The Fourteenth Goldfish

by Jennifer L. Holm

  But my grandfather is beside himself. “It’s not that! All of my contacts are in there! The diver who found the T. melvinus! I don’t even know his last name! All I know is that his name is Billy and he’s Australian. Do you have any idea how many Australian Billys there are?”

  Raj and I share a look.

  “A lot?” I guess.

  My grandfather fumes. “I bet it was that Terrence character, the one in the flashy suit. He kept telling me to move my stuff out of the lab. Little upstart. Who does he think he is? I have years of experience on him! Decades!” He waves The Catcher in the Rye in the air like a weapon. “He’s just like this Holden character! A phony!”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  Raj says, “You’re reading The Catcher in the Rye? That’s a really good book.”

  Ben’s taking us all out for dinner. My grandfather insists on wearing a jacket and tie, even though we’re just going to the Mexican place.

  “Quite the fashion statement,” my mother says.

  “What? Don’t people dress up for dinner anymore?” he counters.

  When we get to the restaurant, Ben’s not there yet, so we grab a table at the back. I love the burritos at this place.

  “Real big spender, huh?” my grandfather says, looking around at the linoleum floor, the plastic flower arrangements. “We should have just gone to a Chinese place.”

  “They give free refills on chips here,” I tell him.

  “Ooh la la,” my grandfather says. “How fancy!”

  My mother glares at him, and then the bell on the door rings and her face lights up. Ben walks in, wearing a dark suit and a tie.

  “You see?” my grandfather mutters. “He’s wearing a jacket and tie!”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ben apologizes. “Client meeting.”

  The waitress comes and takes our order. I get my usual—a burrito. My mother and Ben both get the fish tacos. My grandfather gets a cheese quesadilla, three beef tacos, chicken fajitas, a side of rice and beans, and an extra side of guacamole.

  When the waitress brings our meals, my grandfather’s order takes up half the table. He starts eating immediately, working his way methodically through his food. Ben seems a little envious.

  “I was like that at your age,” Ben tells my grandfather, patting his belly. “Now I have to watch myself.”

  My grandfather just looks at him and stuffs another forkful in his mouth.

  “So how are you liking your new school, Melvin?” Ben asks my grandfather.

  My grandfather doesn’t even look up. He’s got the whole sullen-teenager thing down pat.

  My mom clears her throat.

  “I’m unimpressed,” he finally says. “I find the curriculum rather lacking.”

  Ben looks taken aback. “Really?”

  “Melvin was in the gifted-and-talented program at his old school,” my mom quickly improvises. “He’s used to more of a challenge.”

  My grandfather burps loudly.

  “Melvin!” my mother hisses.

  “What?” he says.

  “Don’t be rude!”

  “I’m not being rude; it’s the bacteria.”

  My mother looks at him. “What?”

  “There are bacteria in your stomach that help digest food. During the process, gas is released,” he explains. “That’s why you burp.”

  “And fart?” I ask.

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  My mother groans, but Ben laughs and says, “Seems like you’re learning something at school, Melvin.”

  “Where did you go to school?” my grandfather asks Ben bluntly.

  “Melvin,” my mother says in a warning voice.

  “Let him ask questions,” Ben says good-naturedly. “I like an inquiring mind. I did undergrad at Harvard.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” my grandfather says, twisting the ring on his finger.

  “And I got my PhD at MIT.”

  My grandfather appears vaguely impressed. “Who do you work for now?”

  “A start-up here in Silicon Valley,” Ben says. “We make video games.”

  “Video games? You went to Harvard and MIT and that’s what you’re doing now?”

  Ben nods and picks up a chip.

  My grandfather shakes his head. “What a complete waste of degrees,” he says.

  “It’s an incredibly artistic field,” my mom says, defending Ben.

  “Oh, well, if it’s artistic, then I’m sure it’s wonderful,” my grandfather says.

  My mother rubs her forehead like she’s having a migraine.

  “So have you been married before?” my grandfather asks Ben.

  Ben blinks. “No.”

  “Any kids?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Ben answers.

  “I think that’s enough, Melvin,” my mother warns in a low voice.

  “Just a minute,” my grandfather says. “I have one last question for you.”

  “Yes?” Ben asks.

  “Just what are your intentions—”

  My mother’s shout cuts him off. “Melvin!”

  Then my grandfather points to Ben’s plate.

  “—with that last taco?” my grandfather finishes with a smirk.

  My mom takes me grocery shopping with her. It’s a little bit of a fight to get inside Safeway, with all the protesters. People are always outside holding signs for some cause or proposition on the local ballot. They all jockey for space with the pet-rescue society and the Salvation Army.

  We get a cart and by the time we’re done, it’s piled high. We never bought this much food when it was just the two of us. We can stretch a pint of ice cream over a week, but my grandfather will finish it in a single sitting.

  “Your grandfather is eating me out of house and home,” she says as we wait in the checkout line.

  “At least you don’t have to pay a babysitter,” I point out.

  “And he’s driving me nuts with the whole trash can thing.”

  I look at her. “Did you know that he has a fan club?”

  “He has a fan club?”

  I nod. “In Finland.”

