Changing Michael

by Jeff Schilling

  (Did you know that the male seahorse carries the eggs in his pouch? I didn’t.)

  She sat down in front of her girly mirror to brush her hair, still talking. I looked over and saw her father in the doorway.

  “She really likes seahorses,” I said.

  “Who knew?” he said, heading back to the living room.

  The only break in her monologue occurred while she was putting on make-up—I watched her apply lipstick and use a little brush on her cheeks. I wondered where in the world she’d learned those tricks—probably not from Dad. I felt a little uncomfortable sitting and gawking at her, so I stood up and wandered toward the living room.

  She was out before her father and I needed to make awkward conversation. I found myself caught up in her face for a moment and began to understand why he was all cramped-up about her going out with strange guys.

  “So, what time would you like us back, sir?” I said, trying to sound like a nice young man.

  Chrissy was standing a few feet away staring at the closed front door.

  “How about three?”

  “Four?”

  His face got all frowny.

  “Okay, three it is,” I said. “You ready, Chrissy?”

  Her face got red and she dropped her eyes, staring down at the floor. Not only did she look angry, she looked like Michael.

  I tried to figure out if I’d said anything to upset her, but then her father saw his opportunity and ran with it.

  “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, honey,” he said, quickly.

  “We could probably go another time, maybe,” I added, making sure the possibility seemed remote at best.

  Chrissy was silent.

  “It’s a little too much for her right now,” her father said to me, reaching for his daughter’s hand. “Come on, hon, you can stay here with me.”

  She let him take her hand, but when he tried to lead her from the door, she shook herself loose.

  “I’m going,” she said, looking up at him.

  “Are you sure, hon? Because you don’t need to feel like—”

  “Dad!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in defeat.

  Her face was flushed like Michael’s, and her eyes had the same look he got when I pushed him too hard.

  “Come on,” she said, tugging me out the door.

  “Back at three!” her father called after us.

  “Four?” I tried, again.

  “Three!”

  Chrissy marched down the hallway without looking back. I followed her down the stairs and around the landings. She pushed her way through the doors and finally came to a stop when she realized her feet were on the sidewalk.

  She was breathing hard. I hung back for a minute. If someone had come along at that moment, I’m sure they would have thought we’d had a fight and I was trying to get my girlfriend to come back inside.

  I pulled up next to her.

  “We don’t have to go,” I said. “I just thought you might like to get out for a while . . . you know, without your dad.”

  “I’m not scared,” she said.

  “I know you’re not.”

  “And I’m not stupid,” she said, turning on me. “You think I’m stupid.”

  “No I don’t.”

  She turned away.

  “I don’t hang out with stupid people,” I said. “Well, except for Michael.”

  I was hoping for a smile but didn’t get one. I got this instead: “I’m not going to have sex with you.”

  “I don’t . . . Why do you—? . . . I’m not . . .”

  “I know a lot more than you think,” she said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  She folded her arms and looked down at the sidewalk.

  “Why did you come up here?” she asked.

  “I just thought you might want to hang out. With someone your own age, I mean.”

  Why do I sound like a parent?

  “You’re older than me,” she said.

  “Not as old as your dad, though.”

  She nodded at the sidewalk.

  “I have friends,” she said. “At school.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “I’m not some retard just because I go to a different school.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I don’t want to go if it’s just one time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to go if you’re not coming back.”

  I felt a little stab in my chest and quickly shoved it into the smelly little bathroom in my head.

  “I’ll come back if you want me to,” I said, weakly.

  She studied my face, just like her father had, just like Michael had. I guess she was okay with what she found, because she suddenly turned back into a shy little girl.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  “It’s right over there,” I said, pointing to a parked police car across the street.

  “You’re not a cop,” she said.

  “Don’t make me arrest you,” I said, leading her around the corner and down the side street.

  “Why aren’t we going in your police car?” she said, smiling.

  “I’m undercover,” I said, unlocking the doors. “They need my help at the aquarium. Some kind of mystery.”

  “No they don’t.”

  “I have a talking dog and a van,” I said.

  “No you don’t.”

  She told me she knew the way.

  “Sounds good,” I said, wishing my phone wasn’t in the glove compartment.

  Looking at the clock, I realized it was lunchtime and I was starting to get hungry. Not a good thing. I get kind of pissy when I get hungry, so I was going to have to watch myself.

  “They have a dolphin,” she said, opening her window just a bit, then closing it again.

  “Oh yeah?” I said, the same way I’d answer a little kid who told me she lived on an anthill.

  “They do,” she said, glaring.

  Oops . . . I’m going to have to be careful.

  “You mean like a stuffed dolphin or something?” I said.

  “No. A real dolphin, in a swimming pool.”

