My Life in the Fish Tank Read online

  “Stop,” Ms. Molina said, smiling. “We’re not experimenting with poisonous plants, Darius. And in case I need to remind anyone, this is science class, not science fiction. So no Sasquatch, and definitely no vampires.”

  On the whiteboard she wrote: Cambarellus puer.

  “Any guesses?” she asked, smiling. “Zinnia?”

  Everyone turned to look at me. How was I supposed to know this?

  “I don’t know,” I said, blushing. “Maybe some type of cactus? Or succulent?”

  “Succulent,” Darius repeated, like it was the funniest word in the world.

  Ms. Molina ignored him. “Good guess, Zinny, but our subject is not a plant. Let me share a little more information.”

  Glancing at an index card, she wrote:

  Kingdom: Animalia

  Phylum: Arthropoda

  Subphylum: Crustacea

  Class: Malacostraca

  Order: Decapoda

  Family: Cambaridae

  Genus: Cambarellus

  Species: C. puer

  Ms. Molina folded the index card and slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan, like she was hiding the punchline of a joke. “All right, gang, let’s not be afraid of these strange-looking words. A few of them should ring some bells.”

  “Animalia looks like animal,” Aspen said.

  Darius smacked his forehead.

  Ms. Molina ignored him. “It certainly does,” she said. “Any more ideas?”

  “Crustacea looks like crustacean,” I said. “So maybe… Are we doing lobsters? Or shrimp? Or crabs?”

  Ms. Molina beamed. “A small cousin of theirs called the swamp dwarf crayfish. What can you infer about these creatures, based on what I wrote on the board?”

  “Nothing,” Darius said. “It’s a weird foreign language.”

  “Scientific names are always in Latin,” I said. “And decapoda—does that mean the creature has ten feet?”

  “Bingo,” Ms. Molina said, clicking on her computer. On the overhead monitor we could all see an image of what looked like a tiny brownish lobster.

  “We’re not dissecting those things, right?” Li-Mei Wen called out.

  “No dissecting,” Ms. Molina promised. “And no eating, either. We’ll be observing their behavior in special fish tanks we’ll get to design, and of course conducting experiments.”

  “Who’d want to eat crayfish, anyway?” Darius said, making a face.

  “People eat crayfish all the time,” Aspen said. “And, omigod, I love lobster. For my birthday? My grandma took me to this incredibly fancy restaurant that had the biggest ones ever. Like they each weighed over five pounds!”

  If Kailani and Maisie had been in this class, we’d have been doing a group eye roll. No surprise that Aspen Garber went to a fancy restaurant for her birthday, where of course they had the biggest lobsters ever. She was such a braggy person, and so predictable.

  Not that predictable was such a bad thing, I reminded myself.

  In fact, the more I thought about it lately, “predictable” was pretty much a compliment.

  After School That Day

  That day I decided to do a little grocery shopping after school. Because Scarlett was right: Mom still wasn’t taking care of things. She’d started running again, which was definitely a good thing, but that meant that for big parts of every afternoon, she wasn’t around. And she still wasn’t doing much shopping or cooking. When Dad came home from work, often after supper, he usually just sat in the TV room by himself, watching basketball, even if it wasn’t a team he cared about. On weekends he made himself sandwiches; he never asked what the rest of us were eating and barely said anything to us, really. Of the kids, Scarlett should have been the one stepping up to make dinner, clean the house, do grownup-ish things like that, but all she did after school was hang out online. And as far as she was concerned, pizza or Stouffer’s for dinner every night was just fine.

  So I stopped off at Ellman’s Market, a little store a few blocks from our house, where we had an account. I bought some cut-up chicken parts, carrots, a handful of string beans, a can of chicken stock, rice, three apples, three bananas, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, a bag of Sun Chips, and a box of Oreos. Also a new cherry ChapStick for myself.

  Maisie and Kailani came to help lug the groceries home in our backpacks. They didn’t ask where I’d been at lunch, or why I was doing all this Mom work now; I guess they realized it was Gabriel-related, and that I didn’t want to talk about it.

  Phew. What a relief, I thought.

  But then.

