The Fourteenth Goldfish

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “Uh, you know, you’re part of this generation now,” Raj says.

  I’ve noticed that grown-ups don’t seem to get as excited about birthdays as kids do. My mom jokes that she’s stopped counting them. Which makes me think.

  “How many candles will you have on your cake this year?” I ask my grandfather.

  “What?” he asks.

  “For your birthday. Because of the T. melvinus,” I explain. “Will you have seventy-seven candles or, like, fourteen?”

  My grandfather blinks and then says, “I don’t believe in birthdays.”

  My mom is a little surprised when I request French food for my birthday dinner.

  “French? Not Mexican?” she asks.

  “French,” I say, and my grandfather gives me an approving look.

  The French restaurant where we go to dinner is small and intimate. The napkins are thick and ironed, and the waiter sweeps the crumbs off the table with a fancy little knife.

  I order coq au vin and it’s delicious. The waiter gives us bowls of sorbet between each course. But the best part of the meal is the end: instead of a dessert cart, the waiter wheels out a cheese cart! There must be twenty kinds of cheese to choose from. Pasteur would be impressed.

  Then my mom breaks out the presents from her and my dad. A gift card to a place at the mall that sells hair accessories. A puzzle with a picture of a unicorn (one thousand pieces). And a cell phone! There’s even a cute case: pink with glitter.

  “Finally!” I say. “Thanks!”

  My mom smiles. “Use it wisely.” She adds, “Don’t go over your minutes.”

  My grandfather hands me his present. It’s a big box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a white bow. I tear the paper away and gasp in delight.

  “A microscope!”

  “It’s a good one, practically professional,” my grandfather says.

  I stare at the box. It feels like I’ve been officially ushered into a secret society of scientists.

  My grandfather points out the features. “Binocular eyepiece. Halogen light. Four objective lenses. Of course, I’ll teach you how to use it.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, and my throat feels thick. “This is the best present ever!”

  “Well, good,” he says, a little gruffly. “I’m glad you like it.”

  My mom watches this byplay with a funny look. “I thought the cell phone would be the best present ever.”

  After dinner, the waiter brings out a cake. There are thirteen candles—twelve pink ones plus a rainbow candle to grow on. The whole restaurant sings “Happy Birthday” to me.

  I lean in and blow out my candles. One refuses to go out and it takes three times before it’s finally out.

  That night, I fall asleep dreaming of candles. Hundreds of candles. They burn on and on, bright and defiant.

  Never going out.

  My grandfather walks into the kitchen a few mornings later carrying a bottle of pain pills. He pours a glass of water and pops a handful of pills.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look good.

  “I’m having growing pains,” he grits out, pointing to his legs. “The T. melvinus must be regenerating my bones.”

  “Does it hurt a lot?” I ask.

  “Let’s just say I know what it felt like to be tortured on the rack.”

  My dad’s back in town for the weekend. He appears at our front door after lunch, wearing worn-out jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying his toolbox.

  “Dad!” I shout, and fling myself at him.

  “Reporting for duty,” he tells me, holding up his toolbox. “I hear there’s a toilet that needs fixing.”

  My father is handsome. I don’t say that just because I’m his daughter. He’s the kind of man who women stop and stare at when he walks into a room. He’s got thick, curly black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s usually cast as the rake or the hero in a play.

  “I miss working with my assistant.” He winks at me. “I brought your hammer.”

  To pay the bills when I was little, my dad did carpentry work and odd jobs, hauling me around in my baby carrier. When I started teething, I chewed the wooden handle of one of his hammers. It still has bite marks on it.

  “Where’s your mother?” he asks.

  “At the high school. They’re having trouble with the light board,” I tell him. “She said you’re cooking dinner.”

  He looks around. “You’re here by yourself?”

  “No. Melvin’s in the den.”

  “Ah, right,” he says. “She mentioned something about some long-lost cousin crashing here. Well, let’s get that toilet out of the way.”