  “Oh . . . Can you ride it?”

  It took her a few seconds to process.

  “What?”

  “Why is it in a pool?” I said. “So people can ride it?”

  Five seconds.

  “You don’t ride dolphins,” she said.

  “Do you eat them?”

  “No!”

  “I like swordfish,” I said. “Is there a restaurant in the aquarium?”

  She crossed her arms and glared out the window.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just a little hungry. How many seahorses do they have?” I asked.

  No response.

  “I remember seeing something on the news about their seahorse collection,” I said.

  Five seconds.

  “It’s the biggest in the world,” she said, still looking out the window.

  “Not in the world,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, a little louder.

  “So how many?”

  “A hundred and eighty.”

  “No way!”

  “Well, they’re not all seahorses,” she said, warming up a little. “They have sea dragons, too.”

  She was fine after that. I’d explain to you the difference between a seahorse and a sea dragon, but I stopped listening once I realized a sea dragon is about the same size as a seahorse. Anyway, I just wanted her in a good mood. Who wants to drag a pouty girl around all afternoon?

  Eventually, we saw a few signs for the aquarium and followed them. I didn’t want to pay a hundred dollars to park in the aquarium
lot, so I was pretty happy when I found a spot nearby. Ten minutes after that and we were closing in on the harbor, on our way to the aquarium just like any other couple. I kind of liked the cover. I felt like shaking someone’s hand.

  Hello there, I’m Matthew, heterosexual male. This is my girlfriend, Chrissy.

  She chattered about seahorses while I played tourist.

  I perked up a little when I noticed the guys with silver food carts.

  “Want a hot dog?” I said.

  “No thanks,” she said, slipping right back into her lecture.

  I don’t know what I was thinking. I really should have gotten some food, either at my house or on the way up. Even the gasoline/dead fish smell coming from the water was somewhat appetizing. But all too soon, we were taking a little footbridge over a slice of water that dropped us about fifty yards from the aquarium.

  The building itself, unlike the others scattered nearby, was certainly . . . unique. At first glance, it looked as if the builders had accidentally collapsed the whole thing just as they were finishing up, then shoved the whole mess together before the boss could see. As we got closer, I decided the contractors involved in the waterfront renovation had used the site of the future aquarium as a junkyard. Then, once they were wrapping things up, someone realized they’d probably need to do something with all the extras—either slap them together or haul them out.

  The solution: Bring in a giant crane, hire someone with very little time or patience, then slide, stack, and shove everything closer together and call it a building.

  Standing in line for tickets, I stared up at a couple of glass triangles, several slabs of cement about the size and shape of a submarine, and a deflated trapezoid glued to the front for good measure.

  Unique.

  The line to buy tickets wasn’t long, and we were inside before I had time to make a side trip to the nearest food cart. We talked a little, mostly about fish, but occasionally I was able to steer her toward something else. Like school.

  “Do you like school?” I asked.

  It was such a dumb question I almost punched myself in the face. Was I some random adult trying to have an uncomfortable conversation with a teenager?

  “Yeah,” she said, “it’s okay.”

  “What do you like about it?” I asked, again immediately disgusted with myself.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are the kids nice?”

  “Some.”

  “Are the teachers nice?”

  “Yeah.”

  Okay, I was done, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to throw out, “What’s your favorite subject?”

  “I haven’t been held in over a year,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  What does that mean?

  “Some kids get held every day,” she added.

  I guessed that being “held” wasn’t like getting a hug.

  “I don’t get like that anymore,” she said.

  I wanted to pursue the holding thing, though it was a little unsettling, but I could tell she was done.

  We spent some time outside, looking at the water. I liked it outside, near the open water, but Chrissy was anxious to get to the seahorse exhibit and we were back inside after ten minutes.

  Considering her obsession with seahorses, I figured we’d be staring at them for the next three hours, but I was wrong. We started at a pretty good pace, and didn’t stay long near any of the tanks.

  Chrissy talked as she moved down the row of tanks, eyes pressed close. She talked, but she wasn’t talking to me anymore. She was like an employee making her rounds. Actually, she was pretty good company. Sometimes she directed a comment to me, but most of the time, she seemed to be lecturing an imaginary group of tourists. And even when she was talking to me, it didn’t seem to matter much if I responded or not.

  After a while, my thoughts started to wander.

  Chrissy had agreed to come on the condition that I’d make at least one follow-up visit. I started to plan. Should I take her to the aquarium again, or someplace different? Like Gut, Dad needed a little work, but I’d have to be careful; Dad would probably be a bit more challenging. He was definitely touchy, and touchy people are like an unfamiliar dog: ears cocked, blocking your way, just looking for a good reason to latch onto your forearm.

