The Kramorian Exchange

Chapter 3- No squishing things with your spaceship

        "Hello Spignek." Say's my father, taking Spig's right hand and shaking it firmly. "I hope your flight wasn't too, err, bouncy?" Dad has never really gotten his head around space travel. No potholes up there pops, sheesh.

Spignek smiles warmly, He thinks my dad is super funny. You'd think that he'd get tired of explaining the same things over and over, but I genuinely think he enjoys it.

"It was just fine, thank you, Sir". He glances down at my mother, standing a full two feet above her, and I can tell he wants to speak, but she isn't looking at him. She is standing with her arms crossed in front of her, her feet wide apart, left toe tapping, and looking pointedly towards her flowerbed. Good grief, I know what this means and Spignek is right, she's way upset.

        Doing the only thing he can to escape her wrath, Spignek drops down to ruffle my little sister's hair. Emily is two and still thinks Spignek is a big, moving teddy bear, her own personal plaything. She giggles and blows raspberries in his face while trying to grab at him with her dirty hands.

        He, astonishingly, thinks she is cute and funny and is more than happy to play peek-a-boo or hide and seek or whatever she wants for hours on end. I personally don't see the draw, to me she is smelly and squishy and always getting me in trouble. Little sisters suck.

"C'mon, come inside. You and me have got a major score to settle."  I say, grabbing a strap of his backpack and tugging him towards the front door.

So into the house my family traipses. Spignek and I lead the pack, hugging each other and talking at the same time. We head straight for the bedroom we've shared for the past 4 years, eager to catch up and get into some serious gaming.

        Little Emily toddles up behind us, more interested in the weeds sprouting from the garden path than getting up the steps to our house.

        Bringing up the rear are my parents, my father with a consoling arm around my mother's shoulders.

        "Come now Miriam," I hear him say. "It isn't as if they are gone forever."

"It's just the principal of things, Rory" My mother sniffs, stamping her foot in a huff. "Their delicate little petals just can't stand such harsh treatment. I mean really, we DO have an entire lawn to land on. A whole lawn that does NOT contain prize winning Azaleas. 137 years old, my dear, you would think that by now he could pilot his own silly little shi..."

       Sometimes it was just easier to block my mother out.

Poor Spignek, back with us for all of five minutes and already gearing up for one of my mother's famous lectures.  Not that it was anything new for him, his very first landing here he almost took out Mum's old Petunias as well as the beloved family cat. Luckily, little Potts was just fine, but the Petunias never fully recovered. Hence the move to Azale-whatevers.

       I personally think that mum has held a crazy grudge ever since. She does that. Great first impression we made, hey. His very first night on a strange planet with his new exchange family and he's sentenced to a full forty-five minutes of my mother and her torturous tongue-lashings. I'm surprised he didn't turn tail there and then and head straight back to the stars.

       I don't think that even I had ever been through something so lengthy and lethal. I guess she just wanted to get all the family rules out on the table as fast as she could, before he could squish something else of value. They were pretty standard rules really.

House rule number 1- Beds to be made every morning before leaving for school.

House rule number 2- Homework to be done before leaving the house to play.

House rule number 3- Teeth to be brushed every night before bed

House rule number 4- No squishing things with your spaceship.

You know, just the usual household rules.

After grabbing Chocolate milk from the fridge, Spignek and I burst into our bedroom and pile onto a massive red beanbag each. My mother thinks we spend way too much time in here but we know that secretly she is glad that we make our mess in here, and not anywhere near her fancy formal dining room. Heaven forbid we drop a dust particle on her perfectly manicured carpet.

I pick up an Xbox controller, toss the other to Spig and turn on the TV with the remote control. Spig and I wiggle our butts into the beanbags until we make perfectly comfy little indentations to sit in, and I roll up my pajama sleeves while Spig takes off his backpack and sits it right beside him. We flop our shoes off and I take a final long slurp of chocolate milk. I plonk the tall glass on the floor beside me and turn to Spig.

"Right" I say, "First to 10?"