Before We Go Extinct (21 page)

Maybe it's like that.

I have to really think about what you looked like, Daff. These two months have been forever.

You know how sometimes enough stuff happens that you start to feel like your entire life up until a certain point was a dream and the only thing that is real is what happens after that? So if everything was a dream until The King died, then everything that is real is about me getting away from you and stopping loving you, so I was just lying in the hammock, reading my dad's incredibly terrible book, which, by the way, is called
The Hotel Neverwas
—which is so weird because I'd just been thinking about how it's kind of sad that half-built hotel never got a name. My dad and I think alike, I guess. I think it's about what he imagines I'm doing here and instead is just a really confusing story about a teenage boy who probably thinks and acts a lot more like a normal teenage boy than I do. I feel like when I'm reading it, I'm reading how a normal person would act. Like, look! An otter! Cool! I can steal a beer from my dad! Party! A pretty girl! Whooo-hoo!

Which maybe is how I think, after all.

Anyway, the book made me so mad that I “accidentally” let a couple of pages blow away.

I don't know why I did that.

It's just this thing between Dad and me, where just when I feel like we can really see each other, he shows me that I'm wrong.

I know it's his only copy, because he types on an actual typewriter, like he thinks he's Hemingway with his beard and his island retreat. I wonder if Hemingway would wear ironic T-shirts if he was still alive. I bet he would. I bet the hilarity of the ironic T-shirt would keep him from killing himself and he'd be alive and writing scripts for Marvel comics remakes for Paramount or something. Everyone is such a phony if you think about it. He'd probably sell out, too.

Not that Dad has sold out. The thing is that no one is buying what Dad is selling.

Darcy went over to the mainland for supplies and she bought us a bunch of stuff, like ice cream and cereal and milk and cheese and steaks and fresh vegetables and fruit and somehow in one of our bags, there was a magazine, a stupid magazine, and on the front cover there was a tiny picture of
you.

You, Daffodil Blue.

Can you even?

I mean, what the——? How did this happen?

Now I am so angry at you. I am so mad, Daff. I am punch-the-wall mad. I want my fist to hurt. I want my skin to crack open so I can hate you even more for hurting my hand because I'm so mad, but I'm not doing that. I'm not going to.

I guess The King falling off that building was the best thing that happened to you and now you're going to be in a movie—
a movie
—and what? I mean, seriously, what? Who ARE you? And I guess you can see why all of this seems like the nightmare that comes after the dream that I had up until The King died.

The King died.

The King died.

The King died.

The other day I was out rowing this little wooden dinghy that Dad has. I rowed as far out into the Salish Sea as I dared. I mean, you really wouldn't want to be in that little half-rotted thing when the waves came up, that's the truth. I rowed all the way out there and then I lay down in the hull and felt the waves slapping against the keel, and imagined that shark down there beneath me, the imaginary shark that I dreamed up, the one I wanted to see, I guess. And while the boat rocked, this seagull landed on the bow. He wasn't looking at me, he was looking out toward Vancouver, and he just started calling in this really rhythmic chant and it sounded just like that to me, “The King died, The King died, The King died.”

Then he crapped, narrowly missing my face by a few inches, and flew off.

Which has
got
to be a metaphor for something, right?

I don't know what you're doing right now or if you're even in New York, or if you're in LA and getting an agent and befriending starlets or rock stars or whatever the next steps are for you in becoming famous and being someone else.

You know, just this second, as I typed that, I forgave you.

Weird, right?

Forgive
is a word that's made of tissue paper and folded into a flower and just as you hand it to the other person it bursts into flame and singes their skin. That's what it looks like to me, anyway.

Enjoy the movies! I have someone else I have to hand a rose to, too. Two, too, to.

I wish I could see you. Remember the Alamo.