  Lost in thought, and only half-listening, I trailed behind her.

  “Why do they have you two together?” she said, leaning forward to examine a tank.

  I glanced over but wasn’t sure what she meant. A big chunk of reddish-pink coral accounted for almost every inch of space. I leaned forward but couldn’t see anything.

  “You don’t like it in there.”

  Something in her voice tugged at my sleeve. It wasn’t the words—it was the tone. There was something dangerous there, like a sliver of flame jumping to life near a baby’s crib.

  Chrissy was close to a tank, her index finger pressed against the glass, staring intently at something. I stepped up beside her.

  “You don’t like it in there,” she repeated.

  A very small seahorse clung to a thin branch of coral. Since the occupant didn’t seem terribly upset, I searched the tank, looking for an explanation. Coral, gravel, seahorse—just like all the other tanks. What was the problem? Was the tank too small?

  “Why doesn’t he like it in there?” I asked.

  “She.”

  I sighed. “Okay, why doesn’t she like it?”

  Five seconds. No answer.

  “Lonely?” I guessed.

  Nothing.

  “Hungry?”

  I was thinking about hot dogs again when Chrissy stabbed the glass with a finger, hard, like she meant to break through it if she could.

  “That one! That’s why!”

  I scanned the room. A few faces turned toward us. A guard at one end was suddenly interested. I looked at Chrissy, then back at the tank. Her finger was still jammed up against the side, the tip white from the pressure.

  “What are you . . . What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “She shouldn’t be in there with that one!” She punctuated the words shouldn’t, in, and that with additional stabs at the glass.

  More faces now, and a guard headed our way. I scanned the tank again, desperate for something, anything.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What . . .?”

  And then I saw it: another, bigger seahorse just above the little one. Exactly the same color as the coral. Turned sideways, tail around a branch, and one chameleon eye pointed down at the little one. Sizing up its roommate.

  “Everything okay over here?” the guard asked.

  I began to answer, but Chrissy broke in: “That little one shouldn’t be in there with him.”

  The guard looked at Chrissy, paused, and bent forward, staring into the tank. “Hmm . . . I think you might be right,” he said. “I’ll let someone know, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I said, as if he and I both understood how difficult children could be.

  The guard frowned at me, then turned back to Chrissy. “One of the biologists should be in soon. I’ll make sure she takes a look as soon as she gets in, okay?”

  Chrissy nodded, but her eyes never left the tank.

  “Okay, well, thanks for your help,” I said. “We’ll try to keep our fingers off the glass. Right, Chrissy?”

  No response. I smiled ruefully at the guard. He frowned.

  “So. . .” I tried. “Maybe we should go see the . . . other stuff?”

  I reached over, thinking I might take her elbow.

  Didn’t work.

  She twisted away and continued her inspection, picking up right where she had left off. I followed at a safe distance, watching for any sudden movements. I’m not sure what I would have done if she had suddenly decided to sprint back to the other ta
nk and free the threatened seahorse herself, but I sure as hell wasn’t thinking about food anymore.

  It seemed to take forever, but eventually, we found ourselves at the end of the exhibit.

  “So,” I said, “any more seahorses we need to . . . check on?”

  She shook her head.

  I looked at my watch, but I don’t actually wear one, so I ended up looking at my wrist. “Your father wanted us back at two, right?” I said.

  “Three.”

  Well, at least she’s talking now.

  “Anything else we have to . . . we should see?”

  She shook her head again.

  “So I guess . . . Should we . . .?”

  We did—out the front doors, back across the cement, and past the silver carts one more time. As hungry as I was, I decided to wait. The desire to drop her off was much stronger than the need for food.

  On the ride back, Chrissy looked out the window and I played with the stereo. I had plenty of time to wonder if spending additional time and energy on another member of Michael’s family was such good idea. Eventually, we turned down her street and passed her building. I hooked a U-turn and rolled to a stop not too far from the front door.

  “You don’t need to walk me up,” she said, just as I was reaching for my seat belt.

  “You’re just trying to avoid a goodnight kiss, aren’t you?” I said.

  Horrible joke. I realize that now, but these things happen when I’m nervous.

  Five seconds.

  “You can kiss me if you want.”

  My turn to be caught in the five-second delay—that is, until I saw a hand over her mouth, trying to cover the edges of a smile.

  “Hey . . . that’s mean!” I said, so relieved I almost did a little dance.

  She smiled at her window. I gave her shoulder a little push. And just for a second, as I watched her laugh, kissing her didn’t seem so funny anymore. For just a moment, Chrissy was pretty enough to break anybody’s heart.

  “Remember,” she said, still smiling.

  She unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Remember what?”

  “Remember that you’re coming to see me again.”

  “Oh . . . yeah, of course.”