Half Brother

by Kenneth Oppel

  I would’ve freaked out, but Zan was a complete charmer. Dad and Greg Jaworski had the fun box set up in the middle of the living room and Zan promptly sat down beside it and signed come play to Peter and me.

  So we sat down on the floor and played and signed as the cameras rolled, and then Dad and Greg took over for a while. Mom and Peter and I stayed close the whole time. I couldn’t believe how well-behaved Zan was. He seemed to forget all about the lights and the camera pointed at him.

  The crew stayed for three days, shooting tons of footage of Zan, and interviewing Dad and Greg and Dr. Godwin.

  It couldn’t have gone better. Dad said so himself after they’d finally packed up and left.

  Two days later, Greg left too. He was going back to California with boxes of logbooks and videotape of Zan to review. He seemed genuinely fond of Zan, and even more excited by the project than when he’d arrived two weeks ago.

  I wasn’t surprised. It had been a full year since we’d started teaching Zan ASL. He used about forty-five signs reliably. Sometimes he combined two signs. He signed to his toys when he played with them. I’d even seen him sign to the birds in the backyard. Once I caught him sneaking into the kitchen and heading for the fridge, signing drink to himself when he thought no one was watching.

  What’s more, he was learning faster than ever. All during August he’d learned two new signs every week. Mine. Come. Good. There. Hurt. Dirty. It was almost impossible to believe, watching the new words formed by his swift hands.

  It was like they’d always been ready, eagerly waiting for us to give them a voice.

  First day of grade nine, and I was ready.

  After Dad dropped me off, I walked across the quad, Led Zeppelin’s “Good Times Bad Times” blaring in my head, my personal dominant male soundtrack.

  Project Jennifer had definitely lost ground over the summer. It wasn’t surprising, since she’d been away for most of it. But there was certainly no progress in August. After the beach, we went out a couple of times in a big group, once to a movie, once just to hang out in Beacon Hill Park. She was perfectly nice to me, but she always seemed kind of distracted. And there’d been no more kissing.

  I was ready to get things back on track. I’d been doing research.

  Last week I’d taken my logbook down to the local library and checked out the women’s magazines, like Vogue and Cosmopolitan. I slipped them inside Popular Mechanics, so no one would see. They were filled with all sorts of informative articles about how to hook a man and drive him crazy with desire—and what kind of man was the best man to drive crazy.

  According to the articles, women liked men who made them feel good about themselves. They liked men who complimented them, and admired them, and made them feel like the centre of the universe. But they didn’t want to be smothered. In fact, they liked confident men who were a bit mysterious, even a bit distant. It seemed men had to do a lot of stuff—but I figured I could handle it.

  As I crossed the school quad, I passed Jennifer with her little cult and noticed her hair was different.

  “Jennifer Godwin,” I said, “love the new hair!” Not stopping to talk, just walking by, playing it cool. Places to go, people to see. Jane didn’t even have time to give me a sneer.

  The first obstacle came pretty fast, though. It turned out Jennifer and I weren’t in the same homeroom any more. In fact we were in only one class together. History. When I came into the room, she was already there, and waved at me like she wanted me to come sit beside her. I casually lifted a hand, ambled over, and sat down between her and Selena Grove. I made sure to start talking to Selena, who’d been to Toronto over the summer holidays. A bit mysterious. A bit distant.

  During the day I kept an eye on Hugh, trying to figure out if he liked Jennifer too. And did Jennifer like him? It was hard to tell. Mostly Hugh seemed to ignore her. I wondered if Hugh had read the same magazines as me.

  I wasn’t intending to ignore her. I’d still talk to her and joke with her, but I just wouldn’t smother her. It would take discipline, but a good scientist didn’t deviate from his methodology.

  Friday afternoon, at the end of the second week of school, I was talking with David at my locker, cramming stuff into my knapsack.

  “So what are you up to this weekend?” I asked. By “you” I meant him and Jennifer, and I was hoping they had something planned and would invite me along.

