This may be the last note I ever write to you, for I am about to disclose something of utmost importance to yours, my, and His immediate wellbeing.
Jonathan Schwartz is an alien.
It’s not something you’d immediately notice, no. You have to sit behind Him for 18 consecutive weeks of a semester during AP Statistics; you have to speak to Him without belying your fear during lunch; you have to watch, from the sidelines, as He impossibly scores another impossible point during P.E. No, it’s a process of discovery that suddenly hits you one day, a lightning-strike of epiphany that makes you spill your ramen all over your calculus homework, leap up, and laugh hysterically, “HOLY [censored], HE’S AN ALIEN!”
Actually, there was no ramen involved with my coming-of-age breakthrough wisdom. One breezy spring morning in that aforementioned statistics class, He turned around in his seat (amiably enough, but never trust an alien) and said, “So about this new project with which Ms. Peters has just entrusted us, I propose we choose the topic of statistical programming, each research a statistical program of our choice, possibly write one, and perhaps even create a poster written entirely in binary form.” His eyes lit up with wonder.
I looked up from my doodling. “You’re not normal.”
“Well, I should sure hope not,” He said, flashing an utterly Schwartz smile. “The concept of normality is such a paradoxical and illogical…”
“No,” I cut him off sharply. “No, I mean, normal, like, human. You’re not human.”
His eyebrows drew together perfectly; if anyone could master a flawless frown, it was Schwartz. “I am positive that the genetic structure of my DNA is no different from yours, unless you yourself are inhuman. I certainly don’t understand.”
As if one can uncertainly not understand. But the important thing was, the whole thing had been a scam. Yes. I realized at that moment that He had been lying to me during the entire extent of our relationship, deceiving me with those conniving, extraterrestrial smiles. And those big words.
Everything suddenly made sense to me. It was as if I had found the meaning of life, or rather, the meaning behind each little action Schwartz executed, each strange little habit that defined Him. For example, the fact that He reads etiquette books during his free time has to indicate that because He is, in truth, not human and just a holographic projection cloaking his actual form, He has to regularly study humanity’s societal norms to better mimic us. Also, the reason He wears the exact same outfit every day -- the exact same green shirt tucked into strikingly identical black pants -- must be because He doesn’t have enough mental energy to change outfits for his holographic mirage every day, or something like that. He couldn’t stand hugs, either, and would push the innocent hugger away before coldly offering a handshake. It would blow His cover, you see.
It became evident in every conversation we had, like His inability to understand the simplest concepts (my friend spent nearly fifteen minutes one day trying to explain how rounding second base in a relationship related to baseball), and His strange, rather alien obsession with history (getting history textbooks for Christmas and writing poems about the politics of the Roman Empire are not on my list of Earthling hobbies). He couldn’t say bad words like “prostitute”, and called them instead “women of ill repute”.
He couldn’t even master the simplest human technology.
[12:21 A.M.] me: O_O
[12:21 A.M.] me: don’t tell me you’re on
[12:21 A.M.] me: for real?!?!?!
[12:22 A.M.] Schwartz: I do not know.
[12:22 A.M.] Schwartz: Gmail seems to log me on automatically.
At this point, I snickered. It was thrilling to think I was more capable at something than a life form so technologically advanced, it could crash-land on our planet and successfully survive.
[12:22 A.M.] me: stay!
[12:22 A.M.] me: we can’t bite you from here
[12:23 A.M.] Schwartz: I do not think biting would be advisable at any distance.
At this point, of course, he signed off.
But I was thrilled. An Instant-Message Schwartz was a thousand times more fascinating -- and uncharacteristically ruder -- than a simple Sitting-In-Front-Of-You-During-Class Schwartz. Obviously, He never made the mistake of signing on again, but I applauded myself for being the first to speak to an intergalactic being online.
And that was when Jonathan Schwartz Fell In Love With A Girl.
She was short. She was smiley. She was as Indian as Indian could get, with waist-long hair pleated into pigtail braids every single day. And she could spew facts about every single Supreme Court case ever without missing a beat. In fact, if she weren’t so horrible at calculus, she might as well have been an alien, too.
He was infatuated with her wit, her cheer, her breadth of trivial historical knowledge. She was obsessed with his older brother’s aquiline nose.
And that was when I Let It Slip.
“I can’t believe you like [her],” I sighed one day during Statistics while working on our project, except that I wasn’t. “She doesn’t even like you back. She’s madly in love with Mark.” (Although, I should probably mention now that His older brother is not an alien. I don’t know how an alien like Him turned up in an otherwise human family; maybe He brainwashed them or something?)
“I do not like her the way you are insinuating,” He said mildly. “And I wasn’t aware that there was something wrong with her.”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with her.”
“Then what is so problematic about myself?”
I eyed him warily. “Well, obviously, if you two hooked up, that would be really weird. Like, an interspecies relationship. That’s sodomy, isn’t it?”
He blinked. “I‘m afraid I do not follow.”
“You know,” I said simply. “Aliens and humans can’t get it on.”
He blinked again.
“Oops!” I cried, realizing that I had inadvertently told Him His deepest, darkest secret. “You didn’t hear that.”
“Did not hear what? That you suppose I am an alien?” said Schwartz, raising an eyebrow. “Why would you think that, anyhow?”
“Well,” I began sheepishly, “like how you’re so obsessed with Star Wars and Star Trek, it’s kind of scary. It‘s like you‘re connecting with your otherworldly kin.”
“I am not the only one impressed by their well-wrought plotlines, characters, and settings, along with graphics ingenious for their time,” He replied.
I continued, undeterred, “Also, in P.E., you keep scoring points and stuff, which is really weird.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. “You’re a history dork. You’re not supposed to be athletic. It’s…”
“It’s what?”
“It’s not even inhuman. It’s superhuman.” I glanced at him and added quickly, “Not that I think you’re super or anything. Aliens should presumably be better at everything, you know?”
He gave that infuriating Schwartz smile again and returned to being productive (until, of course, His beloved called to Him for help with a problem, and He flocked to Her side like a good little planetary immigrant). I was astounded by how well He kept up his guard; any other alien would have dropped their pencil in shock, spluttered, and maybe even morphed into his real self just a bit. However, I never got the chance to poke at him again about the matter, because soon enough, it was the last day of school.
“It’s the last day of school,” I told Him.
“Yes, I know,” He said.
I shook my head. “I’m going to NCSSM. I’ll be gone, forever. This is a momentous and tragic occasion, Schwartz, you have to savor it,” I explained.
“Fear not, it has been fully savored.” His form of a joke, I assume.
But my bus driver was waiting impatiently for me to come. “Hug?” I offered. Sure, He doesn’t like hugs. But don’t they always do something romantically out-of-character in the movies, at the end?
He stepped away and I guessed I was out of luck. “Handshake?” He offered instead, extending his hand in a Vulcan salute.
I took it and squeezed his fingers as hard as I could, but sadly couldn’t feel anything Unidentified or Flying in them. “Bye, Schwartz.”
“Farewell.”
Don’t worry, though, dear readers: I am still determined to prove someday what I have known all along. And every ounce of this story is true, from His name to His odd habits to the conversations we’ve been unfortunate enough to share. If He ever reads this and hunts me down, don’t forget. An alien killed me. And an alien might very well be in your class, waiting to murder you.