Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (15 page)

Joannie was twelve too. And nobody’s chicken. She said so, and followed Emily to the starting position against the wall.

“Okay,” said Emily. “Just do what I do.”

She did the initial leap, bounding several feet in the air, landing bent at the knees. She looked over her shoulder as Joannie took a running start, bounded up, not quite as high, and landed clumsily, one foot shooting out from under her, causing her to land hard on her rump.

“Ow!” she said, and there was a frozen moment in which everybody, including Emily, thought Joannie had done something serious, twisted an ankle or something. The other girls started to inch forward as if to offer aid, but then Joannie rose, rubbing her hindquarter, clearly not in much pain. Even Emily had to breathe a sigh of relief.

Jill stepped forward. “You know what I think the thing is, Em?” she said.

Emily looked at her by way of response.

“I think,” Jill said, “that maybe you’re right. We can do this, but you’re just so good at it we’ve become self-conscious. Why don’t you show it to us once more and then leave us alone to practice it for a while, okay?”

It sounded odd to Emily . . . but it also sounded reasonable. And after all, Jill was her best friend.

“Okay,” she said.

And back to starting position.

Grimly this time, the joy of it seeming to have vanished, Emily took a single hop, bounded up several feet . . .

. . . and went through the motions of the routine again, ending, as always, with a flourish. But no smile. No, her expression was very serious now.

“Should I . . . do it . . . again?” she breathed.

“It’s real clear. I think we’ve got it,” Jill said. “Right, girls?”

There was a general mumbling chorus of assent and accompanying nods all around.

“Give us about five minutes,” Jill added.

“Five?” asked Emily. “Really? That’s all?”

“We’re quick studies, I think.”

Emily crossed to the exit, thick silence following behind her. She turned at the door, tried to smile encouragingly. The faces looked back, unresponsive.

With a cheer she didn’t feel, Emily said, “It’s easy. You’ll figure it out.” And then she left to wander the halls for a while.

It was after class hours, so she didn’t need a pass, didn’t have to justify herself to a hall monitor, just strolled around, occasionally peering into the windows of empty classrooms, trying to process a general feeling that was . . . ungood, somehow. Trying to true up the sequence of events that had just transpired with the fantasy she’d harbored all last night and all day today.

Maybe, she thought . . . maybe it’s all happening the way it’s supposed to. Maybe the step
was
too hard, maybe they
did
need to practice without her eagle eye on them every second.

She liked the reasonableness of that, and her optimism grew from there. Yeah, sure, they just needed time. And when she got back, she’d open the door and . . . there they’d be, doing the Emily Seven and having the time of their lives. It was the latest configuration of the fantasy, and it was the best one of all.

Just to be a good guy about it, she waited an extra minute before making her way back to the cafeteria-gym. And when she pushed the door open . . .

They had left. All of them.

Only Ms. McIntyre was there, holding a piece of ruled notebook paper in her hand. At Emily’s entrance, she lifted her blond head and held the paper out at arm’s length.

“Emily,” she said soberly, “I believe this was left for you. Do you think you can explain it to me?”

With mounting dread, hearing nothing but her pulses pounding in her ears, Emily Francisco took the longest walk of her life to where her teacher stood. She reached for the paper. She had to read it twice; the first time it was so hurtful she couldn’t truly believe her eyes.

The handwriting was Jill’s, the note printed with meticulous neatness.

Emily,

it’s easy.

You’ll figure it out.

And they had all signed it.

Meanwhile, in another part of the school district . . .

The teachers would ask questions, Buck’s hand would go up; maybe they’d call on him, maybe they wouldn’t. If they did, he’d have an answer—the right one or at least a
good
one. After he volunteered a response once per class (twice if the instructor was an especial hardass), it was just amazing how content his teachers would be to leave him alone for the rest of the period. He was barely conscious of any individual question he might’ve been asked, or any individual answer he might’ve given; only aware that by paying the ritual this little bit of homage, he was buying more time to be with himself.

To concentrate on the important matters.