  He shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  “Want to do something?” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic. “I’ll call you later.”

  A whole bunch of stuff tumbled out of my locker onto the floor.

  At the top of the pile was my Project Jennifer logbook.

  I had no idea how it got there. I always kept it at home. Always. Somehow it must’ve gotten stuck inside one of my schoolbooks.

  And there it was, face up on the floor: Project Jennifer in big letters.

  I looked at David. He was staring down at it. I bent to snatch it up, but he grabbed it first. “David,” I said.

  I tried to swipe it out of his hand, but he turned his back on me, laughing, and flipped it open. “Man,” he said, “this thing is full!”

  Again I tried to snatch it back, but he shoulder-checked me and kept looking.

  I was terrified he’d find something really embarrassing, and suddenly I felt a flare of my old anger. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the locker. His eyes narrowed.

  “Take it easy, Tarzan,” he said, tossing the logbook at me. “As if I care about your stupid diary.”

  I glanced around the hallway. Had anyone seen this? Just a couple of upper-years.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just … it’s private, man, all right?”

  “Forget it.” He walked off.

  I felt like I was going to throw up. David was a good friend to me. I just hoped he was a loyal one too.

  “So, after he has lunch,” Peter said, “he usually likes some quiet time for an hour or so. You can read him a book, or play with his dolls, nothing too rambunctious.”

  It was the weekend, and I was in Zan’s suite helping Peter train one of the new research students, Joyce Lenardon.

  “Okay,” she said, noting it in her binder. She was very organized. She had the same kind of haircut as Jennifer.

  “… right, Ben?” Peter was suddenly saying to me.

  “Sorry, what?” I said.

  “Zan also likes watching the birds outside if it’s nice.” “Oh, yeah. He loves that.”

  I’d been distracted all day, worrying about whether David would tell Jennifer about the logbook. I’d thought about calling him up and asking him—begging him—not to, but I was worried he’d still be too angry with me. I’d really blown it.

  Zan was walking around his playroom with us, holding Peter’s hand. I noticed Peter’s grip was good and tight. We’d had a lot of new students start in the past few weeks, and I thought Zan was getting tired of it. Sometimes if he didn’t like them, he’d really act up.

  Since we’d gotten rid of the learning chair, mostly his behaviour had been excellent. But he was also getting bigger, and stronger, and—when he felt like it—more aggressive. He’d start tickling someone and then his tickles would get too rough, or he’d grab hold of the student’s leg and refuse to let go, and just squeeze and squeeze. We’d had a couple of people quit after their very first shift with him.

  Luckily, Zan seemed to like Joyce. She was very calm, and that seemed to make Zan calm.

  “Why don’t you just sit down with us on the floor,” Peter said to Joyce, “and I’ll read him a book and—”

  Peter had opened a book to read to Zan, but Zan took it from his hand and carried it over to Joyce.

  “Wow,” said Peter. “He must really like you.” Joyce smiled as Zan climbed into her lap. Book, Zan signed.

  “Oh, that’s the sign for book, right?” said Joyce. “That’s it,” said Peter.

  Joy
ce started reading, pointing out all the pictures. If Zan knew the word, he’d sometimes sign it to himself. Then he suddenly turned to Joyce and signed drink. “What’s that one?” Joyce said. “Drink,” I said.

  Sweet drink, Zan signed at Joyce, who looked at me again for explanation.

  “No, Zan,” I said, signing back. “No sweet drink. He had enough at lunch,” I told Joyce.

  But Zan ignored me and kept signing only to Joyce.

  Sweet drink.

  Get drink.

  Me drink.

  And Joyce just kept smiling kindly and looking a bit confused, because she didn’t know much ASL yet. Zan’s signs got faster and sloppier, and I looked over at Peter, worried.

  “Do you think he’s getting a bit frustr—” I began, and then I heard Joyce cry out and saw Peter lunge at Zan. Joyce was holding him back with her hands, and Peter grabbed Zan under the arms and wrenched him away.

  “No, Zan!” said Peter. “No!”

