tturnbackwasthatIthoughtMr.Smithmightreallybeintrouble.EventhoughIdidn’tliketheman,Ididn’twantanythinghorribletohappentohim.

SoIswallowedandtookanotherstep.Thenoisestopped.Waseverythingover?WouldMr.Smithstartdown

thestairsandfindmestandinghere? Iwas justabout to turnandrunwhenanother round of squawking and shriekingmade it clear thatwhateverwashappeningwasstillgoingon.

Istillwantedtorun,butIwasafraidto—afraidthatifIdid,ImightreadinthepaperthenextdaythatsomethingterriblehadhappenedtoMr.Smith.SomethingIcouldhaveprevented.Ofcourse,Iwasafraidtokeepgoing,butIdecidedIdidn’thaveanychoice.Itookanotherstepandthenanother.Iheldon to the railingas if itwasa life line.Theknot inmystomachgot tighterwitheverystepItook.

When I got near the top, I lay down on my stomach. I had readsomewherethatwhenyou’repeeringaroundacorner,you’relesslikelytobeseenifyourheadislow.SoIkeptmyheadaslowaspossible.IfIcouldhavepulled out one eye and just stuck it around the corner to take a peek, thatwouldhavebeenfinewithme.

Thehallwasasemptyasthelivingroom:nopicturesonthewalls,no

rugon the floor.Throughanopendoor at the endof thehall I could see asmall,bluebathroom.

Closer tome,on the right,wasanotheropendoor.Thehorrible soundseemedtobecomingfromthere.

Idecidedlowwasthewaytogo.Stillonmybelly,IslithereddownonesideofthehalluntilIhadreachedthedoorway.

I shivered. That noise was like a tiger running its claws down ablackboard;itfeltlikealuminumfoilagainstmyteeth.Whatcouldbemakingit?

WhenIfinallygotupthenervetosneakalookaroundthebottomedgeof the door, I sawMr. Smith sitting at a little makeup table, looking in amirror.Stacywasright.Themanreallywashandsome.Hehada long, leanfacewithasquarejaw,astraightnose,andcheekbonestodiefor.

Onlyitwasafake.AsIwatched,Mr.Smithpressedhisfingersagainstthebottomofhiseyes.Suddenlyheranhisfingertipstothesidesofhishead,grabbedhisears,andstartedpeelingoffhisface!

I gasped. Fortunately, the horrible noises coming from the roomdrowneditout.Iwantedtogetupandrun,butIwastooterrifiedtomove.

Istartedtoshakeinstead.WhateverMr.Smithwas,Iwasprettysurethefacehewasslowlyuncoveringwasn’tanythingthathadbeenbornonearth!AshestrippedawaythemaskIcouldseethathehadskinthecoloroflimes.Hisenormousorangeeyesslantedupandawayfromhisnose likeapairofbutterflywings.Aseriesofmuscular lookingridgesstretchedfromhiseyesdowntohisliplessmouth.

Soonthehandsomefaceof“Mr.Smith”waslyingonthedressingtable.Thecreaturethathadbeenhiddenunderneathitbegantomassagehisface—

his real face. “Ahhh,”he said. “Whata relief!”He smiledathimself in themirror,showingtworowsofroundedpurplishteeth.

I had noticed that the horrible noise was coming from a pair of flatpieces of plastic hanging on thewall.But itwasn’t untilMr. Smith started“singing”alongwiththesoundthatIrealizedtheplasticsheetswerespeakers.Thathideoussoundwasmusic!Orat leastwhatpassed formusicwherevermyalienteacherhadcomefrom.

Iwasstill tryingtofindthecouragetostartbackingupwhenthealienturneddownthemusicandflippedaswitchonthetable.Themirrorbegantoshimmer.Suddenly the imageof“Mr.Smith”wasreplacedbyanotheralienface, thisonejustashorrible.BeyondthefaceIcouldseeabigroom,withotheraliensbustlingaround.Fromthelookofthings,Ifiguredthismustbeaspaceship.

The face in themirror said something that sounded like “Ign rrzznyxiggngnrrr.”Thewordswerelowandgrowly.

“Broxholmreporting,”saidMr.Smith.Thefaceinthemirrormadesomegrowlynoises.“Itisgoodtohearourmothertongue,”saidMr.Smith—orBroxholm—

orwhateverhisnamewas.“Icannotwaittoreturntotheshipandhavethislanguage implant removed, so I can speak the true tongue, and not thisbarbaricgarble.”

Hey!Ithought.Whoselanguageareyoucallingbarbaric?ButbeforeIcouldgettooangry,Iheardsomethingelse—somethingthat

sentacoldchilldownmyspine.“The testing process is proceeding on schedule,” said Broxholm.

“BeforelongIwillhaveselectedthestudentsIwishtobringbackforstudy.”Bringbackforstudy?Icouldn’tbelievemyears.Myteacherwasanalien!Evenworse,hehad

cometoearthtokidnapkidsandtakethemintospace!

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CHAPTERFIVE

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HowStrongIsanAlien’sNose?

Thefaceonthescreensmiled—atleast,Ithinkitsmiled.It’shardtotellwith someone who looks like that. Let’s just say that all its teeth wereshowing. Then it made a long speech in that awful language. I felt likesomeonewasgrindingmetalnexttomyear.

Idon’tknowwhathesaid.ButitmadeBroxholm/Smithlaugh.Well,Isupposeitwasalaugh.Hisshouldersshookasifhewaslaughing.Thesoundmademystomachturn.

WhenBroxholm stopped laughing, orwhatever, he reached down andturnedoffthescreen.Theotheralienfadedfromview.

Timeformetogetoutofthere!Islitheredbackwardonmybellyalongthe hall and then down the stairs.When I heard the alien music come onagain,Irelaxedalittle.

OntheporchIhesitatedforamoment.ShouldItrytorecovermynote?Anoise in thehousemadeupmymind.Compared towhatwasbehindme,anytroubleImightgetinbecauseofthatnotewasnothing.Ijumpedofftheporchandranallthewayhome,prayingthatBroxholmhadn’tseenme.

Didyoueverhavesomethingawfulhappentoyou,andnotreallyreactto ituntil later?Like,youmightalmostgethitbyacaronyourwayhomefromschool,butnotstartshakinguntilaftersupper.Itwaslikethatwithmethatafternoon.Itwasn’tuntilIgothomethatwhatIhadseenreallybegantosinkin.

Iranuptomyroom,plowedmywaythroughthemess,andcollapsedonmybed.Ilaythereuntilsupper,staringattheceilingandshakingwithfear.WhatwasIgoingtodo?Whatwouldyoudo,ifyoufoundoutyourteacherwasanalien?Gototheprincipal?Tellyourparents?

Thinkaboutitforaminute.Imaginetheconversation.Notaprettythought,isit?The only personwhomight believemewasweird PeterThompson. I

decided to tell him what I had seen. If I couldn’t convince him, I knew Ididn’thaveachanceofconvincinganyone.

ImusthavelookedprettybadwhenIwentdowntodinnerbecausemymotheraskedmethreetimeswhatwasbotheringme.Butthen,shetendstobeabitofafusser.Itrynevertoletherhearmesneeze,becauseifshedoesshedecidesI’vegotpneumoniaandtriestopackmeintobedforaweek.Allright,that’saslightexaggeration—butnotmuch.Sheandmydadarealwaysbattlingabouthowmuchfreedomtheyshouldgiveme.

“Comeon,Margaret,”mydadwillsay.“She’sinsixthgradenow.Youcan’ttreatherlikeababyanymore.”

“Oh,Edward,”mymotherwillreply,“youseemtothinkyoucantreatSusanthesamewayyouwouldaboy.”

Canyoubelievesheactuallysaysthat?Anyway, that night at supper she put her hand on my forehead and

cluckedabouthowpaleIlooked.IthinkshewasactuallydisappointedthatIdidn’thaveafever.Atleastthenshewouldhaveknownwhattodo.

“AreyoustillupsetaboutMs.Schwartz,Susan?”sheasked,shovelingaloadofbroccoliontomyplate.

Actually, at the moment I was upset about the broccoli. But Ms.Schwartzwasaclosesecond.Inoddedweakly.

“Well,Icantellyouitwasn’tDr.Bleekman’sfault,”shesaid.“Infact,he’s very upset thatMs. Schwartz didn’t give himmore notice. I talked toHelen. She toldmeMs. Schwartz didn’t even have the courtesy to tellDr.Bleekman face to face that shewas leaving.Hegot a letter the first dayofvacation,sayingshewouldn’tbeback.Thatlefthimsixdaystofindsomeonetotakeherplace.IthinkhedidverywelltofindthathandsomeMr.Smithinsuchashortperiodoftime.”

“Mr.Smithisruiningourclass,”Isaidbleakly.“Oh,don’tbesodramatic,Susan,”saidMom.I’m planning to be an actress when I grow up. What should I be?

Athletic? Besides, this so-called teacher was going to kidnap some of myclassmates anddrag themoff toouter space.Suddenly I realized that I hadbeenputtingoffthetruth.Hewasn’tgoingtokidnapsomeofmyclassmates.Ifhewasgoingtopicksomeonefrommyclass,Imightwellbeonhislist.Infact,afterhereadthatnote,Imightbehisnumber-oneprospect.

Iswallowedhard.IwasdyingtotellmyfolkswhatIhadlearned,butIknewtheywouldn’tbelieveme.

That night I tried to call Peter. But I couldn’t get any answer at hishouse.“Comeon,Peter,”Ihissedatthephone.“Whereareyou?Ineedyou!”

Iletitringfifteentimes.Noanswer.Itriedagainanhourlater.

Noanswer.Iwasasnervousasamarshmallowatabonfire.Itwasevenworsewhen

Ihadtogotoschoolthenextmorning.Ididn’t thinkBroxholmknewIhadbeeninhishouse.ButwhatifIhadleftbehindsomekindofclue?Orwhatifhehadsomekindofaliensuper-senses thatwouldlethimknowIhadbeenthere? What about that weird, muscular nose? Just how powerfulwas hissenseofsmell?WouldheknowIhadbeensnoopingbymyodor?IwatchedhisnosecarefullywhenIwalkedthroughtheclassroomdoorthatmorning.Itdidn’ttwitchoranything.Butthatdidn’tmeanmuch.Maybeunderneaththatmaskhisrealnosehadsniffedmeout.Maybeitwassendinghimamessageevennow.Theresheis.That’stheonewhowasinthehouseyesterday!.

Isatdown.IwassotenseIfeltasifIwouldexplodeifanyonesomuchas touchedme. Iwanted topassPeteranoteaskinghimtomeetmeon theplaygroundatrecess.ButIwasinenoughtroublebecauseofnotesalready.

Westoodupandsaid thePledgeofAllegiance.ThenSmith/Broxholmmotionedmetohisdesk.

“Ithinkyoulostsomethingyesterday,”hesaid.Andthenhehandedmemynote.

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CHAPTERSIX

OceanofPDF.com

DraftingPeter

I satatmydeskandstaredat thenote.Whatwasgoingonhere?WasBroxholmplayingwithme?

Foramomentthethoughtthathewasactuallybeinganiceguycrossedmymind. Ibrushed it away.Niceguysdon’tkidnapsixthgradersanddragthemintoouterspace.Idecideditwasmorelikelyhewasjustsendingmeamessage.I’vegotyournumber,kid.Don’tmesswithme.

Iwas sowrapped up in trying to figure outwhatwas going on that Icouldbarelyconcentrateonmywork.MostofthetimeIjustsatandstaredatBroxholm’sface,tryingtofigureouthowthemaskwasattached.

When I started towonder if therewasanyway Icouldpull itoff,myimagination began cooking up a horrifying scene. In this daydream, I sawmyself grab Broxholm’s ears and begin pulling on them, trying to unmaskhim.Onlythemaskwouldn’tcomeoff.SoIpulledharder.Suddenlyhisfacebegantostretchandtwistalloutofshape.Butstillthemaskwouldn’tcomeoff.

Itwasgross.Stopit!Itoldmybrainfirmly.Butthevisionkeptcomingback.SometimesIwonderaboutmybrain;Imean,itseemstohaveamindof

its own. If it was reallymy brain, you’d think I would have a little morecontroloverit,wouldn’tyou?

Whenyougetrightdowntoit,brainsareprettyweird.Butnotasweirdashavinganalienforateacher.Bythemiddleofthemorning,Iwasbeginningtowonderifthiswhole

alienbusinesshadbeenabaddream.Itseemedtooimpossibletobelieve.ButIknewIhadn’tbeendreaming.Itwasreal.Myteacherwasanalien.Icouldn’twaittogetPeterasidesoIcouldtalktohim.When recess came, I tried to act calm as Iwandered over to thewall

wherePeterusuallysat to read.Hewassittingon theground,cross-legged,clutchingabookcalledAPrincessofMarsinhisskinnyhands.

Isliddownthewallandsatbesidehim.Heactedas ifhedidn’tnoticeme.Ormaybehe reallydidn’t.Hewas

one of those kidswho could get sowrapped up in a book it would take abombtobreakhisattention.

Ihatedtointerrupthim.Peteralwaysseemedalittleunhappytome,likeheunderstood thathe justdidn’t fit inwith the restofus.Theonly thing Iknewthatmadehimhappywasreadingsciencefiction.Healwayshadabookhidden behind his school book. The neat thing was, it didn’t make anydifference,becausehewas sobright thatwhenever the teacheraskedhimaquestion, he always knew the answer. I could never figure out why theywouldn’tjustleavehimaloneandlethimread.Butthat’sthewayschoolis,Iguess.

