All I Need to Know about the Earth, I Learned in Kindergarten
Kira Bacal
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Kira Bacal
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It was a beautiful, sunny day. Birdsong mingled with the happy shouts of the children as they fled their daylong incarceration in the schoolhouse for the school buses and home. It looked like a frigging Hallmark commercial, and I should have known that the god of irony couldn’t pass it up.
It wasn’t entirely my fault that things progressed as far as they did. I was distracted by Johnny Rogers’ trying to eat the dried macaroni off Angelita Ramirez’s Mother’s Day card. Angelita retaliated by thumping him over the head with her bookbag, and the thermos inside bonked him hard enough to make him cry. That prompted Angelita to start crying out of fear of being blamed, her best friend Emma to start crying out of loyalty to Angelita, and Tommy Washington to try filching the rest of the macaroni. By the time I had dried the tears, administered the scoldings, and gotten them all back in line, Joey Bitford was in the middle of the street with a car barreling down at him.
The other teachers hadn’t even noticed the Johnny-Angelita fracas, let alone Joey’s venture into the forbidden zone beyond the curb. The car was going well above the speed limit, much too fast to stop in time, even if the oblivious driver had paused long enough in her search for just the right radio station to look at the road and see the five year old in her path. I knew instantly that it was not humanly possible to save him.
Good thing I’m not human.
I froze the rest of my kindergarten class in their tracks with a subvocal “DON’T MOVE”. It would be impossible for an adult human to disobey a command when I use that mental tone, let alone for children to do so. Even as I was issuing the thought, I surged into normal (for me, that is) speed and snatched Joey up just before the car passed by. We came to a rest at the far side of the street.
He was too shocked and disoriented even to cry, and I took off my glasses and crouched down to his level so I could look directly into his eyes. “If you ever again walk into the street like that, I will smack your bottom so hard you won’t sit down until your Senior Prom. Do you understand me?” I didn’t use The Voice; I didn’t have to. My eyes alone, unshielded by the camouflaging lenses, were sufficient.
He stared at me, transfixed. “Ye-yes,” he managed to squeak.
I extended my thoughts and flipped briskly through his mind, quickly delving beyond the surface layer of mingled bewilderment at what had happened, lingering terror at the memory of the approaching car, and enormous guilt over his Breaking a Rule. What had prompted this uncharacteristic behavior? Aha. I should have guessed.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the schoolyard. My class’ immobility hadn’t yet attracted notice, but it would soon. I needed to get back there, but first, where was the little weasel? Oh yes, trying to hide behind Mrs. O’Leary’s bulk.
I made sure that the rest of the school were occupied with their own minor crises, then segued Joey and myself back to the bus loading zone before anyone realized we had been gone. I released my class from their frozen state and gave Joey’s hand one last squeeze. He gave me a tremulous smile, and I could “hear” in the still-confused tangle of his emotions that he was as happy that he wasn’t being punished as he was to be alive. That’s one thing about humans at any age: no sense of perspective.
I mentally reviewed exactly what I had said to him. In the heat of the moment, I am sometimes injudicious in my phrasing, and my threats (or promises, to be precise) often had a lasting effect on humans. There had been one instance where a promising young artist’s career had been jeopardized by his inability to experiment with various modern art techniques. Once I rephrased my years-old injunction against paint-throwing, he won several prestigious awards. Satisfied that I had not inadvertently prevented an adult Joseph Bitford from independently crossing the street (though I doubted he would ever be a jaywalker), I moved to address my unfinished business.
I asked Mrs. Brandenstern if she could keep an eye on my kindergarteners along with her second graders for a few moments, and she agreed, surprised. It’s rare that I ask other teachers for help with my class, and they usually regard it as a mark of high distinction when I do. Mrs Brandenstern colored a bit and straightened up proudly, rather unnecessarily calling to two of my students to stay with the group.
I headed off in search of my prey. I found him quaking at the back of the playground, trying to make himself invisible through sheer will power. “Well, well. Little Alec Barrett. I’ve heard about you,” I said, eyeing the third grader with disfavor. He wasn’t one of mine – one of my former pupils, that is. He had moved into the district last year and had rapidly acquired a reputation in the teachers’ lounge for mischief making. He was especially talented at inciting others to break the rules while he stood back and watched. I had learned from Joey’s mind that he had ventured into the road as the result of a “double dare” from a Big Boy – namely, Alec Barrett.
From the looks of him, Alec had heard about me, too, and he knew that I was unlikely to be pleased by his attempt to turn one of my students into a stooge. “Did you see what happened to Joey after you dared him to walk into the street?” I asked him coldly.