  “What happened?” I asked, bewildered.

  “He tried to bite her,” Peter said, and then Zan twisted free of his grip and jumped up onto the table and shrieked at Joyce.

  “Joyce,” said Peter, “go to the kitchen while we get him calmed down.”

  Pale, Joyce stood up and left the playroom. “Why’d he do that?” I asked Peter.

  “Maybe he felt insulted she didn’t sign back—I don’t know,” said Peter.

  But we didn’t have any more time to talk because Zan was having a nuclear temper tantrum now. He ripped off his shirt and diaper.

  “Zan,” I said, signing. “Stop!”

  We chased after him into his bedroom, where he peed and pooed on the floor. Then he hurled himself back into the playroom and jumped up onto the kitchenette counter. He shrieked and hooted, and I wasn’t sure if he was happy or furious.

  He grabbed hold of two cupboard handles and pulled. Luckily they were locked, but before we could get to him, he pulled so hard the doors ripped off their flimsy hinges. Zan flung them to the floor and swiped his hands into the cupboards, bringing down a cascade of glassware and dishes.

  “Zan!” I shouted, as he threw a glass at the wall.

  It was one of the first times I didn’t understand him.

  I looked at him, having his temper tantrum, and thought:

  Animal.

  On the Sunday night that the 60 Minutes piece was airing, the Godwins invited us to dinner so we could all watch it on their huge wood-panelled colour TV.

  I was pretty nervous about going over. It had been two weeks since the logbook incident. At school, David and I would nod and say hello as we passed in the hallways, but we weren’t talking much.

  Had he told Jennifer? Maybe he hadn’t even read anything—he hadn’t had it in his hands that long. Maybe all he’d really seen was the cover. But what would Jennifer think if she knew I’d written an entire book about her? Would I be the mysterious man that made her feel admired and complimented? Would she be flattered—or just think I was a psychopath?

  There was another problem too. I worried I’d made a mistake with Project Jennifer. I couldn’t help noticing that the more distant I was with her, the more distant she seemed to be with me. I was starting to have doubts about how effective my current methods were. I’d have to reassess the data.

  It was David who opened the door when we arrived.

  “Hey, Tarzan!” he said.

  He gave me a big smile, and I felt such relief. He was still my friend. He wouldn’t have told Jennifer. Mr. and Mrs. Godwin ushered us into the living room, where they uncorked a bottle of champagne.

  “Where’s Jennifer?” Mom asked.

  Everyone else was there, even Hairy Cal, with almost all his chest hair buttoned up inside a shirt.

  “She’s a little under the weather,” said Mrs. Godwin, giving Mom a significant look. Mom nodded sympathetically. “But she said she’d come down for dinner.”

  Was Jennifer sick? No one seemed that concerned. Or was she just hiding in her room because she didn’t want to see me?

  But a few minutes later she came downstairs. She looked fine to me, maybe a tiny bit pale, which I thought made her look even sexier, like she’d been up all night, gazing out the window, listening to music—maybe thinking about me.

  “Hey,” she said. “Are you excited about seeing yourself on TV?”

  “I don’t even know if I’ll be in it,” I said. “They shot a ton of stuff, but they said it was only going to be ten minutes, so who knows.”

  I shrugged like I didn’t really care, but I was figuring there’d be at least one or two shots of me. I’d never been on TV before, and this was international TV. I was hoping this would give me a big boost—maybe the final push I needed to complete Project Jennifer. Being on CBS was way better than being European.

  “Want to go downstairs?” David asked me before dinner.

  “Sure.” I looked over at Jennifer, who was sitting on the chesterfield with her mom.

  “I’ll be down in a bit,” she said to us.

  I was hoping we could go and blast some music. If I could get her alone, even for a few seconds, I was going to kiss her again. One of the other things I’d learned from the women’s magazines was tips on kissing. I didn’t think I was a total disaster—I’d never drooled on her or bitten her—but I had a lot of room for improvement. “Five Kisses to Make Your Man Swoon,” the article had promised. I really wanted to try them out.

