Lunch Swap Disaster Page 7

  He poured two glasses of punch, and began to make his way through the crowd again. To my surprise, he was heading for Ms. Weintraub. I was even more surprised by the way our teacher smiled when McNally handed her the glass of punch. But before I had time to think about that, I saw Mr. Grand coming toward us.

  My throat got dry. Somehow I found the idea of speaking to the principal—who was already unhappy with me—far more unnerving than any of the very real dangers Pleskit and I had faced since we’d first met.

  When Mr. Grand was nearly at the table, I said, “Could I have a word with you, sir? It’s about Pleskit.”

  Mr. Grand frowned. “This is not the time for anything like that, Tim. Come see me tomorrow.”

  “But tomorrow will be…”

  I didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Mr. Grand had turned and left.

  “This isn’t going to work after all!” I groaned. “He’s not going to give us a chance!”

  “On Hevi-Hevi,” replied Pleskit, “we say, ‘If the pawpreet won’t come to the skrizzle, the skrizzle must go to the pawpreet.’ ”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  Pleskit pointed to the front of the room, where a microphone had been set on the stage for short speeches from Mr. Grand and the PTA officers.

  I gulped. Even though I had been ready to make a fool of myself in public in order to help Pleskit, I hadn’t counted on doing it onstage.

  “If Mr. Grand’s request that I be pulled from the school reaches the Fatherly One, the humiliation will be unbearable,” said Pleskit. “However, my deepest worry is not for myself. My fear is that if he sends a formal request for my withdrawal to the embassy, it will have to be passed on to higher levels. That could be deadly for the Fatherly One’s mission!”

  I remembered what Pleskit had told me about the possibility of Earth being colonized if his Fatherly One lost the franchise. The idea was horrifying. “Give me the monkeyfood,” I said. “I have a duty to the planet!”

  After taking the container from Pleskit’s outstretched hand, I made my way toward the front of the cafeteria. As I got closer to the stage, my stomach got tighter and tighter.

  What am I doing? part of my brain was shrieking.

  It was getting two answers. One section of my brain was boldly saying, You are saving Meenom’s mission, helping your friend, and protecting the entire planet. Another, milder part of my brain was saying, What are you doing? I’ll tell you what. Making an incredible fool of yourself, that’s what you’re doing!

  I hated making a fool of myself. On the other hand, I was used to it.

  And the stakes were high.

  A set of six steps led up to the stage. I started up them.

  CHAPTER 19 [PLESKIT]

  A SWINGING PARTY

  At first only a few people noticed Tim, since almost everyone was busy in conversation.

  He stepped up to the microphone, tapped it to make sure it was on, and then said, “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  Conversations began to die down. Heads turned in his direction. Some people looked puzzled, but it was obvious that most of them thought this was part of the program.

  I looked around at the sea of faces and was horrified to see Jordan Lynch and Brad Kent standing near the edge of the stage. I hadn’t even thought about them being here.

  Too late to turn back now, I thought as Tim tightened his grip on the microphone stand. I knew this was hard for him, and it warmed my smorgle to know that I had such a good friend.

  Tim continued. “As some of you may know, my friend Pleskit has had some… uh… problems of a romantic nature recently.”

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  “The thing is, all that wasn’t really Pleskit’s fault. See, it turns out he has this, like, allergy to peanut butter, and when he eats it, it just makes him go all goopily romantic and start spouting the most ridiculous and gooey love talk.”

  You don’t have to help that much, I thought.

  Just then I saw Mr. Grand pushing his way through the crowd. He had a furious look on his face.

  Tim began to talk faster. “The problem is, some people don’t really believe that’s what was happening. Some people insist that blood chemistry can’t affect your behavior at all. So we needed to give you some proof.” He held up the jar of monkeyfood. “Here it is. This is a food we cooked up over at the embassy. I’m going to eat some now, and you’ll see how it causes me to act like a monkey.”

  “That’s enough, Tim!” shouted Mr. Grand. He was almost at the stage now.

