2:55 PM

or Eric Little versus The Last Five Minutes of School

The final day of school arrives at long last. For the students of Rockhill Elementary, it represents the culmination of a year-long collective daydream. Here, at last, is an end to the rote memorization and mindless busywork. All playground extortions will cease for at least three months (providing, of course, that you don't live next door to the school's resident ogre, Freddy Carlson). During the summer ceasefire, there will be no hint of the mind-numbing hours of homework or disgusting trays of cafeteria food that are everyday weapons in the U.S. Department of Education's war against fun. Even the endless prattling of boring teachers will drone away into the white noise of summertime.

School ends promptly at 3 o'clock. There are only five minutes left to endure. Five measly, insignificant, hardly-worth-noticing minutes. Yet Eric Little's teacher doesn't have the humanity to just Let Them Go! And why? Eric, sure that some nefarious game is afoot, but unable to put his finger on it just yet, is doomed to sit at his desk like all the rest.

Mrs. Goldwyn seems especially slimy today. To the casual observer, she, with her perfectly manicured nails, golden curls and pastel polka-dot dress, seems a show-in for Teacher of the Millennium. Eric's classmates are mindless sheep, incapable of seeing past her Barbie doll camouflage, powerless against the bribery of her meaningless praise and her endless supply of encouraging stickers. Only Eric knows the awful truth.

"Mr. Little," she calls, ripping him out of a good sulk. Her tone is not unkind, merely too sweet, perhaps a bit patronizing. "Mr. Little, what are you doing?"

"Nuthin," Eric mumbles, trying not to make eye contact with the hypnotic monster.

"Mr. Little, you're not smiling," she chides. "Class, what is Mrs. Goldwyn's Golden Rule?"

It is horrible! In unison, the entire class cheerily screeches out her clever little mantra. "Always bring a smile with you to class!!"

Loathe to be the center of attention any longer than necessary, Eric offers a token sickly smile, then hides his face in his desk. His glow-in-the-dark wristwatch shines within the artificial cave he's created with his arms and head. Eric smiles, humiliation vanishing, for it is 3 o'clock. He's finally free!

However, as he lifts his head, the classroom clock catches his eye from its perch high upon the wall. Peering at it over the top of his glasses, he is shocked to see that it perversely states that it is still 2:55. What new injustice is this?

Alarmed, he takes full advantage of his glasses and gives the accursed clock his full attention. The wall clock now states 3:00, as he'd first supposed it would. Suspiciously, he takes off his glasses and looks at the clock again; perversely, it states 2:55! Performing the same experiment on his wristwatch, he finds that with his glasses off all clocks are eternally stuck at five minutes until the bell, yet with his spectacles on, he can see the TRUE time! Just to be sure, Eric silently counts out an entire sixty seconds. The results clench it. The clocks move to 3:01 in the real world, but with his glasses off the time is 2:55 and quite unmovable.

His classmates, although dumb sheep, are normal kids. Had they even a hint of the true time, they'd be bolting for the doors. Eric had nearly been trampled in last year's end of school stampede. The conclusion to the matter, he quickly surmises, is that they are only seeing the hoax that Eric sees with his glasses off. Only Eric can now see the truth!

The startling revelation fills him with mixed horror and satisfaction. They've all made fun of him for being the only kid in the whole school who wore glasses, but now who has the last laugh? He sneers his contempt for his peers as Mrs. Goldwyn finishes writing another sickeningly cheerful message on the whiteboard.

"I love you all and I'll miss you very, very much!!" it reads, to which she signs her name. Her real name. Not goody-goody Mrs. Amelia Goldwyn, but Zarkon Eleventeen! His teacher is an alien! His worst suspicions are realized. The cafeteria food suddenly makes sense.

Quickly, he brings himself under control. No one else in class has apparently noticed the ominous alien name. He realizes why when he slips off his glasses momentarily and the words transmogrify back into his teacher's more familiar human name. This is all too much. He's knows he'll have to play this carefully, or else he's cosmic toast!

"Mrs. Goldwyn," he asks, faux smile in place as he ventures to raise his hand high, "can I go to the restroom?"

He nearly gives himself away as she focuses on him, while his accursed glasses show him her real form. She is slimier than he ever imagined possible! There are more glowing red eyes than he thought would ever fit on her head. Her mouth is all teeth and tentacles. She is an impossible monster wrapped up in a pretty pastel polka-dotted dress.

"Surely you can wait until after class, Mr. Little," she counters in beautiful, dulcet tones. "School will be over in just a few short minutes."

Drat! He should've realized that she'd try that one. He's been dreadfully outmaneuvered and they both know it.

Dejected, he casts a longing glance out the window, but instead of the bright blue skies, white puffy clouds and deep green trees of approaching summer, he sees the vulnerable blue ball of Earth, the white dots of stars and the black void of outer space! The school is a spaceship!

All pretense of cool flies out the window! With a mindless battlecry, Eric Little leaps out of his desk and makes a break for the door. Alarmed, his alien teacher tries to head him off with her horrid mouth tentacles. Instinctively, he flattens himself on the tiled floor, causing her to miss, albeit barely. Enraged, she gobbles up the first two rows of students, out of pure meanness. The senseless act is so unthinkable that Eric almost misses his opportunity to flee. Almost.

The hallway is deserted. Slime drips from the ceiling onto a mess of scattered pencils, notebook paper, textbooks and the occasional article of clothing. Lockers stand askew like ancient grave markers, their doors ajar. The hallway appears to have been ransacked, perhaps by an alien teacher looking for some tasty kid sardines. There is little time to contemplate it. Soon, Goldwyn will come looking for dessert.

He tries to run, but the coating of slime makes it all but impossible. The best he can do is stagger, slip and stumble along. Eric grimly realizes that he has no idea how to turn this school-ship back around to Earth, but he must try.

"Mr. Little, you come back here right this instant, young man!" his teacher calls. She sounds irritated. He breaks into a run, despite his better judgment. He slips and slides at breakneck speed down the hall, Goldwyn in pursuit.

He comes to a halt at the feet of Principal Blaster. Blaster is caught off-guard, but he makes a grab for Eric nonetheless. More out of desperation than from skill, Eric lunges out of his Principal's way.

"He's getting away!" Goldwyn shouts. "Get him!"

Suddenly, the slime-ridden hallway is filled with alien teachers, all intent on grabbing one very insignificant boy. There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Eric screams.

The laughter of children brings Eric back to reality. His scream hangs sheepishly at the end of his daydream. Its end coincides with the ringing of the final bell. The clock - all clocks read 3:00.

Joyfully, Eric joins the mass exodus from Rockhill Elementary. He's almost grateful for the opportunity to be trampled in this year's end of school stampede.

Mrs. Goldwyn smiles after him, shaking her head at the silly little boy. After readying her room for the summer break, she too prepares to leave. After all, summer isn't only for children.

Grabbing her purse, she exits the classroom, then the building, crosses the parking lot and unlocks a silver Volkswagon mini-bus. With one last glance at Rockhill Elementary, Zarkon Eleventeen engages the hyperdrive and makes the jump to Asteroid Q.

She can hardly contain her slimy mouth tentacles when she thinks about next year, when the harvest will begin. Maybe she'll start will that Little kid. The ones with the most vivid imaginations always tasted the sweetest.

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