The Benefits of Being an Octopus

by Ann Braden

  Then, I hear her voice through the wall. She’s already in the bedroom with Lenny. I peek back around the corner at Frank—he’s still soaking up this drone conspiracy like a rebel army might show up at our door, asking him to join up, but he’d need to have memorized all of the details from this show to ride off into the sunset with them.

  He has definitely not noticed me.

  I slip back behind the corner and climb up onto the washing machine next to my mom’s coat. Then, with my unblinking octopus eye, I peer through that little lightsaber hole.

  My mom, still wearing her Pizza Pit uniform, hasn’t gotten very far into the room. She’s frozen, watching Lenny. Lenny is organizing his drawer of undershirts (maybe he’s already done with her shirts), and he’s keeping his voice low. That’s probably so he doesn’t wake up Hector who’s asleep in the crib in the corner, but there’s something about him that’s kind of twitchy.

  And then I make out what he’s talking about: yogurt.

  “You could get a pound of ground beef for the price of two of those yogurts. And they’re so small. I ate one and it was gone in three bites.”

  “I know,” my mom whispers, “but they’re healthy, and the kids love those yogurts.”

  “So you’re saying I’m some horrible kid-hating person just because I don’t like them? You’re always trying to make things into an argument.” He unfolds the shirt and starts folding it from the beginning again.

  She didn’t say he hated us, did she? Isn’t she just being the competent kind of mom who gets her kids yogurt?

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I want to be able to—”

  “You want to be able to tell the kids that it’s my fault that they have to eat hamburgers instead of that stupid yogurt. Fine, go ahead. Go wake them up. I bet they’ll thank me.”

  His voice. I didn’t know a quiet voice could be that piercing.

  My mom doesn’t say anything. Her head is down, and when I look closer I realize she’s crying.

  “Oh, poor baby,” Lenny is saying. “Turn on the waterworks to see if that’ll help. But sorry, you’re not going to manipulate me that way.”

  And suddenly I realize, it doesn’t matter what she actually says to him. He’s not going to take any part of it seriously. My old mom was confident before, but it wasn’t enough. Her confidence has been sucked out of her, and she’s been left bone dry.

  My mom still doesn’t say anything in response. Her chest is heaving, but she’s not making a sound.

  Lenny walks over to my mom like he’s going to console her. He stops right next to her, his nose practically in her ear. “If you didn’t have me to take care of you, you’d be out on the street. And no one cares about a chick on the street.”

  My mom is trying to get hold of her breathing. Like she’s trying to say something.

  “Oh, spare me the drama. You always have to have the last word, don’t you?” Lenny snaps. “Well, sorry. I’m not going to stick around for it. You’re such a joke.”

  His words ring in my ears, but all I can see is my mom hunched over, trying desperately to calm down enough to say something.

  When she finally manages to, it comes out in a whisper. “I know.”

  Somewhere inside of me I feel something crumble. Those two whispered words are too much for me.

  But just then, Lenny heads for the door right next to where I’m sitting on the washing machine.

  He can’t see me here. I curl up closer to the wall, but there’s hardly any need. He shoots out of the bedroom like it’s a cannon, and a second later he’s already at the fridge.

  Quickly, I slip off the washing machine, and when his head is stuck in the fridge I dart back across the room.

  He stands up just as I reach my bedroom door.

  “What are you doing up?” he snaps.

  It’s like his voice from back in the bedroom is still kicking around.

  “Had to go to the bathroom,” I mumble. I quickly slide into the dark bedroom and close the door behind me.

  When I get into my room, I curl up on my mattress and shut my eyes tight. Maybe I can just go to sleep. Maybe I can pretend that everything’s fine.

  Except that I know where my old mom went now.

  Lenny stuffed her into a box and locked it tight.

  I stare at the glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light. It’s been with us in all the gross apartments. It was even there in the months I’d like to forget when there was no apartment and all our stuff was in the back of a car.

  Lenny was supposed to make everything better.

  Because I was so sure that the most important thing was having a good, stable place to stay.

  I try to breathe. In. Out. Come on—even when the oxygen levels drop, octopuses can still do it. In. Out.

  I push up onto my fists and reach through the pile of stuff on the floor between my mattress and the wall. Finally, I pull out a black Sharpie. In the glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light I make my way across the room and slip behind the curtain to stand against the window, where the glow is coming instead from the next door neighbor’s porch light. And, there, I tug my shirt aside to reveal my shoulder, and I start drawing.

  My very own octopus tattoo. With strong tentacles lined with suckers and an unblinking eye that stares everyone else down.

  Because this is my moment when everything is suddenly clear.

  I’m not going to be like my mom. I’m not going to let anybody mess with me.

  When an octopus sends up its spray of ink, it means business. It’s going to throw off that predator—and then it’s going to escape.

  And nobody’s a better escape artist than an octopus.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I get to the Pizza Pit on Thursday afternoon, Hector is being held by Connor and getting cooed at by a table of old ladies. Even though I’m here on a mission, it seems wrong to take Hector away from them, so I take a seat at the usual employee table and listen as they call him Mr. Handsome Pants and he squeals in happiness. When Connor finally brings Hector over to where I’m sitting, the old ladies are still playing peekaboo with him over Connor’s shoulder.