  Tim tried to open the monkeyfood. To my horror, the top wouldn’t come off the container!

  Mr. Grand was at the edge of the stage.

  “The bottom!” I shouted from the far side of the room. “Tim, push on the bottom!”

  Tim heard me and did as I said. At once, the top of the container popped open. He was about to stick his finger in and take a swipe of the goo, when Mr. Grand snatched the container from his hand.

  “Tim, how foolish do you think I am?” he said angrily. “You can eat this food and then pretend to act like a monkey, and what does it prove? Nothing but that you wanted to act like a monkey.”

  “He acts like a monkey anyway!” shouted Jordan, who was obviously enjoying this.

  “Quiet!” snapped Mr. Grand. “Now, look, this is utter nonsense, and I’m going to prove it once and for all.”

  With that, the principal stuck one finger into the container, took out a big gob of purple goo, and then stuck his finger into his mouth and licked it off.

  “There!” he said. “Now, if there were anything at all to this nonsense you’ve been spout—”

  Mr. Grand stopped. He clutched at his throat. His face twitched. His eyes went wide.

  “Oook!” he cried, bending forward and scratching himself under his arm. “Oook! Oook!”

  Most people in the cafeteria looked baffled. A few, assuming it was some sort of skit, began to laugh. Others looked frightened.

  “Aoooga!” cried Mr. Grand, pounding his chest and stomping across the stage. “A-oooo-ga!”

  Now people began to look really nervous. Someone screamed. Several parents grabbed their kids and ran for the exits. A few ran without their kids. I saw Jordan, who I had always suspected was a coward, scramble under one of the tables.

  “Aoooga!” cried Mr. Grand again. He grabbed the microphone and began snorting into it, then shrieked and pounded the microphone against the floor.

  Mr. Philgrinn, the gym teacher, rushed toward the stage. Five of the fathers joined him.

  Seeing them coming, Mr. Grand leaped across the stage, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and began to climb. When he reached the top, he flung himself over their heads onto one of the cafeteria tables.

  “Aoooga!” he cried, pounding his chest. “Aoooga!”

  Three more parents—two mothers and a father—tried to grab him.

  Flexing his legs, he leaped straight up and grabbed one of the support beams that stretch across the cafeteria ceiling. Swinging from beam to beam, he began making his way toward the refreshment tables.

  Shrieking people scrambled to get out of his way.

  He landed on the end of the table—the very end, which made it act like a huge lever.

  Mr. Grand’s end of the table went down.

  The other end went up.

  Cookies, cakes, and cups of punch soared across the room.

  That was when McNally made a flying tackle and dropped Mr. Grand.

  I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run for my life.

  Then I looked to the side of the room and saw the Fatherly One standing in the cafeteria doorway.

  Running had definitely been the right answer.

  Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

  CHAPTER 20 [TIM]

  FINAL TEST

  Pleskit’s Fatherly One was not happy. He had been not happy when he’d nabbed us at the PTA reception. He had been not happy during the drive back to the embassy in the limo
usine. And he had been not happy as he’d led us to his office.

  Now, pacing back and forth in front of his command pod, he was still not happy.

  “That was totally irresponsible,” he fumed. His sphen-gnut-ksher was emitting the smell of disapproval, which reminded me of insect repellent with a slight overtone of burritos.

  “It was also totally undignified,” said Ms. Buttsman.

  “Thank you for your input, Ms. Buttsman,” said Meenom. “Would you please fetch Mr. McNally for me?”

  Ms. Buttsman gave us a sour look but went to do as asked.

  Once she had gone from the room, Meenom said, “Now, much as I disapprove of what you did, I must admit that you got your point across rather clearly. I have already received a call from Mr. Grand saying that if we will fully explain to the press what prompted his eruption of monkey behavior tonight, he will withdraw his objections to Pleskit’s remaining at the school, take any reference to past problems out of your permanent record, and replace them with a note saying you should not be allowed to consume peanut butter in any form, as it affects your brain chemistry.”

  He paused, then added, “I fear I did not give you sufficient credit for your story of what had happened to you, Pleskit. You have my apology.”

