Part 8 (2/2)

Concert Concerns It took me almost twenty minutes to get home. I cycled along the sidewalk slowly, watching every corner. I kept expecting aliens to leap out of the bushes and grab me.

When something did jump out of the bushes, I screamed so high and so loud, I was surprised I didn't break the gla.s.s in the street lamp overhead.

But it was only Peter.

”Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I asked, straddling my bike and glaring at him.

”It would serve you right for bringing Duncan along today,” he said.

I wasn't up for a fight, and I said so. Peter was mad enough that he might have kept it going, anyway, but when I started to tell him what had happened after school he got so interested he forgot about being angry. He insisted that I try to remember every word Broxholm had said.

”Where's Duncan?” I asked when I finished my story.

”Hiding in my closet,” said Peter with a wicked grin. ”We called his folks, and he's going to spend the next couple of days at my house.”

”Didn't they ask any questions?”

Peter laughed. ”If you were Duncan's mother, wouldn't you be glad to have him out of the house for a while?”

I didn't think that was very nice, but I let it pa.s.s. ”Will you be able to stand him till this is over?” I asked.

”My problem is trying not to take advantage of him,” said Peter sadly. ”It's not easy. I'd really love to get back at him for some of the things he's done to me. But he's so terrified I don't dare have any fun with him. I really think if I popped a bag near his ear he would have a heart attack and die.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

”What about your father?” I asked.

Peter grimaced. ”He won't even notice Duncan is there,” he said. ”By the way, I took the pictures to the drugstore. We can pick them up after school tomorrow.”

”If we live that long,” I said.

”Relax,” said Peter. ”Broxholm and his friends are here to collect people. I'd be really surprised if they actually kill anyone.”

That made me feel a little better. But it was only the thought that this whole mess might be. over when we got the pictures that kept me from losing my mind that night. Even so, I was so frazzled I couldn't think about anything else.

By morning I was such a wreck that my special session with Mr. Bamwick was a total disaster.

”No, no, no!” he kept yelling. ”It's B flat, Susan. B flat!”

”Well, I can't get it right if you keep screaming at me,” I said, trying not to cry.

I couldn't blame poor Mr. Bamwick. The concert was only a day away, and I was getting worse by the minute. But I just couldn't concentrate on the music. How could I, when I knew what else was supposed to happen? Could you play the piccolo, if you knew some of your friends-or maybe even you-were about to be kidnapped by aliens?

”Aren't you worried?” I asked Peter that afternoon on the playground.

”Not really,” he said. His pale face split into a wide grin. ”I told you, I've got an alternate plan.”

”Listen, Peter,” I said, taking his arm. ”This isn't one of your science fiction books. And you're not Buck Rogers. Don't get carried away.”

He shook my hand away angrily. ”This is the greatest thing that's ever happened in this town,” he said. ”And don't you forget it, Susan!”

At that point Stacy and Mike went running by, yelling bad words at each other.

We started to laugh. ”I heard Stacy say that her mother is going nuts,” said Peter. ”I bet Mike's mother is, too.”

I nodded. I almost felt sorry for them. It can't be easy to have a kid who hasn't been in trouble since kindergarten suddenly turn into a maniac.

”Of course, Stacy and Mike don't have much choice,” I said.

”Sure they do,” said Peter.

”What do you mean by that?” I asked.

But he wouldn't answer me. ”Just watch,” he said. ”You'll figure it out soon enough.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Peter's Choice That afternoon I finally began to understand Peter's ”alternate plan.”

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 the answer but never bothered to give it-started raising his hand for every question that came along.

And suddenly it all came clear to me. Peter wanted to be picked by Broxholm. He had decided that this was his big chance to live the kind of science fiction adventure he had been dreaming about. He figured if he really tried, he might just be able to make it from ”bright, but unmotivated” to being, without question, the best student in the cla.s.s.

You could almost see the gleam in Broxholm's alien eyes when Peter unleashed his mighty brain. We were having a history lesson at the time, and Peter started to answer every question perfectly.

Broxholm started asking harder questions, but Peter never blinked; he just kept reeling off the answers. Even I had no idea how smart that kid was. (And as for Broxholm, I swear, that alien must have memorized an encyclopedia; or maybe he had one transplanted into his head. Who knows what these people could do?) When school was over I dragged Peter off to the side of the playground. ”Are you crazy?” I hissed. ”What are you doing?”

”Plan B,” said Peter. ”If we can't unmask Broxholm, I want to be one of the ones to go on the s.h.i.+p.”

”Forget Plan B!” I yelled. ”You don't know what they're going to do to you up there. They're bad!”

”You don't know that,” said Peter.

”They kidnapped Ms. Schwartz!”

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