  She shakes her head in bewilderment. “Unbelievable. Does he drive them crazy, too?”

  “I like having him around,” I tell her.

  “I’ve noticed,” she replies. “You two are like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. By the way, there’s a bunch of extra paint at the theater if you and Brianna want to do your handprints.”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know if we’re going to do the handprint thing anymore.”

  My mom doesn’t say anything; she just gives me a long look.

  Then she changes the subject. “It’s kind of funny that you’re interested in all this science stuff. I hated it. Your grandfather used to drag me to his lab when I was a kid.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “I washed test tubes.”

  It sounds like fun to me. “Were there any cool experiments?”

  “It was all completely boring; that was the problem,” my mom explains. “No emotions, no excitement, no drama!”

  But I know she’s wrong about this. “There’s lots of drama in science.”

  “Really? A bunch of boring people standing around in white lab coats?”

  “They aren’t boring! They’re passionate! Like you’re always talking about!”

  She raises an eyebrow, and I want to make her understand.

  “We were losing World War Two, and Oppenheimer and all these scientists created the atomic bomb and saved the day. That’s pretty dramatic, right?”

  She gives a grudging nod.

  “Or like with Salk. Kids were dying from the polio epidemic, and everybody was scared. Jonas Salk and this whole crew of scientists believed it must be possible to stop it, and so they worked night and day to find a vaccine. And they did it!”

  Something in her face softens a little. “You sure know a lot about this,” she says.

  I guess I do.

  “Still, those
stories could use some romance,” my mom points out.

  “There’s lots of romance,” I insist.

  She looks confused. “Really? Who are they in love with?”

  “Possibility.”

  We load the groceries into the car, and then I push the cart back to the store. I slow as I pass the protesters’ tables, surprised to see my science teacher behind one. There’s a sign taped to the table that says ABOLISH NUCLEAR WEAPONS NOW.

  “Hi, Ellie,” Mr. Ham says.

  It’s always funny running into teachers when they’re not in their school clothes. Mr. Ham’s not wearing a tie today. Instead, he’s got on a T-shirt that says NO NUKES, a pair of shorts, and bright blue sneakers.

  “Doing a little grocery shopping?” he asks me.

  “With my mom. What’s this?”

  “Oh, I volunteer for this organization a couple of times a year.” He puts on his “volunteer” face. “Could I interest you in a brochure, Miss Cruz?”

  “Do I get extra credit?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” he says with a smile.

  I recognize the mushroom-cloud picture on the brochure. But there’s another picture, of a bombed-out city, next to it. The caption reads: “Hiroshima: the war begins.”

  “But the atomic bomb ended the war,” I say, confused.

  Mr. Ham gives me a questioning look. “Did it? Or will it start a larger war? Because we’re always going to be waiting for the next bomb to drop. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”

  I hear a horn honking. My mom’s pulled up to the curb.

  “Looks like your ride’s here,” he says.

  After I get into the car, I look back at Mr. Ham. He gives me a little wave.

  When I go to get breakfast the next morning, my mom and grandfather are already in the kitchen.

  “I thought I told you not to put the trash cans out at night!” my mom says furiously.

  “What?” he says. “You should be happy I took them out.”

  “There is a reason I told you not to do that,” she says. “Come with me.”

  We follow her outside. The cans are next to the curb and the lids have been knocked open. Gross, rotting, stinky trash has been strewn all across the street by some enthusiastic animal.

  “We have raccoons!” She narrows her eyes. “Maybe your Finnish fan club can help you clean it up!”

  Then she stomps off.

  Halloween’s coming up fast. This is the first year I won’t be going trick-or-treating. The town likes to keep the older kids off the street, so there’s a dance party at the youth center on Halloween night.

  In science class, Mr. Ham is already getting into the spirit of things. His tie has skeletons on it.

  “Are you going to the Halloween party?” I ask Momo.

  She shakes her head. “I have to take my little brother trick-or-treating.”

  I ask Raj at lunch if he’s going.

  “Sure I am,” he says. “Halloween is the best night of the whole year. You get to dress up.”

  “Please,” my grandfather snorts. “It’s Halloween for you every day.”

  I decide that I want to go, but I don’t know what to wear. For the past few Halloweens, Brianna and I have coordinated our costumes. But I don’t need a PhD to know that she and I won’t be doing the whole buddy-costume thing this year. My mom offers to take me to the high school so I can look through the wardrobe closet at the theater.

  “I’ve got a great hippie costume from my production of Hair,” she tells me as I rummage through the racks of clothes.

  I shake my head. “It’s not me.”

  For my parents, costumes are no big thing. It’s part of their job, like a uniform.

  But I think what you wear on Halloween is important. It says something about you—who you are and what you want to be. There’s got to be a reason so many girls go around dressed as princesses and witches.

  I dig through and when I see it, I know instantly that it’s perfect. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place.

  On Halloween night, I hole up in my room, getting dressed. When I make my grand entrance, my mom and Ben are already sitting on the front porch, big bowls of candy on their laps. They’re in costume, too.