  Just as we were finished putting away the groceries in the kitchen, Kailani turned to me. “So… how’s your mom doing, Zinny?”

  “Okay,” I said, biting the edges off a Sun Chip.

  “I haven’t seen her in a long time. Is she home?”

  “She’s out running.”

  Maisie’s eyes narrowed like she’d caught me lying. “You know, Zinny,” she said, “my mom says she’d help you guys anytime.”

  “So would mine,” Kailani said eagerly. “Anything you need, Zinny. Shopping, cooking, driving you places—”

  “Thanks, that’s really nice,” I said. “But we’re doing fine. Mom’s getting back in shape—”

  “Oh, come on, Zinny,” Maisie exploded. “Why don’t you ever tell us the truth?”

  “About what?” My heart felt like a bowling ball falling down a flight of stairs.

  “About anything. You weren’t with Ms. Molina at lunch today.”

  “How do you know?” I stared. “You guys went looking for me?”

  “Don’t be mad,” Kailani begged. “When you didn’t show up in the lunchroom—”

  “What did you think? That I ran away?”

  “You went to that Lunch Club thing, right?” Maisie’s voice was sharp, like an accusation.

  “Maisie,” I said, my voice growing as loud and sharp as hers. “If I did, it was my choice. My choice. The Lunch Club is about me, not you. And if I did go, I didn’t need your permission, okay?”

  Maisie’s pale face went pink. “All I meant was that we had a conversation about it, didn’t we? In homeroom. And you acted like you weren’t going. So then if you did go—”

  “Well, I changed my mind. That’s not allowed?”

  “Well, sure! Of course it is! But why not just tell us that?”

  Kailani’s mouth got pinched. “Zinny, all we’re saying is we don’t know what’s going on, because you never talk to us about anything. And every time we ask, you shut us down.”

  “Well, that’s because it feels like you’re watching me all the time! Waiting for me to cry, or fall apart, or something! Like I’m some kind of creature you’re studying. In a fish tank!”

  “A fish tank?” Maisie rolled her eyes. “Zinny, what are you even talking about?”

  My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t answer.

  Now Kailani looked like she was about to cry. “All right, you guys, can we please, please change the subject?”

  “Yeah, but to what?” Maisie challenged her. “Because Zinny acts like everything we say is dumb and boring.”

  “You mean James Ramos?” I said, my voice coming out too loud and hoarse. “Because, frankly, James Ramos is like this brain-eating amoeba. If I have to listen to one more conversation about his stupid ears or his hair, I’ll start drooling.”

  “Fine! Whatever!” Maisie was shouting now. “So if we’re not allowed to talk about James, or about your brother, or your mom, or what’s going on with you, what are we supposed to talk about?”

  “I don’t know!” I sputtered. “Anything! How about crayfish?”

  Kailani laughed uncertainly. “Crayfish. Oh, Zinny, really—”

  “No, I’m serious! Ms. Molina is getting us crayfish in science—”

  “You know what, Zinny?” Maisie interrupted. “It’s like you have this idea we’re still best friends. But you don’t act like one.”

  “Why? Because I happen to
think crayfish are fascinating?”

  “No. Because you turn everything into a stupid joke.”

  “Crayfish are not a stupid joke!”

  “Hey.” Out of nowhere, Scarlett had stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asked loudly.

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “We’re just talking.”

  “Yeah? Everything okay?” Scarlett put her hands on her hips. With her hair not so short but still raggedy, her eyes seemed extra big and fierce.

  Maisie, Kailani, and I nodded.

  “Well, I hate to put an end to these festivities, but I’m trying to do homework, so I need some quiet around here. Time to go, guys.” Scarlett waved bye-bye at my friends in a definitely snarky way.

  Maisie glanced at Kailani, who shrugged. They picked up their backpacks.

  “See you, Zinny,” Kailani murmured.

  “Thanks for helping with the groceries,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  Maisie didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at me as she walked out the door.

  “Nice friends, Zin,” Scarlett commented.

