U.W.A.P.

Everyone knew it was flipping dangerous. Even Professor Stephen Hawking had said so.

     “But, sir, why would you be looking for carbon or oxygen? Or water?” Misha shifted in her seat, impatiently. “Maybe they are completely different from us – physically. Or they don’t want to be found. If they’ve been watching us, they’ll know our track record entering new territories isn’t exactly perfect.” And that was putting it mildly. Respect for Indigenous people had never been top of the agenda.

     “Misha Greenwood…” Mr Ochre, who’d dedicated this lesson to the search for extra-terrestrial life as a break from the curriculum, gritted his teeth. “I want you to stop this right now, or I’ll need to ask everyone to open their books, page 37, Motion with Constant Acceleration.”

     “You’re spoiling it for the rest of us, Mish.” Jenny Waverly flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Sir, we really want to hear this, please.”

     Misha rolled her eyes. Goody Two-Shoes, tall and thin, perfectly straightened glossy locks, big blue doe-eyes. Everyone loved Jenny. Until they came up-close and personal with her alter ego, Miss Two-Faced-I’ll-Make-Fun-Of-You-When-Your-Back-Is-Turned.

     “But, sir, I only asked a question.” Only her third in thirty minutes. Wasn’t that what school was all about – questions, challenge, expanding knowledge. “Why assume ET needs oxygen and water? Maybe he thinks chlorine and sulphuric acid are yummier. Or something we never even heard of. And what if they are listening … and find us? Maybe they like grilled Homo sapiens chops for dinner. Like, Hey, Jim,” Misha shrugged. “It’s life, just not as we know it.”

     Mr Ochre paled as if she’d punched him in the gut instead of making an innocent joke. He clutched the edge of his desk, his knuckles blanching. “Life on Earth is carbon-based; it requires oxygen and liquid water to survive and evolve. That is what we are looking for. Now, back to SETI—”

     “But sir—”

     “Enough, Misha! Go and see Mrs White.”

After staring down the grey garden gnome – an addition to the school’s décor which could only be a prank, given the headmistress’s aversion of kitsch – for fifteen minutes, Misha scribbled a note on a piece of paper and pushed it under the door to Mrs White’s office.

     Moping down the hall, she pondered SETI’s slogan: ‘Are we alone in the Universe?’ She’d merely wanted to know if they’d recognise life in its most idiosyncratic form, unlike anything witnessed on Earth. If SETI weren’t dismissing planets simply because they couldn’t sustain human life. Sometimes, though, what she said didn’t come out the way she meant it.

     Like, It’s life, Jim… Mr Ochre seemed upset about it, and it wasn’t even that funny, even if Mr Ochre’s first name was James. And it meant zilch to anyone else. Misha had binged on Star Trek episodes – a prehistoric science fiction series, surprisingly addictive – while she was supposed to be working on a book report. As a consequence, and because her English teacher didn’t appreciate brevity and had no sense of humour, she’d flunked Hamlet: ‘Hamlet’s uncle Claudius murders his dad (rude!) and marries his mum (ew!). Hamlet’s like, “To be, or not to be,” i.e. “Life sucks.” He pretends to be mad and roasts everyone with savage insults and stabs a guy through a curtain. His girlfriend Ophelia has a meltdown and drowns. In the end, basically everyone is dead: Hamlet, his mum, his uncle, even his fencing buddy.’

     Halfway down the corridor, Misha glared back at the headmistress’s office. Mum constantly reminded her – usually when another ‘Misha’s done this or that’ missive arrived – she was only accepted at Blue Hill as a special favour, because Mum played badminton with Mrs White. But … so what!? There were more secondaries in Tunbridge Wells. Maybe if she still had a dad, or grandparents or siblings, Mum wouldn’t be so uptight. But her grandparents died before she was born, her dad when she was three months old. Shivering, Misha wrapped her arms around herself.

     Mr Ochre should be the one reporting to the headmistress. He was such a stickler for the curriculum. What if Newton, Einstein and Hawking hadn’t dived headfirst into the deep, dark unexplored lake of science, but instead had continued sedate laps in the sterile, chlorinated pool of the syllabus? There was truth to the adage, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’. Maybe she should mention that to Mrs White … If she was ever granted the privilege of an audience.