“So,what’sgoingon?”Isaid.What a stupid line! I’m glad I’m a girl, becausewhen I get older the

guys are going to have to come up with lines when they want to start aconversation.Nowthere’sonejobI’llbegladtoletthemhave!

Peter liftedhisnoseoutof thebookand lookedatmeas if Iwere thealien.Heblinked,andIrealizedhewastryingtocomebacktotherealworld.I felt bad for interrupting him. In class he had to readwith one eye on theteacher.Outhereheprobablyplannedonshuttingeverythingoutforawhile.

Ihesitatedforaminute.HowwasIgoingtosaythis?FinallyIjustdecidedtojumprightin.“Ineedyourhelp,”Isaid.Peterlookedsurprised.“Forwhat?”heasked.IrealizedIhadn’tjumpedinafterall.Thebiggiewasstilltocome.“Promiseyouwon’tlaughatme?”Iasked.Petershrugged.“Sure,Ipromise.”“Allright,listen.Iknowyou’renotgoingtobelievethis,butIfoundout

somethingawfulyesterday.Mr.Smithisanalien.He’scomeheretokidnapabunchofkidsandtakethembacktoouterspace.”

IheldmybreathtoseewhatPeterwouldsay.Ithoughthemightlaugh,ortellmetogetlost,or—andthisthoughtreallyscaredme—shoutitouttoeveryoneelse.Tomyastonishment,hedidn’tdoanyofthosethings.Hejustlookedasifhewasgoingtocry.

“What’sthematter?”Iasked.“Youshouldknow,”hesaid.Hesniffedandwipedthebackofhishand

acrosshisnose.Whatwasgoingonhere?Ihadasuddenthoughtthatmaybehewasan

alien, too. Thatwas stupid, of course. But I had aliens on the brain, and Icouldn’tfigureoutwhatelseitmightbe.

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“HonestIdon’t.”He lookedatme,andhiseyesweresosad theymademewant tocry,

too.

“I always thought youwere the one kid in this classwhowas onmyside,”hesaid.“LikethattimeyoutriedtostopDuncanwhenhewasbeatingmeup.Iexpecteveryoneelsetoteaseme.Ijustneverthoughtyouwoulddoit.”

Now it was my turn to be mad. “I’m not teasing!” I yelled. Then Iloweredmyvoice.“I’mnotteasing!”Ihissed.“I’mserious.”

Peterstaredatme.“Isthissomekindofgame?”heasked.Ihesitated.IfItoldhimthetruth,heprobablywouldn’tbelieveme.IfI

toldhimitwasagame,hemightatleasthelpmethinkthingsthrough.Whata fix!Theonlyway I couldgethim tobelievemewas to lie to

him.“Yeah,”Isaid.“Ithoughtyouweretheoneguyinthisclasswithenough

imaginationtoplay.Butnowyou’veruinedit.”“No!”saidPeter.“No,wecanstillplay.Justpretendyouhadtotellme

itwasagametogetmetobelieveyou.”Myheadwasstartingtospin.Peterwasusingmyreasonforlyingasa

reason to pretend that what he believed was a game was for real. Orsomethinglikethat.Thiswasgettingtoocomplicatedforme.

Thisisgoingtobeoneofthoseweeks,Ithought.TheonlypersonIcancountonforhelpstoppinganalieninvasionthinksthewholethingisagame!

Well,asmygrandmotheralwayssays,youmakedowithwhatyou’vegot.

AndPeterwaswhat I had. I decided to stopworrying aboutwhowasbelievingwhatandjusttellhimwhathadhappened.

“Well?”IsaidwhenIwasdone.“Whatdoyouthinkweshoulddo?”Peter stared at the sky for aminute.He rubbed his chin as if hewas

thinkingreallyhard.Thenhegavemehisanswer.“We’vegotnochoice,”he said.“We’llhave tobreak intoBroxholm’s

housetolookforevidence.”

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CHAPTERSEVEN

OceanofPDF.com

NightExpedition

Peterwasright,ofcourse.Thatwastheworstthingaboutit.AndwhatdidIsay?NowthatIhadsomeonewhowaswillingtohelp

meandhadactuallygivenmesomegoodadvice,didIsay,“Thankyouverymuch?”

Areyoukidding?Ilookedathimandsaid,“Youhavegottobeoutofyourmind!”

“Iamnot!”saidPeterindignantly.“Ifwe’regoingtodoanythingaboutBroxholmwehavetohaveproof.Andtheonlywaytogetproofistogetintohishouseandfindsome.”

I thoughtabout that. Icouldn’tcomeupwithanywayaround it.Howelsecouldwefindproofthatweweretellingthetruth?

ThenIthoughtofsomethingelse.“Idon’tthinkitwilldoanygood,”Isaid.“There’snotmuchinthere.Hedoesn’thaveanyfurnitureoranything.”

“Howdoyouknowthat?”“Itoldyou,Iwasinthereyesterday.”“Oh,yeah,”saidPeter.“Iforgot.”IcouldtellhestillthoughtIwasmakingthisup.“Didyouseethewholeplace?”heasked.Ishookmyhead.“Well,maybethere’ssomethinginhisbedroom,”hesaid.“Ortheattic.

Orthekitchen.”Hisfacelitup.“That’sit!”hesaid.“Thekitchen.Whoknowswhattheyeatontheplanethecomesfrom?Ibetwe’llfindallkindsofgrossalienslimeinhisrefrigerator!”

“Peter, you’rebrilliant!” I said. Iwas actually starting to feel hopeful.Allweneededwas justone thing thatwouldproveIwasn’tmakingall thisup.

“Now,whencanwedoit?”Iasked.“Wecan’tlethimcatchus!”Peterthoughtforaminute.“There’saPTAmeetingtomorrownight,”he

said.“IheardDr.Bleekmansaythatalltheteachershavetobethere.That’stheonlytimewecanbesureBroxholmwillbeoutofhishouse.

“Tomorrowitis,”Isaid.ThatwasWednesday.By the timeThursdayafternoonrolledaround, I

wasawreck.Ihadspenttwofulldayssittinginthatclassroom,staringatMr.

Smithandknowinghishandsomefacewasonlyamask—amaskthathidtheterrifyingfaceofanalien.

While none of the other kidswere crazy aboutMr.Smith, they didn’tthinktherewasanythingreallywrongwithhim.OnlyPeterknewthesecret—andhethoughtitwasagameIhadinvented.

“WhataboutDr.Bleekman?”hesaidtomeduringafternoonrecess.“Whatabouthim?”Iasked.“Do you think he’s in cahoots with Broxholm? They seem pretty

chummy.”Ishookmyhead.“Mymother toldmeDr.Bleekmanwasreallyangry

withMs.Schwartzforquittingsosuddenly.Hewouldn’thavebeenupset ifhe’dbeenwantingtoputBroxholminherplace.”

Peter looked at me in astonishment. “Don’t you know a cover storywhenyouhearone?”heasked.“Ofcourseheactedlikehewasupset!Ifhehadn’t, itwouldhavebeensuspicious.ThewayI figure it,BroxholmaskedDr.Bleekmanwhichteacherhewantedtogetridofthemost.ThenhezappedMs.Schwartzsotherewouldbeaspotforhimtofill.”

Ifeltliketherewereantscrawlingonmyskin.Peterwasjustplayingagame.Butwhathesaidmadesense—toomuchsense.Istillcouldn’tbelievethat Ms. Schwartz had just quit without saying anything to us. Somethingmusthavehappenedtoher.

Myheadwaswhirling.WasDr.Bleekmanreallyinonthewholething?Had Broxholm really friedMs. Schwartz? If so, what would happen if hecaught Peter and me in his house? If Broxholm found some way to gethimself excused and came home early to catch us rummaging through hishousewouldhezapus,too?

Thatlastquestionreallyterrifiedme.ButiftheideasPeterwasspinningoutweretrue,itwasmoreimportant

thaneverthatweunmaskBroxholm.“Howareyougoingtogetouttonight?”IaskedPeter.“Whatdoyoumean?”heasked.“Whatdoyoumean,whatdoImean?Howareyougoingtogetoutof

yourhousetonight?”Ihadnoproblemmyself.MyparentswereofficersinthePTA,andthey

alwayswenttomeetings.TheyhaddecidedatthebeginningoftheyearthatIwastoooldforababy-sitter,soaslongasIwasbackbeforetheygothome,itwouldn’tmakeanydifference.Ididn’treallylikesneakingoutonthem,butthiswasamatteroflifeanddeath.

Peter looked atme in surprise. “Areyou really planning to break intoMr.Smith’shouse?”heasked.

“His name isn’t Smith,” I said. “It’s Broxholm. And, yes, I’m reallyplanningtosearchhishouse.”(Icouldn’tbringmyselftocallitabreak-in).“Ihavetohavesomewaytoprovewhathereallyis.”

Peter lookedtroubled.Herubbedhishandsoverhisskinnyface.Thenhelookedmestraightintheeyeandsaid,“Thisisn’tagame,isit?”

Ishookmyhead.Peter’seyesgotwide.Heswallowedacoupleoftimes.Thenhetooka

deepbreathandsaid,“Don’tworry,I’llbethere.”Icouldhavehuggedhim.

ThatnightImetPeterateighto’clockonthecornerofPineandMain.

Hewascarryingaflashlight,whichmademefeelstupid,sinceIhadforgottenmine.Itwasnearlydark.Thecricketsweresinging,andthemoonhadalreadyrisen.EventhoughitwasMay,itwascold.OrmaybeIwasjustcoldbecauseIwasscared.

“Ready?”Iasked.Peternodded.“Ready,”hesaid.Weeachtookadeepbreath.Thenwesetoffforthealien’shouse.“I was afraid you might not come,” I said after we had gone a few

blocks.Peter shrugged. “I didn’t want you doing this alone,” he said. “For a

whileIwasafraidyouweretryingtopullajokeonme.IthoughtwhenIgottothecorner,youandsomeoftheothersmightjumpoutandstartlaughingatme.”

“Hey!”Isaid.“Iwouldn’tdosomethinglikethat!”“Ididn’tthinkso,”saidPeter.“ThatwasonereasonIcame.Theother

reasonwas,IfiguredifyoureallyweregoingtobreakintoMr.Smith’shouse,thismustbeforreal.You’renotthekindofkidwhowoulddosomethinglikethatunlessitwasserious.”

“Believeme,”Isaid,“thisisserious.”“Ibelieveyou,”hesaidnervously.Wedidn’tsayanythingelseuntilwegottoBroxholm’shouse.“Well,”saidPeter.“Hereweare.”“Hereweare,”Iechoed.Butneitherofusmoved.Wejuststoodtherelookingatthedarkempty

house.Idon’tknowaboutPeter,butIwastryingtotalkmyselfintotakingthenextstep.Totellthetruth,IwassoscaredIthoughtImightwetmypants.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTEREIGHT

OceanofPDF.com

TheAlien’sLair

I don’t know how long we stood there, trying to build up enoughcouragetogoin.Idorememberlookingupatthesky.Itwasasdarkasblackvelvet,andthestarswerelikediamondsscatteredacrossit.

Whichoneof themdidyoucome from,Broxholm? I thought.Andwhydidyouhavetocomehere?

IheardPeter sighbesideme.“Isn’t itwonderful?”heasked, swinginghisarmupandouttoindicatetheentiresky.“Don’tyouwanttogothere?”

“You’vebeenreadingtoomuchsciencefiction,”Isaid.“Comeon—let’sgetthisoverwith.”

Sharp leaves scraped against our faces aswepushedourway throughtheholeinthehedge.Ontheothersidewedroppedtoourhandsandkneesand crawled across the lawn. Even though we were pretty sure Broxholmwasn’thome,wedidn’twantanyoneelsetoseeusandinterruptourmission.Thelawnwasdrenchedwithdew.BythetimewereachedtheporchthekneesofmypantsweresoakedthroughandIwasfreezing.

“Howarewegoingtogetin?”whisperedPeter.Good question! Itmay sound stupid, but I had been soworried about

whatweweredoingthatIhadn’tthoughtabouthowtodoit.“I don’t know,” I hissed back. “How do people usually break into

places?”Peterlookedatmeindisgust.“HowwouldIknow?”heasked.“I’mnot

aburglar.”“Well,neitheramI!”Isnapped.Iclosedmyeyes.Fightingwasn’tgoingtogetusanywhere.“Let’scircle

thehouse,”Isaid.“Maybewe’llfindanopenwindoworsomething.”Wecreptalongthesideofthehouse.AsPeterplayedhisflashlightover

thewindowsIfeltthankfulforthehedgethatmaskedusfromthestreet.“Nothingonthisside,”hewhispered.“Checkdownlow,”Isaid.“Maybeoneofthecellarwindowsisopen.”Buttheywereallsealedshut.Petergesturedtowardthebackofthehouse.Justaroundthebackcornerwefoundoneofthoseslantingcellardoors.

Itwaspadlockedshut.But thewoodwashalf-rotted,andwhenPetershook

thelock,thewholethingcamelooseinhishand.Hesetitasideandcarefullylifted the door. It creaked for an eternity as it came open. I found myselfstaringdownintoawellofperfectblackness.

“Dark,”Iwhispered.“Sureis,”saidPeter.Thenhetookastepforward.I followed him, wondering if Broxholm had booby-trapped the place.

Then I wonderedwhat kind of booby traps an alienwould use: lasers thatwouldcutusoffat theknees?Stunguns?Freezerays?Hey, theseguyshadcomeherefromanotherstarsystem.Whoknewwhattheycoulddo?

