7

PROOF THAT ALIENS EXIST … SORT OF

Mr Ngata isn’t impressed by aliens.

‘Load of rubbish,’ he growls from behind his teacher’s desk. His head appears now and again above stacks of unmarked books, assessment folders, old coffee cups and containers full of pencils and whiteboard markers. ‘As if aliens would travel across the universe just to see our town. Forget coffee in Paris or meeting with world leaders — oh, no. They’d rather visit a bunch of farmers with cows.’

Sitting at our table, Harriet pretends to measure her desk for our statistics lesson. She glances up at me and mutters, ‘Don’t say a word. He doesn’t need to know. Not yet.’

I don’t need telling. I reckon Mr Ngata will be thrilled when we save the town, but right now? Definitely not.

Mr Ngata leans on his hands and knocks a bunch of PAT tests to the ground. ‘And if I find out any of you kids are involved …’

We all look back at him, wide-eyed. He sags a little, sinking until only his nose is visible. ‘Humph. Well, probably not, what good would a bunch of UFOs do us? We’ve got our hands full saving the school, not to mention this …’ He grabs a school notice off his desk, waving it over his head. ‘Apparently I’m supposed to remind you all to bring cans for the school gala, though why we’re holding a gala when the school’s closing, I don’t know. However, the PTA pointed out it’s been on the school calendar for months, so please remember to bring your old junk in or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Harriet waves her hand. ‘Mum says the PTA can use the gala money to buy uniforms for our new schools, kind of like a leaving gift. She reckons we’ll have tons of customers at this gala, what with all the tourists turning up to see UFOs.’

Serena Wai calls out from the art corner, ‘Yeah, my mum said she’s making alien-faced cupcakes with liquorice for antenna—’

Alex interrupts, ‘My dad’s covering the truck with tinfoil for the hayrides, so it’ll look like an alien spaceship. He reckons we’ll charge extra. If he goes fast over the bumps it’s kind of like flying.’

‘Enough about the UFOs!’ Mr Ngata waves his hands. ‘Right, we’re clearly not getting any maths done. We’ve only got fifteen minutes before lunch, so anyone who’s finished the questions can work on their topic projects. Before we get started though, Rebecca Patel, let’s hear from you.’

Rebecca looks up, flicking her hair with a rubber shaped like a lollipop. ‘Um why?’

‘You had a good idea, I wanted to share it with the class.’

‘Uhhh, okay.’ Flicking her hair again, she glances down at her books. ‘Well, my group started a GoFundMe page. We’re hoping people will donate money so we can build our own school. Then we won’t need government funding.’

Alex groans. ‘I’m not wearing any fancy private school uniforms.’

Harriet just shakes her head and mutters, ‘That’s a really good idea.’ She looks like someone just tipped her lunchbox on the ground and stomped on the lid. Guess she doesn’t want anyone beating our project and saving the school first. Sometimes, I’m not sure about Harriet’s motivations.

Mr Ngata ignores everyone and says, ‘How much have you raised so far, Rebecca?’

‘Twenty-four dollars fifty, but my mum says she’ll add ten dollars if I clean the car and vacuum my room.’

‘Well, that’s very generous, but we’ll need more. We need to grab the public interest, so let’s create links for GoFundMe on our blog … Yes, Alex, I know that was your idea, you’re still in charge of the blog, okay? Ellie, I’m also putting you in charge of finances.’

‘But, sir—’

‘Yes, I know you’ve got another project, but you’re the best in class at maths, so don’t argue. We need someone keeping an eye on our funds.’ He picks up an old ruler and starts tapping one end against the table. ‘Look, you’re on separate teams, but we need to work together if we’re going to make a difference. I’m even writing an article for the Education Gazette. Our story should raise awareness with other schools, if they bother reading it. We need a team approach, kids. Got it?’

Harriet crosses her arms. ‘But we still get separate grades, right?’

Somebody laughs and Harriet glares across the room. Mr Ngata waves one hand. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll all be graded for mahi. I’ll work out your individual marks … somehow. Now everyone, me tīmata tātou.’

‘Āe!’ everyone calls back. Our teacher’s face disappears again and his short, silver-white hair looks like an iceberg bobbing in a paper sea of stacked essays and folders.

