By Bailey Loveless
[Originally published in Space and Time Magazine, Issue #143]
Mom asks me to “keep those things under control” from the front of the parked car, meanwhile looking down at the incoming call on her phone. I can sense the vibration of her cell, and I’m certain it’s that new scientist at the university—again. Not the first time—Mom has had to change her phone number every six months since I was born thirteen years ago—not the last. Tossing the phone into her purse, she backs out of the parent pick-up spot in the empty school parking lot and puts the car into drive. I catch her pinched face studying me in the rearview mirror.
I fold my arms and turn to look out the window. There’s literally nothing I can say. I had just been floating along—pun not intended—till I hit the medusa phase.
“Honey, please,” says Mom, waving my tentacles away as if they’re pesky but harmless. As if the burns on her fingers don’t hurt.
○○○
The first time it happened, I was sitting in science class. We happened to be doing a unit on marine biology. Mrs. Young, the teacher, was already feeling unsettled lecturing on aquatic life as I stared at her with all 24 of my jellyfish eyes. Dare I say, perhaps even disappointed that I had not contributed much insight in my written responses—
But I’ve never seen the ocean, so stereotype much?
(Actually, I’m rather disappointed that I have yet to experience it)
—And then she said that jellyfish were particularly susceptible to parasites.
Everyone turned towards me, and I realized precisely 24 pairs of eyes were staring at the mass of writhing jellyfish arms right where my hair should be.
Jonah, the emotionally underdeveloped one they call the class clown, was snickering behind me when one of my tentacles (involuntarily) reached out. It was so light, like a feather—I barely sensed the rough curve of his cheek, pocketed with small craters left behind by adolescent acne.
But as Jonah was rushed to the school nurse, two of us were sent to the principal’s office that day: me, and another random kid who thought the best course of action was to ‘whip it out’ and urinate on Jonah’s burning face.
When I returned from my suspension, our school principal, Mr. Strickland, brought both Jonah and me into his office to discuss what happened. He called it “the unfortunate stinging incident.”
I call it an involuntary defense mechanism:
In the fourth grade, Jonah told everyone in our class over lunch that jellyfish were a delicacy in China. In the fifth grade, he addressed me as ‘blubber-face’ for an entire year. In the sixth grade, he used his strawberry jelly sandwich to demonstrate his Neanderthal ideas about what my head would look like if I tripped and fell.
But I wrote Jonah an apology anyway–of my own volition.
I’ve written two more apologies since:
—To Nancy, the school janitor who got caught in the crosshairs when one of my tentacles decided they wanted to play with a mop
—To Mr. Herman, who left a distracting peanut butter and jelly sandwich out on his desk while I was trying to take an exam.
While I didn’t feel exactly sorry for what my tentacles had done, I truly hoped they would all accept my apology all the same…because that’s what a good human does.
○○○
Mom does not take any of the right-hand turns that would lead us back to the house, and I realize I do not know where we are anymore. Her cell phone rings again. My lappets lash out in response to the rising sensation of disoriented distress, the thin strands flaring away from the crown of my head.
I itch to return to the tank we keep in my bedroom. Most babies sleep in a bassinet. But when I was just a tiny baby with a budding polyp head, my tentacles short and fat like a sea anemone, I spent my first night at home from the hospital in a hastily purchased fish tank. Back then, the biologists at the aquarium downtown were worried I would dry out and die without access to water. I just happen to enjoy the tank more than any other place. Sure, Mom has never quite gotten the salinity correct, and I’m much too large to fit my whole body in the tank now. But I can still squeeze my soft, bell-shaped head inside and submerge all my tentacles, and it’s quiet there in the water. I can close my eyes and forget about all my non-jelly bodily urges from the neck down in peaceful human sensory deprivation.
It’s not really so different from the way other people bury their heads in the sand.
The phone rings and goes unanswered a third time, but Mom’s grimace tightens.
We once watched a black-and-white horror movie where the monster was a squid-like alien with telepathic capabilities. I wish I could read minds sometimes. A part of me wonders what she is thinking, if she’s considering all the reasons to answer and say yes. The warm part of me that has fairly typical arms and legs, likes breakfast food, gets offended if offered a PB&J, and will soon start menstruating.
○○○
Before mom picked me up today, I sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs outside the principal’s office. As I waited, I pulled out the tuna sandwich Mom had made me for lunch with a little smattering of fish roe for good measure. My tentacles delivered it to my feeding arms, wrapping around the sandwich like seaweed around a piece of sushi.