  Pleskit nodded. “Accepted, O Fatherly One.”

  Meenom raised an eyebrow, made a clicking sound at the corner of his mouth, and emitted a smell like lemon juice. “Don’t get carried away. You’re still in plenty of trouble. As are you, Timothy.”

  I blushed and felt nervous.

  “We will determine what discipline you will receive later,” said Meenom. “Tim’s, of course, will come from his own parental unit. Right now, however, I wish to move on to other matters—namely, the issue of peanut butter. Do we have any in the embassy?”

  “I do not believe so, Fatherly One.”

  “Actually, we do,” said McNally, who had just entered the room. “I keep a jar myself. For snacking purposes, you know.”

  “Would you bring me some, Mr. McNally? I would like to conduct a brief experiment.”

  McNally raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and said, “Be right back.”

  * * *

  Pleskit and I watched eagerly as Meenom opened the jar of peanut butter, held it beneath his nose, and sniffed.

  “Divine aroma,” he said. Then he dipped one long, purple finger into the peanut butter, took out a good-size dollop, and popped it into his mouth. “Mmmm! A strange taste, but most excellent. You say this is a common food on your planet, Tim?”

  “I eat it every day.”

  At that moment Ms. Buttsman entered the room. “Sir, I have a message for you from—”

  She broke off as Meenom leaped to his feet, crying, “Ms. Buttsman! Has anyone ever told you what a glorious creature you are? Your existence must be a joy to the cosmos, for you bring delight wherever you go!”

  “Boy, and I thought you said some ridiculous things when you ate peanut butter!” I whispered to Pleskit.

  Ms. Buttsman looked confused. Then her face twisted in an odd way. It took me a moment to realize that she was smiling. Even more startling, it was a pleasant smile. Who knew she could do that?

  “Why, Ambassador Meenom,” she murmured. “What a lovely thing to say!” Looking confused, she backed out of the room. “I’ll come back later,” she said as she closed the door.

  Meenom blinked, shook his head, and took a deep breath. He stared at the jar of peanut butter in wonder.

  Then he began to laugh.

  “What?” cried Pleskit. “What is so funny, O Fatherly One?”

  “This is it!” said Meenom, his sphen-gnut-ksher emitting a floral scent. “Our first export, Pleskit! We can sell tons of this stuff on Hevi-Hevi. We’ll call it ‘Return to Romance.’ It will be a public service—when used in the appropriate situations, of course!”

  Bowing to us, he said, “My thanks to you both. You have saved the mission!”

  And the planet with it, I thought happily.

  CHAPTER 21 [PLESKIT]

  A LETTER HOME (TRANSLATION)

  FROM: Pleskit Meenom, on the always-interesting Planet Earth

  TO: Maktel Geebrit, on the much-missed Planet Hevi-Hevi

  Dear Maktel:

  Well, that’s it—the story of the strange new substance that you’ll probably be hearing about as soon as the sales campaign is ready. I hope Hevi-Hevi is ready for all that romance!

  The Fatherly One and I have discussed the new export in some detail. He says that civilization requires the control of our own urges, which in many situations means understanding and conquering our own chemistry. But to conquer chemistry, we must first acknowledge it. If we pretend it does not count, then we can never deal with the reality of how it affects us.

  Anyway, I hope you enjoyed hearing about my latest problem. I will confess that I did not put in all my secret feelings. Oh, I was completely honest. But there were a couple of things I kept to myself as I worked on this with Tim, mostly because I have learned that Earthlings are often uncomfortable talking about emotions. I didn’t say anything about how homesick I get, for example, or how strange this world seems to me from day to day as I try to get used to it. I didn’t talk about how I long for the familiar sights and smells of Hevi-Hevi. I didn’t put in that sometimes I feel so far from home that it is like a big lump has grown in my clinkus and I can hardly move.