Ellie snorts from the back of our classroom, already sketching out another pro-vegetarian poster. I just hope she won’t stick this one on any shop windows. We had a phone call last night from the butcher’s wife, Mrs Dale, and poor Mum just about flipped out. She reckoned Mr Dale nearly had a heart attack when he saw the hand-drawn poster saying ‘Meat is Murder’, which I explained to Ellie could make her a murderer, too, if she’s not careful. Ellie just threw a pillow at my head and told me to get out of her room. You know, she’s not an easy person to help.

Next to me, Ethan Mowbray starts dragging out packets of flour, so his team can practise making bombs on the table. Why do some people get all the fun? I’m keen to see how they’ll throw them. I’ll bet they need homemade sling shots. Will they use glue to hold the flour in shape as it flies? But before I can speak, Harriet grabs my sleeve and starts dragging me towards the devices stacked in the far corner. She also sends Alex a look so sharp you could list it as a cutting hazard on keepsafekids.com.

Alex sighs and stands up, his chair squealing on the ripped linoleum. Dragging his feet, he follows us across the room. ‘All right, what’re we doing?’

‘Well, Mr Ngata likes Lucas’s letters and I want an A on this project.’ Harriet pushes me into a chair and points at the nearest laptop, growling, ‘So don’t mess up. Write a good one.’

I glance at the classroom clock. ‘There’s no time and I’m busy at lunch, so the answer’s no, okay? Let’s do something else.’

She glances at my backpack, hanging on the wall near the door. ‘Busy doing what? Sanitising the school drinking taps?’

She’s right, of course. Breaks are my busiest time. I walk around with sunscreen for the juniors and keep an eye out for kids with runny noses. (Seriously, if you’ve got a cold, go home and stop spreading germs.) As for the school fountain, it needs regular spraying with sanitiser because kids put their mouth on those taps and only an idiot would drink from a shared water source.

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Yeah, so?’

‘Fine, I’ll help you. Okay? Now, stop talking and start typing. I’ll pretend to research storage ideas on the other computer, in case Mr Ngata walks past and asks what we’re doing. Alex, you can work on the blog.’

I try moving but Harriet’s still holding my arm like she’s afraid I’ll run away. Alex glances back towards the kids, poking at bags of white powder and giggling. Clearly they’re having more fun than us.

Alex opens his mouth, but Harriet holds up her other hand, cutting him off. ‘Our plan’s starting to work, we can’t slow down now. I heard Mrs Jones agreed to rent out camping space in her field for a few tourists, but we need publicity to get proper crowds. Alex, make sure you link in those articles from The National Herald, so people will visit the crop circles. Don’t forget to type up our petition and link that, too, okay? Then people around the country can comment on our blog and sign the petition at the same time.’

Alex groans but gets out his phone. We both appear to be stuck. Pulling my arm free from Harriet’s grasp, I switch on the nearest laptop and start typing: anything to stop Harriet giving me more jobs.

Pressing the keys, I chuck my ideas onto the screen and, before I know it, I’ve written a letter.

Dear Mrs Carter, Minister for Education,

You might be aware that our town has been visited by aliens. I’ll bet you’re thinking — yeah, right. But you should come and check, just in case. No other world leaders have met with aliens, so you could make history!

While you’re in the area, you could visit our school, too. I know you’re closing us down because we’re small and most of our kids could bus to Victoria Primary, but that’s ages away. My sister, Ellie, is always late, which means we’ll miss the bus at least twice a week. And then what? I’ll have to bike.

Mrs Minister, you should see my bike. It’s got dodgy steering and keeps driving left into bushes. Worse, the hills kill my legs. (Is this a secret plot for turning children into Olympic cyclists? Actually, I’d be into that, but you really need to provide us with the proper equipment, like decent racing BMXs.)

Anyway, keeping our school open comes with advantages. For starters, our school could double as an alien information centre and raise money for tourism. Also, if you close down our school, some of us will have to leave Ash Hill. You’ll turn us into refugees and I’m guessing that’s a bad look in an election year.