Today to the outside world he was Buck Francisco, participating high school student; but secretly . . . he was Buck Francisco, Senior on Autopilot.

In a way, it was like operating on two different levels of consciousness at once. Before beginning his studies with the Kewistan Masters—an enclave of Elders whose philosophy marked them as distinctively as if it were one of the many Tenctonese religions—it might have been a difficult feat to pull off, being partly in class and mostly in his own head. But one of the first things the Kewistans had taught him was
Kewisto,
the essential skill of abstraction, which allowed one to live in the moment and observe it at the same time. Buck was by no stretch an adept—that came with years and experience—but he applied the basic philosophical principles and was able to affect a rudimentary posture. Which was okay. Today it was all he needed.

But his thoughts were too big, too consequential, to remain in his head, unarticulated. He
knew
things. Since studying with the Elders, he had
learned
things; and he hadn’t yet come anywhere near mastering the discipline it would take to hold in the dilemma that now plagued him. He needed to speak his mind. He’d once read a name for this condition: Information Compulsion. It was apparently one of the most powerful and least understood drives of sentient beings. Knowing that, he knew he had to
do
something about it.

So when his free period at long last came, he made straight for the one person he’d be able to talk to, who would give him unconditional tolerance, unconditional love, and free rein to unleash the bubbling cauldron of thoughts inside his head. Without consequence or compromise.

This person was to be found in the school’s day care center.

Babies and small children were tended to here; some were the offspring of teenage students who were determined not to let premature parenthood stop their secondary education; others, like Buck’s baby sister, Vessna, were the offspring of working families who could not afford private home care.

It was Wednesday, Buck’s day to be responsible for the baby. Other days she’d go with her mother to the day care center at her workplace, less often with her father to the day care center at his.

Buck approached Marlene, the middle-aged volunteer worker at the center.

“How was she today?”

The question was more than just an amenity. Vessna could be cranky when too long away from her supply of
Yespian
. . . but today, apparently, there was no such problem, because Marlene replied, “She was gold. Precious gold.”

Buck scooped Vessna out of a playpen and informed Marlene that he was going to take her outside for a while.

“Beautiful day for it,” Marlene said, adding, “Make sure you keep her head in the shade.” Buck didn’t have to be told, but he was fond of Marlene for caring enough to remind him, and nodded as he took the burlap bag with the baby’s supplies.

Buck exited the school, emerging with Vessna into the fine, bright, warming sunlight. He walked with Vessna snug against his chest, periodically stopping to hold her out at arm’s length and lift her high into the air, keeping eye contact with her. Then he’d smile at her, she’d smile back in response, maybe even squeal, and then he’d bring her back down into his embrace. It wasn’t much of a game, there was no winner, no loser, but neither of them ever tired of playing it.

He walked with her out past the sports fields and parking lots to a slightly wooded area just on the fringes of school property. And there, under a lushly leafy tree, the better to keep the baby’s head in the shade, he settled.

He spread a small blanket on the grass, and over that a disposable paper sheet. Over that, in turn, went Vessna, and then began the routine of checking to see if she needed changing (she did), and dealing with it: disposing of the disposables in a sealable plastic bag, wiping the baby down with special damp nappies, and preparing her anew for the next onslaught. Throughout it all, Vessna was quiet and cooperative in a way she usually wasn’t, even with her parents.

Somehow she connected to Buck. For all his rebelliousness, for all the anger he sometimes held within him, she found him fascinating; and even Buck had to admit that he could be tender and gentle with Vessna in a manner that most who knew him would find uncharacteristic.

But he knew a secret about that.

A secret he shared only with Vessna.

He was most naturally, comfortably himself when Vessna was near. Tender and gentle were the things he liked being above all else.

Until recently, it had been his most intimate secret.

He knew he could trust her to keep it; and he knew, therefore, that he could trust her with the bigger one he now held, that he felt compelled to share.

“Neemu,” he began softly, “I’m not sure, but . . . I may be going away.”

