The Life of Ty: Penguin Problems (5 page)

W
ith my backpack over my shoulder, I walk past the beluga whale tank. I know I'm not supposed to go off on my own, but Lexie wasn't supposed to go to the gift shop, either. But she did, and she won two dolphins. Even so, I'll get back before anyone notices.

If anyone even does notice.

A sign by one exhibit says that there are over eight million gallons of water within the aquarium. That's a lot of water. The sign also says that if I look for a really long time into this particular tank, I might see a manta ray named Nandi.
NANDI IS THE ONLY MANTA RAY IN A U.S. AQUARIUM,
the sign says.

I search for Nandi. Lexie didn't see Nandi, because Mrs. Hammerdorfer didn't take us this way. Maybe none of the other groups came here, either. Maybe I'll be the only kid in the class to see Nandi. Seeing Nandi would be better than winning two dumb dolphins.

Except Nandi doesn't show up. I peer into the tank until my head hurts, and then I decide I don't even like Nandi.

I leave and look at some eels. They have no eyeballs. The jellyfish don't, either. But they're pretty, how they blob about.

I should go back to my group. Only the mean snake that was twisting in my stomach has turned into a gray day snake. Gray day snakes don't like happy kids who brag about winning dolphins. Gray day snakes like to be alone.

Or maybe they like . . . to be with penguins? Because when I see a sign that says
PENGUINS
, the snake in my stomach starts to feel less snaky.

I'll visit the penguins, and
then
I'll go back to the group.

I follow the arrow that means “This way for the penguins!” It takes me to a tank, but the tank is empty, and in front of it is another sign. This one says,
PENGUINS ARE CURRENTLY NOT IN THE EXHIBITION TANK DUE TO CONSTRUCTION. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. HOWEVER, YOU CAN SEE THE PENGUINS UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL ON ONE OF OUR “BEHIND THE SCENES” TOURS. TICKETS ON SALE NOW!

The penguins aren't in the tank? People have to buy tickets to see them? What a rip-off! Plus it says “tickets on sale now,” but
where
are they on sale?

I glance around. I don't see anyone, but I do see poles with velvety ropes between them, the kind for when people line up for things. Where the front of the line would be, there's a door. I go over to it.

“Hello?” I say.

No one answers.

I put my hand on the door handle. I just put it there, that's all. Except my hand decides to turn the handle . . . and the door opens.

So I go in. If they didn't want me to, they should have locked it.

At first it's just another exhibit hall, just darker and with no windows showing the outside world. Also, with no other people walking through it. Just me. On both sides of the hall there's stuff to look at, like coral reefs and shark jaws.

I reach a metal staircase. I go up it. When I get to the top, I stop breathing.

I'm
above
the beluga whale tank. I can look down into it, and I can see the beluga whales! They're in the bottomest corner of the tank. That's why we couldn't see them before. But I can see them now, and they glow, they're so white. And lumpy! And really weird-looking and not at all what you think of when you think of the word “whale.”

“Hi, beluga whales!” I say quietly, waving at them. My heart is happier now.

Then I spot something that makes my heart
super
happy. The penguins!

I cross the whale-viewing platform and go down a second set of stairs.
And right in front of me is a pen full of penguins!
They're so cute! There are four of them. A mommy and three babies, I think. They have water to play in, and a squeaky toy shaped like a dog bone.

I lean over the wall of the pen, and it's not very high, this wall. I mean, it's too high for a penguin to climb over, but not for a person. Probably the aquarium workers go in and do stuff, like clean up the penguin poop and give them fresh water. Probably they play with them, too. If I was inside a pen of penguins, I'd play with them.

I look from side to side. I'm the only human in here.

One of the babies waddles over to me. His head is black, and so are the tips of his wings. His tummy is white. He is
not
like an eel or a jellyfish, because he does have eyeballs, and they're dark and shiny and gazing right at me.

“
Piu!
” he says.

I'm ninety-nine percent sure he's saying
hi,
so I say hi back.

He cocks his head and says, “
Piu piu?
”

This time he's asking if I have any fish. I just know it, maybe because I'm secretly part penguin.

I don't have any fish, since Mom didn't pack me any. Is there something else I could give him?

“Hold on,” I say. I wiggle my backpack off my shoulder and get out what's left of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I wish it was a peanut butter and jelly
fish
sandwich, but oh well. I rip off a piece, then stop. Is peanut butter poisonous to penguins? I don't think so. Jelly? How could jelly be poisonous? Bread? Nothing wrong with bread.