“I didn’t –“ I took off my glasses and his voice trailed into a whimper. He stopped quivering, but that was only because he was frozen, much like a bunny rabbit confronted by a snake.
“Did you want to say something?” I asked him.
“Nn-nnh.” He shook his head – well, vibrated it a bit from side to side – his eyes never leaving mine.
“Did you realize that Joey could have been killed?” I asked him, then dismissed my own question with a wave of my hand. He was eight years old. Death was a concept he could grasp only vaguely. Instead, I delved into his mind. What made him prey upon the other children like this?
Hmm. Youngest child. Bullied at home by his older siblings. Nothing horrible, but enough to make him feel impotent and resentful. Parents loving but oblivious to much of what occurred among their children. Poor sense of self-worth, due to being the youngest (and therefore the weakest, least coordinated, slowest – the Barretts appeared to be a very sports-oriented family)… Hmmm. Something would have to be done.
I pulled my focus back to the outside of the child’s head. “Alec, what is your best subject in school?” I asked, curious if his answer would agree with what I had learned from his classroom memories.
“Reading,” he breathed, still held in thrall by my gaze.
Good. That matched what I had seen. “Come with me.” I took him by the hand and marched him back to his teacher, replacing my glasses as we went.
“Mrs. O’Leary, I have good news,” I told her with a pleasant smile. She looked down at the boy by my side and her eyebrows rose.
“Good news?” she reiterated skeptically.
“Yes. Alec has just volunteered to spend his Monday recess periods helping tutor some of my students in reading. Isn’t that wonderful? What a nice thing to do – helping younger students like that.”
Now both Alec and his teacher were staring at me in astonishment. “Really?” Mrs O’Leary asked. “Alec? Alec did that?”
“Shall I repeat myself?” I asked her, and she hastily shook her head. Most humans, regardless of age, stop arguing when I narrow my eyes.
“I’m sure my class will look forward to your coming by on Monday, Alec,” I said, giving him a Look over the rims of my glasses. “It’s very nice of your offering to teach the smaller children like this.”
“Yes, Miss Buttercup,” he nodded jerkily. “Thank you, Miss Buttercup.”
I moved away to reclaim my class from Mrs. Brandenstern. Behind me, I heard Mrs. O’Leary – not the brightest woman, but a good-hearted one – say, “Well, Alec, since you volunteered to do such a nice thing, I think you should be the one to hold the class flag today. Will you please wave it to show the others they need to gather for the buses?”
Alec’s little chest puffed out as he accepted the class flag. To a third grader, this was the equivalent of being knighted, and I was grateful to Mrs O’Leary for following my lead. If we could bestow a sense of self-worth upon Alec by making him a role model to the younger children, he would be unlikely to continue trying to exploit them. Teachers don’t only care for their own classes, you know.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the last child boarded her bus for home. Another day, another crisis, yet I had still managed to conceal my identity. So far as any of my co-workers suspected, I was from Sweetwater Flats, Iowa, and not a small planet in the Alpha Aurigae system.
I turned to go back to my room – I still had to straighten up from today’s activities (Mother’s Day macaroni cards, two chapters of Captain Underpants, drawing the electron clouds of the first six elements in finger paints, and a handy little demonstration of Erwin Schrödinger’s contribution to quantum physics using the class hamster). Tomorrow we would finish with Captain Underpants, and I was torn between starting a book about a flatulent dog or one of Stephen Hawkings’ later works. (The class had enjoyed his “A Brief History of Time” last semester.) I had just reached the door when a hand caught my arm.
I turned to find Mrs. Weinbaum, the elderly school crossing guard, at my side. “Yes?” I asked politely, gently freeing myself from her liver-spotted grasp.
She leaned close to me, giving me a whiff of Ben Gay, and whispered, “I saw what you did.”
For a moment, I didn’t grasp her meaning, but then it sank in. She had seen me save Joey? But I was on the far side of her corner! It had never occurred to me that a myopic octogenarian would have spotted my subsonic (but only just) passage across the road, or that she would have believed her eyes if she had.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Weinbaum,” I tried. “Have you had a recent change in your medications?”
“Don’t try to snow me, chickie,” she snapped. “If you don’t want my cell to buzz News of the World and the other supermarket tabloid crapmeisters, you’d better come to my house at 5:30.” She waggled a finger at me menacingly and shuffled away.
Then she stopped and turned back. “And bring a nice crumbcake. I’ll make tea.”