We walked down eight concrete steps. At the bottom we came to awoodendoorsooldithadalatchinsteadofaknob.Peterliftedthelatchandpushed.Nothing.Heput his shoulder against thedoor and shoved again. Itswungopenwithaneeriecreak.

“Afteryou,madam,”hewhispered.“Well,atleastshineyourflashlightinthere,”Ihissed.Hepointedhisbeamthroughthedoor.Icouldn’tseeanythingspecial—

justadustycellar,thekindyou’dexpectinanoldhouse.“Let’sgotogether,”Iwhispered.Petertookpityonme,andwesteppedthroughthedoorsidebyside.“Idon’tthinkwe’regoingtofindanythingdownhere,”hesaid,shining

hislightaroundthecellar.Iagreed.Exceptforthefurnace,thestairsuptothefirstfloor,andthecobwebs,thespacewascompletelyempty.

Without speaking, he headed for the stairway. I ran into a cobweb. Ishiveredwhenthewispy,clingingthreadsbrushedovermyforehead.

“Youdon’tsupposeBroxholmhasanyfriendshere,doyou?”whisperedPeterwhenwewereabouthalfwayupthestairs.

Istopped.“Idon’t thinkso,”Isaidafteraminute.“Hedidn’tmentionanywhenhewastalkingtotheguyinthespaceship.”

Peternodded.ButhehadmanagedtomakemeevenmorenervousthanIhadbeentobeginwith.Whatiftherewasanotheralienhere?Whatwouldhedoifhecaughtussnoopingaround?

“Whereto?”askedPeterwhenwereachedthetopofthestairs.“Let’strythekitchen,”Isaid,rememberinghisideaaboutalienfood.Butwhenweopenedtherefrigerator,allwesawwereabunchofcold

cuts,ahalf-emptycartonofmilk,abottleofcatsup,andtwosixpacksofbeer.“Hesuredoesn’teatlikeanalien,”saidPeter.“Areyousurethisguyis

fromanotherplanet?”“Let’s go upstairs,” I said. “I’ll showyou the thing I sawhim talking

into.”

Peterclosed the refrigeratordoor.Butbeforehewould leave the roomheinsistedoncheckingthecupboards.Heevenopenedthepeanutbutterjartoseeifitreallyhadpeanutbutterinit,andnotsomekindofextraterrestrialgoo.

Thesecondfloorhadthreerooms.Ihadhighhopesforthebathroom;Ithoughtwemightfindsomesortofweirdshampoothereorsomething.Butitwasasdisappointingasthekitchen.Eventhemedicinecabinetwasfilledwithtypicalbrandnameitems.

“DoyouthinkMr.SmithreallyusesExcedrin?”askedPeter.“Oristhisjustheretoconvincepeoplehe’sateacher?”

“Ifhewasstockinghishouse to fool snoopers,he’dhaveput in somefurniture,”Isaid.

Theonly placewherewe found anything even remotely alienwas theroomwhere I had seenBroxholm talking to theman on the ship. The twospeakersthatlookedlikepiecesofflatplasticwerestillhangingonthewall.Ilookedunderthedressingtable,andfoundtheswitchBroxholmhadusedtotuneinhisship.Ireachedouttotouchit,thenpulledmyhandback.WhatifIsomehowturneditonandthemanfromtheshipsawPeterandmestandingthere?

“Comeon,”saidPeter.“Wemightaswellgo.”“Youdon’tbelievemeanymore,doyou?”Iaskedsadly.Petershrugged.“Thisplaceiskindofweirdwhatwithnofurnitureand

everything.Butthere’snothingthatwouldmakeanyonethinkMr.Smithisanalien.Ibelievethatyoubelievewhatyoutoldme.Butwhetherit’strueornot...”Heshruggedandturnedtoleavetheroom.

“Wait,”Isaid,followinghimintothehall.“Westilldidn’ttrythatdoor.”PeterswunghisflashlightinthedirectionIwaspointing.“It’sjusttheattic,”hesaid.Iknewthat;Icouldtellbyhownarrowthedoorwas.Butthatwasn’tthe

point.“So what if it’s the attic?” I said. “Maybe Broxholm has something

packedawayupthere.Comeon,Peter.We’vegonethisfar.Wecan’tgiveupnow.”

“Oh, all right,” said Peter. He opened the door and started up thestairway.Whenhegotabouthalfwayupthestairshisheadpassedthelevelofthe attic floor. I was walking so close that I bumped into him when hestopped.

“Whatisit?”Iwhispered.Whenhedidn’tanswerme,Ipushedmywayupbesidehimandcried

outinhorror.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTERNINE

OceanofPDF.com

TheForceFieldintheAttic

Foralongtimeneitherofussaidaword.“Isshealive?”Iaskedatlast.Peterdidn’tanswerme.“Peter,”Ihissed,pinchinghisarm.“Doyouthinkshe’salive?”Peterturnedtome.Icouldseehisfaceintheblueglowthatcamefrom

thethinginthecenteroftheattic.Hiseyeswereglazedandblank.Iwasn’tsurewhetherheevenknewIwasthere.

“Peter!”Ihissed.Heshookhishead.“Youweren’tkidding,wereyou?”“OfcourseIwasn’tkidding!”“Butdoyouknowwhatthismeans?”“Yeah.Itmeanswe’reinbigtrouble.Nowlet’sgetupthereandseeif

wecanfigureoutwhat’sgoingon.”“Analien!”saidPeter,hisvoicefilledwithawe.“Mr.Smithisanalien!

We’renotalone!”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Ihissed.“Intelligentaliens.Mankindisnotaloneintheuniverse.”“Well,I’mfeelingprettyalonerightnow,”Isaid.“Areyougoingtohelp

meornot?”Peter closedhis eyes and rubbedhis face.Suddenlyhis awe turned to

fear.“Oh,myGod,”hesaid.“WhatifMr.Smithcatchesushere?”Irolledmyeyes.“WhydoyouthinkI’vebeensoscaredallnight,you

yo-yo?”SuddenlyIrealizedwhatwasgoingon.“Youneverdidbelieveme,did

you?”Isaidangrily.“Youthoughtthiswasalljustajoke!”Peter shook his head. “I believed you,” he said. But I didn’t really

understand what it meant until—well, until I believed it this way.” Heshruggedhelplessly.“Ican’texplainit,”hesaid.

Itdidn’tmakeanydifference.Iunderstood.HewasfeelingthewayIfeltwhenIsawBroxholmtakehisfaceoff.

“Comeon,”Isaid.“Let’sgetupthere.”

Despitemybravewords,Iclimbedtherestofthosestairsprettyslowly.Peterclimbedupbesideme.Standingsidebyside,westaredat the terriblethingwehadfound.

Inthecenteroftheatticwasacolumnofbluelight.Itwasaboutthreefeetacross,andstretchedfromthefloortothepeakoftheceiling.Andinthecenterofitstood—Ms.Schwartz.Hereyeswerewideopen,buttheyhadn’tblinkedonceinallthetimewehadbeenlookingather.Herfrizzyblackhairwasstandingstraightout fromherhead,as ifshewasgettingsomekindofhorribleshock.Herhandswereathersides,palmsforward,fingersseparated.

Ilookedcarefully,butIcouldn’ttellifshewasbreathing.“Isshealive?”Iaskedagain.“Idon’tknow,”saidPeter.“It’shardtotell.”Westeppedforward.Ms.Schwartzdidn’tmove.Theairsmelledfunny.

Myhairstartedtomovebyitself.Icouldfeelastrangetinglingonmyskin.“It’saforcefield,”saidPeter,takinganotherstepforward.Iknewhewastherightpersontobringwithme.Onlyapersonwhoread

thatmuchsciencefictionwouldknowwhattocallsomethinglikethis.Nowifheonlyknewwhattodoaboutit!

Unfortunately,hedidn’t.“IfIcouldfigureoutwhereitcamefrom,maybeIcouldturnitoff,”he

toldme.“ButIdon’tseeanyequipment.Besides,I’dbeafraidofhurtingMs.Schwartz.”

Inodded. “Doyou think she’sOK in there?” I asked,blinkingbackatear.

HowhadBroxholmdonethistoher?

Maybethehandsomecreephadtrickedherintogoingoutonadatewithhim.Whatatreat—adatewithanalien.Icouldjustimaginehisline:Let’sgoseeafilm.ThenI’lltakeyoubacktomyhouseandlockyouinaforcefield.

Whatarat!“Oh,Ms.Schwartz,”Imoaned.“Whatarewegoingtodo?”Icouldn’tstandseeinghertrappedlikethat.Isteppedforwardandtried

toreachouttotouchher.“Don’t!”criedPeter,whenhesawwhatIwasdoing.Butitwastoolate.

Ihadalreadylaidmyhandsagainstthebluelight.Ifeltatinglerunthroughmy body. For a terrible instant I thought Iwas going to be drawn into theforcefield,too.Butitdidn’thappen.

WhatdidhappenwasIheardavoiceinsidemyhead.Susan,don’tworryaboutme.You’vegottowarntheothers!

ItwasMs.Schwartz.“Peter!”Iyelled.“Comehere.Touchtheforcefield.YoucanhearMs.

Schwartz!”I suppose it sounded crazy. But by this time he was ready to believe

anything.Hepushedthroughtheheavyairthatsurroundedtheforcefieldandputhishandsnexttomineonthecolumnoflight.

Hello,Peter,saidMs.Schwartz.“Telepathy!”whisperedPeterinawe.“Theseguysareamazing.”Yes, they are, said Ms. Schwartz inside our heads. Amazing, and

dangerous.“Whatdotheywant?”Iasked.You!shesaid.Iyelledandjumpedbackfromtheforcefield.Theairaroundmefeltso

thick.Itwashardtomovethroughit.IrealizedIhadlostmyconnectionwithMs. Schwartz. Pushing forward, I pressedmy hands back against the forcefield.

I’msorry,saidMs.Schwartz.Ididn’tmeantofrightenyou.Ilookedatherface.Hereyeswerestaringstraightahead.Itwasweirdto

hearhervoiceinsidemyheadwhenshewasstandingtherelikethat,lookingasifshehadbeenfrozen.

Don’tworryaboutme,shesaid.Yourjobrightnowistowarntheothers.“Warnthemofwhat?”askedPeter.AboutBroxholm!Hismissionhere is to find five students to takeback

withhim.Heplans toselect thebest, theworst,and the threemostaveragekids.

“What’shegoingtodowiththem?”Iasked.Thevoice insidemyheadsoundedworried.Idon’tknowforsure.The

planistobringthembackhereandheadoutintospaceonthenightofMaytwenty-sixth.

“Butthat’snextweek!”Icried.

Ms. Schwartz moaned. I didn’t know so much time had gone by, shewhisperedinsideourheads.Ican’tkeeptrackinsidehere.Listen,youhavetounmaskhimsomehow.Ifyoudon’t,you’reallinterribledanger.

Justthenweheardthefrontdooropenandclose.Talkaboutterribledanger.Broxholmwasback!

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CHAPTERTEN

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SoloEffort

Mymouth went dry.My hands started shaking. Peter’s eyes were sowidetheylookedlikeping-pongballs.

Shhh!cautionedMs.Schwartz.Don’tmakeasound.Iappreciatedtheadvice,butIhadalreadyfiguredthatmuchoutonmy

own.Whatarewegoingtodo?Ithought.Tomysurprise,Ms.Schwartzansweredme.Waittillhereportsin,shesaid.Thenyoucansneakout.Didyoujustreadmymind?Ithought.Justthemessageyousentme,shereplied.Thatwasarelief!There’salotgoingoninsidemyheadthatIdon’twant

anyonetoknowabout—notevenMs.Schwartz.I looked around the attic. IfBroxholm came up herewewere sunk. I

couldn’tseeasinglethingtohidebehind.SuddenlyIheardthathorriblemusicagain.“Thisisourchance,”Iwhispered.“Hemustbeinhisdressingroom.I

bethe’stakingoffhisfaceandgettingreadytoreporttotheship.”“Thenlet’sgo,”saidPeter.“Wait,” I saiddesperately.“WhataboutMs.Schwartz?Wecan’t leave

herherelikethis!”Youhaveto,shethoughtatus.I’mallrightforthetimebeing.Thebest

thingyoucandoformeisunmaskthealien.Istillhesitated.GO! she shouted inside my head. The message was so powerful I

staggeredbackfromtheforcefield.Castingalastlookovermyshoulder,ItookPeter’shand.Hedidn’tpull

away.Thiswasn’tromance,itwasterror.Eachofusneededsomeonetoholdontoaswesneakeddownthestairway.

Whenwe reached the bottom, Peter opened the door as quietly as hecould.Thetinyclickwaslostintheawfulscreechofthealienmusic.Movingslowly,hepeeredaroundtheedge.“Nooneinsight,”hewhispered.

“Thenlet’sgo!”My heart was pounding in my ears. I don’t think I’ve ever been so

frightenedinmylife.IhadafeelingBroxholmwouldjumpoutandgrabusatanysecond.ForonehorribleinstantIwonderedifthemirroronhisdressingtablemightbeattherightangletoshowourreflectionsaswesteppedoutoftheattic.Iimaginedhimracingintothehallway,hisMr.Smithfacehangingdownaroundhischin,readytoturnusintoapairofpuddlesonthefloor—orwhateverapersonfromhisplanetdidtokidshecaughtsnoopinginhisattic.

