She glanced up as Beat shuffled into the room, her nightgown dangling about her midsection. She wasn't sure how to interpret what she saw. At first she thought her daughter might have injured herself, or ingested a toxic household chemical. It was strange indeed.
"Mum, something's wrong with me," Beat stated the obvious.
Mrs. Simon shook her head in disbelief. "How long have you been like that?" she inquired.
"It started three or four weeks ago," Beat answered. "And I feel funny inside, too."
The aardvark woman left her chair and knelt in front of Beat for a closer look. "Do you feel sick at all?" she asked.
"No, Mum," said Beat. "Just funny."
A moment of silence passed as Mrs. Simon ran her fingers over the consternated girl's chest. A disturbing possibility flashed through her mind, but she quickly pushed it aside.
"I'll call Dr. Campbell," she offered. "Now go take your bath."
Beat started to pull her nightgown up around her arms, then stopped. "I can't go to school like this, Mum," she said anxiously. "The other kids will notice."
Mrs. Simon gave her a sympathetic look. "We'll see what the doctor has to say. Until then, maybe you can cover them up by wearing a sweater."
"But it's September," Beat protested. "And the school doesn't have air conditioning."
"You're a smart little girl," said Mrs. Simon between sips of tea. "You'll think of something."
Only the blazing sun, a few sparrows, and a faraway jetliner were visible in the sky as Beat walked glumly toward the elementary school, dressed in a skirt and a thick wool sweater. She knew she was inviting ridicule, but not as much as she would surely receive without the stifling garment to hide the mutations in her body. With all her intelligence, she couldn't begin to make sense of her situation. Why was she suddenly taller than most of the kids in her class? Why did her heart flutter when she was in the presence of good-looking boys?
"What's with the sweater, Beat?" Fern asked her when she entered Mrs. Krantz' classroom. "Are you expecting a cold front?"
"No," replied the rabbit-aardvark girl as she rested her book bag on a desk. "I'm, uh, having chills. The doctor says I need to stay warm."
"You won't need a sweater to stay warm today," Francine warned her. "The temperature's supposed to reach the low 90s."
Beat groaned as she sat down. The electric fan was blowing at full power, but its stream missed her desk for the most part. Before she could make up her mind to choose a different seat, the teacher had commenced her lecture.
"I'm going to divide you into teams of two," Mrs. Krantz announced. "Each team will write a ten-page report on a famous invention and the person who invented it, due next Friday. Okaaaay?"
"So hot," the sweltering Beat muttered to herself. She let her eyes wander toward Buster, who sat two desks to her left, but that only made her hotter.
"Fern Walters and Beatrice Simon," said Mrs. Krantz. "You're a team."
"Hot...hot..." was all that passed through Beat's mind as the teacher's droning about Thomas Edison went unheeded by her.
When the bell rang, Fern virtually pounced on Beat. "Finally, I get to be teamed with the class brain," the eager poodle girl enthused. "Which invention should we report on? The computer? The polio vaccine? Sliced bread?"
"Yes," grumbled Beat as her new partner followed her into the hallway.
"Let's sit down somewhere and talk about the report," Fern insisted. "I want to hear your ideas."
"Oh, very well," said Beat impatiently.
"You'd be a lot cooler without that sweater," said Fern as she and Beat seated themselves on a bench.
Beat cleared her throat. "I think the polio vaccine would make an excellent subject," she said in a weary tone. "Jonas Salk was a fascinating individual."
Her planning session with Fern lasted only a few minutes, but it was enough to make her nervous. Whenever she spoke, she noticed that Fern seemed to steal peeks at her sweater at every opportunity. Could she tell?
The course was grueling, but Beat made it through the morning periods and lunch hour without removing her precious sweater. But she had failed to consider one formidable obstacle--gym class.
Many of the fifth-grade girls, including Muffy, Francine, Sue Ellen, Fern, and Jenna, were changing out of their street clothes into athletic outfits. Mrs. Taylor, the rat woman who taught gym, was spinning a soccer ball on the end of her finger, pacing about in anticipation of an exciting match with the boys.
Beat, meanwhile, leaned against a row of lockers, still wearing her chafing sweater. "Mrs. Taylor, I'd like to sit out of today's game," she requested.
"Why?" asked the teacher. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"Uh...er..." Beat's mind groped for an excuse, and she knew she couldn't pass as a sickie very well. "I feel fine. It's just that...well, I'm the best soccer player in the fifth grade, and I'd prefer to practice a sport that I'm not very good at, so I can improve."
