School by Nathaniel Hardman (top reads .TXT) 📕

poured a drink, and the full, wet gush that trailed to a trickle was a cruel joke, mocking Jeremiah. He concentrated on the way the long fibers on the underside of the bed were tickling his nose. It did distract from the discomfort in his bladder, but it made him want to sneeze.

Jeremiah thought if he concentrated on their words, he could maybe learn something about their language. It was the switcher speaking; he was beginning to think that one might be the king.

He listened, but it meant nothing to him[9]. The king and his men seemed pleased about something, but Jeremiah could only imagine what it was, and he wondered again about the last three days.

Someone poured another glass. Jeremiah clenched his knees together; this was getting painful.

The men talked and ate and talked and drank, and Jeremiah began to seriously worry about damage to his bladder. He had heard once that in the Middle Ages, people sometimes died of ruptured bladders – courtiers and such who were commanded to wait on the king and not allowed to leave his presence. He didn’t know if that was true, but squirming there under the bed, he believed it.

One million years later, Jeremiah heard the exquisite sound of goodbyes and departing footsteps, and he opened his eyes. He turned on his phone again – 10:01. He watched the king’s feet limp to the back corner of his apartment and behind a screen, and heard the trickling of urine. It was almost too much.

Water sloshed, followed by the familiar sound of brushing teeth, then a swish and a spit. The king returned, now wearing a long, thin robe.

Jeremiah lay there, spasmodically clenching his buttocks and rolling his feet in frantic little circles, mouthing, “Just get in the bed and go to sleep,” again and again.

The alien paused for a long moment at the table of maps, and then, mercifully, he extinguished his lamps and climbed into bed. The added weight made the bed sag just enough to touch Jeremiah’s nose.

Then round two of the waiting game began, and Jeremiah reached new depths of agony.

Thankfully, the king must have been tired, because within a few minutes, Jeremiah heard the first low, deep breaths of sleep. He looked over at Lori but couldn’t see her in the dark. He fumbled for her hand, squeezed it, and in a barely audible whisper, said, “Now.”

She said, in the same tiny whisper, “No, wait. Give him a few more minutes. Make sure he’s really out.”

Jeremiah clenched his teeth. He remembered once a few years ago when Lori had challenged him to come to her aerobics class. He had started out okay, smugly hefting 10-pound weights while the little women who thought they were so tough were only using 5’s.

Then he started to sweat, and his muscles started to burn, and he knew he had made a mistake. He dropped the 10’s and picked up 5’s. Then he dropped the 5’s and picked up 3’s. Then he dropped the weights entirely, feeling like a complete sissy as he did the exercises with no resistance and still barely managed to lift his arms.

Most of the hour had been a blur of pain and embarrassment. But the worst part had come toward the end of the class in the middle of their umpteenth set of lunges. The instructor said, “Just five more, and WE ARE DONE!” Jeremiah had gritted his teeth and pushed through the agony to wring out every last drip of strength he had, shouting out the count with those women as he finished. Then the instructor said, “All right, now push-ups!” And Jeremiah had almost burst into tears as he realized she had only meant, “Done with the lunges” not, “DONE.”

Jeremiah felt like that now; he had waited so long, and now the king was finally asleep, and he was still waiting.

After one piteous whimper, he pulled himself together and considered his options. It could be any length of time before they were sure the king was out, and he didn’t want to screw this up by letting his bladder rush him. He made a choice.

A minute later, Lori hissed, “Do you smell that? I think he wet the bed.”

“Disgusting,” Jeremiah whispered back fervently.

Fifteen minutes later, Jeremiah breathed out, “You go that way; I’ll go this way.”

He inched his way on heels and fingers. When he was finally clear, he rolled out and savored the delicious pain of bending his back and knees again. Slowly, he pushed up onto his knees, then his feet. He looked around the dark room for the wand. He didn’t see it.

On the opposite side of the king’s bed, Lori was standing very still, leaning over the bedside table. The black rod was there, less than a foot from the king’s limp hand.

Lori eased forward. She delicately wrapped her fingers around the thicker end, the hilt. She looked at the figure lying on the bed, at the hand resting so close to her own. She lifted the wand.

The movement made the faintest scrape as she lifted it off the table, and Jeremiah saw her cringe. The deep breathing stopped.

Lori took a step back on tiptoe. The king rolled over and lashed out, catching the end of the rod. Lori yelped and jerked back, but the alien held on, letting Lori’s pull roll him out of bed toward her.

Lori put her other hand on the wand and yanked hard. The king tipped forward, then pulled back in a tug-of-war. Jeremiah scrambled onto the bed and sprang at the king, who shouted, “Zbexvu!” a split second before Jeremiah slammed his shoulder into him and brought him crashing to the floor.

Jeremiah pinned the alien under him and covered his mouth with his hand. Something was off. He was thrashing and shouting, as he should, but he felt very feeble.