Thescreechingmusiccontinued.Stillmovingslowly,Peterclosedthedoorbehindus.Thatseemedlikea

wasteoftime,untilIrealizedhewasafraidthatifhedidn’tsecureit,thedoormightswingopenafterheletgoofit.

Onenoiselikethatandweweredeadmeat.Droppingtoourhandsandknees,wecrawledalongtheedgeofthewall.

I couldn’t help it—when I was opposite the door of Broxholm’s room, Iglancedin.Broxholmwassittingthere,peelingoffhisface.Iprayedthathewouldn’tseeme,andcreptforward.

We sliddown the stairs, slippedout the frontdoor, and ran for allwewereworth.Afteraboutthreeblockswestoppedtocatchourbreath.Butnotfor long. In addition to everything else, Iwasworried that sinceBroxholmwasbackmyparentsmightbehome,too.

ButwhenwereachedmyhouseIcouldseethatIhadmadeitbackfirst.That wasn’t too surprising. My folks often stayed to gab with the otherparents after the formal meeting was over. It was even possible that themeetingwasstillgoingon,andBroxholmhadmanagedtoslipoutearly.

Peter walked me to my door. I thought that was brave of him—especiallywhenIwatchedhimwalkoff into thedarknessandrealizedhowfrightened Iwouldbe if Ihad togohomealone.That skinnykidhadmorecouragethananyoneIknew.

Asforme,Iwasterrified.Iwentaroundandturnedoneverylightinthehouse. (Don’t askmewhat good I thought thatwould do.All I know is itmademefeelbetter.)ThenIsatinthelivingroom,waitingformyparentstocomehomeandworryingthatBroxholmmightshowupfirst.

All in all, I decided it hadbeenagoodnight’swork.Even if I hadn’tfoundanythingtoprovemystory,at leastoneotherpersonnowknewwhatwasgoingon.Evenmoreimportant,wehadfoundMs.Schwartz.

Butwhatshouldwedonow?Thecrucial thingwas to revealBroxholm forwhathe reallywas.But

howcouldwedo thatwithoutgetting turned intopuddleson thefloor?Ouronlyadvantagewasthathedidn’tknowweknewhissecret.Ifwecouldmakewhateverwedidseeminnocent,hemightnotguesswhatwewereupto.

Ofcourse,themostobviousthingwasjusttopulloffhismask.

Buthowdoyoupullamaskoffanalien’sface?Ispent thewholenight trying to find thecourage todowhat IknewI

hadtodothenextday.Mr. Bamwick had scheduledme for an extra lesson thatmorning.As

usual,Smith/Broxholmshudderedwhenhesawmepickupmypiccolo.Lethimshudder!Ifhekidnappedme,maybeI’dplaythepiccoloallthewaytothenextgalaxy.

ThereasonfortheextralessonwasthatBam-Boomwantedmetoworkonasolohehadaskedmetoplayforthespringconcert.Weweredoingthegreatestmarch of all time, “The Stars and Stripes Forever” by John PhilipSousa.(Ifyoudon’tknowit,youshouldgotoyourlibraryandgetarecordofitsoyoucanlistentoit.It’sgreat.)Anyway,thehighpointofthemarchisthisincrediblyneat,incrediblydifficultpiccolosolo.

Mr.BamwickhadtoldmewaybackinFebruarythathehadwantedourbandtodothismarchforsevenyears.Hesaidhehadjustbeenwaitinguntilhehadapiccoloplayergoodenoughtohandlethesolo,andnowhethoughthehadone.Me.

I was flattered that he had somuch faith in me. The problemwas, Ididn’thavethatmuchfaithinme.Oh,Icoulddomostofthesoloright—mostofthetime.ButtherewasonetrillneartheendthatIalwaysmessedup.Letme tellyou, ifyou’regoing toplaysomething inconcertyoudon’twant togetitalmostright.Youwantitperfect.

ButMr.Bamwickwasdeterminedwewouldplay“TheStarsandStripesForever”thatspring,ordietrying.ThewaymylessonwasgoingthatFriday,itlookedasifweweregoingtodie.

“Come on, Susan,” saidMr. Bamwick after Imessed up for the thirdtime.“Theconcertisnextweek!Didyoupracticelastnight?”

Ishookmyhead.“Ididn’thavetime,”Isaid.I knew it sounded pretty lame. But how could I tell him I hadn’t

practicedbecauseIhadbeenprowlingthroughmyteacher’shouse,tryingtofindevidencetoprovehewasanalien?

IcouldseeMr.Bamwick trying tocontrolhimself. Ihave togivehimcredit.Heknowsthatitdoesn’tdoanygoodtomakeakidfeelstupid.ButIcould tell he really wanted to explode. By the time I left his room, I wasprettyupsetmyself.

Thatwasn’tallbad.BeingangrygavemethestrengthtodowhatIknewI had to do. Taking a deep breath, I marched back to my room. I pausedoutsidethedoorandtookanotherdeepbreath.

ThenIwent throughthedoor,staggeredover toMr.Smith’sdesk,andpretendedtofaint.

Onthewaydown,Igrabbedforhisear.

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CHAPTERELEVEN

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ParentConference

Failure! Ihadhoped tohit the floorwithMr.Smith’s face inmyhandandBroxholm’srealmugexposedforalltheworldtosee.Instead,Iendedupwithahandfulofairandabumponthehead.

The other kids in the class shouted and jumped to their feet.Smith/Broxholmwavedthemaway.HetoldMikeForantogogetthenurse.ThenhekneltovermetoseeifIwasallright.HewasactingsotenderandconcernedthatIalmostfeltbadabouttryingtopulloffhisface.ButallIhadtodowas thinkofMs.Schwartz trapped in that force field inhisattic,andanyguiltImighthavefeltjustfloatedrightaway.

“Susan!Susan,areyouallright?”heasked,fanningmyface.Imoanedandflutteredmyeyes.“What—whathappened?”Iasked.“Youfainted,”saidBroxholm.Hepattedthesideofhishead.“Almost

tookmyearwithyou,”headded.Hegavemeacutelittlesmilethatshowedthedimpleinhisrightcheek.

Between the two of us, the airwas thickwith fake innocence.Was itreallypossiblehedidn’tknowwhatIwasupto?

AminutelaterMikecamerunningbackwithMrs.Glackapuffingalongbehindhim.Shecheckedmypulse,feltmyforehead,andthenhelpedmetoherofficeto(surprise!)liedown.

Shealsodecidedtocallmymother.ThismeantthatIhadtogohome,andthentothedoctor’s,andthenspendtherestoftheafternooninbedwithmymotherfussingandworryingaboutwhetherornotIwasabouttogetmyfirstperiod.

SheevendecidedthatIhadtospendtheeveninginbed, too,aftershebroughtmysuppertomyroom.

“Gracious, Susan,” she said when she burst through the door. “Thisplace looks like an explosion at a garage sale. Can’t you keep it a littleneater?”

“Iwasplanningtocleanittoday,”Isaid.“OnlyIdidn’tfeeluptoitafterIfainted.”

“Poorbaby,”shesaid,settingthetrayonmynightstand.SheseemedsopleasedIdecidednottotellherIhadbeenkidding.She

nevercouldunderstandthatIlikedmyroomthewayitwas.

AftersupperIslippedoutofbedandwenttoseemyfather.Hewassittinginhisden,buildingamodeloftheEmpireStateBuilding

out of toothpicks. That’s his hobby—making famous buildings withtoothpicks.Ifyouaskme,it’sprettyweird.Butitkeepshimhappy,whichismorethanIcansayformostadultsIknow.SoIguessIshouldn’tcomplain.

“Hi,Pook,”hesaidwhenIwalkedin.“Feelingbetter?”Inodded,notwantingtotellhimIhadn’tbeenfeelingbadtobeginwith.

Isatdownnexttohimandstartedhandinghimtoothpicks.“So,what’sonyourpre-pubescentmindtonight?”hesaidholdingupa

toothpickanddabbingabitofglueontotheendofit.“Dad!”Isaid.ButthatwasallIcouldthinkof.Itried,butIjustcouldn’t

bringmyselftoexplainthesituation.Afterafullminuteofsilenceheturnedtomeandsaid,“Areyouallright,Susan?”Iknewhewasreallyconcerned,because he let the glue on the end of his toothpick dry out while he waswaitingformyanswer.

“I’mfine,”Isaidatlast.“Well,notexactlyfine.I’vegotaproblem.”“Whatkindofproblem?”heasked.Heputdownhistoothpickandgave

mehisfullattention.Thiswas terrible!Canyou imagine trying to tellyour father thatyour

teacherisanalien?HewasgoingtothinkIwasoutofmymind.ButIhadtodosomething.SoItookadeepbreathandsaid,“It’sabout

Mr.Smith.”Henodded,invitingmetocontinue.Look, I tried. I really did. But I just couldn’t bringmyself to say the

words,“Myteacherisanalien.”Afteralong,uncomfortablesilenceIfinallysaid,“Idon’tthinkhelikes

meverymuch.”Dadlookedappropriatelyworried.“Whynot?”heasked.“Well, he shudders whenever he sees me go to my music lesson.” I

hopedthatmightsoundweirdenoughtogethimtoaskanotherquestion.Comeon,Dad,helpme!Ithought.Asktherightquestions.But he just laughed. “As long as Mr. Smith doesn’t actually say

anything,Idon’tthinkyoucancomplaintoomuch,”hesaid.“Maybetheguyjustdoesn’tlikemusic.Noteveryonecanbeasculturedasweare,youknow.He’sprobablyjustaphilistine.”

Yeah,Ithought,APhilistine—fromtheplanetPhilis!ButallIsaidaloudwas,“Yeah.APhilistine.”Figuringhehadsolvedmyproblem,Dadturnedbacktohistoothpicks.

“Iwouldn’tletitgettoyou,honey,”hesaid.“Theschoolyear’salmostover.Youcantoughitouttillthen.Now,youbetterscootbacktobedbeforeyour

mothercatchesyououthere.”Igavehimahugandtrudgedbacktomyroom.Nowwhat?IfIwasgoingtodoanythingaboutthismess,Ihadtoget

someproof,andfast.IwasstilltryingtofigurethatalloutwhenPetercalled.“Nice try today,” he said. “You’re really brave. I just hopeBroxholm

didn’tfigureoutwhatyouwereupto.”Great!ThatwasthelastthingintheworldIwantedtothinkabout.“Iwasn’tbrave,” Isaid.“Justdesperate.What Iwant toknowiswhat

arewegoingtodonext?We’vegottofindsomewaytoprovethetruthaboutBroxholm.”

“Actually,that’swhyI’mcalling,”saidPeter.“Iwantedtoknowifyouhadacamera.”

“Sure.Why?”Hehesitated,thensaid,“Well,areyougameforanotherexpeditioninto

Broxholm’slair?”I smiled for the first time that day. “Sowe can take a picture ofMs.

Schwartz! Peter, you’re brilliant. Only when can we be sure he won’t bethere?”

“Howaboutduringschool?”“Peter,Ican’tskipschool!Mymotherwouldkillme!”“Wouldyourathergetkidnappedbyaliens?”heaskedI sighed. “All right. I’ll bringmy camera to school onMonday.We’ll

talkaboutitthen.”Ihungupand triednot to thinkabout the fact that in twodays, Iwas

goingtogobackintothealien’sden.In fact, I spentmost of that whole long, sleepless night trying not to

thinkaboutit.

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CHAPTERTWELVE

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ThingsGetWeirder

Ididn’tthinkitwasallthatweirdwhenStacyBenoitcalledmeSaturdaymorningtoseehowIwasdoing.Afterall,she’smyfriend,andshedidthinkIhadfaintedinschoolthedaybefore.Ididn’trealizewhenIlaughedandtoldhertherewasn’tanythingwrongwithmethatIwasonlyconfirmingherworstfears.

I didn’t figure that out untilMondaymorning, when our class turnedintosomethingfromtheTwilightZone.

Untilthatpoint,Ihadotherthingstoworryabout—likewhattodoaboutMs.Schwartz.

Sincemymotherstillwouldn’t letmeoutof thehouse, I spenta longtimediscussingthisforcefieldthingwithPeteroverthephone.Hetoldmehewas pretty sureMs. Schwartzwas actually safer inside that thing than shewouldbewalkingthestreets.

“Sheprobablydoesn’tlikeitinthere,”hesaid.“IknowIwouldn’t.Butnothing’sgoingtohurther.”

“Well,doesn’tshehavetoeatorgotothebathroom,orsomething?”Iaskednervously.

IcouldalmostseePeter’sshrugover the telephoneline.“Idon’t thinkso,” he said. “I have a feeling time is prettymuch holding still inside thatthing.Sounlessshehadtogotothebathroomwhenheputherinthere,she’sprobablyfine.”Hepaused,thenadded,“Cometothinkofit, thatforcefieldcouldbeawoman’sdream—shewon’tageabit!”

“Don’tbeamalechauvinistpiglet,”Isaidangrily.“Thisisserious.”“Iknowit’sserious,”snappedPeter.“Butwecan’tdoanythingaboutit

this weekend—unless you know of a time when we can be sure thatBroxholmwon’tbethere.”

“Isupposeyou’reright,”Isaid.ButthethoughtofMs.Schwartztrappedinthatforcefieldgnawedaway

atmeforalltherestofthedayandallofSunday,too.Ihadtogetheroutofthere!

IwasstillstewingaboutthatonMonday,untilthingsgotsoweirdthatIforgotaboutMs.Schwartzforawhile.