Thus it was that at 5:28 that evening, I was walking up to the Weinbaum residence with a box of Entenmann’s in my hand. To call it a “house” would be inaccurate. Mrs Weinbaum lived in a trailer park, and her double wide was a classic example of the genre. Green astro-turf “lawn” out front with two folding chairs. Several artificial flamingos in various hues, three wind chimes, four giant pinwheels, and a plastic duck in an Uncle Sam costume decorated the front walkway.
I tapped at the doorframe, moving the crumbcake to my left hand in order to have ready access to the disintegrator in my purse. If possible, I planned to make Mrs Weinbaum’s imminent death appear to be due to natural causes, but if necessary, the disintegrator could be relied upon to reduce her to a small pile of ashes, and my Dustbuster was in the car.
Not that I was looking forward to killing the old woman, but she had stumbled onto my secret, and I didn’t dare risk exposure. I had selected Earth for the precise reason that it was such a remote backwater that the natives didn’t think interstellar spaceflight was even possible, much less believe in the existence of extra-terrestrial aliens. Still, it would do me no good to be “outed” in a tabloid; even if no one really believed the story, it would be enough to get me fired. No one wants to read about their children’s kindergarten teacher while waiting in the checkout line.
“Come in!” called Mrs Weinbaum, and I stepped up into the trailer. After the late afternoon sunshine, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. Once they did, I blinked, then blinked again, wondering if my eyes were still dazzled.
Mrs Weinbaum lay stiffly on the ground, toes pointing straight upwards in a most unnatural position. I dropped the cake box on the table and hurried around the couch to see if she were all right.
No. Definitely not all right. Human heads are not supposed to part in the middle like that.
I took a deep breath. Well. On the one hand this could be viewed as quite serendipitous, but on the other hand, it did pose some complications. Now what should I do? Dispose of the body? Start screaming for help? Pretend to be a loving co-worker dropping off some goodies for dear Mrs Weinbaum? It wasn’t like I wanted the crumbcake myself…
Then I caught myself. It was true that human bodies don’t bifurcate from the top of the skull to the mid-torso like that, but they are rather, well, juicy on the inside. Surely if something had cleaved Mrs Weinbaum like that, there should be a puddle of goo in the vicinity, not those smooth, pristine edges that looked almost… plastic? Hey, wait a second.
I jerked my head up and finally realized that the glow in the far corner was not due to a flickering fluorescent lightbulb, but to an iridescent insectoid roughly the size of… Mrs Weinbaum.
“So, chickie, where you from? Aurigae Prime? Rigel? Spica VII?” the bug asked chattily in Mrs Weinbaum’s voice. “Did you get the regular crumbcake or the blueberry? I really like the blueberry.”
I took a deep breath. So much for eradicating a nosy human. Insectoids looked fragile but were nearly impossible to kill in hand to hand combat (ever tried to squish a cockroach with your bare feet?). I still had my disintegrator, but it would likely take several shots – those things are fast – and someone in the trailer park would probably notice large gaping holes in Mrs Weinbaum’s home. On balance, it was probably better to try negotiation first.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. If it were here to kill me, it could have done so long since.
“Nu? I could ask you the same. So sit, cut us each a slice of cake and let’s have a glass of tea.”
What else could I do? Humans were easy to control – their brains are so underdeveloped they don’t even believe in mental powers and so take no precautions against them – but insectoids are not susceptible to mind tricks. Something about how they developed from a hive consciousness. Anyway, I cut the cake, poured the tea, stepped over Mrs Weinbaum (or at least the prosthesis that I had heretofore thought of as Mrs Weinbaum), and made myself comfortable on the couch. “I didn’t think there was anyone else on this planet,” I admitted. “Other than the natives, I mean.”
“Ditto! When you did your little super-save this afternoon, you could have knocked me onto my tush with a feather!” She paused. “It was nice, what you did. Joey is a cute little boy. And his father – gevalt! Such a sweetie. Always with the ‘Good morning, Mrs Weinbaum’, ‘Thank you, Mrs Weinbaum’.”
“Joey is one of my students,’ I replied rather frostily. “I am not about to allow any harm to come to them.”
“This is how you pay for living here?” she asked shrewdly, surprising me with her insight. “By caring for the native children?”
I shrugged. “It‘s easy work. The children are less likely to notice any -- irregularities -- in my behavior, and even if they do notice, and talk about it, who will believe them? I am able to help quite a few. These humans are relatively poor parents. Even the ones who try can be quite inept. It’s amazing the species has survived. Would you believe that they don’t even start teaching physics until after puberty?”
