by Ali Benjamin
Then I dialed. I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Dad,” I said.
I probably hadn’t said that word—Dad—in over five months. Five months, which is 150 days, which is millions and millions of seconds, but I couldn’t calculate exactly how many right then.
There was a long silence, as if he honestly didn’t know who was calling.
“I was just thinking,” I said. I bit my lip. “Maybe we should go see those dinosaur tracks.”
When Dad finally answered, his voice sounded funny, like it had cracked a little.
“Okay,” he said.
From inside the building, the song changed. I knew this one. It was from a few years ago, back when Franny and I were friends and I never imagined it would be any other way.
“I want Aaron to come, too,” I said.
“Yeah,” Dad said. “Of course. Of course Aaron can come.”
“And Rocco.”
“Yeah. I’ll call them to arrange it, honey.”
I leaned against the brick exterior of the Eugene Field Memorial Middle School and listened to the music coming from inside the gym.
“Anything else, Suzy?”
“No,” I said. “Not now.”
Pause. “I’m really glad you called, Suzy.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Same time, same place, right?”
I imagined our pink vinyl booth at Ming Palace, the fish tank and those fish that saw only their own reflections. I thought about all those nights Dad and I had spent never saying a single word.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we can try someplace new tomorrow.”
It was his turn to pause.
“Yeah. Wherever you want, Suzy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
And then suddenly it seemed sort of embarrassing, because I was finally talking, but I couldn’t actually think of anything else to say.
“Bye, Dad.”
“Goodbye, sweetie.” I could barely hear him.
There was a click, and then he was gone.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, expecting to see Justin. But it wasn’t Justin. It was Sarah Johnston.
“Hey, Suzy,” she said. Sarah was dressed like a ninja, all in black. “Have you been inside yet?”
I shook my head.
“I just got here, too,” she said. She paused, then added, “I’ve never been to a dance, have you?”
I shook my head again.
“We could go in together,” she said. She looked nervous. Maybe even . . . hopeful. Then she added, almost apologetically, “I still don’t really know a lot of people here. I guess I’d rather not go in alone.”
I was so surprised I didn’t even think about my words. “But you have so many friends,” I said.
She was Aubrey’s lab partner. I’d seen her talking to Molly. I’d seen her shirt knotted up at the waist like the others’.
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I know kids, but it’s not like I have friends.”
Sarah Johnston, who did her science paper on zombie ants because they had scared her.
Sarah Johnston, who had lingered to watch the video in Mrs. Turton’s office.
Sarah Johnston, who, if I had to be honest, seemed pretty okay, actually.
“Mrs. Turton is in there,” I said. “I think she and Justin Maloney are dancing together.”
Sarah smiled. “Remember when Mrs. Turton dressed up like Albert Einstein?”
I laughed.
“She’s my favorite teacher,” said Sarah.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Mine, too.”
That’s when I had this thought: If Mrs. Turton was right, if we each had 20 billion of Shakespeare’s atoms in us, and Shakespeare lived four hundred years ago all the way across an ocean, then we must have Franny’s atoms in us, too. And way more than Shakespeare’s—I mean, Franny had been with us, breathing and walking and eating and laughing, and shedding skin. She’d been a part of us, every day for a long, long time.
Suddenly I imagined the universe as a giant set of LEGOs, all those pieces constructing endless forms, then coming apart only to create new forms.
Sarah and I walked into the building together, then paused at the entrance of the gym. It was dark and hung with streamers. Different-colored lights circled all around the room, specks of light traveling over the floor and walls and ceilings, and right over kids’ faces. If I squinted just right, I could see only the lights, flashing and moving like stars in an empty sky.
I opened my eyes and saw a gym full of kids. Then I squinted again and the lights became underwater creatures, flashing their bioluminescence, all those underwater signals, at one another.
I imagined floating up to the ceiling of the gym and looking down at all those different groups, dancing in their tight circles. I imagined how each circle would look as it moved in time to the beat, all those arms and legs moving out and in at exactly the same moment. Each group might look like a heart beating, maybe.
Or a jellyfish pulsing.
“There’s Justin and Mrs. Turton,” Sarah said. She pointed.
Even from this distance, I could see that Justin’s face was already sweaty. His head was tossed back; he was laughing. All the kids in their group clasped their hands together, moving their arms in a circle like they were churning butter. As if he could sense me staring, Justin looked up and waved.
I squinted, and he disappeared into sea and sky.
“You want to go over?” Sarah asked.
My mom’s phone was still in my hand.
Maybe it was because of the pulsing. Or maybe it was as simple as Justin’s wave, or Sarah’s smile, or the way Mrs. Turton moved her hands in sync with the kids.
But I stopped squinting. I placed my mom’s phone in my shirt pocket, next to the photo of Aaron. I took a deep breath.
“Yeah,” I said to Sarah. “Let’s go.”
Although most of the characters in this book are fictional, the jellyfish experts, including Jamie Seymour, are real. I’ve done my best to honor their work and their achievements by representing them as factually as possible. There is one very big exception: Diana Nyad’s historic Cuba-Florida swim, her fifth attempt, actually took place on Monday, September 2, 2013. I considered fictionalizing her character, as well as those of the other researchers, rather than misrepresent the date of her swim. In the end, though, I decided not to do that. Nyad’s swim was a profoundly impressive feat. She showed grit, tenacity, and strength, and she deserves full recognition for the accomplishment, even if the date didn’t fit neatly into the time line of Suzy’s story.