It started with Duncan Dougal, who walked into class carrying the

biggestappleIhadeverseeninmylife.“Goodmorning,Mr.Smith,”hesaid.“Howareyoutoday?”Hisvoice

wassosyrupy-sweetitmademewanttothrowup.Ilookedaway,thenlookedbackagainsofastitputacrickinmyneck.

Duncan?Ithoughtinastonishment.TheclassbullyputhisappleonMr.Smith’sdesk,thenwenttohisown

desk,satdown,andfoldedhishandsneatlyinfrontofhim.Isqueezedmyeyesshutandthenopenedthemagaintoseeifanything

wouldchange.Buttheapplewasstillthere,andDuncanwasstillsittingathisdesk,smilinglikealittleangel.

Whatwasgoingonhere?WhenIopenedmydesk, I foundanote thatsaid,“I thinkyouare the

bravestpersonIhaveevermet.”Itwassigned,“Afriend.”Whohaditcomefrom?Andwhy?Ilookedaroundtheroom,buttheotherswereallbentovertheirdesks,

workingbusilyaway.I turnedbacktomywork, tryingtofigureoutwhatwasgoingon.But

even theweird stuff that had happened so far hadn’t preparedme forwhatcamenext.

“Youpig-facedbaboon!”yelledafamiliarvoice.Stacy?StacyBenoit?Thegirlmost likely tobedeclareda saintwhile

stillliving?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 meanNEVER,gottenintroublewithateacher.

“Shutup!”yelledMike.“Shutup,youcreep!”WhenStacyslappedhimacrossthefaceIalmostfelloutofmychair.Of

course,Stacycouldn’tslapthatwell,havingneverdoneitbefore.Soitwaskindofawimpylittleslap.ButthiswasStacyBenoit,forheaven’ssakes.

“Stacy!”yelledMr.Smith,whowassittingatthebackoftheroomwithareadinggroup.“Michael!Whatisgoingonupthere?”

Hestartedforthefrontoftheroom.IButhewastoolate.WhenStacyslappedMike,hejumpedupsofastheknockedhisdeskover.Hisfacewasred.Ididn’trealizeuntillateritwasfromstagefright.

“Youmotherwears—uh,uh—yourmotherwears—”Iwantedtoprompthim.Itwaspathetictoseethenicestkidintheclass

trytocomeupwithawitheringinsult,andevenmorepatheticwhenhefinallyfinishedupwith,“yourmotherwearspolyester!”

Butitseemedtodothetrick.Stacybegantoshriekinoutrage.

Mr.Smithreachedthemjust intimetokeepthemfromgoingforeachother’sthroats.

“The rest of you stay in your seats,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in aminute.”

Then he walked out the door, dragging the two best-behaved kids insixthgradealongwithhim.Theywerekickingandscreamingeverystepoftheway.

Iclosedmyeyesandshookmyhead.IwassureIwasawake.Sowhatwasgoingon?WasthisthesameplanetIhadgonetosleepon?

Icouldn’twaitforrecesssoIcouldtalktoPeter.

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CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

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Rumors

“StacyandMikedidagoodjob,didn’tthey?”saidPeter,whenwegottogetherontheplaygroundatrecess.

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Iasked.“Stacy and Mike. Didn’t you think that fight they put on was pretty

good?”“Thefighttheyputon?”Iechoed.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 kidnapwhicheveronehechooses.Sotheydecidedtofakeafight—youknow,messuptheirreputationsalittle.”

Allofasuddeneverythingcameclear.“That’swhyDuncanbroughtMr.Smithanapplethismorning!”Isaid.

Petergiggled.“Pathetic,isn’tit?Butitmightwork.RightnowDuncanisasurepickforworstkidintheclass.Butifheworksreallyhard,hemightactuallymanagetopullhimselfoffthebottomofthelist.Sinceheknowsthatno matter what he does, he’s never going to push himself into the mostaveragecategory,ifhecanimproveatall,he’sprobablysafe.Theproblemis,he’sbeensobadallyearthatit’sgoingtotakeamajorefforttogetoutofthebottomspot.”

Peterpaused,thenadded,“Iintendtohavesomefunwithhimoverthenextthreedays.”

Three days! That was all the time we had before Broxholm wasscheduledtokidnapfiveofusintospace.

“That’snotverynice,”Istartedtosay.ButthenIrememberedthewayDuncanhad.tormentedPeterforthelast

sixyears. IdecidedIcouldn’tblamePeter ifhewantedtogeta littleofhisownbackwhilehecould.Anydecisiontobeaniceguyaboutthiswasgoingtohavetocomefrominsidehimself.

I decided to change the subject. “Tellme,” I said. “Just howdid theyknowaboutallthis?”

“Itoldthem,”saidPeter.“Andtheybelievedyou?”Actually,itmadesense.Iftheyweregoingtobelieveanyone,itwould

bePeter.Hehadareputationasbeingthemosthonestkidintheclass,whichwasoneofhisproblems.Hedidn’tknowhowtotellthekindof“littlewhitelies”thatkeeppeoplefromgettingmadatyou.

But I doubted that even his reputation for honesty would convincepeoplethisstorywastrue.

Petersmiled.“Actually,you’rethereasonanyonebelievedme.ItstartedwithStacy.Shejustdidn’tbelieveyouhadreallyfainted—orthatifyouhad,youwouldhavetriedtograbtheteacher’searonthewaydown.Sosheknewsomething was going on. Later she cornered me on the playground anddemandedtoknowwhatyouwereupto.”

“Whyyou?”Iasked.Peter blushed. “You’re going to hate this,” he said. “There’s a rumor

goingaroundthatyou’remygirlfriendbecausewe’vebeenspendingsomuchtimetalkingontheplayground.”

“Yuck!”Iyelled.“Yuck!Yuck!Yuck!”SuddenlyIrealizedwhatIhadjustdone.“Don’ttakethatpersonally,”I

said.“Iwon’t,”saidPeter.“SinceIfeelthesameway.”Hey!Ithought.Whatdoyoumean,youfeelthesameway?Butwedidn’thavetimetoworkthatoutrightthen.“Anyway,” said Peter, “Stacy was convinced I must know what was

goingon.AndsinceIdid,Itoldher.”“Thewholestory?”Igasped.Peternodded.“Shedidn’tbelievemeat first,ofcourse.Butwhenshe

talkedtoyouonSaturdayandyoutoldhertherewasnothingactuallywrongwithyou,shefigureditmustbetrue.”Helaughed.“Thatwasallittook.BySaturdayafternoon,thephonelineswerehummingalloverKennituckFalls.”

“Howcomeyouknowallthis?”Iasked.“Howcomenooneaskedme?”Peter shrugged. “That’snot theway rumorswork.Peoplenever check

with thesource.Theyalwaysasksomeoneelse.Don’taskmewhy,but it’strue.Lotsofstupidthingsaretrue.Anyway,StacytoldMike,andMiketoldsomeoneelse,andthatwasit.It’sthekindofstorythattravelsfast.”

“Andtheyallbelieveit?”Iasked.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 andMikebelieve it. He thinks they know everything. That’s why he hates them somuch.”

“Isee,”Isaid,thoughsomeofthiswascomingalittletoofastforme.“Well,doyousupposeifenoughofusstarttobelieveit, theadultswillpayanyattentiontous?”

Peter lookedas ifIhadjustsuggestedMickeyMousewaslikelytobethenextpresidentof theUnitedStates. “Get real,Susan,”he said. “They’llsayit’s justanothercrazykidrumor.Doyouremember lastyear,whenhalfthe people in this schoolwere convinced that the presidentwas coming toKennituckFallstomakeaspeech?”

Inodded.Ihadalmostbelieveditmyself—halfbecausesomanyofmyfriends did, half because I wanted it to be true. I also remember howmyfather had laughedwhen he heard about it. “Just because a thousand idiotsbelievesomething,thatdoesn’tmakeittrue,”hehadsaid.

Whichwastrue,Iguess.Butitcertainlydidn’thelpusnow.ThatwaswhenPeterdecidedtocomplicatethingswithanewproblem.“Whatareyougoingtodoaboutthisyourself?”heasked.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Well,sinceoneofthethingsonBroxholm’sshoppinglististhebestkid

in the class, if we can’t unmask him you’ve got a good change of beingpickedyourself.”

ThatwasthebestlaughI’dhadindays.“You’renuts,”Isaid.“There’snowayIcouldbepickedfortopkidintheclass!”

“Thereistoo.Italldependsonhowhe’smakinghischoice.ThewayIseeit,therearefourofusthatmightbeconsideredbestintheclass—Stacy,Michael,you,andme.”

“You’renuts,”Isaidagain.“Listen tome!Stacy andMichael areyourbasicperfect students.But

theyjustdidagoodjoboftakingthemselvesoutof therunning—thoughtotellyouthetruth,Idon’tthinkBroxholmwouldhavechoseneitherofthem,anyway. They’re real bright, but they don’t think that much. They believeeverything the teacher tells them. I’m sure Broxholm is bright enough toknowthatdoesn’tmakeagreatstudent.”

He paused. “Then there’sme,” he said. “I’m real bright. But I’m notmotivated.AndI’mnotverysocial.Youknowhowitgoes:‹Peterisagoodstudent,buthe’snotverywellrounded.’Iheariteveryyear.Thatleavesyou,Susan.Yougetgoodgrades.Yougetalongwitheveryone.You’reinallkindsofactivities.Let’sfaceit,youmaynotbethebestinanyonething,butwhenyou lookateverything together,youmakeaprettygoodpickfor topof theclass.”

Istaredathiminhorror.“You’renotkidding,areyou?”Heshookhishead.

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CHAPTERFOURTEEN

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WhatCanDuncanDougalDo?

Icouldn’tbelievewhatIwashearing.IhadbeenworriedthatBroxholmmightwantmeforoneofhis“average”slots.ItneverevencrossedmymindthatIcouldbeconsideredthetopstudentintheclass.

“Peter,whatamIgoingtodo?”Iwailed.Petershruggedhisskinnyshoulders.“Don’tworry,”hesaid.“I’vegota

plan.”I thoughthemeant thecamera.Hedidn’t,but Ididn’tknowthat then.

TheplanheactuallymeantwassoweirdIneverwouldhavethoughtofit.Itookadeepbreathandtriedtosettledown.“I’mgladyoumentioned

that,”Isaid,referringtothecamera.“IthinkI’vefiguredoutthebesttimeformetogetbackintoBroxholm’shouse.”

“Youmeanus,”saidPeter.I shookmy head. “Imeanme,” I said. “I’m going to do it tomorrow

morning, duringmymusic lesson time. ThatwayMr. Smithwon’t suspectanythingwhenIleavetheroom.IfigureifIusemybike,IcanmakeittohishouseandbackbeforeI’mreallymissed.I’llgetintroublelater,butatleastI’llhavetheproofweneed.”

“You’renotgoingalone,”saidPeter.“Yes,Iam,”Isaid.“Ifwebothtakeoff,it’sgoingtolooksuspicious—

especiallyconsideringtheamountoftimewe’vespenttogetherlately.MaybesuspiciousenoughthatBroxholmwillpretendhe’ssick,justsohecancheckuponus.Wedon’twanthimwalkinginonuswhilewe’retakingthephotos.Idoubtwecouldmanagetosneakoutofhishousewithoutgettingcaughtasecondtime—especiallyifhe’sactuallylookingforus.”

“Then I should go instead,” said Peter. “You might not have enoughtime.I’lljustskipschoolaltogether.”

“Now,howcanyoudothat?”Iasked.Peter sighed.“Ikeep trying to tellyou, itdoesn’tmakeanydifference

whatIdo.AslongasIdon’tgetintroublewiththelaw,noonecares.”“Peter,that’snotaverynicewaytotalkaboutyourparents,”Isaid.“Idon’thaveparents,”hesnapped.“I’vegotaparent.Period.Andhe

doesn’tcarewhatIdo,aslongasIdon’tgetintrouble.”Ifeltstupid.HereIhadknownthiskidforsixyears,andIdidn’teven

knowheonlyhadoneparent.“Allright,”Isaid.“We’llgotogether.”“Whydon’tIjustgoalone?”saidPeter.Ishookmyhead.“Igotthiswholethingstarted.It’smyjob.”Actually, I wasn’t really feeling all that noble. I wanted to see Ms.

Schwartzagain—tomakesureshewasOK,andalsotogetsomeadvice.Peter shrugged. “You’re the one who’s going to land in hot water. If

that’sthewayyouwanttodoit,it’sOKwithme.”Then itwas time to go back inside.Even though themajorweirdness

was over for the day, you could sense a kind of nervous energy in theclassroom.Theotherkidsdidn’t really believe the rumors aboutMr.Smithbeinganalien—atleastnotyet.ButafterthelittleshowStacyandMikehadputon,theywerestartingtotakethingsprettyseriously.

Itwouldhavebeenfunny,ifitwasn’tsoscary.The nextmorning I rodemy pick to school, carryingmy piccolo and

camerainmybackpack.AsIwasputtingthelockonmyfrontwheel,DuncanDougalcamesidlingup tomeandsaid,“IfyouandPeterarepullingsomekindofjokeonme,I’mgoingtoturnyouintopeanutbutter.”

Strangeasitmayseem,Duncan’sthreatmademefeelbetter.AtleastIknewthereweresomethingsintheworldthatIcouldstillcounton.

“It’sno joke,Duncan,” I said,drawingacrossovermyheartwithmyfingers.

He lookedatme suspiciously.Thenhenodded. “OK,”he said. “Now,whatarewegoingtodoaboutit?”

