What Do Fish Have to Do With Anything?

by Avi

  Same as with my father, she didn’t say anything for a bit. And, like I figured, it was obvious she wasn’t very happy about my suggestion. I mean, there was this really pained look on her face, so painful, I admit, I almost lost my nerve. But since I’d made a vow with myself to really do this thing I kept on.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Hey, I just thought it would be cool,” I said in my best wicked way. “I mean, you are my parents. Both of you. I mean, at least that’s what we learned in bio class. And it is my birthday. It’s what I want.”

  “Is this your idea or his?”

  “Mine.”

  “I gather you’ve spoken to him about it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was a nasty idea.”

  “Parker, for once tell me straight: Does he really want to do this?”

  “He got panicky. But I guess you don’t want to do it either, right?”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “To be honest, I don’t.”

  “Well, to be honest myself, I like it. I think he said he’d do it if you would. It’s a democracy. Majority rules.”

  “Families are not governments,” she said, grim faced. “What about your sister?”

  “No way. She’ll cry. Just you, Dad, and me. The mature ones.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, and wheeled around and left the room.

  So then I called my dad back. “Hey, Dad,” I said, “Ma thinks having the birthday dinner with just the three of us is a gross idea. My guess is that she’s so disgusted with your behavior, she can’t see sitting down with you even for an hour.”

  “Parker . . . show some respect.”

  “You wanted a report.”

  “Well . . .”

  “My guess is that if she says no, you’ll say yes, because that way you get to put her down. Am I right?” He grunted. But he swallowed the bait.

  “If the three of us having dinner is what you want . . .”

  There it was. I had him on the line. I mean, who’s going to control my life, me or them?

  I went back to my mother. She was in bed, reading some legal brief. I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Well, what do you think?” I said.

  She looked over her papers at me. “About what?”

  “Dinner. You. Me. Dad.”

  “I hate it.”

  “Why?”

  She thought a minute, trying to find a way not to say what she really felt. She said, “Because there is so much bad feeling. I want your birthday to be a happy time. What you’re suggesting will be an unpleasant evening.”

  “Gee,” I said, “I always thought you were the kind of mother who loved her kids so much that she could swallow her pain and pride and do what was best for them, not herself.”

  She glared at me. “Parker, where do you get this stuff?”

  “A book at the library called A Kids’ Guide to Divorce.” I got off the bed. “But if you want to be the uncompromising parent . . .”

  “Parker,” she cried, “I love you enough to say that there are times I hate you. You are very manipulative.”

  I grinned. The lady understood. So I said, “Hey, you noticed. That means yes, you’ll do it, right?”

  “Right,” she said, and pretended to go back to her papers.

  Now, I suppose you’d like to know why I wanted to do this. That’s cool. I mean, I know that my parents had really, really come to dislike each other. Like, before they were divorced, they were into all these arguments, yelling, not talking to each other, door slamming, blah, blah, blah. Like, there was so much emotion you needed a spoon, no, a shovel, to heave it. Bummer. Like, suffocating. I mean, man, it was a relief when they sat us down and informed us that they were going to split. Well, sure, Sarah had a knotted spaghetti fit, cried and all that junk. As for me, I already knew the world was round, if you know what I’m saying.

  But the thing is, I was curious. I mean some time had gone by, and I just wanted to see how they would act with each other. Yeah, call me odd. I mean, I’m one of those people who likes to watch people. And the way I see it, is there anything better than watching your own parents squirm?

  Okay. Before I know it, it’s October the twelfth. My birthday.

  I’ll set the scene. It’s a kind of gray, blustery evening. Likelihood of rain. My sister is whining. Why can’t she go? I tell her it’s because she isn’t tall enough, that the restaurant we’re going to doesn’t have kiddy cushions. She walks off in a huff and slams the door to her cave. Fine. Whatever it takes. Mission accomplished.

  Baby-sitter for Sarah arrives. My ma and I go out. She insisted she would drive: pick my dad up and take us to the restaurant.

  “Why?”

  “Your father is a control freak.”

  “Hey, the politicians say you’re not doing your parent job unless you control your kids.”

  “Parker, I hate this.”

  “Mommy dear, it’s my birthday.”

  We got into the car and drove to my father’s apartment. As we got close, she said, “Is his girlfriend joining us?”

  “Lulu?”

  She winced. “Her name is Louise.”

  “Lulu isn’t old enough to go out at night. She’ll stay home with her baby-sitter too.”

  My mother looked at me. “You can be very cruel.”

  “What you call cruel I call honest.”

  “I dread this,” she admitted.

  I gave her a thumbs up. “Bigtime killer event.”

  My father was waiting on the curb. He was in a suit and tie. My mother was in her office uniform. I had baggy pants, a torn Grateful Dead T-shirt, and my cap on backward. So we all had our proper trick-or-treat costumes.

  He climbed into the back seat. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello, Peter,” my mother said.

  Ignoring her, my father said, “Happy birthday, Parker,” to me.

  “Never happier,” I said.