“Hmf!” She seconded my opinion with a dismissive flip of her wings. “Meshuga. What do you expect of such a primitive world?”
“So what brought you to this remote ball of dirt?” I asked again. “Don’t tell me it’s been discovered as a new spot for eco-tourism?”
“Nah, nah. I don’t think anyone else in the galaxy even knows this place exists,” she scoffed. I tried not to let my relief show. “I ended up here by accident. Rheumatism, you know.”
“Rheumatism?” I echoed blankly.
She wiggled all seven pairs of legs and both sets of wings. “Joint pain, chickie. Okay, so we don’t call it rheumatism, but you don’t strike me as a orthopedic specialist from home. My joints were killing me, comprende? None of the quacks on my homeworld could cure me, and the pain was getting worse. I figured better to go out in a blaze of glory among the stars, so I said all my goodbyes and took my little singleship and headed for parts unknown. I had pretty much come to the end of my fuel reserves when I noticed this little planet. It looked interesting, and the climate scans showed it was a nice warm place, just what my aching bones needed. So I came down for a look-see, and next thing I know, I’m feeling better than I had in a decade! But – as you have figured out – the locals, they don’t exactly encourage intergalactic immigration, so I figured I’d better come incognito, as they say.” She gestured towards her prosthesis. “Not the most attractive body in the world, but it suits my needs.”
I was still mulling over her words, trying to work out what the possible impact to my plans might be, when she once again startled me with an astute observation. I had been away from civilization so long, I had forgotten how intelligent the bugs were.
“Now what about you, chickie? You’re obviously humanoid or you couldn’t do that superstuff. Mind control, that speed of yours – all that says you’re from one of the Harbor systems, right? You’re not the survivor of a wreck, or the first question out of your mouth would have been whether my communications gear is intact – it is, by the way. So you’re not a castaway, what are you?”
I opened my mouth, but the question was rhetorical. Mrs Weinbaum went on without a pause. “A researcher, studying the natives? No, those types are real strict about not revealing themselves or interacting too much with the natives. A tourist? No, you’ve been here too long. Oh yes, Miss Daisy Buttercup. I asked around about you. Oy, you couldn’t come up with a better name than Daisy Buttercup?”
“My research was a bit rushed,” I admitted stiffly. “It sounds like you have become quite the native -- using dialect yet?”
“I always liked amateur dramatics,” Mrs Weinbaum preened her thorax complacently. “Immersing myself in this role was no different from when I played Ix’Tlp in The Chrysalis Saga. Our local newstaper called my performance –“
“Yes,” I interrupted hastily before the frustrated thespian could pull out any old clippings or recordings. “I could tell. Now, about your presence here – “
“Hold on. We hadn’t finished talking about you.” Mrs Weinbaum had a lamentably good memory. “So: not a refugee, academician, tourist… Why are you on the lam, sister?”
I sighed. It had only been a question of time before she stumbled upon the truth. “I was on the losing side in a disagreement. It was healthier to get out of town. Way out.”
Her wings vibrated a little faster. “You were a soldier?”
I glanced at the TV Guide on her table. “Think ‘Sopranos’, not ‘Platoon’.”
“You don’t mean – “ Her voice dropped. “The Grrazzerr-!K’Lprn vendetta? You were part of the Family?”
I sighed again. I saw no reason to tell her that I was the reason a large number of the !K’Lprn clan had joined their ancestors ahead of schedule, or that the bounty on my head was reputed to be among the largest in history. Why make it easy for people to do the wrong thing?
“Wooeee! I can sure see why you had to beat feet, chickie! Those guys aren’t going to forget a grudge for an eon or so. So that’s why you ended up here, huh? Get as far away as possible from anyone who could ever even hear about the Vendetta!”
“That was the idea,” I acknowledged. “But now…”
“Pssssh. You don’t have to worry about me, dollink. Why would I want to cause trouble for you? I’m very happy here. What would I go back to? More rheumatism? No, thank you! Your secret is safe with me.” She paused. “Especially if you do me a little favor.”
My eyes narrowed. Here it came. Okay, what would it be? A squeeze for local currency? High tech items? The removal of some neighbor whose dog kept peeing on her plastic duck?
“So, you Aurigans are pretty good with the mind control, right? On humans, I mean?”
“Yes,” I agreed guardedly. “There are limits, of course.”
“Right, right. Well, see, here’s why I had you come over. I mean, sure it’s nice to have a little chat and all, kind of a welcome to the neighborhood and lodge meeting all in one. But as soon as I saw you zip over to nab little Joey, I thought, here’s the answer to my problem!”