Now that was something I hadn’t expected: an offer of help fromDuncanDougal.Thinkquick, I toldmyself.Thismaynothappenagain foranothertenyears.

IlookedatDuncan.“Howwouldyoufeelaboutskippingschooltoday?”Iasked.

He grinned, showing the big gap between his front teeth. “I loveskippingschool,”hesaid.

Hewasn’t tellingme something I didn’t know.One of the things thatmade itpossible tosurvivehavingDuncan inourclasswas the fact thathewasoutofschoolsooften.Weallknewhisolderbrotherwrotehisexcusesfor him.But noneof uswere about to tell;weweren’t crazy enough to dosomething that would put Duncan in our classroom any more often thannecessary.

Besides, ifoneofus toldandDuncan foundoutwhodid it,hewould

massacrethatperson.Butitmightbeusefultohavehimalong—ifIcouldbesureofoneother

thing.“CanyougosomeplacewithPeterwithoutpickingonhim?”Iasked.“Sure,”saidDuncan.“IlikePeter.”Ilookedathim.Tomyastonishment,helookedlikehereallymeantit.Ishookmyhead.Whatcanyousaytosomeonelikethat?“All right,” I said. “You go do whatever it is you do when you skip

school.I’mgoingtosneakoutofthebuildingatquarterafternine.IwantyoutomeetmeatthecomerofPineandParker.You’llneedabike.”

I thoughtabout tellinghimnot tosteal it,butdecided thatmightseemtooinsulting.

Duncannoddedhishead.“Wherearewegoing?”heasked.I lookedhimright in theeyeandsaid,“PeterandIaregoing tobreak

intoMr.Smith’shouseandtakepicturesoftheforcefieldwherehe’sholdingMs.Schwartzprisoner.Iwantyoutostandoutsideandbeourlookout,incaseMr.Smithgetswiseandcomesbacktostopus.”

I hesitated, then added, “I hope youwon’tmind facing an alien deathray.”

Isupposethatwasarottenthingtosay.ButthelookonDuncan’sfacemadeitworthit.

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CHAPTERFIFTEEN

OceanofPDF.com

HookeyforThree

IwassonervousthatIdidn’tevenlookatMr.Smithwhenitwastimetoleaveformylesson.

Forgiveme,Mr.Bamwick, I thought as Iheadedaway fromhis room,towardthesidedoor.

Peekingouttomakesuretherewasnoonearound,Isprintedtomybike,unlockedit,andheadedoutoftheschoolyardasfastasIcould.

Duncanwaswaitingat thecomerofPineandParker,sittingonabluefive-speed.

“Followme!”Isaidandkeptridingfortheedgeoftown.Icheckedmywatch.IthadbeentwelveminutessinceIlefttheclass.IfI

couldmakeitbackjustasfast,thatwouldgivemesixteenminutestotakethepictures.

PeterwaswaitinginfrontofthehedgeatBroxholm’shouse.Icouldseehis smilequickly turn to a frownwhenhe sawwhowaswithme.Hispalefaceturnedevenpaleraswedrewup.

“What’shedoinghere?”demandedPeter.Iwas impressed. It tooka lotofnerve forPeter tosay that in frontof

Duncan.Tomysurprise,itwasDuncanwhotriedtomakepeace.“Ijustcameto

help,”hesaid.Hedidsayitkindofbelligerently,buthewasholdinguphishandswiththepalmsouttoshowthathemeantpeace.

“He’sgoingtobeourlookout,”Iadded,hopingthatPeterwouldseethewisdomofthis.

Hehesitated foramoment, thennodded.“OK,”hesaidgrudgingly.“Iguessyoucanstay.”

Duncanlookedaspleasedasanaughtypuppywho’sjustbeenletbackintothehouse.“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”heasked.

“Standrighthere,”Isaid,indicatingaspotjustinsidethehedgewherehecouldhaveagoodviewofthesidewalk.“IfyouseeMr.Smithcoming,runupon theporchandpoundon thedoor togiveus awarning.Then run foryourlife!”

Duncannoddedseriouslyandtookhisplace.IlookedatPeter.Hegavemeanod,andweheadedforthebackofthehouse.

Tomyrelief,thebrokenlockwasstillwherePeterhadjammeditbackinplaceafterourlastadventurehere.Ihadfiguredthatasatemporarytenant,Broxholm probably wouldn’t keep that close an eye on things that neededrepairaroundtheplace.ItwasnicetofindoutIhadbeenright.

Weopenedthedoor,andheadedbackintothealien’slair.Ifeltalittlemoreateasethistime.Afterall,wecouldbeprettysurethat

Broxholmwouldstayatschool.Weknewexactlywhereweweregoing.Andwehadalookouttokeepusfrombeingsurprised.

Howcouldwegowrong?TheanswertothatquestionwasevenworsethanIexpected.For the first fewminutes everythingwent as smooth as could be.We

madeitoutofthecellarandintotheatticwithtimetospare.Nothinghadchanged.Thecolumnofbluelightwasstillthere.Andpoor

Ms.Schwartzwasstilltrappedrightinthemiddleofit.Irushedovertoitandplacedmyhandsagainsttheforcefield.Almost

instantlyIcouldhearMs.Schwartz’svoice inmyhead.Hello,Susan.Whatareyoudoinghere?

Wecametotakesomepicturesofyou,sothatwecanprovewhat’sgoingon,Ithoughtbackather.

Her reply scared me.Weren’t you just here a few minutes ago? sheasked.Shesoundedconfused.

Ibitmylip.Wassheallright?Ofcourse,sincethethoughtwasabouther,Ms.Schwartzpickeditup.I’mnotsure,sheresponded.It’sgettingsoit’sveryhardtothinkinhere.

Shepausedforamoment,thenasked,Whatdayisthis?It’sTuesday,Ithought.Tuesday,thetwenty-fourthofMay.Her reaction almost knocked me over. You must do something! she

thoughtdesperately.It’sonlytwodaysuntilBroxholmisplanninghispickup.Susan,youhavetodosomething!

Iknow,Iknow!Ireplied.Herfearwascomingthroughasclearlyasherthoughts,anditwasmakingmeafraid,too.

Ourconversationwas interruptedbyPeter.“Susan,wecan’t just standhereandchat.We’vegottogetthesepicturestaken!”

Hewasrightofcourse.Hangon,Ms.Schwartz,Ithought.We’llgetyououtoftheresomehow!

Peterhadalreadystartedflashing.“That’sgood,”hesaid.“Letmegetacouplemoreofyoustandingnext

to her. Then move away from the force field so I can get some of Ms.Schwartzbyherself.”

IwasgladPeterwasthere.Imighthavegottensowounduptalkingto

Ms.Schwartz that Iwouldn’thave taken thepictures in time togetback toschool.Buthewasworkingfast.Inafewminuteshehadusedupmostoftheroll, taking some pictures with flashes, some without, working from alldifferentangles.Ihelped,andwedideverythingwecouldthinkof tomakesurewegotatleastonegoodshot.

Wewerejusttryingtofigureoutthelastanglewhenweheardaterriblescreamfromdownstairs.

“Ahhhhhh!Ahhhhahhhhhhahhhhh!”Icouldn’tmakemuchsenseofthewords.ButIrecognizedthevoice.It

belongedtoDuncanDougal.

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CHAPTERSIXTEEN

OceanofPDF.com

Duncan’sDisaster

Peterlookedatme.Ilookedathim.Iwonderedifhewasasterrifiedashelooked.IwonderedifIlookedasterrifiedasIfelt.

“What’shedoinginhere?”Iwhispered.“Andwhat’shappeningtohim?”hissedPeter.Andwhatarewegoingtodoaboutit?Ithought.We hesitated for only a second and then began to creep down the

stairwell.Duncanwasstillscreaming.Wehadleftthedoortotheatticopen,incaseweneededtomakeaquick

getaway. Pokingmy head around the edge, I looked in the direction of thescreams.Theywerecoming from the roomwhereMr.Smithsat to takeoffhismaskeverynight.

IreachedforPeter’shand.“Whatshouldwedo?”Imouthedtohim.He pointed down the hall and started off with me following close

behind.Afteracoupleofsteps,wedroppedtoourbelliesandsliduptothedoor

andpeekedaroundtheedge.Icouldn’tbelieveit—Duncanwasallalone.Hewasstandinginfrontof

the“mirror,”screamingforallhewasworth.Ican’tsay that Iblamedhim—thecommunicatorwason,andDuncan

waslookingintothebridgeofBroxholm’sstarship.Andoneofthosehideousaliensfromtheshipwaslookingbackathim,talkingtohiminthatlanguageofgrowlsandshrieks.

I took a deep breath and slithered into the room, crawling across thefloorasfastasIcouldmove.IscootedrightunderthetableandhittheswitchIhadseenBroxholmusetoturnthesetoff.

It made a crackling noise and then fell silent. Duncan stoppedscreaming.

“Youidiot!”yelledPeter, jumpingintotheroom.“Whatareyoudoinginhere?”

“Igotbored,”sniveledDuncan.Talkaboutashortattentionspan.Hecouldn’thavebeenouttheremore

thanfiveortenminutes.

“AndIwantedtoseeifyouweretellingthetruthornot,”hecontinued.SoIwentaroundthehouseandcameinthroughthecellar.Thiswastheonlyroomwithanythinginit,soIcamein.WhenItouchedtheswitch,that—that—thatthingshowedupandstartedgrowlingatme.”

Duncanwasblubberingnow,withbigtearscuttingcleanpathsdownhisdirtyface.

Heturnedtomeandsaid,“IsthatwhatMr.Smithreallylookslike?”Inoddedmyhead.Duncan’seyesrolledbackinhishead—andfainted.Bythetimewegothimonhisfeetandoutofthehouse,Ionlyhadten

minutestogetbacktoschool.“MaybeIshouldn’tgoback,”Isaid.Peter shook his head. “You have to,” he said. “We can’t afford to be

moresuspiciousthanwealreadyare.Anyway,Idon’tthinkthealiensactuallysawyou—atleastnotyourface.Youstayeddownlowenough.”

“Whataboutme?”blubberedDuncan.“Whataboutme?”Peterhesitated.“You’llhavetohideoutatmyhouse,”hesaid.“It’sthe

lastplaceanyonewouldthinktolookforyou.Ifyoustaythere,youmaybesafe.Getgoing,Susan;you’vegottogetbacktoschoolassoonaspossible.Don’tworryaboutthepictures;I’lltakecareofthat.Justmove!”

Ihoppedonmybikeandheadedforschool.ByridingextrahardIgottherejustaboutthetimemylessonwassupposedtobeending.ButIwasallhotandsweatywhenIsneakedbackin.Evenworse,IranintoMr.BamwickthemomentIwalkedthroughthedoor.

Hewasfurious.”Susan,wherehaveyoubeen?”heshouted.“I’vespentthelastfortyminuteswaitingforyou.We’vegotaconcertintwodays,andmystarsoloistcan’tevenshowupforherlesson!”

IdidtheonlythingIcouldthinkof:Istartedtocry.Itwasn’thardtodo,sinceIwasontheedgeoftears,anyway.

“I’msorry,Mr.Bamwick,”Isobbed.“I’mjustsofrightenedIcouldn’tcometomylesson.”

Wow! So far so good. Iwas actuallymanaging to tell him somethingthatwasprettyclosetothetruth.

ButthenIfeltbad,becauseMr.Bamwick,whoreallyisagoodguy,gotupsetaboutscaringmeandstartedapologizingforputtingmeundersomuchpressure.

In the end it worked out better than I could have imagined. Mr.BamwickwenttoMr.Smithandexplainedthattherehadbeenaproblemwithmy lesson,andsincewehad this importantconcertcomingup,would itbepossibleforhimtokeepmeforalittlewhilelonger,andsoon.

Itwasgreat!Ihadarealexcuse,andIevengottoworkonmysolo.Back in class thingswere pretty quiet, until just before the endof the

daywhenMikeForan started throwing spitballs atStacy. Iwondered if thetwoofthemweren’tactuallyenjoyingthemselves.Afterall,theyhadbeensowellbehavedforthelastseveralyearsthatmaybethiswastheperfectchanceforthemtoletoffalittlesteam.

Butitwasn’tStacyandMichaelwhowereaskedtostayafterschoolthatday.

No, that honorwas reserved for yours truly. Iwas sitting atmy desk,thinkingthatmaybewehadactuallygottenawaywithourlitlephotosessionwhenMr.Smithwalkedup tomeand said, “MissSimmons, Iwantyou tostayafterschool.Ineedtotalktoyou.”

Itwas amazinghow two such simple sentences could teachmewholenewlevelsoffear.

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CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

OceanofPDF.com

TeacherConference

Theotherkidshadleft.Iwasalonewiththealien.At least Stacy had lingered at the door for a fewminutes—untilMr.

Smithturnedtoherandsaid,“It’stimeforyoutogo,MissBenoit.IwanttospeaktoMissSimmonsinprivate.”

Stacy looked at me with an expression that said, “I tried.” Then shehurriedaway.

Broxholm/Smith walked over and straddled the chair in front of mydesk.Heleanedtowardme.“Iknowwhatyoudidtoday,”hesaid.

“Oh”wasall I couldmanage. I felt as if someonehaddroppedan icecube intomy heart. Theworst thingwas, I couldn’t even be surewhat hemeant.DidheknowIhadskippedmypiccololesson?OrdidheknowIhadbeeninsidehishouse?

I looked at the door andwondered if Iwould ever go through it as alivingpersonagain.