  My mother drove off, stone-faced. I felt my sympathy rising, but I pushed it down, reminding myself that I had to see things through.

  “Ah,” my father said, trying to sound casual, “where are we going?”

  “Ming’s Golden Dragon,” I said.

  “Oh, very nice,” he said. “I enjoy Chinese.”

  “Lucky for you there are a lot of them,” I said.

  “Parker . . . ,” my mother warned.

  We drove along without anyone saying anything. I hate silence. All you hear is yourself. So I leaned forward and flipped on the radio. The music was loud, but I made it louder. “Bleeding Ingrown Toenails,” I announced.

  “I beg your pardon?” my mother said.

  “Name of my favorite band,” I explained.

  “Turn it down,” she said.

  “Betty,” my father says, “it’s his birthday.” A cheap shot.

  There was no more talk until we got to the restaurant. It was a fairly big place — my family used to go there about once a month B.D. — Before Divorce. It has round tables in the center, booths along the sides. On the walls are plastic dragons. On each table are fake flowers and a bottle of soy sauce.

  “How many, please?” the dude at the door asked.

  “Three,” my father said.

  “Table or booth?”

  “Table,” I said. “Middle of the room.”

  My mother shot me a dirty look, but it was too late. The host led us to a table right in the middle of the place. The dead center. Cool. Eye of the storm. Loved it.

  We sat down. Menus were brought. No one had said much of anything. My parents looked at the menus while I looked at my father and my mother, who were spending most of the time not looking at each other. I mean, how do you handle it when the two most important people in your life hate each other? Take ’em to dinner.

  “It’s your birthday,” my father finally said to me. “You choose. I’ll pay.”

  “It’s about time,” I said.

  “We’
ll share,” my mother insisted.

  “And we all share the food, right?” I said.

  “Fine with me,” my mother said.

  Instead of looking at the menu, I said to my father, “Well, Dad, how’s Lulu? She going to finish high school this year?”

  He scowled. “Louise is fine, thank you. And she does not go to high school.”

  “Keeping her dumb, eh?”

  His face turned red. I heard his breathing. “She spends most of her time working.”

  “Right. Dental hygienist. Cool. Hey, man, smile. Your teeth are looking better.”

  “Parker . . . ,” my mother growled.

  The waiter approached, hunched over in a slight bow, order pad in hand.

  “Ready to order, please?” he asked. Which means, “Move it, dudes!”

  I picked up the menu, which I hadn’t really looked at yet. I rattled off, “For appetizers, we’ll have the Pu Pu Platter, Shark Fin Soup, then main course, Pork Moo Shi and Slippery Chicken.”

  “Excellent choices,” the waiter said, which he probably said to anyone who ordered anything. Off he bowed.

  There was a moment of silence. “Hope you like the Slippery Chicken,” I said to my dad. “I ordered that for you.” I turned to my mom. “Shark Fin Soup for you.”

  “And for yourself?” she asked between clenched teeth.

  “Pu Pu Platter.”

  We went back to silence.

  “Did you tell Dad about Charles Rosterman the Third?” I suddenly said to my mother.

  Her face turned pink.

  My father looked up. He wasn’t going to ask.

  I explained it to him: “Your former wife and the Third — that’s what I call him — have been dating. He’s a broker where she works. Specializes in hog futures.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He’s incredibly rich, but, guess what.”

  “What?”

  “He’s been through three marriages. Which as I read it means he doesn’t know much about women, but when it comes to hogs, hey, awesome.”

  My mother, getting angrier by the minute, leaned forward. “Exactly what are you trying to do?” she asked me.

  “Embarrass everybody.”

  “You’re succeeding. What about yourself?”

  “Hey, cool,” I said. “Take a shot.”

  She held off since the waiter came to give us the Pu Pu Platter. When he left, she said, “Parker, why can’t you act your age?”

  “Biological, emotional, or mental?” I asked.

  My father said, “I was hoping this would be nice.”

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Because you asked for it.”

  “Look,” I said, “the way I see it, you two have me, right? Maybe you didn’t plan to. Hey, mistakes happen. You could have had an abortion, but you didn’t. So, here I am. Pro-life exhibit A. Oh, yeah, and Sarah. Ditto. But then, after a while, you decided you didn’t like each other, and you split. Not that you asked us. But, hey, it’s none of our business. Right? Then you,” I said to my father, “forget that you’re supposed to buy food for us. You let Mom take care of all that little stuff. And you,” I said to my mother, “are so angry, tired, and trapped, you can’t see straight anymore and you blame us for being needy.

  “Now, what I called this little meeting for is to raise the question, what am I supposed to do about you two?”

  There was some stony silence. In the middle of it the soup was served. My parents just sat there, white faced, staring in front of them. Not at me, not at each other.

  I said, “Anyone want the rest of this Pu Pu? It’s awesome.”

  It was my mother who spoke up. “Parker, I think you have no concern other than for yourself.”

  “That’s cool,” I said. “Who else is going to have concern for me?”

  “What about other people?” she asked. “Me? Or your sister?”