  “When did you get here?” Connor asks as he slides in across from me. “Did the bell on the door even ring? I must be losing the hosting touch if I missed that completely.”

  Connor hands Hector to me as Hector lets out a cackle of glee. I glance over at the old ladies and see one of them reappearing from behind a napkin. I bite back a smile, and turn to Connor. “You were pretty well occupied.”

  “Alright, so what do you think?” Connor says. “You’re in Siberia by yourself, but you can listen to all of your favorite music, or you’re in a mosh pit at a concert where they keep playing your most hated song over and over again.”

  “Easy,” I say. “Siberia.”

  “What if it’s for ten years?”

  “Still easy,” I say. “We’re talking about the ‘Barbie Girl’ song that plays every time Lenny gets to the part in his video game where the booby lady comes out. Nothing would get me to choose the mosh pit.”

  Connor surveys me with his finger to his lip like he now has to send all of his mosh pit extras home. “Fair enough.”

  I glance toward the kitchen doors. “What’s my mom doing?”

  “She decided we needed to do an extra scrub down of the bay where we make the salads, so she’s tackling that.”

  “Do you know what her work schedule is like for next week?” I ask.

  Connor nods. “Same as mine. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday.”

  I exhale. How am I going to make this work?

  “What’s up?” Connor says. “What are you thinking about?”

  I shake my head. “It’s stupid.”

  Connor leans forward and points his finger at me until it almost touches my nose. “You’re not stupid, so whatever you’re thinking about can’t be stupid. Now tell me.”

  I open my mouth but then close it again. Did I really think the afte
r-school debate club could be my ticket out? How am I going to be an escape artist octopus if I can’t even say it out loud? I take a deep breath. “It was this after-school activity.”

  “And if your mom’s at work you can’t do it?”

  “There’s a teacher at school who will drive me to Bryce and Aurora’s bus stop, but that doesn’t help me pick up Hector.”

  “But that’s just fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s twenty or twenty-five minutes if you count the time it takes me to get Bryce and Aurora off the bus and walk back here with them.”

  “Okay, so it’s twenty-five minutes,” Connor says. “Still.”

  I shake my head. “Well, it’s not like Ricky’s going to let my mom move her whole shift back twenty-five minutes. Just for some stupid after-school activity.”

  “No,” Connor says, “but I could watch Hector until you get here—for free,” he adds.

  “But why would you—”

  “Because the more you call this after-school activity stupid, the more I think it’s required for you to do it. What days does it meet?”

  I study the shaker of red pepper flakes. “Every day except Tuesday,” I say. “The teacher is kind of intense.”

  I glance up to see him smiling. “That’s the best kind of teacher.”

  My mom pushes through the kitchen doors, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Good news,” Connor says. “We’ve figured out a way for Zoey to do an after-school activity that she needs to do.”

  My mom cocks her head. “How … ”

  Connor jumps in. “I’m going to get to play with Hector until Zoey can get here.”

  My mom looks between us a few times like she’s trying to figure out what the trick is.

  I take a deep breath. “I just need you to give permission for my social studies teacher to give me a ride to Bryce and Aurora’s bus stop when it’s over. I’ll be able to pick them up just like normal.”

  She peers at me. “So, there are people bending over backwards to make this happen?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know why.” I glance at Connor. “It’s just an after-school activity.”

  My mom shrugs. “Well, if you want to do that, it’s fine with me. Nothing’s going to change too much.” She looks at Connor. “Are you sure? You know we can’t pay you.”

  Connor smiles wide. “Couldn’t be more sure! And now. … ” He smacks the table as his eyes light up. “It’s all set.” He leans closer and whispers, “Look out, you stupid after-school activity. Here comes Zoey!”

  “Connor,” my mom says. “It looks like your table is ready to pay. Do you want me to take care of it?”

  Connor shakes his head. “I got it.” Then, he looks at me. “When does this all start?”

  I bite my lip. “Monday.”

  “Great,” he says.

  Great, I think. Like: Isn’t it great I just signed up to voluntarily gnaw my own arm off?

  My mom sits down where Connor was before and starts rolling silverware into napkins. The wrinkles across her forehead are deeper than they used to be.

  “Thanks for buying us yogurt,” I blurt out.

  “What?” she says, startled. “Oh yeah, that.”

  “It’s really good,” I say. “And it’s healthy, too. My teacher for health class loves to talk about how good yogurt is for you.”

  My mom nods absently.

  “My teacher also says that it’s not good to eat too much red meat.”

  My mom’s eyes slowly work over to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m just saying that if you want to buy yogurt, no one should be allowed to stop you.”

  My mom’s eyes narrow into a full-on glare, her jaw tight. She grabs the finished silverware rolls and stands up—without a word—and walks off. A moment later, the kitchen doors swing shut behind her, and she’s gone.

  She’s never going to step into a dairy aisle again, is she?

  Mom thinks that nothing’s going to change too much.