  Five Years Ago

  In second grade, before we’ve even met Maisie, Kailani gets two baby girl kittens, a gray one and a black one from the same litter. I’m in love with them both. Dad and Aiden are allergic to all animal fur, which means we can’t have a dog or a cat. Mom refuses to let me get a lizard, and she says fish don’t make decent pets.

  So I go over to Kailani’s house every afternoon to play with the kittens, who still don’t have names. We make up stories about them: how they’re orphans with magical powers, how they’re princesses under a spell, how they can predict the future if you understand mewing. I like books about real things—starfish and horses—and I play like this only with Kailani. Because we’re best friends.

  One day Kailani tells me she’s naming the kittens Tulip and Daffodil.

  “Flower names, to match Zinnia,” she says. “And then they’ll belong to both of us.”

  Same Day, Late Afternoon

  After Maisie and Kailani left, Scarlett returned to her laptop, and I set up the slow cooker on the kitchen counter. The weird way that conversation with my friends had just gone, all I wanted was to not think, to mindlessly follow a recipe, so I searched online for a chicken dish. With the shopping I’d done, we even had most of the ingredients. I set the dial to high, which meant the slow-cooking would be fast, as if that made any sense. Anyhow, it was the perfect machine for Abnormal Standard Time cooking, I told myself.

  In a little while, nice chickeny smells took over the kitchen as Aiden and I started our homework in the dining room. Usually I did math homework first, but that day I just felt like cramming my brain with French vocabulary or something.

  J’ai deux meilleurs amies. Mais elles ne sont pas gentilles avec moi. After about ten minutes, I asked my little brother how the cyborg-mosquito project was going, and when it was due. Because it felt like he’d been working on it forever.

  He shrugged. “I’m not doing cyborg mosquitoes anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ms. Felsenstein won’t let me. She says it has to be how to do a real thing.”

  Um, like I told you, Aiden. “Okay, so pick something simple, and get it over with! Like How to Tie a Knot. Or How to Make a PB and J. Or what about How to Cook Online Chicken—”

  “Those are all boring. Rudy says it should be something cool.”

  “Yeah? And Rudy is in charge of coolness?”

  Aiden shrugged. “So now I’m deciding between How to Use a Grappling Hook and How to Use Suction Cups to Walk on the Ceiling.”

  I snorted; I couldn’t help it. “Aiden, you think those are more realistic than cyborg mosquitoes? Or quicksand?”

  “Grappling hooks are real. I saw a video on YouTube! And Rudy said he saw one with giant suction cups.”

  “Yeah?” I didn’t know Rudy super well, but he struck me as the sort of kid who made stuff up. And I had the feeling Aiden believed whatever Rudy said. “So what’s his topic?”

  “How to Disguise Yourself to Sneak Past Security.”

  “What? Does Ms. Felsenstein know?”

  “He says he didn’t tell her yet.”

  “Yeah, well, Aiden, I have a very strong feeling that when he does—”

  The doorbell rang. My first thought was: Maisie and Kailani. Sorry we said all that stuff to you an hour ago. Of course we’re all friends! And we promise to stop pressuring you, guilting you, stalking you all the time. We’ll totally shut up from now on about James Ramos, and we’ll stop demanding information about Gabriel! And about the rest of your family too! And yes, please tell us about the crayfish, which sound absolutely fascinating and NOT LIKE A JOKE!

  But by the time I opened the door, no one was there, and a car was driving away.

  On the steps were three flats of baby plants, four bulging bags of soil, a small hand rake, and a metal shovel. Each plant had a Popsicle stick poking out of the dirt, on which someone had written in black marker THYME, ROSEMARY, SAGE, OREGANO, LAVENDER. And tucked underneath one of the flats was a small white envelope addressed ZINNIA.

  I opened it.

  Dear Zinny,

  Tia Marisol picked these for you herself. She insisted on the niece discount, so no charge.

  It’s early for the growing season, but these herbs are hardy, so they should be okay, I think. Looks like warm weather the next few weeks (boo, climate change ) and it’s supposed to rain all weekend, so good timing! Have fun!!

  Isabella Molina

  PS. LMK if you have any questions!

  Inside the envelope was another sheet of paper, neatly folded in thirds: planting directions.