Across from me is a new lady in the administrative office, doing her best not to stare, her mouth puckered, opening and shutting like a fish.
“What’s this?” she said, busying herself with paperwork.
“That’s one of our gifted students,” said Mrs. Fritz. Lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “But we’re not sure she has a brain.”
(She is, anatomically speaking, correct. I know this agitates people, but I don’t understand why: lots of people have brains and they never do anything interesting with them.)
Then Mrs. Fritz went on about how her sister is a nurse and that my mother still has the fastest delivery on record at the hospital–made possible of course by my gelatinous epidermis.
“You can’t imagine how loud the screaming was when they tried to find the umbilical cord,” Mrs. Fritz said, as if she had been there.
The new lady nervously cleared her throat and asked which parent of mine to call.
Mrs. Fritz said,“Call the mom. She’s a single mother,” with a tone that suggests this is some kind of personal failing.
The other woman nods simpatico.
“I know, right,” said Mrs. Fritz, clutching the string of pearls at her neck. “She and her husband are divorced. I wonder what happened. He seems like such a good guy. He pays her tuition and everything. My sister says he never even asked for a paternity test.”
My tentacles flicked with annoyance and I bristled in my chair. I’ve been in the office enough times by now to know that they never call the father of any child anyway–always the mother. Who can blame them, really, if the standard of great paternity for human males is limited to writing checks twice a year? As far as I can tell, my father was useless even when he was around, and I feel rather fortunate that someday I possess the ability to reproduce asexually without the assistance of a male if I so choose.
…I wonder what Mrs. Fritz would say if she knew that last detail.
When Mom arrived, they both went silent. She took my hand, and we walked into Mr. Strickland’s office together.
The boy I stung today was Matthew–the one who sat in front of me in my math class, who just made me feel a different kind of gooey and strange whenever I saw his face. Apparently, his parents were threatening to sue.
Mr. Strickland made no mention of the girl whose bra Matthew had been snapping for the better part of the hour before one of my tentacles brushed against the back of his neck.
“We have a strict anti-harassment and non-violence policy here,” said Mr. Strickland from behind his desk, “This is a unique situation, but we can’t keep making concessions.”
“I understand, Mr. Strickland, but the school keeps refusing my requests for her tank to be brought in,” Mom said. “You keep throwing her back into the middle of the classroom and expect a different outcome. If we could just get her what she needs–”
“--As I’ve said before Sandra, it would just be too disruptive to the rest of the class,” he said, putting a hand up.
Mom leaned forward. “I thought the school was all about creating learning environments where each student can thrive. That’s what we were promised when we enrolled her.”
As Mr. Strickland said something about water as a safety hazard, I scanned the prospective student brochures sitting on his desk. I had it memorized now after all my recent trips to the office–the text, the dimensions, the different font sizes (it’s not an impressive feat; there’s not much to it beyond Brighton Academy–a school for gifted children designed to unlock your child’s potential). Today, I was much more interested in the taste of it. A tentacle reaches out, picks up a brochure, and knocks the rest of the stack to the ground.
“We have done everything in our power to accommodate your daughter’s needs,” said Mr. Strickland, eyeing me as my feeding arms attach to the brochure, feeling each little dot of ink along the folded lines. “Might I suggest homeschooling? I could recommend you some excellent tutors.”
Mom’s lips pursed. “I work full-time. It’s not an option for us.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Strickland. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, Sandra. There’s no doubting your daughter’s unique cognitive abilities. She has always shown genius levels of spatial awareness. Her reading and writing are beyond what anyone could have hoped, given her lack of brain structure–”
“--Conventional brain structure,” said Mom.
Mr. Strickland gave a tense smile. “Right. But to be perfectly honest with you, I just don’t know of any school that is even remotely equipped to give her what she needs to thrive. I understand several universities are interested in her.”
“As a test subject,” said Mom.“Not a pupil.”
Mr. Strickland lowered his voice. “I know it’s not ideal. But they could provide her a whole life and give her all the things she needs to truly thrive. It really might be the best thing for her.”
Mom’s breath quickened, and she hesitated long enough for my spine to tingle. Folding her arm, she finally said, “Just tell me if you’re expelling her or not?”
Mr. Strickland sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Suspension for a week. Thankfully, any injuries have been minor. But one more incident and I won’t have a choice.”