“What problem?”
“Well, I have this neighbor. Saul Schwartz. He lives in the trailer across the way from me.”
“You want me to do something to him?”
“Exactly. You see, Saul, he’s such a nice man. We’ve gotten to be rather – close, if you know what I mean.”
“Close?” I repeated uncomprehendingly.
I swear the bug blushed. “You know. Close.”
Light dawned. “Oh. Close.”
“Right. At first it was no big deal. We’d go out to an Early Bird dinner together, maybe a weekday movie matinee. But then it got to be a regular thing. Every Tuesday, IHOP. Wednesday night, we go to Bingo at the JCC. Thursday is movie night at the Knights of Columbus Senior Center. Do you know, he’s even a good cook? He makes this wonderful jell-o salad. With mini-marshmallows yet!”
“So you want me to kill him because he’s become a pest?” I guessed blindly.
“Kill him?’ she squawked, nearly spiraling out of her hover, she was so upset. “Who said anything about killing? Oy, you’re giving me palpitations! No, I don’t want him killed. Are you meshuga? I’m telling you about this lovely man – a widow, poor thing – who makes me jell-o salads and you think I want him dead? Are you nuts? He’s going to teach me to make another dish, again with the jell-o only this time with raisins and pineapple chunks instead of the marshmallows and shredded carrots. Why would I want him dead?”
“Then what do you need me for?” I demanded.
“What are you, deaf? I already said, we’re getting close. Very close. And Saul wants us to get closer. Much closer.”
“Ah.” Suddenly things began to come together. I peered over at the prosthesis. “I assume that it isn’t – ahem – anatomically correct?”
“Listen, dearie, some things I can fake, you know? But let’s not forget. I’m from Ixides Prime. I reproduce by fission. Amorous activities among my species are strictly solo, you get my drift?”
“So what do you want me to do?” I asked, beginning to get panicky.
“Make with the mind control, chickie. Convince my Mr Wonderful that we had a lovely romantic night together. You can do that, right?”
“Oh,” I breathed a sigh of relief, my worst fears unrealized.
“Ewww.” Then I grimaced as the realization of what Mrs Weinbaum did want sank in. “You want me to implant some pornographic memories into this human’s mind, so that he keeps making you jell-o and going to Bingo with you?”
“Listen, chickie,” she said, shaking a reproving set of forelegs at me, “at my age, companionship is hard to find. Just wait: you’ll see. And I didn’t say anything about pornography. Just make it, you know, erotic. Artsy. Well, maybe a little soft porn, but remember my reputation.”
“This isn’t going to solve your problem, you know. Even if I do it, he’s just going to want a – a repeat performance. What then?”
“So? You’re maybe going somewhere?” she challenged, then backed down a bit after seeing my expression. “Look, would I ask you to do this thing that often? He’s an old fellow. I know – you can make him think he had some chest pain. He’s got a bum ticker. That will make him less likely to want a repeat for a while. Okay? After all, I’m doing you a pretty big favor too.”
Ah yes. I wondered how long it would be before she brought that up. Still, she seemed sincere enough. And if it would keep her mouth shut – and her feelers off her communication setup – then it was worth it. If not, well, there were plenty of ways to kill an insectoid; I just didn’t have any of the necessary equipment on me at the moment.
“I’ll even sweeten the pot,” she offered.
“Oh? How?”
“Do you know the driver of the car that nearly smashed poor little Joey into roadkill?”
I frowned. I had meant to look up the license plate so as to track down the driver and implant some unforgettable driver re-education lessons. “Not yet.”
She fluttered faster, her equivalent of a smirk. “I do. And her home address. And I’m very good at getting past security alarms.”
I frowned at her, but this time it was with calculation. “How much can you lift when you’re not wearing that prosthesis?”
“Why, you’re just a little thing. I won’t have any trouble carrying you around,” she promised brightly.
I sighed. “It’s a deal.”
“Now you just call me Honey and I’ll call you Daisy.” She beamed. “I knew we’d get along the instant I heard your name, I just knew it. It was Meant to Be.”
I sat back. How did I manage to go from professional assassin to kindergarten teacher to, er, romance broker for senior citizens? It was as my kindergarten teacher always warned me: the gods of irony ensure that payback is a bitch.
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About the author:
Kira Bacal is a physician and scientist who has worked at NASA and the US Senate, among other odd and wonderful places. She currently lives among towering trees in New Zealand with her two children and a vandalism-prone Leonberger.