Josh stumbled into his 8 a.m. communications class with only 10 minutes left in the lesson, looking more disheveled than usual. He noisily dropped his backpack onto the floor, slid his lanky frame behind the desk, and reached into his cavernous pack for the day’s assignment—a persuasive speech outline.
Shooting him a peeved look, the instructor finished her lecture, reminded the students of their next assignment, and dismissed the class, singling out Josh to “please stay a moment.”
Once everyone else filed out, Josh migrated to the front of the room where his formidable professor stood, arms crossed. He figured an apology and a truthful explanation were his best bet. “Sorry I was late, prof,” he began.
“This is the eighth time in as many weeks,” she reminded him with no hint of mercy. “Not to mention the days you simply don’t show up at all. I could flunk you on non-attendance alone.”
“I know,” Josh agreed. “But honestly, I hate to miss. I like this class. I always set my alarm 15 minutes early so I don’t oversleep. But all these unscheduled late night trips are making me snooze through my Star Trek theme music.”
The professor held up her hand like a crossing guard. “Please. Not the visits. Again,” she protested. “Can’t we just deal with excuses the university approves of, like you fighting the flu? Or nursing a sick parent back to health? Or attending a grandparent’s funeral? Something a little more—verifiable.”
“But none of those fit my situation,” Josh said, staring at his teacher like she’d suggested he lie under oath in a courtroom.
“All right, then. I guess we’re back to the old standby. You were …” the professor had a hard time saying the next word without a smile—or grimace, “abducted again last night?”
“I prefer collected, but yes, ma’am,” Josh said, grinning like a tutor whose pupil finally mastered a difficult subject. “I was checking my Instagram when the vibrations began. Pretty soon everything was shaking. My water glass slid off the nightstand. My books bounced off my desk. And my X-Files poster peeled off the wall. These guys don’t sneak up on you. They make a dramatic entrance.”
“And then …” the teacher baited her student, waiting to see how the far-fetched fantasy varied this time around.
“They whisked me away. Like always. Didn’t even let me put my pants on.”
“Why didn’t you just click your ruby red slippers together? Or sail away clutching an umbrella like Mary Poppins? Perhaps have your molecules scrambled and reassembled like in the Enterprise’s transporter?” she asked.
“What? No. Nothing like that make-believe stuff,” Josh said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I was sitting alone in my bedroom one second. Then before you can say, ‘Beam me up,’ I’m circling Earth in some souped-up spacemobile. That sudden change makes me dizzy for a while. I puked the first time until I got used to it.”
“So once you’re aboard, that’s when the poking and probing begins?” the professor guessed, feeling a migraine forming.
“You watch too many cheesy sci-fi movies, prof,” Josh scolded. “We just hang out. Listen to some tunes. Play some games, although I swear the guy with the squeaky voice cheats all the time. But they’re party animals. I don’t usually get back home until six or seven a.m.”
The professor dug through her stack of outlines until she found Josh’s. She studied it a moment. “Let’s see. Your speech will urge us to wear a helmet when riding ATVs because you didn’t and suffered a concussion in a crash.”
“Yeah. I had a pretty serious brain injury. I’ll put pictures on my Prezi to prove it. But everything’s back to normal now. Better than ever, really. That’s why I was picked for the experiments.”
“OK. Let’s return to our primary problem. I need a written note from a professional person before I can excuse your tardiness and absences, which are disruptive to the class.”
“I did check with the head honcho on the project, and he gave me this.” Josh pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “This explains why I can’t quit now.”
Carefully, the professor unfolded the paper to find six lines of strange scribbles that resembled geometric symbols, not words. “I can’t read this,” she said. “It’s gibberish.”
“I know it’s a little wonky,” Josh admitted, “but their universal translator was on the fritz. And this was the best they could do.”
“Josh, listen to me,” the professor said sternly. “You’ve got to stop insisting that aliens periodically abduct you.”
“I get that it’s hard for some people to believe,” Josh said, shooting her a pitiful look. “But the other-worlders need to study us regularly to see how we’re evolving. They’re not trying to take over Earth or anything diabolical like that. They’re just curious about our species. We’re like a pet project to them.”
“That’s not terribly reassuring,” the professor said.
“It’s going kinda slow,” Josh said. “They need a larger sampling of Earthlings. So they’re recruiting a few more subjects now. I recommended you.”
“And I recommend that you spend more time in the classroom and less in outer space. One more absence or tardy and I will fail you.”
“It might not matter,” Josh said, “if I end up traveling the galaxy with my new buds.”
Hours later, the professor finished grading outlines at her kitchen table, poured herself some Chardonnay, then trudged upstairs to bed. She thought about her delusional but harmless student, Josh, and hoped he’d come to his senses and finish the semester strong.
After changing into her striped onesie pajamas, she settled into bed, turned on her Kindle and switched off the lights. On a whim, she purchased The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and had barely gotten to where Arthur Dent hitches a ride on a Vorgon ship when the room began to shake and her wine glass shimmied off the nightstand.
Marie Mitchell + Mason Smith
Richmond