Peter Lee's Notes from the Field

by Angela Ahn

  Mom came back with several boxes and a few large garbage bags. She silently placed them on my floor and left.

  I zeroed in on Dino Grotto. I was going to have to stop calling it that. I started pulling dinosaur books off my shelves and threw them into boxes. Because my parents will spend any amount of money on an educational book, I had every dinosaur book I had ever wanted or needed. My shelves were completely full, but not for long.

  I filled up all the boxes Mom had given me within minutes. I continued my mass dinosaur extermination. Next, dinosaur figurines. Three more garbage bags of those. The sharp claws kept ripping the plastic and the figurines kept falling out. It was almost as if they were refusing to be bagged up.

  I finally cleaned off my shelves and stared at the bags and boxes on the floor. I just wanted to get all this stuff out of my sight, I just couldn’t look at it anymore, so I opened my closet doors. My field vest stared right at me. I needed to get rid of that too. As I ripped it off the hanger, my old Field Notes and Observations journal and some tools fell out of the vest. I shoved the vest and the tools into a bag, but I picked up the journal.

  It should have felt familiar, but the weight of it in my hands felt strange. I turned it over a few times before I opened it. I flipped through the pages I had so carefully and meticulously drawn in over the years. I could not believe that I had wasted so much of my life making this book. All the notes, all the observations and those photocopied grids. Everything was so neat, so tidy. My face started to feel flushed and I felt a tightening in my chest. It was like my body’s cruel little reminder of who was really in charge. I tried to focus and to just breathe, but I gave up and reached into my pocket for my inhaler.

  I threw my journal on top of a box, and then I pushed all the boxes and all the bags into the back of my closet, as deep as they would go. It all reminded me that I was an idiot and Ryan was already doing a good job of that.

  Chapter 29

  THE VERY DEFINITION OF COLIC

  Saturday, September 7, 8:45 a.m.

  Conditions: Overcast, but with a possibility of sunshine

  L.B. was curled up in Hammy’s lap, hugging Trixie. Hammy was stroking L.B.’s hair and twisting it and then letting it go. I stopped halfway down the stairs to watch them. They did a lot of this lately, just sitting together. Sometimes talking, sometimes just watching TV, sometimes L.B. staying with Hammy even if Hammy was taking a nap. I felt like I was intruding a little bit, listening like this, but I also didn’t want to interrupt them.

  “Tell me the story again!” L.B. said impatiently.

  “Which story?”

  “The story about how you saved everyone’s sanity when I was a baby.”

  Hammy laughed. “Oh, that’s a good story.”

  L.B. turned so she was staring straight up at Hammy.

  Hammy cleared her throat and began. “When you came back from hospital, you were so tiny, but so loud. Crying all the time. Nonstop crying.”

  L.B. chuckled.

  “I remember your mom was so tired because no matter what she did, you wouldn’t stop crying. She carried you, you cried. She put you in stroller, you cried. She took you for a drive, you cried. She was going crazy.”

  “That’s because I had colic!”

  “Peter asked your dad, ‘What’s colic?’ and your dad say, holding you far away from him, ‘This is colic!’ ” Hammy laughed. She did a great impersonation of Dad.

  “Of course we now know that colic is abdominal pain, likely caused by excess gas in the intestines.”

  I almost burst out laughing. L.B. was a natural-born gasbag, wasn’t she?

  “But when I came to hold you, you always stopped crying. Sometimes not right away, but usually I tell you stories or sing you a song quietly in your ear. Then it’s like you stopped crying just to listen.”

  L.B. smiled. “I was listening. I’m always listening.”

  “You very good girl.” Hammy stroked L.B.’s hair again. “Hammy always know that.”

  Suddenly, a series of pictures flashed across my mind. Hammy playing hide-and-go-seek with us. Hammy walking me home from school. Hammy making me noodles. Hammy laughing and giving L.B. piggybacks. Hammy sleeping on the floor next to L.B.’s crib so L.B. would sleep.