  We settle down in the bathroom, and my father snakes the toilet and then takes the lid off and tinkers around with the insides.

  “That should do it,” he says. “You want to do the honors?”

  I flush and the water goes down.

  “You should’ve been a plumber,” I say.

  He gives a wry smile. “I would’ve made a whole lot more money, that’s for sure.”

  My grandfather walks into the bathroom holding The Catcher in the Rye. He freezes when he sees my father.

  “You must be Melvin,” my father says. “I’m Ellie’s dad, Jeremy.” He holds out his hand.

  My grandfather doesn’t reciprocate. “Did you wash that hand?” he asks.

  “Toilet water is clean,” my father says.

  “Then drink it,” my grandfather replies.

  We stand there for a minute. Then my grandfather holds up his book.

  “You gonna stand around yapping all day?” my grandfather asks. “I have homework to finish.”

  My father makes risotto for dinner. We sit outside on our tiny patio, and the adults drink red wine and my grandfather and I have soda. Between the crisp air, the good food, and my parents trading gossip about theater friends, it feels like I’m watching a favorite television show. Except this time my grandfather has a guest role as the Silent, Moody Teenager. Or maybe he isn’t acting.

  My father and grandfather have never exactly been buddies. When my parents first got married, my grandfather said some things to my father that involved the words “punk,” “my daughter,” and “knocked up.” Needless to say, there is no way we can let my dad in on the little secret about Melvin.

  My grandfather turns to my dad. “So I hear you’re an actor. How’s that working out for you?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” he says. “The tour of my production has been extended for another year.”

  “That’s wonderful, Jeremy!” my mother enthuses.

  “Congrats, Dad,” I say.

  My grandfather doesn’t look very impressed. He says, “Lots of money performing in Peoria?”

  “I’m in the union,” my dad says. “I’ve got a great benefits package.”

  My grandfather grunts.

  My dad smiles at him, faintly curious. “You remind me of someone,” he says.

  “Really,” my grandfather says. “Who?”

  “Just an old guy. One of those grumpy types. Actually, you’re distantly related to him. Guess Melvin is a family name.”

  My mom and I share a worried look.

  Then, without a word, my grandfather gets up and goes inside. My father turns to my mother.

  “Interesting kid,” he says.

  “Teenagers,” my mom says with a careless roll of her shoulders.

  “I’ll clear,” I offer, and start picking up dishes. My parents beam at me.

  I stack the plates, and what I see when I go into the kitchen almost makes me drop them: my grandfather is pouring red wine into a plastic cup.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, and drinks from the cup.

  “But—but—you can’t!”

  “Why not?” he grumbles. “It’s not like I’m underage. And I need something to dull the pain. My legs are killing me.”<
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  The wine loosens my grandfather’s tongue, and he starts to make even more snarky remarks at the dinner table.

  “To be or not to be thirteen. That is the question,” he says.

  My parents are deep in conversation and don’t seem to notice what’s going on. We move inside because it’s getting chilly, congregating around the kitchen table.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” my grandfather announces, and walks out.

  My mother shakes her head and turns to my dad. “Were you like this as a teenage boy?”

  “I’m not sure.” A puzzled look crosses my dad’s face. “Mostly I remember being embarrassed by my parents all the time.”

  She changes the subject. “So, spill. How’s Francois?” She makes air quotes with her hands when she says the name.

  Francois, I know, is the director of Les Misérables.

  “You mean besides having a French name but actually being from Long Island?”

  “I knew it was a fake accent!” my mom says.

  “He had a good speech coach somewhere along the line.”

  The toilet flushes.

  My father adds, “Also, his ego is bigger than a blimp.”

  The toilet flushes again.

  “Did you fix it?” my mom asks him.

  “I fixed it,” my father insists.

  I think of all the pain pills Melvin took earlier. Worry spikes through me.

  “Maybe we should check on him,” I suggest.