New Englanders will recognize the touch tank, jellies exhibit, and giant ocean tank described in the early chapters as being part of the experience at the New England Aquarium in Boston, although the jellies exhibit does not specifically discuss the Irukandji.
The photographs Mrs. Turton refers to in class include Earthrise, which was taken by astronaut William Anders in 1968 during the Apollo 8 mission; and Pale Blue Dot, which was taken in 1990, at a distance of 3.7 billion miles, by the Voyager 1 space probe, a spacecraft that has traveled all that distance using less computing power than an iPhone. Mrs. Turton’s words about that photograph echo those of the late Carl Sagan—astronomer and humanist—in his book Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space.
The book upon which Suzy reflects in the chapter “How to Not Say Something Important” is Kate DiCamillo’s Because of Winn-Dixie.
The video Suzy and Justin watch in the “Pollination” chapter is presented in filmmaker Louie Schwartzberg’s TED Talk “The Hidden Beauty of Pollination,” which you can see on TED.com.
The “Most Astounding Fact” video was made by videographer Max Schlickenmeyer. He combines a quote from the delightful Neil DeGrasse Tyson with images taken by the Hubble Space Telescope and oth
er images from space. DeGrasse Tyson gave the quote to Time magazine in 2012, in response to the question “What is the most astounding fact you can share with us about the universe?”
If you enjoy thinking about the universe, consider picking up a copy of Bill Bryson’s A Really Short History of Nearly Everything (Delacorte Books for Young Readers, 2009), which is a kid-friendly version of a longer adult book. Bryson explains the origins of the universe, the natural history of our planet, and the astonishing fact of our own existence.
If you want to marvel at jellyfish and other alien creatures of the sea, you will surely adore Claire Nouvian’s The Deep: The Extraordinary Creatures of the Abyss (University of Chicago Press, 2007). It is an adult photography book, but the world it showcases is bizarre and fascinating for people of all ages.
This story was born from a failure. A few years ago, I became captivated by jellyfish—about what they tell us about ourselves and also about our planet. I poured everything I had into a nonfiction essay about the animals, which I submitted with great hopes to a glossy magazine. The editors said they were quite interested. Then they held on to it for a year . . . and ultimately rejected it.
I wasn’t ready to let go of jellyfish. Much like Suzy, I began researching jellyfish experts and taking notes, not quite sure where my efforts would take me. This is the story that emerged.
It’s true what Mrs. Turton says: We do learn more from our failures than from our successes.
I’m tremendously grateful to my agent and friend Mollie Glick of Foundry Literary and Media, for both her whip-smart editorial feedback and her savvy in helping this book find the right home. Thanks, too, to Foundry’s Emily Brown, a sharp-eyed reader and a darned hard worker; to Jessica Regel, who helped bring the book to an audience around the world; and to Joy Fowlkes.
Andrea Spooner—perhaps because she’d once slept for a period of weeks with an article about the immortal jellyfish by her bedside—gamely took a risk on a strange manuscript about an oddball kid who’s obsessed with an alien creature. She got it. Then she guided it deftly and meticulously. Thanks, too, to the entire team at Little Brown Books for Young Readers, especially Deirdre Jones, Russell Busse, Victoria Stapleton, and Megan Tingley.
Neil Gaiman once said, “Google can bring you back 100,000 answers; a librarian can bring you back the right one.” Thanks to Kirsten Rose and Helen Olshever for always bringing me back the right one, no matter what I asked. Meanwhile, Elinor Goodwin at the Print Shop of Williamstown printed out about eight million drafts for me. Thanks to fact-checker Christopher Berendes, copy editor Barbara Perris, and my friend Jeffrey Thomas, MD, PhD, for his scientific insights and inspiration, as well as his unflagging support.
I’m grateful to the kids at Pine Cobble School, especially the members of writing club, for reminding me how wise and compassionate kids can be . . . and also for their hilarity and all-around awesomeness. Please continue being real and true and thoughtful and curious as you make your way through this complicated world.
And a huge thank-you to teachers everywhere . . . including all my own.
I’ve been blessed with many great friends, among them Janine Hetherington, my best reader; Molly Kerns, my most enthusiastic cheerleader; and Rebeccah Kamp, the reigning queen of quietly helping others when they need it.
Thanks to all of my family for being in my corner, always.
And the biggest thank-you of all goes to the three people with whom I share my every day: to Blair, whose steady, supportive presence is proof that marrying him remains the least cray cray decision I’ve ever made; to Merrie, who reminds me that life, and books, should always be an adventure; and to Charlotte, whose curiosity has opened me up to countless hidden wonders of this world. I love you people.
Ali Benjamin grew up outside New York City, in a rickety old house that neighbors thought was haunted. As a child she spent countless hours catching bugs and frogs; The Thing About Jellyfish emerged from her fascination with the natural world. She is the cowriter of HIV-positive teen Paige Rawl’s coming-of-age memoir Positive, as well as Tim Howard’s New York Times bestseller The Keeper. She is a member of New England Science Writers. She lives in rural Massachusetts with her husband, two kids, and Australian shepherd named Mollie.
First published in the US 2015 by Little, Brown and Company
First published in the UK 2015 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This edition published 2015 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan Children’s Book
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-8491-8
Text copyright © Ali Benjamin 2015
Illustrations copyright © Terry Fan and Eric Fan 2015
Cover art by Eric Fan and Terry Fan
Cover design by Marcie Lawrence
The right of Ali Benjamin, Terry Fan and Eric Fan to be identified as the author and illustrators of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.