So, okay. I toss the bite of sandwich to my friend Pingy, which is what I've named this shiny-eyed penguin baby. He scoops it up with his orange beak and jerks his head as he swallows. He flaps his wings. “
Piu? Piu?
”

“Hold your horses, Pingy,” I say as I tear off another bite. “It's coming.” I toss it into the pen, and Pingy gobbles it up. He's so cute, and his brother and sister aren't playing with him, and his mom is doing something boring to her feathers. None of them is paying attention to Pingy AT ALL.

I think Pingy must have gotten some peanut butter stuck to the roof of his beak, because he goes
mlump-mlump
and stretches his face out, kind of. That happens to me, too! I get peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth and make
mlump
sounds, too! But I think this is Pingy's first time, because his eyes get big and he waddles from side to side.

“
Piumplf?
” he says.

Wow
, I think. Wow and wow and wow, because the part of me that understands penguin language knows exactly what Pingy is saying: He wants me to take him home. He also wants to get the peanut butter unstuck, but mainly he wants me to take him home. The other penguins don't care about him, and the aquarium people don't either, probably. Who cares about one little penguin when there are eight million gallons of water full of eels and jellies and beluga whales?

And if the beluga whales can hide, then Pingy can hide, too. He doesn't have to be out in the open
all
the time—especially since the exhibit's closed off, anyway. He could hide in my backpack, which is the exact right size for him. It would be cozy.

I know. I'll lean over the railing and dangle my hand out. If Pingy comes over, that means he's saying,
Yes, please.
If he doesn't, then he doesn't.

There might be a voice in my head saying things I don't like. A voice like Mom's, kind of, saying, “Don't you do it, Ty-bug.” But I pretend not to hear it.

I lean over the railing and reach out my hand. I'm breathing faster than normal.

“
Piu?
” Pingy says.

I hold still, even though the railing is digging into my ribs.

Pingy waddles toward me. “
Piu?
”

Maybe my fingers smell like peanut butter, because Pingy juts out his beak and nibbles them.
Wham wham wham
goes my heart, because he's saying,
Yes, please!
He is!

I scoop Pingy up, and he doesn't squirm. He snuggles up close and tries to wedge his beak up under my armpit.

“No, silly,” I say, because I need to get him into my backpack.

“
Piu?
” he says as I push him in.

“You have to be quiet, 'kay?” I zip up the backpack, but leave a crack for air. Also so that he can see me and not be scared.

I'm
scared, but I try not to be. And plus my whole body is tingling with excitement. I go through the door that says exit, and I'm back in the bright and crowded aquarium. I fast-walk toward the food court, careful not to jostle Pingy.

“Ty Perry?” a deep voice says.

I jump. In front of me stands a guard. He's tall and has huge shoulders, and he's wearing a uniform.
And
he's got a walkie-talkie.

“Are you Tyler Perry?”

I start to nod, then stop. Because he's freaky.

“Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Webber says, rushing over. “Ty, where have you been?!”

The guard raises his walkie-talkie. “Found the kid,” he says into it. “Over.”

From the mike comes a crackly response: “Safe and sound? Over.”

The guard looks down at me.

I really hope Pingy keeps quiet.

“Yeah, he's fine,” the guard says into the walkie-talkie. To me, he says, “Kid, listen. You can't go off like that.”

I nod. I nod
a lot
.

“Omigosh, thank you. I'm so sorry for the trouble,” Mrs. Webber tells the guard.

“Gotta teach kids to follow the rules,” the guard says.

“Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Webber says again. In a different voice altogether, she says, “Come on, Ty. Field trip's over.”

She's mad. I've never seen her this mad before. Well, except at Taylor sometimes.

But she's never been mad at me.

I try to explain. “I . . . I just . . .”

She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the rest of the class. “I don't want to hear it. I'm
extremely
disappointed in you.”

I dig my fingernail into my thumb and press hard. This is the worst field trip ever.

Well, except for Pingy.

But Mrs. Webber would be even madder if she knew Pingy was in my backpack.

So do I tell her?

I don't want to. But if I don't, won't she be even madder-er when she finds out? If she finds out?

Except Mrs. Webber is pretty good at finding things out. When someone does something bad, Mrs. Webber pretty much
always
finds out.

When we reach the rest of my class, everyone stares at me, like,
Ooo, you're in trouble
.

