My Teacher Is an Alien (3 page)

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"I don't know," she said. "But you'd better do something because if that note has my name on it, Mr. Smith will get mad at me, too."

"Maybe he won't see it," I said.

Stacy snorted. "Are you kidding? He's checked every single paper we ever handed in."

Stacy was right. She always was when it came to that kind of stuff.

Actually, the heavy-duty checking was probably the best thing about Mr. Smith: he always handed back our papers. Of course, they never had a note or comment on them, just lots of red circles around the mistakes and a grade at the top. I didn't mind that on math papers, but it really annoyed me when it came to my writing. When Ms. Schwartz marked our stories and essays, she had always penciled in comments that showed she was paying attention to our ideas.

When Mr. Smith handed back an essay, it looked as though he'd been sitting next to an ax murder while he was marking it. The man must have bought red pens by the case. But all he used them for was to circle missing commas and misspelled words. He treated our essays like spelling tests.

I ask you, what's the point of writing something if that's the only response you get?

Finally I decided to try to get back into the building to see if I could snatch my note while Mr. Smith was still outside. If it had been Ms. Schwartz, I would have just asked if I could go to the bathroom. But Mr. Smith didn't believe in letting you off the playground for such a frivolous reason. He said by the time you were in sixth grade, you should know enough to take care of things like that in advance. The first three days after Mr. Smith came we had a line of worried-looking kids standing at the door each time recess ended.

The second-best method for getting off the playground was getting sick.

"I'll see you inside
"
I said to Stacy. Then I clutched my stomach, squinched up my face, and staggered over to where Mr. Smith was standing.

Later, I remembered that he was looking straight at the sun. But right then I was too worried about the note to pay attention to the fact that what he was doing should have burned out his eyeballs.

"Unnnyh," I moaned, trying to sound pitiful.

Mr. Smith looked down at me. "Is something wrong, Miss Simmons?" he asked.

"I don't feel good," I said. "I want to see the nurse."

Mr. Smith hesitated, then looked at his watch. "It's time to go in now, anyway," he said. "Line up with the rest of us. You can see Mrs. Glacka after we get in."

Now what? If I claimed I was about to throw up, he'd probably let me go inside right away. But if he was bringing everyone else in anyway, I wouldn't have the time I needed to go through the papers and find the note.

"All right," I moaned, trying to sound pitiful. I hoped it would make him feel guilty. I almost wished I
was
going to throw up. I'd make sure to hit his shoes!

Of course, once we were inside, I had to go to the nurse's office—even though I actually felt perfectly fine. Mrs. Glacka told me to lie down. I wasn't surprised. That was her basic cure for everything. So I lay there, staring at the ceiling and worrying about that note.

Finally I decided to follow Mr. Smith home. Maybe I could find some way to get the note back before it was too late. I didn't have any big plan, mind you. I was just desperate.

I wasn't sure where Mr. Smith lived. But I figured it couldn't be too far, since he always walked to school. So after the last bell I hung around on the playground, waiting for Mr. Smith to come out of the building.

I was concentrating so hard I almost jumped out of my skin when Peter Thompson came up behind me and said, "Hey, Susan, what are you doing?"

"None of your business!" I hissed. "Leave me alone!"

Peter's skinny face kind of crumpled, and he looked like he was going to cry.

"Look," I said. "This is private, OK?"

"Sure," said Peter. "I won't bother you." He tucked his book under his arm and walked away, trying to whistle. It was a pretty pathetic sound. I thought about Peter and realized with a shock that I was probably the closest thing he had to a friend.

That made me kind of sad. Not that there's anything wrong with having me for a friend. But I've got a lot of friends, and I didn't really think of Peter as being one of them. I liked him all right. He just wasn't someone I spent much time with.

I wondered if there was anyone who did spend time with him.

My thoughts were interrupted when I saw Mr. Smith come out of the building. I waited for a minute or two, then began sneaking along behind him. I tried to stay a half a block or so away. Whenever I could, I ducked behind a tree or a bush so he wouldn't spot me. I probably looked pretty weird. But that's one nice thing about being a kid: you can get away with this kind of stuff.

Mr. Smith's home was farther away than I had expected. He lived at the edge of town, in an old white house with black shutters. The house was set way back from the street. A thick hedge completely surrounded the lot on which it stood.

I stood outside the hedge feeling stupid. What had I hoped to accomplish by following Mr. Smith?

But I was in luck. As I watched from a hole in the hedge, I saw Mr. Smith set his briefcase down on the porch and go inside. Since it was a warm afternoon, I figured he planned to get something to drink, then come back outside to sit on the porch and correct our papers.

This was my chance! I scooted through a hole in the hedge and onto the porch. I was working up

The door was unlocked. Trying not to make any noise, I turned the knob and pushed.

The door opened without a sound. I hesitated for just a moment, then stepped in.

I was standing in a hallway. To my left I saw an empty living room—and I do mean empty. Except for curtains, there wasn't one bit of furniture or decoration in the room. The walls and floor were totally bare.

I flinched as another burst of horrible squawking and growling sounded above me.

Taking a deep breath, I began to tiptoe up the stairs. I was glad I was wearing sneakers.

About halfway up I stopped and thought,
What am I doingI I should get out of here while I can!

You may not believe this, but the only reason I didn't turn back was that I thought Mr. Smith might really be in trouble. Even though I didn't like the man, I didn't want anything horrible to happen to him.

So I swallowed and took another step.

The noise stopped. Was everything over? Would Mr. Smith start down the stairs and find me standing here? I was just about to turn and run when another round of squawking and shrieking made it clear that whatever was happening was still going on.

I still
wanted
to run, but I was afraid to—afraid that if I did, I might read in the paper the next day that something terrible had happened to Mr. Smith. Something I could have prevented. Of course, I was afraid to keep going, but I decided I didn't have any choice. I took another step and then another. I held on to the railing as if it was a life line. The knot in my stomach got tighter with every step I took.

When I got near the top, I lay down on my stomach. I had read somewhere that when you're peering around a corner, you're less likely to be seen if your head is low. So I kept my head as low as possible. If I could have pulled out one eye and just stuck it around the corner to take a peek, that would have been fine with me.

The hall was as empty as the living room: no pictures on the walls, no rug on the floor. Through an open door at the end of the hall I could see a small, blue bathroom.

Closer to me, on the right, was another open door. The horrible sound seemed to be coming from there.

I decided low was the way to go. Still on my belly, I slithered down one side of the hall until I had reached the doorway.

I shivered. That noise was like a tiger running its claws down a blackboard; it felt like aluminum foil against my teeth. What could be making it?

When I finally got up the nerve to sneak a look around the bottom edge of the door, I saw Mr. Smith sitting at a little makeup table, looking in a mirror. Stacy was right. The man really was handsome. He had a long, lean face with a square jaw, a straight nose, and cheekbones to die for.

Only it was a fake. As I watched, Mr. Smith pressed his fingers against the bottom of his eyes. Suddenly he ran his fingertips to the sides of his head, grabbed his ears, and started peeling off his face!

I gasped. Fortunately, the horrible noises coming from the room drowned it out. I wanted to get up and run, but I was too terrified to move.

I started to shake instead. Whatever Mr. Smith was, I was pretty sure the face he was slowly uncovering wasn't anything that had been born on