Love,

JC

 

40

“Look,” Kelby says. “Pretend we never kissed and get over it. You are the worst. You make such a big deal about everything! It isn't a big deal. We kissed, it was dumb, we are moving on. So. It's not a big deal, you want to dive today or not? We're going to dive the pass because the current is so small today. There are, like, octopuses. Octopi. Whatever. And it's nice out. So whatever, come. Don't come. I don't care.”

“Wow,” I say. “That's quite the invitation.” I grin. It's hard to pretend I'm not glad to see her. “Yes.”

“Great,” she says. “Get your stuff and I'll meet you in an hour, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

I go into the cabin to find Dad, to give him back his chapter.

He practically leaps out of his chair, tripping over the dogs, who are taking their afternoon nap on the cool tile floor of the living room. “So?” he says. “Whadja think?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Really good, Dad. Wow. Totally the next Harry Potter.”

“You think?” he says. “But it's not paranormal. Paranormal is so hot right now. Maybe I could make it paranormal.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I say. I can't believe he's buying it. “You could do that, but this is already fine. Fantastic. Really great.”

“I am so relieved,” he said. “I thought maybe it was garbage and I was wasting my life!” He laughs a little too hard. I think about those two pieces of paper, the typing squashed together, single-spaced, and how they blew into the pass, and landed on the surface, the water slowly seeping into the paper and ink, swirling it into nothing, the tide pools sucking them down into the murk. Maybe I'll find them today. Maybe an octopus will be reading them thoughtfully, slowly nodding his approval at Dad's massive overuse of adverbs. SUDDENLY, HE THOUGHTFULLY TAPPED HIS PEN TO HIS DEEPLY WRINKLED BROW.

“Dad,” I say.

But he looks so stupidly happy and I am such a jerk.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I'm going out,” I tell him. “We're going to see the octopuses.”

“Great,” he says happily. “They are seriously amazing. You know, we have the biggest ones in the world here? Wave to me! I'll be right here. I'm so fired up now, I may even finish the next chapter for you to read when you get back. Steak tonight?”

“Sure, Dad,” I say. “We'll check the traps for prawns.”

We drop these prawn traps down every time we go out and then pull them up the next time. Last time, they were empty—someone else must have gotten there first—but maybe today they'll be full. Mrs. S. would be so proud of me, I think. Mrs. S. would love these prawns and scallops. She'd hold the fan shell of the scallop up to her cheek and she'd coo like she was talking to a baby,
So beautiful
, she'd say.
So miraculous, no? And so expensive! Florida, here we come!
Then she'd give me some for free.

I don't know if Mrs. S. will ever get to Florida. She gives too much away.

And suddenly, I'm rooted to the spot, tears in my eyes, thinking about those free shrimp. I clear my throat. “Yeah, we'll get some prawns today, I bet.” Then, “Dad, have you talked to Mom? It's been a while since I've heard anything.”

He looks surprised. “No,” he says. “I never talk to her. She hasn't texted?”

“I—” I say. “Um, I sort of broke my phone. I might have missed—anyway, I'll send her an e-mail later. It's no big deal.”

Dad nods, his glasses sliding down his nose, his fingers tapping the table like he's already typing the next chapter in his head. He's got all the crazy of a real writer, but none of the skill. That cringing feeling that I get sometimes when I look at him washes over me. “Dad,” I say. “I'm—I'll see you later, okay?”

I whistle for the dogs and grab the diving stuff and make my way down to the beach to wait for Kelby. On my way, I see Charlie at his usual position at the tide pool. “Hey,” I say. “Are you coming diving?”

He shakes his head, won't look at me.

“I'll teach you,” I tell him. “Come on, don't be mad.”

He still won't look at me. I crouch down next to him and nudge him with my arm.

“Pleeeeease forgive me?” I say. “C'mon, buddy. There are basically no people on the island except for us and you guys, and if you're mad at me, it's effectively like 25 percent of the population hates me. I can't take it!” I grab my chest in mock horror and roll back onto the sandstone rock. “Nooooo!”