“Well?”saidBroxholm.“I’msorry,”Iwhispered.Itwasaboutallmyvoicewasgoodforatthat

point. Itwas also just as vague ashis first statement. Iwasn’t about to saywhatIwassorryfor.

Broxholm looked at me. “I don’t understand why you dislike me somuch,Susan,”hesaid.“I’mjusttryingtodowhatisrightforthisclass.Yetyou’vebeenhostiletomefromthemomentIwalkedthroughthedoor.”

Whatanactor!IwonderedifIwouldeverbethatgood.Itwasamazinghowhewasstillpretendingtobejustateacherwhowashavingtroublewithoneofhisstudents.

Suddenly he rose and crossed the room to close the door. “NOW,”hesaid,sittingdowninfrontofmeagain,“let’sbehonestwitheachother,shallwe,MissSimmons?”

ShouldIsaysomething?ShouldItellhimIknewhissecret?“Whyareyouhere,anyway?”Isaidatlast,stillplayinghisgameofnot

sayinganythingthatcouldn’tbetakenatleasttwoways.“I’mheretolearn,”hesaidsmoothly.“Afterall,isn’tthatwhatschoolis

for?”Creep!I thought.ButoutloudIsaid,“Ithoughtyouweresupposedto

betheteacher.”Itriedtokeepmyvoicefromcracking.Butitdid,anyway.Broxholmshifted inhischair.“Agood teacher isalways learning,”he

said.“Educationisaprocessofgiveandtake.Ihavetotakecertainthingsinordertolearn.LookatallI’vetakenfromthisclassalready.I’vetakenalotofnonsense.I’vetakenalotofsnottiness.”

Suddenlyheturnedandlookeddirectlyatme.“AndI’llhavetotakeafewmore things in order to learn all I can—if you takemymeaning,MissSimmons.”

Ishrankbackinterror.I don’t know how he did it, but I could actually see his alien eyes

beneathhismask,asiftheywereburningwithalightoftheirown.“And I won’t take kindly to any interference with my educational

mission,”hesaidinavoicewithoutanyemotion.He had picked up a copy ofRockets andFlags as he talked.Now he

began to squeeze it. I watched his fingers sink right into the cover,compressingthepaperwiththepowerofhisgrip.

Iheardahorriblethumpingsound.Iglancedaroundtoseewhereitwascomingfrom,thenrealizeditwasthebeatingofmyownheart.

“Theuniverseisaverybigplace,Susan,”saidBroxholmgently.Hedroppedthebook.Hisfingershadleftdentshalfaninchdeepinthe

cover.IfonlyIcouldgetthebookoutofthere,Iwouldfinallyhaveproofofwhathewas.But,ofcourse,hehadnointentionoflettingmehavethebook.Hepickeditupandcarriedittohisbriefcase.

“Averybigplaceindeed,”hesaid.“Andtherearemorethingsgoingonin it than you can possibly imagine. It’s important to learn all we can.Otherwise, terrible things can happen. Terrible things. That’s my job—topreventterriblethings.Canyouunderstandthat,MissSimmons?”

Ishookmyhead.MaybeIshouldsayIshookmyheadharder, sinceIwasalreadyshakingallover.

He sighed. “Well, perhaps someday you will,” he said. “For now, Isimplywantyoutoknowthatit iswisest—andsafest—nottointerferewithyourelders.”

Heclosedhisbriefcase.“Iwillseeyou tomorrow,MissSimmons,”hesaid.“Itrustthatyouwillspendtheentiredayhereintheclassroom—andnotentermyhomeagain!”

Ialmostfelloffmychair.Heknew.Hehadknownallalong!BeforeIcouldsayanything,hewentoutthedoor,leavingmealone.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

OceanofPDF.com

ConcertConcerns

It took me almost twenty minutes to get home. I cycled along thesidewalkslowly,watchingeverycorner.Ikeptexpectingalienstoleapoutofthebushesandgrabme.

Whensomethingdidjumpoutofthebushes,Iscreamedsohighandsoloud,IwassurprisedIdidn’tbreaktheglassinthestreetlampoverhead.

ButitwasonlyPeter.“Areyoutryingtogivemeaheartattack?”Iasked,straddlingmybike

andglaringathim.“ItwouldserveyourightforbringingDuncanalongtoday,”hesaid.I wasn’t up for a fight, and I said so. Peter wasmad enough that he

might have kept it going, anyway, butwhen I started to tell himwhat hadhappened after school he got so interested he forgot about being angry.HeinsistedthatItrytoremembereverywordBroxholmhadsaid.

“Where’sDuncan?”IaskedwhenIfinishedmystory.“Hiding inmy closet,” said Peter with a wicked grin. “We called his

folks,andhe’sgoingtospendthenextcoupleofdaysatmyhouse.”“Didn’ttheyaskanyquestions?”Peter laughed.“IfyouwereDuncan’smother,wouldn’tyoubeglad to

havehimoutofthehouseforawhile?”Ididn’t think thatwasverynice,but I let itpass.“Willyoubeable to

standhimtillthisisover?”Iasked.“Myproblemis tryingnot to takeadvantageofhim,”saidPetersadly.

“It’snoteasy. I’d really love togetbackathimforsomeof the thingshe’sdonetome.Buthe’ssoterrifiedIdon’tdarehaveanyfunwithhim.IreallythinkifIpoppedabagnearhisearhewouldhaveaheartattackanddie.”

Ilaughedinspiteofmyself.“Whataboutyourfather?”Iasked.Petergrimaced. “Hewon’t evennoticeDuncan is there,”he said. “By

theway,Itookthepicturestothedrugstore.Wecanpickthemupafterschooltomorrow.”

“Ifwelivethatlong,”Isaid.“Relax,” said Peter. “Broxholm and his friends are here to collect

people.I’dbereallysurprisediftheyactuallykillanyone.”

Thatmademe feel a littlebetter.But itwasonly the thought that thiswholemessmightbe.overwhenwegotthepicturesthatkeptmefromlosingmymindthatnight.Evenso,IwassofrazzledIcouldn’tthinkaboutanythingelse.

By morning I was such a wreck that my special session with Mr.Bamwickwasatotaldisaster.

“No,no,no!”hekeptyelling.“It’sBflat,Susan.Bflat!”“Well,Ican’tgetitrightifyoukeepscreamingatme,”Isaid,tryingnot

tocry.Icouldn’tblamepoorMr.Bamwick.Theconcertwasonlyadayaway,

andIwasgettingworsebytheminute.ButIjustcouldn’tconcentrateonthemusic.HowcouldI,whenIknewwhatelsewassupposedtohappen?Couldyouplaythepiccolo,ifyouknewsomeofyourfriends—ormaybeevenyou—wereabouttobekidnappedbyaliens?

“Aren’tyouworried?”IaskedPeterthatafternoonontheplayground.“Not really,”he said.Hispale face split into awidegrin. “I toldyou,

I’vegotanalternateplan.”“Listen, Peter,” I said, taking his arm. “This isn’t one of your science

fictionbooks.Andyou’renotBuckRogers.Don’tgetcarriedaway.”Heshookmyhandawayangrily.“This is thegreatest thingthat’sever

happenedinthistown,”hesaid.“Anddon’tyouforgetit,Susan!”AtthatpointStacyandMikewentrunningby,yellingbadwordsateach

other.Westarted to laugh.“IheardStacysay thathermother isgoingnuts,”

saidPeter.“IbetMike’smotheris,too.”Inodded.Ialmostfeltsorryforthem.Itcan’tbeeasytohaveakidwho

hasn’tbeenintroublesincekindergartensuddenlyturnintoamaniac.“Ofcourse,StacyandMikedon’thavemuchchoice,”Isaid.“Suretheydo,”saidPeter.“Whatdoyoumeanbythat?”Iasked.Buthewouldn’tanswerme.“Justwatch,”hesaid.“You’llfigureitout

soonenough.”

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CHAPTERNINETEEN

OceanofPDF.com

Peter’sChoice

ThatafternoonIfinallybegantounderstandPeter’s“alternateplan.”Actually, it took me a little while to figure it out. I knew there was

something strange going on when Peter—the kid who always knew theanswer but never bothered to give it—started raising his hand for everyquestionthatcamealong.

And suddenly it all came clear to me. Peterwanted to be picked byBroxholm.He had decided that thiswas his big chance to live the kind ofsciencefictionadventurehehadbeendreamingabout.Hefiguredifhereallytried, he might just be able to make it from “bright, but unmotivated” tobeing,withoutquestion,thebeststudentintheclass.

You could almost see the gleam inBroxholm’s alien eyeswhen Peterunleashedhismightybrain.Wewerehavingahistorylessonatthetime,andPeterstartedtoanswereveryquestionperfectly.

Broxholm started asking harder questions, but Peter never blinked; hejustkeptreelingofftheanswers.EvenIhadnoideahowsmartthatkidwas.(And as for Broxholm, I swear, that alien must have memorized anencyclopedia; ormaybehe hadone transplanted into his head.Whoknowswhatthesepeoplecoulddo?)

WhenschoolwasoverIdraggedPeterofftothesideoftheplayground.“Areyoucrazy?”Ihissed.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“PlanB,”saidPeter.“Ifwecan’tunmaskBroxholm,Iwanttobeoneoftheonestogoontheship.”

“ForgetPlanB!”Iyelled.“Youdon’tknowwhatthey’regoingtodotoyouupthere.They’rebad!”

“Youdon’tknowthat,”saidPeter.“TheykidnappedMs.Schwartz!”Heshrugged.“Thatstilldoesn’tmeanthey’rebad.Theymaybesofar

aboveustheythinkofuslikewethinkofantsorsomething.”Ididn’t sayaword.Buthecould tellbymyexpression that I thought

thatwasstupid.“Maybethey’rescaredofus,”hecontinued.Thatmademelaugh.“I’mserious,”saidPeter.“Thinkofthatconversationyouhadwithhim

yesterday.”“Ican’t,”Isaid.“Itstillscaresme.”“No, think about it,” said Peter again. “Maybe these people are really

peaceful.Maybethey’veseenhowmuchwefight,andthey’reafraidifwegetmuchfartherintospace,we’llcausesomehugewar.”

“You don’t know that,” I said stubbornly. “Anyway,maybewewon’thavetoworryaboutit.Let’sgotothedrugstoretogetourpictures.”

Ittookallourmoneyforthepictures.Ithoughtaboutexplainingtothegirl behind the counter thatwewere trying to stop an alien invasion, but Ifiguredsheprobablywouldn’tbuyit.

Weforcedourselvesnottoopentheenvelopeuntilwewereinthepark.“Youopenit,”Isaid,handingtheenvelopetoPeter.Hehesitatedforamoment, thentoretheenvelopeopenandpulledout

thepictures.Hisfacefell.“Whatisit?”Iasked.Withoutsayingaword,hehandedmethephotos.MyheartsankasIflippedthroughthem.Peterhaddoneagoodjob.The

beamsandtimbersoftheatticshowedupperfectly.Thefocusandexposurewerefine.ButtheforcefieldwithMs.Schwartzinithadcomeoutasnothingbut a blue streak—thatwas all, just a blue streak down themiddle of eachpicture.Itlookedlikeaflawinthefilm,ormaybesometrickofthelight.Youcouldn’tseeMs.Schwartzatall.

“Thesearen’tgoingtodousanygood,”Imoaned.Peternodded.“I’msorry,”hesaid.“It’snotyourfault,”Ireplied.ButIknewhedidn’tbelieveme.By Thursday thewhole school seemed to be on the brink of nervous

breakdowns.Stacygotcaughtdrawingdirtypicturesontheblackboard.Miketriedoutanewwordhehad learned fromhisuncle,whowasa sailor.AndPeterwavedhishandlikecrazyeverytimeBroxholm/Smithaskedaquestion.

The ones who were really having a hard time were the kids in themiddle.See,by this time,everyonewas starting tobelieve the rumoraboutourteacherbeinganalien.IthinkthefactthatPeterandIknewitwastrue,combinedwith the fact that weweren’t trying to convince themwaswhatreallydidconvincethem.Theyfiguredifitwasajoke,we’dbetryingtofoolthem.Sinceweweren’t,ithadtobeforreal.Orsomethinglikethat.

Anyway, the kids in the middle were going nuts because they knewBroxholmwantedthethreemostaveragekidsintheclass.Butwhatwasanaverage kid?No one knew. So none of them knew how to behave to keepfrombeingkidnapped.Mostofthemjustactedthesameasusual,exceptthat

theywerereallynervous.Every timeoneof themansweredaquestion,youhadthefeelingtheyweretryingtodecidewhethertheyshouldansweritrightorwrong.Itwaslike theywereaskingthemselves:“Willarightanswergetmeaone-waytripinanalienspaceship?”

“I’ll be glad when this is over,” I said to Peter that afternoon duringrecess.

“Metoo,”hesaid.ButIdidn’tlikethekindofdreamywayhesaidit.“Aren’tyouscared?”Idemanded.“I’mterrified,”hesaid.“Butthatdoesn’tchangemymind.”Schooljustgotwackierasthedaywenton.Bythetimethelastbellrang

I got the feeling every kid had heard there was supposed to be an alieninvasionattheconcertthatnight.

If Iwasn’tsoworried, itwouldhavebeenfunny.“Didyouhearaboutthe invasion?” kids would say. “Did you know that the aliens are comingtonight?”

Iwantedtosay,“No,thealiensaren’tinvading.They’rejustcomingtokidnapsomeofus.”Although,forallIknew,thereasontheywantedtostudyuswassothattheycouldinvadesometimeinthefuture.