  My father leaned over the table and clasped his hands. “Did your mother put you up to this?”

  “Nope. I did. And one of these days you’re going to have to accept the fact that Mom doesn’t work for the CIA, FBI, or IRS, that she doesn’t spend all her time plotting to kneecap you. You know what she wants?”

  “What?”

  “Child-support checks. So she can get on with her life. You didn’t divorce her. You put her in a box.”

  He slapped his hand on the table so hard it made the teacups rattle. Everybody in the restaurant looked around.

  I grinned and said, “Hey, dude, I chose a middle table so everybody could watch what you do.”

  He looked me hard in the eyes and murmured, “You bastard. . . .”

  “Hey, you ought to know.”

  “Parker . . .” I heard my mother warn.

  My father got up from the table, took two steps away, then came back and sat down.

  The waiter served the Pork Moo Shi and Slippery Chicken.

  We ate. No one spoke. My stomach was in such knots I thought I would throw up. But I kept going.

  “Okay, Dad,” I said, “what’s with the child support? It’s a bummer you’re not paying.”

  He said, “That is an issue that I will discuss only with your mother.”

  I said, “You know what I’m going to do?”

  “No.”

  “If my mother ever gets married again, I’m going to leave her and move in with you and Lulu. For revenge. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He looked grim. All he said, though, was, “Fine.”

  I turned to my ma. “Or I might stay with you and the Third, if you promise not to blame Dad for all the misery in your life.”

  She scowled at me.

  “Hey, Dad, guess what Mom got me for a birthday present?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Two tickets to a Balding Sweethearts concert.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “What did you get me?”

  He frowned. “I told you you could have asked for something reasonable. I would have given you money but I thought that would be tacky. Then you said you wanted this dinner. But if you want more I’ll come up with something.”

  “Hey, you never said anything about money,” I said. “I don’t think money’s tacky. I would have taken it. Like, we need it.”

  “Excuse me,” my mother said, and she threw her napkin on the table, got up, and walked to the ladies’ room. I think she didn’t want to cry in public.

  I grabbed hold of my chair. It was like I was going ninety-seven miles an hour and I was about to fall out of the driver’s seat. For a sec I shut my eyes. When I opened them I realized my father was staring at me, furious.

  “Parker,” he barked, “what in God’s name are you trying to do?”

  “Embarrass you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re my very own deadbeat dad.”

  He shoved himself back in his chair. “Your mother did put you up to this, didn’t she?”

  “Hey, like, I’ve got my own brain, dude.”

  He reached into his jacket, pulled out a wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and threw it on the table. “Tell your mother I had an important meeting.”

  With that he got up and walked out of the restaurant.

  I watched him go. It was the worst moment. I mean I was alone then, except this time it was my doing. I hardly knew what to scream at him: “Stay away!” or “Come back!” Then I began to wonder if either of them would come back. I felt sick.

  But right on cue — the way God should do it — the waiter deposited the fortune cookies. I stared at them for a long time. I love fate. It means I don’t have to do anything.

  My mother returned. She had been crying. “Where’s your father?”

  “He said to tell you he had an important meeting. Which reminds me, my birthday fortune has arrived. Are you ready for the truth?” I picked the thing up.

  Looking like she was fighting back tears, she said, “Let’s go home.”

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Fate sp
eaks to us in mysterious ways. To ignore it is to bring doom!”

  “Come on!”

  I put the fortune cookie in my pocket.

  Mom and I drove back home. There was silence at first. Then she said, “Did you achieve what you wanted?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you want to happen?”

  “Don’t know that either.”

  She said, “You love your father a lot, don’t you?”

  That caught me by surprise. Which I hate. But as I said, I’m honest. So, after a while, I said, “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  She said nothing. Exhausted, I just stared at the passing headlights. They reminded me of the spears of jousting knights. Everybody getting killed. But no one stopped moving. Zombie traffic.

  “What about me?” she finally said, her voice trembling, almost whispering. “What are your feelings?”

  “Like, I love you too.”

  “That’s just words,” she said.

  “You’re right.”

  “Well . . . then?”

  I took a deep breath. “For you I’ve got something better than love.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I . . . trust you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll never hurt me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But . . .”

  “But, what?”

  I said, “That means I’ll hurt you.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause, like I said, you’ll never hurt me back.”

  She reached out, touched my hand, but we didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

  The rain started to come down, making the tar roads look like they were coated with cheap silver.

  It was only when I got to bed, shut the door tight, turned on the music loud, that I took out the fortune cookie and cracked it open. The little yellow paper slip read: “Many people will love you.”

  That’s when I began to cry. But, hey, no one could see me. Killer.

  is widely recognized as one of the most talented and inventive authors for young readers today, having received the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award, the Scott O’Dell Award, the Christopher Award, the Newbery Medal, and, twice, a Newbery Honor. Avi says that writing a short story “is like trying to light your way through a dark cave with a tiny birthday candle. The flame may be small, but in the darkness, if the writer has done the job, how bright the light!” Avi lives in Boulder, Colorado.