  It’s up to me to prove her wrong.

  CHAPTER 15

  The next day at the end of social studies class, it’s me who is lingering. When Ms. Rochambeau finishes up a conversation with one of the girls who’s obsessed with getting a 100, I step forward. “My mom said it’s fine if you drive me, but … ”

  “But what?” She puts down the stack of rubrics she’s holding.

  “Are you sure you can do it?”

  “Absolutely,” Ms. Rochambeau says. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  I look down at the floor. “Because if I don’t get on the bus, and then for some reason you can’t … ”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I will be just as reliable as a bus. I promise.”

  And the final excuse flies out the window.

  On Monday when the dismissal bell rings, convincing my feet to walk to the library feels impossible. Those other kids are going to know that I’m choosing to be there. That I think I deserve to be there.

  When I get to the window that overlooks the parking lot, I pause. The buses are still at the curb, idling their engines. If I make a break for it now, I could skip out on this and ride the bus home like normal.

  On the other side of the pickup area, I spot Fuchsia leaning against a No Parking sign, fiddling with her phone. It’s just for show, though, because I know she doesn’t have any minutes. Not that she could tell me that in a normal way. She had to sigh seven times and roll her eyes thirteen different directions just to get me to ask the right question about it. Lately it seems like I’m just a warm body whose job is to play her eye-rolling games. I move the collar of my camo jacket aside and reach under my shirt to touch my octopus tattoo. An octopus would get taken seriously.

  If I looked like one of the eager beaver kids from debate, everything would be different. I close my eyes. I can camouflage myself well enough to blend in with a desk. I just need to camouflage myself enough to blend in with them.

  I take a deep breath and flex my tentacles. Then, I head for the library.

  By the time I get there, Ms. Rochambeau has already started the meeting. “Now the first thing that makes this different from Ace Period debate club is the tournament that’s at the end,” she’s saying.

  I slip into the same chair where I sat for Ace Period and produce my notebook and pen like all the other kids around me.

  “It’s a statewide tournament with students from all over Vermont, so I want to make sure you’re as well prepared as possible. We’ll start by digging into skills and techniques, and then zero in on preparing a specific debate topic after that. One of the debates at the tournament will be the topic we’ve prepared—but you don’t know which side you’ll get assigned. The other one will have a topic that gets assigned by the judges, so you have to be ready for anything. Our goal this month is to make you the confident debaters you need to be for the tournament.”

  I block out most of the stuff about the tournament that there’s absolutely no way I’m going to. But I do make note of another confident for Ms. Rochambeau’s general tally. (She’s up to twenty-eight.) I can still blend in with the eager beavers. I can still pretend I’m like them. Maybe after long enough, that magic wand of confidence will mistake me for them, and give me a bop on the head, too.

  “Now, today we’ll be discussing your most important defensive tactic … ” Ms. Rochambeau starts writing on the board.

  From behind me, a boy calls out before she’s even written two letters down. “Discrediting your opponent!”

  “Exactly.” Ms. Rochambeau finishes writing it, underlines it, and then wanders over close to my table. I squish my boneless octopus body down to its small-bag-of-chips size.

  “To discredit someone means to undermine them,” she says. “But there’s an important distinction you all need to pay close attention to. You are not trying to undermine your opponent as a person. You are simply trying to undermine their argument. Who can give me an example of what that means?”
<
br />   One of the eighth grade boys jumps out of his seat. “Like if someone is using research to show that schools should get rid of homework, you could point out that they probably did that research at home and that they’ve proven your point for you.”

  Ms. Rochambeau tilts her head. “Sort of like that. Can someone give us another example?”

  A black girl who’s sitting at the other eighth grade table raises her hand, and Ms. Rochambeau nods to her. “Go ahead, Kyla.”

  “It’s like if someone was arguing we shouldn’t have affirmative action in colleges because it’s an unfair advantage,” Kyla says, “and then I point out that the real unfair part is the four hundred years of systematic oppression that made it harder for African Americans to go to good schools and get good jobs just because of the color of their skin.”

  Lydia shifts in her seat like the words themselves are making her uncomfortable. Maybe if I knew what affirmative action was I’d feel uncomfortable, too. Maybe if I thought that there was even a chance of me going to college.

  “Exactly,” Ms. Rochambeau is saying. “Now, who can give an example of something that would be a personal attack, of what you shouldn’t do?”

  Matt raises his hand. “If we were talking about the dress code, it wouldn’t be appropriate if I told Lydia that she can’t be objective about it since she’s a girl and girls are obsessed with how they look.”

  Matt has hardly finished speaking when Lydia whacks him on the head. Not in a flirty way either. In a don’t-you-even-dare way.

  “Right,” Ms. Rochambeau says, ignoring the whack. “We respectfully point out the holes in an opponent’s argument, but we don’t attack the person themselves. It’s their argument that isn’t as good as yours, not them. Keep it separate.”

  That’s funny. Since when does the world work like that?

  “Now, there are several different ways to approach it,” Ms. Rochambeau is saying. “First, you can show that your opponent’s point is insignificant compared to your point, just like Kyla’s example.”