  But Jennifer never showed up, and Mrs. Godwin was calling us up for dinner. The Godwins did not serve the kids wine.

  “School the next day,” Dr. Godwin said. “Can’t have you staggering into Windermere hungover.”

  Jennifer didn’t seem very hungry. I pulled out a couple of my best lines (from the logbook) to get a conversation going, but she wasn’t playing along tonight. I talked mostly to David.

  After dessert it was almost time for 60 Minutes, and we all settled around the TV. It turned out our segment was near the end, so we had to get through the rest of the show first. My heart was thumping away, faster and faster with each minute.

  I glanced at Mom and Dad and they seemed excited, but kind of tense too. There was a sort of blue waxy look to their faces, or maybe that was just the light spilling out from the huge TV screen.

  Suddenly I thought it was weird that Zan wasn’t here to see this. Peter was back home babysitting and he said they’d try to watch it on our little black-and-white TV, but Zan probably wouldn’t care. I’d never seen him watch TV with any interest.

  Finally our piece started. I could barely concentrate on what the host was saying. There were some nice shots of Victoria—described as a small picturesque city in the Pacific Northwest—and the university, which they described as a small university whose psych department was quickly building a worldwide name for itself with cutting-edge research.

  I glanced over at Dr. Godwin and he looked fairly pleased with himself. His wife squeezed his hand.

  Then it moved to our house. They started in the kitchen, with a shot of the high chair from behind, and for a second, you would’ve thought it was just a regular kid sitting in it. But then as the camera moved closer and around, you saw it was actually a chimp. It was Zan, in his sweatshirt and shorts, holding a spoon and feeding himself Froot Loops. I was helping him.

  I looked pretty good on TV. I was tanned and my hair was sandy blond. But it was strange, watching myself. It was like looking at someone pretending to be me. I’d had no idea my mouth moved like that when I talked.

  “Hey, that Tomlin kid’s quite the stud,” said David.

  “Shush, David,” said his mother.

  I glanced over at Jennifer. She was blushing. That was a good sign. If she didn’t like me, why would she blush?

  There were interviews with Dad and Greg Jaworski and Mom, and one with Dr. Godwin in his office, and then lots of footage of Zan at our house, playing and signing. I was in quite a few of the shots. They described me as Zan’s “big brother.” Then th
ere was Peter, reading Zan a bedtime story.

  “Is Peter a major toker?” David asked.

  “David,” said his father warningly.

  “He looks like a major pothead,” David whispered to me.

  Jennifer was looking over and nodding, so I laughed, but right away felt mean, like I’d betrayed Peter.

  And then, suddenly, filling the screen:

  The learning chair.

  It was a black-and-white photo, and I don’t know if they’d touched it up or something, but it looked huge and terrifying and cruel.

  Zan was strapped into it, small and totally defeated.

  I was so shocked I scarcely heard what the host was saying in the voice-over. Something about strict methods and controversial teaching techniques.

  “I thought you’d gotten rid of that thing,” Dr. Godwin said sharply to Dad.

  “We did,” Dad said, eyes fixed on the TV. “I have no idea how they got that picture.”

  It seemed like it was up on screen forever. It was terrible. It made Zan look like a prisoner. I’d hated that chair from the first moment I’d seen it, and now everyone in North America was looking at it too.

  Then up came Willian Eckler, the animal rights guy, and he was saying that human beings had a very poor record of treating apes and chimps with the respect they deserved. He said that people who performed experiments on these animals were little better than slave owners.

  “Crackpot!” said Dr. Godwin. “Honestly, why did they get him on?”

  “At least they said we don’t use the chair any more,” Mom pointed out.

  There was another minute or so of Zan playing and signing with us, and he looked perfectly happy in his sandbox and on the jungle gym. But the whole mood of the piece had been changed now.

  Afterwards, it was pretty uncomfortable in the Godwins’ living room. Everyone said nice things and talked about how it was very positive overall, and would really attract the scientific community’s attention to the project, and the university.