  She’s dressed as Little Bo Peep, complete with a crinoline skirt and a shepherdess’s crook. But it’s Ben’s costume that makes it: he’s dressed up as the sheep. He’s wearing a fluffy white costume and has a sign on his chest that says I’M NOT LOST. I JUST HATE ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS.

  “Baa,” Ben says.

  I laugh, but my grandfather shakes his head like he doesn’t understand.

  “Are you supposed to be Einstein?” Ben asks me.

  I’m wearing a white lab coat and a crazy bushy white wig. I’ve got thick glasses, and I’m holding a test tube filled with glow-in-the-dark green paint.

  “Just your basic mad scientist,” I tell him.

  My grandfather told me he was too old for Halloween, so he’s wearing his usual outfit: polyester pants, button-up shirt and cardigan, black socks, and loafers. I convinced him to wear a neon-orange ponytail holder so he would look a little Halloweeny.

  “Don’t tell me,” my mom teases him. “You’re supposed to be an old man.”

  My grandfather scowls at her. “Ha ha.”

  Ben greets trick-or-treaters while my mom takes us over to the youth center. We wait for Raj outside and check out the costumes. There are a lot of sexy-looking angels and devils. My favorite is two kids who have dressed up as Dorothy and the Tin Woodman, except they’ve switched it up: the boy is Dorothy and the girl is the Tin Woodman.

  My grandfather asks, “Do you think they’ll have caramel apples?”

  “The flyer said there would be food. Why?”

  “I haven’t had a caramel apple in years,” he says.

  Raj walks up, and he’s not wearing any black at all. In fact, he’s wearing green chino pants and a pink polo shirt that has the collar turned up. A white sweater is tied around his shoulders, and his belt has whales on it. He’s traded in his black Doc Martens for brown loafers with no socks, and he’s dyed his hair blond and combed it back. I would hardly even recognize him except for his piercings.

  “What are you supposed to be?”

  He sticks his hands in his pockets and slouches.

  “Preppy,” he says.

  I laugh.

  My grandfather shifts awkwardly. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I think we’re supposed to have fun,” I say.

  “Fun? What a waste of time,” he grumbles.

  We pay our money and head inside. It’s dark and music thumps out of the stereo. Black lights and orange Day-Glo decorations are everywhere. There are strobe lights and even a fog machine.

  My grandfather heads straight for the food and we trail after him.

  “No caramel apples. It’s a sad state of affairs when you can’t get a caramel apple on Halloween,” he grouses.

  I feel a twinge of unease now that I’m here. I’m not much of a dancer, even though I’ve taken ballet, tap, and jazz (my parents are big believers that all theater people should know how to dance). It’s the whole being-onstage thing. I always freeze up or overthink the steps and how I look doing them. It’s hard to relax when everyone is watching you.

  A bouncy pop song comes on.

  “Wanna dance?” Raj asks.

  “My dancing days are over,” my grandfather replies.

  “Not you,” Raj clarifies. “Ellie.”

  I feel my cheeks heat up.

  “Sure,” I whisper.

  I don’t know if it’s the music, or the dark, or the safety of the costume, but the nervousness I usually feel when stepping onto a dance floor melts away, and I find myself jumping and twirling next to Raj.

  The music pounds like a pulse through the floor, and it’s so loud, you can’t think. It feels like the undertow of the ocean, and I’m just swept along, everything reduced to senses. The sticky heat of the air. Th
e brush of an elbow. The flash of a strobe light.

  I’m a jellyfish glowing in the dark sea, bright and brilliant, just waiting to be discovered.

  When the music stops, my eyes meet Raj’s and we both gasp, grinning at each other.

  And then I look around for my grandfather. He’s slumped in a chair on the side of the room, his head nodding into his chest. Fast asleep.

  Like an old man.

  When I wake up, rainbow-colored helium balloons are bouncing on my ceiling and I’m not eleven anymore. I haven’t grown overnight, or changed in any physical way, but I feel different. Everything feels more.

  My mom walks in, carrying the phone.

  “It’s your dad,” she says, and hands it to me.

  “Happy birthday from Houston!” he calls over the line. “How’s it feel to be the wizened old age of twelve?”

  “Great!” I say.

  “You know what Shakespeare said about growing old?”

  “What?”

  “When the age is in, the wit is out.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Huh?”

  “It’s from Much Ado About Nothing,” he informs me. “He’s saying that when you get old, you lose your brains.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Good?”

  “Sure. At least I’ll have an excuse when I don’t get a perfect report card.”

  He laughs.

  When I open my locker at school, there’s a birthday card waiting for me from Brianna. I can’t help but remember last year, when she decorated my desk with crepe paper and flowers and brought in a whole box of cupcakes. The card seems a little sad.

  But the day gets better.

  At lunch, Raj hands me a present with a pink bow.

  “Hey,” he says. “Happy birthday.”

  “How’d you know?” I ask.

  My grandfather taps his chest. “I told him, of course.”

  I open the box and grin. It’s a burrito from my favorite Mexican place.

  “This is great! Thanks!” I tell him.

  He blushes a little, looks away.

  “When I was a kid, there wasn’t this much hoopla around birthdays,” my grandfather says from across the table. “You all want a ticker-tape parade. Everything’s too much with this generation.”