     Turning right, Misha ground to a halt and giggled. Another two-foot-tall garden gnome, an exact copy of the one outside Whitey’s office, stood by the French doors to the courtyard. Someone was playing a prank!

     Walking past, a chill ran down Misha’s spine. She looked back, and frowned. She could have sworn the dwarf’s eyes had been closed. Now they were open, silvery almond-shaped, sclera, iris and pupils blended, shimmering, unblinking, staring at her. Which was impossible, of course. It was just a sculpted piece of rock. Still, Misha increased her pace, casting her mind back to Mr Ochre’s class.

     She loved physics, astronomy, astrobiology. The search for extra-terrestrial life. Maybe they’d make contact someday, visit other planets. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Or … If she’d asked why Stephen Hawking believed extra-terrestrials might be hostile, Mr Ochre wouldn’t have got so angry. Next year, in year twelve, she’d be old enough to join the astronomy club, but Mr Ochre organised it, decided who joined. Fat chance then, Misha sighed, turning left into the canteen. Preoccupied, she walked through the double doors, not noticing that the grey gnome behind her vanished, while beside her a boulder of identical shade and volume materialised.

     “Hey, Gemma, any doughnuts left over?”

     Misha and Gemma – at nineteen, Blue Hill’s youngest dinner lady – had been friends since the first day of term, when Jenny Waverly, with high-pitched innocence, had accused Gemma of short-changing her. Gemma, a math’s student, saw right through her, and stood her ground. Misha had ‘accidently’ bumped into Goody Two-Shoes, spilling hot chocolate over her brand-new white blouse and maroon-trimmed, light-grey blazer. Jenny’s tirade had penetrated the depths of the kitchen. At the sight of Cookie, a forty-something amateur bodybuilder, stomping out armed with a humongous metal ladle, Jenny had cut her losses. She’d retreated to a corner table, where she and her lackeys sentenced Misha to a lifetime ban in Blue Hill’s social circle’s outermost ring.

     “What was it this time?” Gemma grabbed the last blueberry muffin from a wicker basket and marched Misha to a Formica table.      “Here, that’s all that’s left. You need to get your act together, Mish. Do you want to end up like me? You’re far too smart for that.”

     Misha shrugged, biting into her muffin. “Mr Ochre, he’s got it in for me. I just asked a simple question and then—

     “Hey! What’s that?” Misha interrupted herself.

     “Nothing,” Gemma said curtly, pulling her sleeves down.

     But Misha kept staring at the bruises, bracelets of marbled, red and purple and yellow gemstones that encircled her wrists.

     “The door slammed, I tried to catch it.” Gemma crossed her arms on the table, hiding her wrists behind her elbows. “What did Mrs White say?”

     “Didn’t see her, she’s on the phone.” Misha frowned – this wasn’t the first time Gemma brushed her off about her bruises.

     “Mish?!”

     “I left a note – said I was off to lunch.” Rolling her eyes, Misha picked crumbs off her skirt and popped them into her mouth. “Okay, I’ll go, see if she’s got time for me now.”

Misha kicked off her shoes and dropped Mrs White’s letter on the kitchen table. Mum would find it when she got home from the office in an hour or so. Mrs White had treated her to a triple dressing down. One for challenging Mr Ochre, one for the ‘insolent’ note, and a bonus ticking-off for quoting the ‘those who can’t’ maxim.

     Balancing a tray with mini Battenbergs and a glass of Coke, dragging her backpack behind her, she stomped up the stairs of their semi-detached townhouse. On the landing, her bag banged into the back of her legs and coke soaked the pink-and-yellow cakes.

     “Crap.” Grumbling to herself, Misha leaned on the door handle, pushing it down. Her glass sailed across the metal tray as she stumbled into her bedroom. “Jeez!” Misha caught it, but cold, sticky coke sloshed over her hands.

     “You’re late.”

     The door closed behind her, soundlessly.

     Heart beating in her throat, Misha froze, gazing at …

     It.