  I should probably do the planting right now, I thought. Before it rains. French homework could wait.

  But how was I supposed to carry all this stuff to the backyard? Especially those bags of soil, which were gigantic.

  Then I remembered the little red wagon.

  Before Dinner

  I am four years old. Gabriel and Scarlett are pulling me up our street in a little red wagon, over and over, in a game they call Prisoner of War. We are yelling and laughing, not caring about the neighbors. And then Mom realizes that I am the prisoner, so she makes them stop. I cry my head off, because I don’t care what they call the game, or what they call me; I just want to play with them, be included by my big sister and brother. But now they refuse.

  * * *

  The wagon was rusty now, forgotten in our garage, and one of the wheels was wobbly, but it still worked. In two trips I’d hauled everything to the scraggly garden.

  I started pulling up weeds. Some of them were incredibly stubborn. Assassin vines, I thought. Well, they weren’t going to entrap me.

  Pretty soon my hands started stinging, so I took a break—and that was when I noticed Mom standing a few feet away, watching me. Her face was pale, and by the way her sweatshirt hung off her shoulders, I could see she’d lost some weight, although maybe that was from all the running. And even in this cloudy light, I could see silver threads in her dark brown hair.

  When had her hair begun turning gray? Why didn’t she dye it back to normal? It made her seem old, and I didn’t like it.

  Maybe her therapist will tell her to dye her hair. If she’ll even listen.

  “Zinny? What’s all this?” she asked, smiling.

  “I’m clearing out some space for herbs Ms. Molina got from her aunt’s nursery. For free.” I smiled back at her. “I thought we could use them in some recipes.”

  “Ms. Molina? That’s your science teacher, right?”

  I nodded. Mom never used to forget my teachers’ names. Never.

  “Well, what a nice idea,” she said. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt and squatted next to me. I could see that her gray yoga pants had a Florida-shaped coffee stain. When was the last time she’d washed them? Or any of the other stuff she wore all the time?

  Her forehe
ad wrinkled. “Although it’s a bit early to be planting. Even around here.”

  “Yeah, probably,” I admitted. “But it’s so warm out already, and Ms. Molina checked the forecast. Anyhow, she says these herbs are really strong.”

  “Well, yes, they are. But don’t expect a whole lot of growth. It’s not even March yet, sweetheart.” Mom pointed. “Can I have that little rake?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  The two of us worked side by side, weeding, raking, poking purple earthworms, and finally planting the baby herbs. I told her about the crayfish, and Tia Marisol’s plant nursery, how I needed to visit it sometime to say thank you.

  Mom didn’t say very much, but she seemed relaxed—more like herself than she’d seemed in weeks, really. Every once in a while she did a few yoga stretches, and a few times I watched her rub her fingers on the tiny lavender.

  She caught me watching her, and smiled. “Zinny, did you know lavender was my favorite scent? Also rosemary. Oh, and basil, too, especially on pizza.”

  “Maybe when it gets warmer, we can grow some basil! And cherry tomatoes,” I said eagerly. “In a pot.”

  “Or even those big beefsteak tomatoes. Although they take forever.”

  “Not if we compost! Then we’d have natural fertilizer. Ms. Molina says—”

  “She’s taught you a lot this year, hasn’t she.” Mom’s eyes had a question I couldn’t decipher. “Well, that’s wonderful. Good science teachers are so important.”

  “You’re a good teacher too,” I blurted. “Your students love you, Mom. When are you going back to work?”

  “Soon. Not yet.”

  “But don’t you miss teaching all that Shakespeare? And grading papers? And writing a million college recommendations?” I was teasing Mom, but I could see she didn’t mind.

  Suddenly she went quiet.

  She was staring at the red wagon. Now that all the herbs were in the ground, and the bags of soil used, the wagon was sitting there in the sun, empty.

  And it was like my mouth started talking fast. All on its own, just to fill the silence. “Hey, Mom, remember that game we used to play, Prisoner of War? How Gabriel and Scarlett were pulling me around in that old wagon, up and down the street, until you found out? And then you made them stop, and I threw a giant tantrum—”