Vessna, crawling toward a rattle, looked up at him and cooed inquisitively.

“It’s not that you’ll never see me again, but . . . I’ll be different. I’ve been studying with the Kewistan Elders, you know that, and they’ve taught me the basics of
Kewisto.
I guess you know that too. But . . . have I told you why
Kewisto
as a philosophy is so important?”

Rattle now in hand, Vessna banged it soundly against the ground and looked up proudly.

“It’s the basis of everything the Kewistans do. They’re the collectors of knowledge for our people. They observe the progress of our race from a remove, never getting directly involved, save to offer advice when asked. They feel it’s their mandate to keep a historical perspective at all times, apart from extremes of emotional involvement. I don’t mean to say that they’re unemotional. Actually, they’re not, but—”

Vessna was sucking the rattle now. “Mmmmm?” she asked.

“You’re right, it’s a very complicated idea. But it’s not the point, really. Here’s the point.”

He took a deep breath.

“I think I’ll need you in my lap for this one,” he said, and he reached under her stubby arms, lifted her, her feet pedaling the air with barely coordinated joy, and he brought her in close, nestling her head against his chest.

“The point is . . . I’m the most accelerated student they’ve had since we’ve been on Earth. Also, they tell me, the most eager. I’ve been pushing for a full initiation into the order and . . . well, my Elder-Master tells me that if I think I’m ready, I’ve earned the right to my
Tighe Marcus-ta.”

He paused then, putting his hand to Vessna’s cheek, lightly brushing his fingers over the delicate swell around her ear. He loved touching his baby sister, holding her. The innocent sensuality of it was a constant wonder, and often overwhelming.

“It means complete absorption. It means I, too, would learn to watch the world from a remove. To be able to watch daily events as if they’re living history and fit them into the larger context of our heritage.”

He rested his chin on her head, savoring the warmth of her, enfolding her with both arms. Normally Vessna had a slight claustrophobic streak, and such an all-consuming embrace would have made her restless. But the connection between her and her brother was strong now, so she merely said “Ab-ab-ab-a,” and sighed.

“But in order to do that, I have to ‘untie’ myself from the outside world. It’s not as severe as it sounds, not a counterproductive act of anger, like becoming reclusive or going to a Tenctonese compound. Those things cut you
off
from the world. When you’re taken in by the Kewistans, you make all beings equal in your sight. You put yourself in
harmony
with the world. So that no people are better or worse than others, or held in higher or lower esteem. What I mean is, I’d have to look upon you, Dad, Mom, Emily . . . just like I’d look upon—”

Buck glanced up idly, spotted a mailman on the other side of the school fence, and adjusted Vessna on his lap so that she could see him too.

“—that mailman,” Buck continued. “You couldn’t be special to me. Or that mailman couldn’t be
un
special to me. Do you see?”

Vessna squealed delightedly at the mailman, who heard, from half a block away, and waved at her.

“That’s why I came into the house last night to think. I wanted to see what it would be like to observe the family from a remove. I wanted to find out if I could distance myself even while I was among you.” He turned her around, put his forehead to hers. “I couldn’t even work up a small
Kewisto.
Emily started that damn jumping around and . . .”

Vessna made a long “Ehhhhhhh” noise.

“You’re trying to tell me that’s my answer right there, I know. Yeah, I thought of that. I’m not so sure you’re right. The Elders tell me that separating from the family is the hardest thing. They even say it
should
be because retaining your compassion is a big part of the process.”

He kissed her forehead. “I want to do it, Vessna. I want to keep the knowledge of our people; add to it, monitor it, help it grow and endure. I mean, it’s a larger, nobler, greater concern than the individual need for family. And yet . . .” He rubbed his nose against hers. She smiled, laughed. “This. You and me, here, just doing this. How do I not miss
this?”
He lifted her higher, rested her head on his shoulder, moved his cheek gently against hers.

“Tell me, Vessna,” he asked in a choked whisper, closing his eyes, “how do I not miss
this
most of all?”