Ketchvar III travels to Earth to inhabit the body of an average teenager and assess the damage humans have done to their planet. But even his highly advanced alien intelligence can't prepare him for life as an American teen.

David Klass has written several novels for teens, including the books in the Caretaker Trilogy, the first of which, Firestorm, was declared “tremendous fun to read” by The New York Times Book Review, and the second of which, Whirlwind, was proclaimed by The Miami Herald as “Truly intelligent storytelling for teens.” He is also the author of You Don’t Know Me, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, and Dark Angel, an ALA Quick Pick for Young Adults, as well as several screenplays. He lives in New York City.

1
We are skimming over the New Jersey countryside in full search mode, hunting a fourteen-year-old. Our shields are up, and no humans can possibly spot us, even with the aid of their primitive “radar” and “sonar” technologies.
Earth’s lone moon is in the sky above us. This is indeed a pretty planet. I can see why the Lugonians, whose sun is about to supernova, covet it. Beneath us are dwelling places known as “houses” separated by expanses of unused space termed “lawns” that convey status on property owners by showing how much land they can afford to waste.
A target subject has just been identified! The circumstances are favorable for an extraction—he is sitting alone eating a “snack”—an unnecessary meal that is known to be unhealthy and is consumed at odd hours. It falls under the category of addictive behavior that most Homo sapiens find impossible to resist.
Cellular spectroscopy is positive. This specimen is Caucasian, fourteen years old, and in good health. Weak areas appear to be the teeth, where a metallic correction device known as “braces” has been fastened, and the eyes, where ocular aids called “glasses” have been appended with the help of two plastic rods hooked around the ears.
Brain scans show an above average human intelligence quotient, with particularly high cognitive and imaginative ability. A probe of long-term memory reveals that the specimen is named Tom Filber, he lives with his parents in a small house on Beech Avenue, and he has a sister named Sally with whom he is in a constant state of conflict that sometimes escalates into violence.
All systems are go! The Preceptor Supervisor has just approved the extraction. I, Ketchvar III, prepare myself to inhabit the body and mind of an infinitely lower life-form. I remind myself that my mission is vitally necessary—we must decide soon if the human species should be preserved or wiped out. We drop low in our ship till we are hovering above the chimney of 330 Beech Avenue.
We have just established direct visual surveillance of the specimen. He is sitting on his front porch, devouring large flakes of dehydrated potato, drained of all nutritional value and flavored with artificial taste stimulants. Every now and then he apparently finds a flake not to his liking, spits it to the floor, and crushes it under the heel of his boot.
Our Mission Engineer readies the paralysis ray. We all turn toward our Preceptor Supervisor, who gives the go-ahead.
The ray is turned on. Specimen Filber freezes in midchew. Sensors show a wild spike in his adrenaline and a rapid acceleration of his heartbeat—he knows something is happening to him, but he cannot make a sound or move a muscle.
Antigravity suction commences immediately. He is lifted off the porch and drawn into the cargo bay of our spaceship. The specimen still cannot move or speak, but he stares back at us through his ocular aids with big, brown, frightened human eyes.
Excerpted from Stuck On Earth by .
Copyright © 2010 by David Klass.
Published in 2010 by Frances Foster Books.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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1
We are skimming over the New Jersey countryside in full search mode, hunting a fourteen-year-old. Our shields are up, and no humans can possibly spot us, even with the aid of their primitive “radar” and “sonar” technologies.
Earth’s lone moon is in the sky above us. This is indeed a pretty planet. I can see why the Lugonians, whose sun is about to supernova, covet it. Beneath us are dwelling places known as “houses” separated by expanses of unused space termed “lawns” that convey status on property owners by showing how much land they can afford to waste.
A target subject has just been identified! The circumstances are favorable for an extraction—he is sitting alone eating a “snack”—an unnecessary meal that is known to be unhealthy and is consumed at odd hours. It falls under the category of addictive behavior that most Homo sapiens find impossible to resist.
Cellular spectroscopy is positive. This specimen is Caucasian, fourteen years old, and in good health. Weak areas appear to be the teeth, where a metallic correction device known as “braces” has been fastened, and the eyes, where ocular aids called “glasses” have been appended with the help of two plastic rods hooked around the ears.
Brain scans show an above average human intelligence quotient, with particularly high cognitive and imaginative ability. A probe of long-term memory reveals that the specimen is named Tom Filber, he lives with his parents in a small house on Beech Avenue, and he has a sister named Sally with whom he is in a constant state of conflict that sometimes escalates into violence.
All systems are go! The Preceptor Supervisor has just approved the extraction. I, Ketchvar III, prepare myself to inhabit the body and mind of an infinitely lower life-form. I remind myself that my mission is vitally necessary—we must decide soon if the human species should be preserved or wiped out. We drop low in our ship till we are hovering above the chimney of 330 Beech Avenue.
We have just established direct visual surveillance of the specimen. He is sitting on his front porch, devouring large flakes of dehydrated potato, drained of all nutritional value and flavored with artificial taste stimulants. Every now and then he apparently finds a flake not to his liking, spits it to the floor, and crushes it under the heel of his boot.
Our Mission Engineer readies the paralysis ray. We all turn toward our Preceptor Supervisor, who gives the go-ahead.
The ray is turned on. Specimen Filber freezes in midchew. Sensors show a wild spike in his adrenaline and a rapid acceleration of his heartbeat—he knows something is happening to him, but he cannot make a sound or move a muscle.
Antigravity suction commences immediately. He is lifted off the porch and drawn into the cargo bay of our spaceship. The specimen still cannot move or speak, but he stares back at us through his ocular aids with big, brown, frightened human eyes.
Excerpted from Stuck On Earth by .
Copyright © 2010 by David Klass.
Published in 2010 by Frances Foster Books.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.