Yours sincerely,

Lucas O’Brien

Harriet leans over my shoulder, frowning. Bet she wants me to change something. Keen to distract her, I say, ‘Do you think Mrs Carter will believe in aliens?’

‘Not really, but you’re right about one thing. There’s lots of people coming into town and all of them can vote, apart from those overseas tourists. If the government shows an interest in UFOs, they’ll get votes from the alien-lovers. Ash Hill would make a good stop for their election campaign.’ Harriet taps her chin. ‘Not sure I get the bit about refugees, though.’

‘We’re being forced from our school. We’ll have to leave our homes, except we’re not escaping wars, just a government who can’t be bothered spending money on small-town schools.’

Well, it made sense in my head. For a second I’m not sure, but Harriet’s eyes shine. ‘That’s brilliant, Lucas! Okay, how about this …’

Without asking, she elbows her way across my keyboard and starts typing.

Closing our school will effectively turn children into educational refugees. If you don’t give up we will be forced to consult the United Nations regarding this infringement of our civil liberties.

Yours sincerely,

The kids of Ash Hill Primary — Lucas, Ellie, Harriet, Maggie, Charlotte, Moana, Ethan, Matty, Big James, Little James, Rebecca, Riley, Serena and Alex. Also the juniors who can’t sign this on account of not being able to write yet — Louise, Ana and Wiremu, but who shouldn’t be ignored just because they suffer from literacy impairment.

Harriet leans back. ‘What do you think?’

I shake my head. ‘Civil liberties and literacy — what? Do you even know what those words mean?’

‘Not exactly, but it sounds important. My mum says you have to confuse people with legal words and stuff they don’t understand, otherwise they won’t take you seriously. She’s head of the PTA, so Mum knows all about stuff like that.’

‘Oh.’ I nod to myself. ‘Well, I guess that makes sense.’

Truthfully, though, I’m doubtful. Mrs Carter never replied to my last letter, even though we sent it by email to her office. What if she’s too busy to read any of our letters?

Alex wanders over and takes a look, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one’s listening. Scanning the screen, he mutters, ‘Not bad, we’ll upload your letter onto the blog. We should probably get some better shots of the school, so I’ll take some photos on my phone.’

I shrug, glancing at the clock. ‘Why? Sounds like a lot of work to me.’

‘There’s a lot of fake stuff on the internet, so we need pictures to prove we’re a real school.’

Thinking of all the extra bother, I almost groan. Of course he’s right, pictures would help, even though people could still use trick photography … Hang on. Grabbing Harriet’s arm, I blurt out, ‘Photos. Of course!’

‘What?’

‘We could fake pictures of UFOs.’

‘Are you serious?’

For a second I can’t speak, I’m busy checking my new plan and making sure there’s no hidden dangers, besides discovery and total humiliation. (They’re painful but, medically speaking, not fatal or listed on keepsafekids.com.) Glancing around again, I lean forward and whisper, ‘Well, it’s just an idea, but seeing as we’re the ones flying UFOs, we could fake photos and put them anonymously onto the web! Then we link them to our blog and pretend we discovered them online.’

Harriet lowers her head, frowning. ‘Oh … I see.’

Am I asking too much? Tricking our neighbours with kites and lawnmowers isn’t great, but using the internet? That’s scamming the world, so no wonder Harriet and Alex look surprised. But it’s different for them, they don’t have graves to watch over or the fear of vomiting on public transport. Maybe they’re not as keen?

Then Harriet mutters, ‘Well, it’s no worse than faking UFOs and it’s not against the law, so long as we don’t claim they’re real. We’ll let people decide for themselves.’ She squints at the screen. ‘Do you think we’d need any tinfoil? I’ve got loads at home in the kitchen drawer.’

Alex nods and whispers, ‘Yeah, I’m in! This will be the biggest internet scam in history!’

My insides feel weird and fluttery, like my idea grew wings and started flapping around in my chest.

Alex grins at me. ‘Seriously, that’s brilliant. Sometimes you remind me …’

And he stops, as if he’s unsure what to say next.

‘Remind you of what?’

Alex frowns like he’s remembered something important. Then he lowers his head and shrugs at his phone’s screen. ‘Nothing … never mind.’