  We find my grandfather hunched in front of the toilet, throwing up.

  “Oh, no! Do you have food poisoning?” my mom asks when my grandfather turns a gray face to her.

  My father sniffs and looks furious.

  “Since when does food poisoning smell like red wine?”

  My grandfather is grounded.

  Raj and I wait for him by the flagpole after school. He waits with me most days now. He says the betting money’s on my grandfather getting detention again.

  My grandfather comes running up to us. He’s wild-eyed and frantic.

  “I know why they deactivated my key card! I know why they closed my email account!” he exclaims.

  Raj and I look at him.

  “The company’s been bought! They’re moving to Malaysia!”

  “Malaysia?” I ask.

  “It’s all over the Internet! Who knows what’s going to happen to my T. melvinus? They’ll probably just throw it out!”

  He slams into the bathroom the minute we get home. I decide to set up my microscope and try to lure him out of his bad mood. It comes with a set of prepared slides. There’s a fern spore. A cotton fiber. A salt crystal. And, oddly enough, a goldfish scale. I guess not everybody flushes their fish when they die.

  I look at the goldfish scale under the microscope. It’s beautiful, a fan of color, and I think of all the Goldies. Maybe they would have lived if they’d had the T. melvinus compound. Maybe we’d have a big tank of them swimming around.

  The doorbell rings and when I answer it, a kid is standing there holding a pizza box.

  “Pizza delivery,” he says.

  His hair is in a Mohawk, and he’s got a few rings in his ears and one in his lip. Delivery boys always look a little sketchy, like they’re the kids the malls don’t want to hire.

  “Hang on,” I say, and call my grandfather. “Did you order a pizza?”

  “Pepperoni,” the kid clarifies.

  My grandfather comes to the door. “I didn’t order anything,” he says with a frown.

  “What street number do you have?” I ask the kid. He looks at the slip in his hand and gives an apologetic smile.

  “Oops, my mistake,” he says, and lopes away.

  As I watch him walk away, I remember my grandfather saying how the lab assistants like to eat pizza.

  I look at my grandfather and smile.

  “I think I know how to get into building twenty-four.”

  I detail my plan to Raj and my grandfather at the lunch court.

  “Raj dresses up as a delivery kid. He takes a real pizza and he gets buzzed in by the lab assistants. He drops it off, and on the way out he grabs the T. melvinus. That way, we don’t have to worry about the security guard or the whole key-card thing!”

  “Not bad,” my grandfather says.

  I turn to Raj. “What do you think? Would you do it?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. I’m in.”

  “And your brother, too,” my grandfather adds. “We need a ride.”

  We plan it for Friday; that’s the night my mom stays late to run lines with the actors. It should give us plenty of time to get to the lab and back home again without her finding out. It’s perfect.

  Except that when Raj shows up on our front porch on Friday, he’s alone.

  “Ananda’s car is in the shop,” he explains.

  We stand around the kitchen trying to figure out what to do.

  “He said it should be fixed by next week,” Raj tells my grandfather.

  My grandfather is frustrated. “I don’t want to wait until next week! Who knows what will happen in the meantime to my T. melvinus?”

  “So let’s just take the bus,” Raj says.

  “Do you know how long it will take if we go by bus? We have to find a pizza place, and then get the pizza, and then take four buses to get there, and walk and …”

  But I’m not listening to him; I’m too busy staring at my puzzle on the kitchen table. It’s almost finished now. The bustle of the city. The people rushing down the sidewalk. The storefronts.

  The yellow taxicabs.

  People on television hop in and out of cabs all the time, like it’s no big thing. But I’ve never been in one, and everything about it seems exotic. The meter on the dashboard. The smell of pine air freshener. The way the cabdriver talks nonstop into his headset. He doesn’t even seem surprised to have three kids in the back of his cab.

  My grandfather has the driver stop at a pizza parlor. He orders two pizzas, four sodas, and breadsticks and gives the kid behind the counter an extra hundred for his cap, his shirt, and a cooler with the pizza-place logo.