“Um, Mrs. Webber?” I say.

She cuts me off. “No. I'm going to call your mom.
She
can deal with you.”

“But—”

“Get with your group. We're leaving.”

I go to Lexie and Breezie and Mrs. Hammerdorfer. I use my brain power to tell Pingy to not wiggle or say
piu
.

“Want to see my dolphins?” Lexie asks. “I won two of them!” She thrusts the fuzzy blue one at me. “You can touch it if you want.”

I frown. Lexie broke the rules, and she won two stuffed dolphins.

I broke the rules, and I got yelled at by a guard and Mrs. Webber.

“Touch it!” Lexie commands, wiggling the stuffed dolphin in my face.

I touch it. It feels nothing like a real live sea creature.

O
n the drive back, Pingy fills up Mrs. Hammerdorfer's car with a fishy smell. In the aquarium, I didn't realize Pingy had a smell. In Mrs. Hammerdorfer's car with its rolled-up windows, I realize he does.

“Ew,” Lexie says. “What's that stink?”

“It's Ty,” Breezie says. “Ty, you stink.”

I hold my backpack tight. “I've given up baths,” I say. “I'm going for the Olympic world record.”

Lexie laughs. “Gross.”

Mrs. Hammerdorfer makes a disapproving sound.

We arrive at school just in time for pickup. Mom is waiting in her station wagon—not Sandra, but Mom—and I'm so glad to see her. So so so
so
glad, even though she's not going to be happy when she learns about Pingy. I'm even glad to see Teensy Baby Maggie in her car seat.

“Mom?” I say as I climb into the backseat. I'm still not allowed to sit in the front. It's a law. “There's something I—”

“Ty,
hush,
” she says. “Do you know why I had to come pick you up today? Do you know why I had to wake Maggie up from her nap so that I could drive out here to get you?”

“Um, but—”

“Not. A.
Word,
” Mom says. Her fingers are tight on the steering wheel. “I can't believe you would run off from your class like that! What were you thinking?”

She said
not a word
. Does she want a word now? Or will it make her yell more?

“You could have gotten lost, or kidnapped . . .” Her air comes out in a big burst. “Mrs. Webber had to call
security
! She had to call security to look for
you
!”

“But I wasn't lost
or
kidnapped.”

“You could have been.”

“But I wasn't.”

She glares at me in the rearview mirror. “
Not another word
. And when we get home, you're going straight to your room, and you'll be staying there all night.”

Her nose twitches.

“No, strike that. You're going straight upstairs to take a bath, because you smell awful. Why in the world do you smell so awful?”

“Well, that's what—”

“Never mind. Home. Bath. Bed. Do you understand?”

“But Mom, I really need to—”

“
No,
” she snaps.

Teensy Baby Maggie starts crying. Pingy starts
piu
-ing. Mom is scaring all of us.

At least Teensy Baby Maggie's wails cover up Pingy's noises.

I let Teensy Baby Maggie hold my finger. She doesn't let go.

“Shhh,” I whisper to both of them. I say it again. “
Shhhhh
.” It sounds a little like a wave sounds when it rolls in at the ocean.

• • •

In the bathroom, I close the door and unzip my backpack.

“Come on out, little guy,” I say to Pingy. There's a tremble in my voice, and it surprises me. I wedge my hands around his feathered body. Except not exactly feathered. More like . . . fuzzy.

But he's warm, and he doesn't seem banged up, and I am so glad about this that my muscles go loose.

“
Piu?
” he says.

I laugh, although the tremble is still there. But Pingy isn't worried. He's as cute and happy as ever. He twists his head from side to side, like,
So this is where I live now? Cool. Do you have any more peanut butter?

I set him on the fluffy yellow bathmat.

He pees, making a dark spot.

“Ack! No! You have to pee in the toilet, okay?” I lift him up to show him, but I realize that he's too small. He would fit all the way in, and what if he got flushed?

Bathtub,
I think. He can pee in the bathtub, and even though he's already peed, I put him in there anyway. I let go of him, and he takes two slippery steps. Then he squirts out a green squishy poop.

“
Ew,
” I say, giggling. “Pingy!” I wipe it up with toilet paper and flush it down. I soak up the pee stain as best I can and flush it down, too. Then I settle onto my knees and prop my arms on the rim of the tub. Pingy waddles and slips and flaps his wings.

I love him so much. But I'm worried about him, too. About him being here. I don't think a penguin can live in a bathtub forever. And what do penguins eat besides peanut butter?