  It’s not as if I am totally alone. I have been making friends here. I have the Fatherly One, and the Grandfatherly One. Most of all, I have Tim. I didn’t really talk about how much I truly like Tim—or about the fact that I sometimes worry that he only wants to “hang out” with me (as the Earthlings say) because he is so interested in everything alien.

  On the other hand, if I think about that too much, we can never be real friends.

  The Fatherly One always says, “Trust, but verify.” Sometimes, though, I think you just have to trust.

  The Fatherly One also says that whenever two cultures meet, there are always ways in which they clash. How they deal with the collision of ideas and beliefs is part of forming the relationship, and a test of a culture’s maturity.

  The Earthlings have so little idea of what is waiting for them out in the wider universe. But as I grow more and more fond of them, as I start to feel more at home here, I hope more and more that the Fatherly One’s mission will succeed. Partly for our sake, of course; after all, it would be nice to be rich.

  But even more for the sake of the Earthlings.

  Do you think it will really work out for you to visit, Maktel? I am very excited by the possibility. (If I can just keep from getting thrown off the planet before you get here.…)

  Please write soon.

  Fremmix Bleeblom!

  Your pal,

  Pleskit

  SPECIAL BONUS: On the following pages is Part Four of “Disaster on Geembol Seven”—Pleskit’s story of what happened on the last planet where he lived before coming to Earth.

  This story is being told in six installments, one at the end of each of the first six books of the Sixth-Grade Alien series.

  The next thrilling chapter will appear in Book Five, Zombies of the Science Fair!

  DISASTER ON GEEMBOL SEVEN PART FOUR: CITY OF THE CONSTRUCTS

  FROM: Pleskit Meenom, on Planet Earth

  TO: Maktel Geebrit, on Planet Hevi-Hevi

  Dear Maktel:

  We now come to the difficult part of what happened on Geembol Seven.

  As you will remember, I had been on the planet only a few days when the Fatherly One took me to the Moondance Celebration, where I spotted a six-eyed boy named Derrvan who clearly needed help. But it was a trap, of sorts, for when I followed him to the waterfront, I was pulled into a hidden elevator that took me (and Derrvan) down to a secret cavern.

  Balteeri, the being who pulled me in, was a “construct”—an illegal combination of biological and mechanical parts. He and Derrvan wanted me to hear their story. I agreed, despite their w
arning that to listen was a crime. But before they could even begin, construct hunters burst through the wall of the cave. To escape we went deeper into the planet, where Balteeri had a flying ship. After a harrowing trip through rocky tunnels, we came at last to a most amazing place.

  The cavern that opened below us was lit by dimly glowing spheres that floated about forty or fifty feet above its stony floor. I tried to count, but soon realized there were several hundred of the things. By their gentle light, we could see that there was a small city nestled below them.

  As we drew closer, I realized with horror that it was a city of constructs. That is, everyone I saw walking its streets was like Balteeri: a strange combination of natural and mechanical parts. Knowing that such creations are illegal, it had been startling enough to see Balteeri. To see an entire city filled with such beings was a real clinkus tightener.

  Balteeri brought our ship to a gentle landing at the edge of the city. One of the glowballs floated over to hover directly above us, making it easier to walk to the city. Since the path we followed was twisty and littered with stones, I appreciated the light.

  “Why have you brought me here?” I asked as we walked.

  “We were being chased,” snapped Balteeri. “Or have you forgotten that already?”

  “How will I get back?” I asked, not caring if I sounded self-centered.

  Balteeri set his jaw. “That remains to be seen.”

  Derrvan had said nothing since we’d landed. I glanced at him. He was staring ahead of us with a hungry expression, as if this were something he had been looking for, longing for, all his life. “This is my father’s city,” he whispered when he saw me looking at him.

  “Was your father a construct?”

  I asked the question timidly, not sure whether it would be offensive.

  “His father was the savior of the constructs,” said Balteeri grimly. “Which is what cost him his life. Now come along.”

  Ignoring my desire to ask more questions, he started forward. Derrvan and I followed, lagging just a few feet behind. “Do not mind Balteeri,” he whispered. “He is gruff, but he has a good spirit.”