“Thank you,” said Mom, taking me with one hand and offering the other out to Mr. Strickland.
Standing and shaking my mom’s hand, he said, “When she gets back, let’s try moving her seat to the back of the class. Maybe some distance between her and the others will improve the situation.”
As if we could be any further apart.
My tentacles returned the brochure to his desk, and Mom ushered me into the car. Pulling out her cell phone, she muttered something about co-parenting, needing to call Dad about all this. I closed my eyes as they argued, Dad’s voice was fuzzy through the phone but no less audible.
“Mr. Strickland thinks we should homeschool with tutors,” Mom said. “It might be feasible if we could just put the tuition money towards that.”
“I’m not paying for that,” he said. “Look we’ve done everything that could be expected, but you don’t really think you can keep this up, can you? She’s just too different.”
“She’ll learn, Aaron. It’s just a teenage phase,” Mom said.
“How can you possibly know that? What if next time it’s not just some superficial burn, Sandra?” he yelled. “Did you know that jellyfish kill more people each year than sharks?”
Mom was silent as Dad’s heavy breath rasped through the phone speaker.
“I’m done with this. Call the science guy back,” he finally said. “Do it today. Or I’ll see you in court.”
The line went dead as he hung up, and Mom chucked the phone back into her purse.
That was precisely 35 minutes ago.
○○○
Mom’s heart rate is higher than normal–as is mine.
She keeps looking at me like she’s going to say something then decides not to. I calculate all the routes I know to various places—the aquarium, the university, the science center–over and over in my brain, coming up short each time.
Finally, she clears her throat.
“Is your dad right?” She glances at me in the mirror. “Are we just too different animals?”
Her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. Nobody had ever said we look alike, but I always thought our slender fingers were similar. That is until I started accidentally leaving the little angry red lines on her brown, autumn-leaf skin.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she says, turning the blinker on. “I should have taken you here a long time ago. I just want what’s best for you.”
My tentacles interweave themselves with my seatbelt, clinging to anything they can find in the back seat of the car like roots seeking purchase. My neurons are on fire, and I feel burning hot like I might pass out.
And then suddenly I see it–
By my reckoning, our house is only about twenty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds from the parking lot by car in afternoon traffic–an ideal distance I’d assume for regular summer day trips for any regular family. And yet my parents have never taken me here before. I can only guess at what they were scared of.
—Outside my window is the sea.
My tentacles strike at the windows as if we are suffocating in here without the maritime air. My head bell pounds in time with the waves, the sound striking a primal chord recognized by all my inner animals. The cold beach is empty, but I am drowning in this car.
As soon as we roll to the stop, I throw open the door. Mom calls after me, but I am running, leaving her behind and diving in headfirst.
The water is so fresh–not the stale, too salty, too warm liquid recycling in my tank–and I can breathe as I swim. I shed my waterlogged clothes, letting them float to the surface as I plunge down towards the sandy bottom. The whole world here is neon blue and green, an endless spectrum of color I have never seen on the shore. All the creatures pass me by without a second thought–gloriously apathetic to my presence. The purple sea stars speak as if I’m not there and the crabs continue their epic battle over sea scraps as I float by.
I spy an octopus floating near some mussel-covered rocks. The octopus with its eight arms and massive brain, its eyes more similar in structure to humans than my own. Long ago, it descended from the same tiny, swimming flatworm as my mother waiting back on the shore, just adapting the opposite direction on the evolutionary chain. We gaze at one another before the octopus disappears into a crevice.
The raging waves still me, keeping me quiet and alive. Closing my eyes, I listen to the sounds of schools of fish and the bubbles forming along my skin. The current nudges me further and further from the shoreline. Everything seems cold and glorious. I am everywhere and nowhere at once, and I could float along forever.
But my tentacles reach behind me towards the beach, dragging me back against the tide. In the water, they find something familiar, strong and secure—a hand reaching out for me. One ghost white tentacle coils itself around it like a boat moored in a safe harbor.
Anchored to my mother–waded half in–I burst back into the world above. She pulls me into an embrace, holding my face where we can see one another. Her eyes are red and full of salt water. I wrap around her, wanting to reassure her. To tell her that we’re not as different as she thinks, that one day when I’m older, it won’t sting so much.
We hold one another upright against the loud, crashing waves. When she grows too cold, we emerge from the sea into the world above, where the fish eat sandwiches and breathe out of water.