  It’s almost seven when we get to building twenty-four. There are only two cars in the parking lot.

  “Looks quiet,” I observe.

  “Typical Friday night,” my grandfather replies in a scathing voice. “Everyone leaves early. This generation has no dedication.”

  Raj puts on the shirt and cap. He looks perfect. I’m suddenly worried. I touch his arm.

  “Don’t get caught,” I tell him.

  He looks at me steadily.

  “I won’t,” he says.

  “I’m keeping the meter on,” the cabdriver informs us loudly as Raj walks away.

  The meter ticks up. Forty dollars. Sixty dollars. Seventy dollars. And then Raj suddenly appears next to the cab, holding the cooler. A wave of relief rushes over me.

  “Did you get it?” my grandfather demands.

  “Yep,” Raj says. “It was a piece of cake. They didn’t even ask me who ordered it. The guy just waved me back.”

  My grandfather has the cab drop us off at a Chinese restaurant for an impromptu celebration.

  “Order anything you want,” he tells us. “I’m getting moo goo gai pan.”

  As if there was any question.

  Raj taps on the menu. “They have jellyfish. We should totally order it.”

  I grin.

  The food arrives, and we start eating. Raj bites into the jellyfish.

  “What’s it taste like?” I ask him.

  He chews. And keeps on chewing.

  “Rubber bands,” he says.

  I can’t help myself. “Jellyfish: you can use it to organize things!”

  He catches my drift right away. “You can use it as an eraser.”

  “You can bounce it like a Super Ball!”

  It’s like the crispy corn dog thing, only better. Raj and I out-jellyfish each other until we’re laughing so hard, we can barely breathe.

  �
�So should I wear a bow tie?” my grandfather asks.

  Raj raises an eyebrow. “It’s probably a bit much for middle school.”

  My grandfather corrects him. “No, to the Nobel ceremony. It’s black-tie.”

  Raj turns to me. “What should we wear?”

  “You?” my grandfather scoffs.

  “Excuse me. Who got the T. melvinus out of the lab?” he asks.

  “He’s right,” I agree.

  My grandfather makes an annoyed noise. “Fine. But I’m getting primary authorship.”

  We linger after we’re done eating, hogging the table and reading fortune cookies. The restaurant is buzzing with the crush of Friday night, but our table is the center of my universe. I want this night to last forever.

  My grandfather has the waiter bring us more tea, and he fills our porcelain cups. His college ring is too big on his slender finger.

  “A toast,” he proposes.

  Raj looks at the cooler sitting in a chair. “To jellyfish?”

  But I shake my head because I already know the perfect toast.

  “To the possible,” I say, meeting my grandfather’s eyes.

  He gives me a small smile.

  We all lift our teacups and say, “To the possible!”

  When I wake up, my bedroom is freezing.

  Fall has finally arrived, and my mother doesn’t like to turn on the heat unless it’s below sixty-five. She says it’s California, not Alaska, and I should just put on a sweater.

  Even though it’s cold, excitement warms my veins.

  The T. melvinus is safe in the freezer in our garage, and my grandfather is full of plans for what to do next. He wants to get the ball rolling. Rent a space. Set up a real lab. Buy equipment. Refine the compound. Then he’ll be able to announce it to the world.

  I can hardly sleep waiting for the next part. Is this what Salk felt like when he knew his vaccine had worked? Maybe we will win a Nobel Prize.

  My grandfather’s comments about what to wear tease at me. I’ve never been to anything fancy. What would I wear? A long dress? High heels? I remember that Marie Curie won a Nobel and wonder what she wore to the awards ceremony. I decide to look it up.

  Most pictures show her in old-fashioned black dresses, and her hair was totally frizzy, just like mine. I can’t find a photo showing what she wore to accept her Nobel, but I do discover something I hadn’t known before. Something my grandfather left out.