"Come on, Beat," urged Jenna, who had overheard the exchange. "We love playing football with you."
"Especially when we're on your team," Muffy added. "You're invincible."
"All the same..." Beat started to say, but cut herself off when Fern stepped up to her with a mischievous expression.
"Omigosh! A tarantula!" cried the poodle girl, pointing over Beat's shoulder.
Startled, Beat turned her head and shoulders. Fern, taking advantage of the distraction, wrapped her fingers around the front rim of Beat's sweater and undershirt...and yanked them up as far as they would go.
She and the other girls gasped in disbelieving wonder at the sight of Beat's exposed chest.
"Would you look at those things," Jenna marveled.
"How come you get them before we do?" Sue Ellen complained.
"But...you're too young," said Francine in astonishment.
Beat, shocked and embarrassed beyond words, could only rip her sweater away from Fern's hands and pull it down over her torso.
"Sorry to be rude," said Fern gently, "but you can't hide something like that forever. I first noticed them two days ago. I didn't believe they were really what they appeared to be until you tried to cover them up with a sweater."
"How old are you, Beatrice?" Mrs. Taylor inquired.
"Almost ten," replied Beat, her eyes lowered in shame.
"It's nothing to feel bad about," said the gym teacher. "I once met a girl with the same problem, and she was only eight."
"Problem?" Beat wondered. "What problem?"
----
"Premature puberty," explained Dr. Campbell, a sheep man dressed in a medical uniform. "It's a rare condition, sometimes brought on by exposure to pesticides or other toxins." Beat was seated shirtless on his examination table, while Mrs. Simon stood nearby with her husband Roger, a rabbit man. "It may explain why she's growing faster than her friends."
"Would it explain why I'm so interested in boys?" Beat speculated.
"Definitely," replied the doctor.
"What can be done about it?" Mr. Simon inquired.
"Well, there's hormone therapy for slowing down her development until she reaches the right age," Dr. Campbell answered. "I wouldn't worry if I were you. Nearly all girls who receive treatment for this problem grow up normally."
"Doctor," said Mrs. Simon seriously, "I'm worried about something. If Beat's attracted to boys earlier than she should be..."
"I was about to bring that up," said the doctor. "It would be a good idea to enroll your daughter in a sex ed course."
"Ewww," groaned Beat.
----
For the third time, Buster stood motionlessly with Dr. Portinari's measurement device strapped to his head. The alien doctor sat on the edge of George's bed, checking the readout from his handheld console with more glee than usual (although Buster had difficulty telling one emotion from another on the man's otherworldly face). "Excellent," he said repeatedly.
This went on for several minutes, and then Portinari retrieved the device and replaced it in his briefcase. "What did you find out?" Buster asked him.
The alien didn't respond, but continued to push buttons on his console. A few more seconds went by, and Buster witnessed a startling transformation.
Portinari's entire head seemed to flicker in and out of existence. In little more than an instant, it was replaced by the head of a young bulldog man.
Buster's jaw dropped. "Perfect," the man said with a satisfied smile.
As Portinari closed his briefcase and stood up, Buster stepped closer to him. "So...what happens now?" he asked hopefully.
"I'll call for you when you're needed," replied the bulldog man with hardly a sideways glance.
Buster trailed him as he entered the living room, where George, Sal, and Mrs. Nordgren were watching a TV news broadcast. "Thank you for allowing me to visit," said Portinari. "I'll be on my way now."
Mrs. Nordgren flashed him a toothy grin. "Any time, doctor."
When Portinari had left the house, Buster motioned for George to join him in the bedroom. "What did he do?" the moose boy asked him after they had closed the door.
"He did some tests on my brain," said Buster with uncertainty. "He said he wanted to find out if I have a superior brain. After the last test, he didn't look like an alien anymore. He looked human."
"Hmm," said George pensively.
The boys fell silent for a few moments.
And then George slapped his forehead. "Oh, man..."
"What?" said Buster.
George groaned disappointedly. "It was a trick, Buster. He examined your brain so he could fix the problem with his technology that let you see him as an alien."
Horror and confusion seized Buster's mind. "But...but...he said..."
"He lied," stated George solemnly.
Without another word, the outraged Buster flung himself out of the bedroom and through the front door of George's house. He was too late. Portinari, still appearing to him as a common anthropomorphic bulldog, was pulling away from the curb in his green Volkswagen.
Buster ran to the sidewalk and shook his fist at the departing vehicle. "YOU STUPID ALIEN!" he screamed.
----
to be continued