Fish.

Where do I get fish?

“Piu?” Pingy says. “Piu, piu?”

“Ty!” Mom yells. It sounds like she's at the bottom of the staircase. “I don't hear the water running!”

I stay quiet. I put my finger to my lips to tell Pingy to be quiet, too.

“Winnie, would you go make Ty take his bath?” I hear Mom say.

“Mo-o-m,” Winnie calls from her room. “He's seven years old. He can take a bath by himself.”

Of course I can,
I want to tell them.
BUT NOT WITH A BABY PENGUIN IN THE TUB!

“Winnie, please. I really can't deal with him right now.”

A hole opens up inside me. I rock from my knees onto my bottom. I pull my legs to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

She's mad because she thinks I acted like a baby on purpose, like by running away at the aquarium. Like not taking my bath. But she gets mad when I don't act like a baby, too. Like when I do things all by myself, like get my pacifiers down.

She is being a Big Fat Meanie Mommy. I hug my shins tighter and bury my head between knees.

There are footsteps in the hall, followed by a quick rap on the bathroom door.

I unpretzel my body.

“One sec!” I cry. But before I can hide Pingy—in a towel? in the cabinet beneath the sink?—Winnie strides in.

“Ty,” she starts, “you've got to take your—” Her words trickle off. With super-wide eyes, she takes in Pingy. Pingy takes Winnie in, too.

Winnie turns to me. I try to make my face to look sweet and innocent.

“You have a penguin,” she states.

I smile hopefully.

“There is a
penguin
in our bathtub.”

“His name is Pingy.”

She presses her hands to her eyes, then drops them. “Holy pickles, Ty.” She kneels by the tub.

“Isn't he so cute?” I ask. “Did I tell you his name is Pingy?”

“Pingy?”

“You should say hi to him,” I say. It's better having Winnie in here with me. I didn't think it would be, but it is. It makes me excited again.

“Um, hi, Pingy,” Winnie says. She glances at me. “Wait—how do you know he's a he?”

“I just do?”

Winnie reaches her hand out, then draws it back. “Can I . . . touch him?”

“Sure. Just be gentle.”

Winnie strokes Pingy's head. He nudges up against her palm.

“
Piu. Piu piu,
” he says.

“Awww,” Winnie says. “He likes me!”

“He might be hungry.” I pause. “He likes peanut butter.”

Winnie grins. Then all at once she pulls her hand away and wipes off her grin.

“So you stole this baby penguin from the aquarium?” she demands.

“I didn't mean to.”

“You can't steal penguins. You can't steal, period.” She looks at me. “You know that, Ty.”

I hunch my shoulders.

“Don't you think his mom is missing him?” Winnie asks.

“She wasn't even paying attention to him. She was just picking at her feathers.”

“That doesn't mean she won't miss her baby when she realizes he's gone.”

“
Piu piu,
” Pingy says.

I hold very still. There's something about his
pius
that sounds . . . different.

“He doesn't sound happy,” Winnie says.

“Yes he does,” I say. But he doesn't. This is the first time his
pius
have sounded the opposite of happy. Unhappy. For some reason, I think of Price, and also of Price's mom, walking out of Trinity after dropping him off.

“What's wrong, Pingy?” I say.

“Maybe you're right and he's hungry,” Winnie says. “You say he likes peanut butter?”

“Uh-huh.”

She gets to her feet. “I'll go get it so Mom doesn't see you out of the tub. And you should . . .
ack
. Can Pingy swim?”

“I don't know. Probably?”

She pulls her hair off her neck, holds it there for a second, then lets it fall back over her shoulders. She does that when she's thinking.

“Okay,” she says. “I'll go get the peanut butter. You hold Pingy in your lap—not in the tub—and turn on the bathwater so that Mom doesn't come barging in. You don't want her to come barging in, believe me.”

“Then what?”

“Don't know. We'll figure it out.”

“But what if he poops on me?”

“Then you'll have penguin poop on you.” Her hand's on the doorknob, but she hasn't yet opened the door. “I can't believe you stole a penguin from the Georgia Aquarium.”

“It has over eight million gallons of water,” I offer.

“And you're telling me that because . . . ?”

“Because that's a lot of water. With a lot of sea creatures in it.” I bite my lip. “So maybe they won't miss one teeny-tiny penguin?”

“Believe me, they will,” Winnie says.

Strangely, that makes me feel better.