I felt sorriest forMr.Bamwick.Hehadhoped tohave thebest springconcert ever. Now it was beginning to look as if it would be the biggestdisasterofhiscareer.

“I’mcutting‘TheStarsandStripes’fromtheprogram,”hetoldmethatafternoon.Hewastryingtobeniceaboutit,butIcouldtellthathewasreallydisappointed.

“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ijustcouldn’tgetthattrill.”“No, it’snot justyou,”saidMr.Bamwicksadly.“Thewholebandhas

fallenapart.Idon’tknowwhatI’vedonewrong.”How could I tell him that he hadn’t done anything wrong—that his

concertwasjustanothercasualtyofthealieninvasion.

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CHAPTERTWENTY

OceanofPDF.com

PiccoloPower

The alien-invasion rumors hid reached the adults, too—as I found outthatnightatdinner.

“My goodness, Susan,” said my mother as she was dishing up mybroccoli.“Ihopeyoudon’tbelieveanyofthisnonsense.”

Believeit?Ithought.Istartedit!ButIdidn’tsaythat.Instead,Iputdownmysoupspoonandlookedat

her. “What if I did believe it?” I asked. I tried hard to sound like I wasinterested,notlikeIwaschallengingher.

“Well,Isupposewe’dhavetogetyoucounseling,”shesaid.Icouldhavecried.Obviously,therewasnopointinaskingmyparents

tohelpoutwiththismess.I went upstairs to get ready.Which ones will it be? I wondered as I

slippedintomydress.Justwhoisthealiengoingtosteal?I lookedin themirrorandcrossedmyfingers,praying that itwouldn’t

beme.Myparentsdroveme to the school.Theydroppedmeoffandwent to

findaparkingplace.Iwonderhowhe’sgoingtodoit,IthoughtasIwalkedthroughthedoor.

Willhejust freezeeveryonehereonthespot?Willhisshipusesomesortoftractorbeamtoliftuphistargets?Orwillhewaituntillater,wheneveryoneisasleep,andthensneakintotheirhomesandsnatchthem?

The schoolwas fairly zingingwith nervous energy.The rumors aboutthealieninvasionhadspreadtoallthegrades.Thethirdgraderswerewalkingaround in pairs, checking over their shoulders every other step. If I hadn’tbeensoscaredmyself,Iwouldhavelaughed.Iwantedtograbthemandsay,“Stopworrying.Thealien’snotafteryou.”

“Hey,Susan,”calledPeter.“Waitup!”Peterwas in the chorus.The choruswasbigger than theband; almost

everykidinthesixthgradewasamember.Theywouldbesinginglastofall.Peter lookedverynice.Hehadonawhiteshirtandared tie.Hispale

blondhairwasslickeddown.“Isyourfatherhere?”Iasked.Hejuststaredatme.“Areyoukidding?”heasked.

Wewalkedonuntilwecametoaprivateplace.“Whatarewegoingtodo?”Iasked.

Petershrugged.“Whatcanwedo?Keepoureyesopen.Bereadytocallforhelpwhenthere’ssomethingwecanprove.Otherthanthat,Ican’tthinkofanything.IsBroxholmhere?”

Inodded.All theteachershadtocometotheconcerttokeepusundercontrolwhilewewerewaitingtoperform.IfiguredBroxholmwasn’treadytoblowhiscoveryet.

Peterglancedathiswatch.“We’dbettergetintothegym,”hesaid.“Nosenseingettinginanymoretroublethanwehaveto.”

Thegymwaswherewehadtowaitforourturntoperform.Itwasacrossthehallfromthecombinationcafeteriaandauditoriumwhereweputonourconcerts.Thethird-gradechoruswasabouttogoonwhenPeterandIwalkedin.

“Get over here, you two,” hissed Miss Tompkins, the world’s oldestlivingfifthgradeteacher.“They’rereadytostart.”

Aswewalked across the gym I heard the third-grade chorus begin tosing.Theyhadonlygottenthroughaboutthreenoteswhenthemusicstopped.IgrabbedPeter’sarm.Haditstarted?

Not actually; as it turned out, Cindy Farkis had fainted. The chorusteacher,Miss Binkin stopped the programwhile two parents helped Cindyout.Thenthesingingbeganagain.

“Falsealarm,”saidPeterwithagrin.Inodded.ButIdidn’tfeellikesmiling.SuddenlyIheardafamiliarvoice.“Bandmembers.Bandmembers,over

thisway.”ItwasMr.Smith.Hewasstandingatthefarendofthecafeteria,holding

uphishand.“Bandmembers,overhere!”heshouted.“We’regoingdowntotheprimarywing.Mr.Bamwickwantsyoutomeettheretotuneup.”

“YoucanbetBroxholmwon’tstickaroundforthat,”saidPeter.“Notthewayhehatesmusic.”

Well, that gaveme an idea. Imight not have done it if I hadn’t beenfeelingsocrabby.Butbetweenthefactthatwehadn’tfiguredoutanywaytostopBroxholm fromkidnapping someofour class and the fact thathewasstill holding the best teacher I had ever had prisoner, I was pretty mad. IdecidedifIcouldn’tbeatthealien,I’dsettleforannoyinghim.

SobeforewestarteddownthehallItookmypiccolooutofitscaseandput it together.Most of the other kids already had their instruments ready.Everybodywasnervous.Anditwasn’tjustpreconcertjitters.Abouthalfthebandwasmadeupofsixthgraders.Theywerethemostfrightened,ofcourse

—especiallytheonesfromourclass.“Allright,followme,”saidBroxholmashestarteddownthehall.Holdingmypiccolobehindmyback,Ipositionedmyselfatthefrontof

thegroup.Whenwegotabouthalfwaydownthehall,Istartedtoplayascale.“Stopthat!”shoutedBroxholmbeforeIhadplayedthreenotes.“Justpracticing,”Isaid.“Well,don’t,”hesnapped.Ihadneverheardhimsoundsocrankybefore.Imusthavereallygotten

tohim!I began towonder if I could break through his false front, get him to

showhimselfforwhathereallywas.Iputthepiccolotomylipsandbegantoplayagain.

“MissSimmons,stopthat!”heorderedagain.ButthistimeIdidn’tstop.“Please!” he said, clapping his hands over his ears. “Miss Simmons,

pleasestop!”Icouldn’tbelieveit.Hewasinagony.Ibegantoplaylouder.“Susan,”hehowled,bendingover.“Stop!”I took thepiccoloawayfrommylips for justan instant.“Notonyour

life—Broxholm!”Then I started to play again, the best piccolomusic I knew—the solo

from“TheStarsandStripesForever.”“Stop it!” shouted Broxholm, stumbling down the hall ahead of me.

“Stop,stop,stop!”“Helpme,youguys!”Isaid.Thatwasabigmistake.AssoonasItooka

pausefromplayingBroxholmspunaroundandsnatchedatmypiccolo.ButIpulleditbacktosafetybeforehecouldtearitfrommyhands.

“Takethis,youaliencreep!”Icried.AndthenItrilledhimwithahighC.

Hebackedaway,holdinghishandstohisears.Iwentbackto“TheStarsandStripes,”startingatthebeginning.Iheard

Mike Foran join me on his saxophone. Then Billy Gootch brought in thetrumpet. We advanced on Broxholm, playing for all we were worth. Heretreateddownthehall,hishandsomefacetwistedwithpain.

Now theclarinetswerecoming in.And the restof the trumpets.Thencamethedrums.Andfinally,deepandlowandpowerful,thesousaphone.

Wesoundedfantastic.Mr.Bamwickcamerunningoutoftheroomwherehehadbeenwaiting

forus.“They’replayingit!”hecriedinjoy.“They’replayingit!”

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 keepthosekidsundercontrol?”

“They’re playing it!” cried Mr. Bamwick joyfully. “Seven years I’vebeenwaitingforthis.”

“Stopthat!”roaredBleekman.“No!”criedMr.Bamwick.“Don’tstopnow!Letmehearit!”Wecouldn’t stop.Wewereon a roll.Wehadnever sounded sogood.

AndBroxholmwascrumblingbeforeus.“Stop,”hepleaded.“Stop,stop!”Adultswerecrowdingoutof theauditoriumand into thehall.“What’s

goingon?”theyshouted.“What’shappeningouthere?”We reached thebig finale. Iplayed that trill like Ihadneverplayed it

before. We kept advancing on Broxholm. Soon the new Kennituck FallsElementarySchoolMarchingBandhadthealiencoweringinacorner.

“Whatdoyouwant?”hepleaded.Ididn’tdarestopplaying. Iknewmypiccolowaskeepinghimatbay.

ButMikesteppedin.“Takeoffyourmask!”heshouted.“Yourmask!”criedtheothers.“Takeoffyourmask!”“Anything!”saidBroxholm.“Juststopthatnoise.”“Firstyourmask!”criedtheband.EvenDr.Bleekmancouldseethattherewassomethingweirdabouthis

favoriteteachernow.Hewaitedinsilence.Iplayedmytrillagain.Broxholm reached behind his head, and began to peel off his face.

Behind us people started to scream. Someone cried “What is it? What’shappening?”

“Oh,myGod!”yelled someone else. “It’sMr.Smith—he’s—he’s—analien!”

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CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

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OutofThisWorld

I thought it was over. But Iwaswrong. Broxholmwas still crouchedagainstthewall,abouttwofeetfromthedoorstotheoutside.Therestofuswere about ten feet away from him, staring in horror at his strange alienfeatures.

SuddenlythedoortotheleftofBroxholmopened.ItwasPeter.Hemusthaverunoutthefrontdoorsandcircledaround.

“Broxholm,”heshouted.“Thisway.Run!”Thealien jumped tohis feet and tookoff as ifhehad rocket-powered

rollerskates.Assoonashewasthroughthedoor,Peterslammeditshut.Therestofusstartedtorun,too.ThenBroxholmpulledsomethingthat

looked like a thick pencil out of his pocket.He pointed it at the doors andfriedthemshut.

I started to tremble.He could have pointed that thing atme if he hadreallywantedto!Heprobablycouldhavemeltedmypiccolotomylips.

MaybeoldBroxholmwasn’t sobadafterall, I thoughtas I stoodwithmy facepressedagainst thewindow,watching thealienandmybest frienddisappearintothenight.

Mybestfriend?Ithoughtinsurprise.ButIknewwastrue.Peterwasmybestfriend.

Andnowhewasgone.Someone had called the police. Pretty soon their cruisers came

screeching into the school yard. My mother was flapping her hands andworryingthatImighthavesomealiendisease.

With all the yelling and shouting, it took the police awhile to figurethingsout.But soon theyputme inapatrol carandwehightailed itout toBroxholm’splace.

Wewereonlyablockfromhishouse,whenweheardaroar,followedbyahighwhine.Then this thing—thisbeautifulhuge silvery spherewithawheeloflightsspinningaroundit—liftedintotheairaheadofus.

“Stopthecar,”Isaid.I don’t know why, but they did—probably because the ship was so

amazing.Ipushedmywaypast thepolicemanonmyrightandstoodin theroad,watchingtheshipriseonacolumnofpurplelightintotheblacknight.

“Goodbye,Peter,”Iwhispered.“Haveagoodtrip!”IfeltasifsomethinghardhadbecomestuckinmythroatasIwatched

theshipsoarhigherandhigher,until itwas lostamongthe twinklingof thestars.

Thepolice sealedoff thehouse, just in case therewereanyaliens leftinside.Whentheyfinallydecideditwassafe,I tookthemtoseewhereMs.Schwartzhadbeenheldprisoner.

I was afraid Broxholm might have taken her along. But when weclimbedupintotheattic,wefoundhersittingonthefloorsaying,“ThisistheworstheadacheIhaveeverhad!”

“Ms.Schwartz!” I cried. I ran toher.Sheheldoutherarmsand I fellintothem.Thetwoofuscriedforalongtime,whichIthinkkindofconfusedthepolicemen.

Therestofthehousewasempty,exceptforanotefromPeterwefoundstucktotherefrigeratordoor.Heaskedusnottoworryandsaidthathewouldprobablycomebackagainsomeday.

Andthatwasthat.Thingsarebacktonormalnow—atleast,asnormalas theyevergetaroundhere.Duncanhasbeenpickingoneveryonehecan.MikeandStacyhaveregainedtheirangelicreputations. (Thoughto tellyouthe truth, Iwouldn’t be surprised if theydecide to get into a littlemischiefnowandthenjustforthefunofit.)

Asforme,I’mdoingfine—exceptwhenIplaymypiccolo.That’swhenIthinkofPeter.

Sometimes I gooutside at night to look at the stars. I trynot to thinkabout how far away Peter is. I only remember howmuch hewanted to gothere.Idowonderwhereheisandifhe’sseeingallthewonderfulthingsheusedtoimaginewhenhewasreadingthosecrazysciencefictionnovels.

Ofcourse,IneverreallywishIhadgonewithhim.Afterall,I’vegotafamilythatlovesme.IlikemylifehereonEarth.

ButIwonder,sometimes,whatitwouldbeliketotravelthestarswithaliens.

Or maybe with earthlings. I’ve been studying my math pretty hardlately. I’ve kind of changedmymind about being an actress. I’m thinkingmaybeI’llbeascientistwhenIgrowup.

I’dliketoinventaship—ashipthatwouldtakeusrightoutofthesolarsystem—outtoexploreallthosedistantstarsthatfilltheskyatnight.

Worldswherewewouldbethemysteriousaliens.Wouldn’tthatbesomething?

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