Then suddenly he's grinning. “After dinner?” he says. “After dinner. Right? Right? Okay?”

And I go, “Yeah, okay. You coming on the boat?”

And Charlie says, “Yeah, I'm coming, dummy. 'Course I'm coming. I'm always on the boat. I'm in charge of the flag, remember? Duh.”

Together we run down the path, the three panting dogs, the kid, and me, the sun beating down on the trees throwing cool shade on us, protecting us from the afternoon heat, our feet slipping on the arbutus leaves that are starting to drop onto the path, signaling that summer is thinking about coming to a close before I'm really ready for fall.

 

41

We come up from the dive without having seen an octopus. Not that it matters. The sea was so clear today it was like floating in air, crystal clear. Jellyfish moved by on the current and a large school of herring darted around us. On the surface, we could see birds diving for the fish, their beaks puncturing the protective bubble of the surface water, hungry mouths grabbing for more.

I've got to be honest, I felt lucky. Lucky to be on this weird island, lucky to be in this sea, lucky to be seeing the stuff I was seeing.

I didn't even realize I was thinking about sharks, but I was, because I was thinking about how perfectly it works, with the fish and the birds, the exchange of life for life, which made me think of death, which made me think of The King and made me wonder, What was the trade? What did the world get out of the deal? Space for one more person? It was the first time I thought about The King without feeling nauseated, so that was progress, but maybe that's because I had my mouthpiece in and was breathing through my mouth. Through the long stems of kelp, I could see a few rock cod lying on the seafloor, almost perfectly disguised. A dogfish darted by. It was so freaking magical and alive and perfect, that's all I was thinking.

I think I was just happy.

Plain old happy.

Like I was before, pretty often, hanging with The King and Daff, doing the crazy stuff we did, there were lots of times I felt like that, like I was a part of everything. I was where I was meant to be.

So when Kelby signals that it's time to go up, I rise slowly to the surface, not wanting this to end. The last flicker of the silver fish vanishing beyond the point where I can see them, the sun at first too bright, the boat bobbing a short distance away. By the time I get my mask off though, I know something is wrong because Darcy looks worried and Charlie is trying so hard to say something that nothing is coming out of his mouth.

I climb up the ladder onto the boat and say, “Whoa, kid, what?”

And Kelby is saying, “What happened? What happened?”

And Darcy is shaking her head.

And Charlie is stuttering, “Sh-sh-sh-shark.”

And Darcy guns the engine and roars in to shore.

 

42

No one wants to hear about how sharks are really unlikely to bite a person. No one seems to care that shark bites are pretty much unheard of in the Pacific Northwest. No one cares about any of what I'm saying about protecting the sharks and balance in the oceans and the oxygen and the plankton and the food chain. It's like a horror movie of hysterical reactions, which I guess is predictable but also totally disappointing.

Dad is going crazy. “You could have been killed! You could have been killed! You could have died! Don't you get it? You'd be dead. Even if he'd just taken a bite, you would have bled out. There's no hospital here. You'd be dead. Dead.”

Stop
, I want to tell him.
Stop.
But he keeps saying it, that word,
dead
, over and over again and I can't breathe and my voice is leaking out of me and I can't do this and I can't listen to this and what is he proposing anyway, it's a shark that's out of its migratory path, for sure, but it isn't interested in us when there are so many seals, it has probably already had a meal that may feed it for weeks or even months, it can't be hungry with all this life and stop.
Stop.

“No,”
I manage. “It's not
Jaws
, Dad. It's not going to—”

“What if it bit Charlie? Or Kelby? Or Darcy? We have to call someone. We have to tell someone. What do they do in these cases? What do they do? Is there a ‘they'?”

His eyes are wild and he's basically freaking out, so I say, “God, Dad, the water is full of sharks and none have ever eaten Charlie or Kelby or Darcy or anyone else except in really rare cases and—”