  I watched the two of them together and realized that the old Hammy—she was still there. She was worth fighting for. L.B. needed her. I needed her.

  Quietly, I sprinted upstairs to my room and closed the door behind me. Something made my breathing ragged and halting. I patted my right pocket for my inhaler. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for my left pocket, but stopped myself short. My hand balled into a fist. I knew what I needed to do, but I took a minute to compose myself. I wasn’t sure I was ready. But I had to do it. It was for Hammy. I walked to my desk, opened the drawer and pulled out a fresh coil notebook. There were a lot of ideas swirling around my head and they needed to be organized. This was the only way.

  9:30 p.m.

  Conditions: Insomnia

  I held my blanket tight up around my chin. Sleeping seemed impossible with so much on my mind.

  “L.B.,” I whispered. No response. “L.B.!” I raised my voice slightly.

  “Hmm?” she responded sleepily.

  “Oh good, you’re awake.” I sat up and shook her shoulders. “We have to talk.”

  Her eyes popped open. “I am fully awake and ready to engage!” She sat up too.

  “I’ve been doing some research.” I reached under my foam mattress for some pages I had printed off the Internet. I placed my coil notebook on the top of the pile.

  “Me too!” She reached under her mattress and pulled out an even thicker stack of pages.

  She couldn’t let me just have the bigger pile of paper, could she?

  “We need a plan.”

  “I agree completely, Petey.”

  “Tell me what you’ve been reading about.”

  A huge smile erupted on her face.

  “Please don’t start giggling—it’s late.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “You’re right. I’ll try to be calm.” Still, she continued to smile like a fool. “But you understand how exciting this is for me, don’t you?”

  I sighed. “L.B., we’re just talking.”

  “Exactly. Brother to sister. Sister to brother. Equals in a scheme of great importance.”

  “Why can’t you just talk like a normal human being?”

  “That wouldn’t be true to my character.”

  “Okay, whatever. Let’s just figure out something. Hammy is not going to any place like the Golden Sunset Active Living Centre.”

  “Agreed,” L.B. said solemnly.

  Chapter 30

  HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES!

  Monday, September 9, after lunch

  Conditions: Breezy, and with a chance of landing a three-pointer

  I talked to Samuel today for the first time since August. He had dyed his hair with blond streaks and had started to wear an earring. I don’t know too much about jewelry, but it sure looked like a real diamond. His clothes looked different too. He still played basketball, but he didn’t look sporty anymore; he had crossed the line into athleisure wear—those fancy clothes that look like they’re for sports, but you’re not supposed to actually exercise in them. I heard the seventh-grade girls gossiping about him going back to Korea to try out for a boy band next summer. The girls thought it was the coolest thing ever. It made sense. He looked perfect for the part.

  I know for a fact that Samuel’s Korean name is Sung Ho because that’s what his grandmother calls him. I guess that’s a good name for a boy who wants to be in a K-pop group.

  “What did you do to Ryan?” he asked me. Standing right next to him in the middle of the hallway made me feel more uncool than usual.

  “What?” I asked, surprised that he would
know or care.

  “Ryan. He hates your guts,” Samuel said.

  “Well, I don’t like him very much either.” I paused. “Also, I might have called him an elf.”

  “Ha, that’s funny.” Samuel laughed. “Just givin’ you a heads-up, bro, that boy ain’t nice.” Who didn’t know that? “You know he plays up a division in soccer now, so we’re on the same team, right?”

  I nodded. Of course I knew Ryan played in a league with older boys; he wouldn’t let anybody forget. Nobody questioned Ryan’s soccer skills—just his personality.

  “During soccer practice, he was talkin’ trash, like he was entering some museum writing contest just to flaunt it in your face.” He stopped to look at me. “I don’t know how that dude thinks a writing contest is cool, but whatever.” Samuel shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, thanks, Samuel. That’s good to know.” Ryan had gone too far. Bragging to Samuel during soccer practice about beating me?

  “K-brothers for life.” He flashed me a finger sign. I guess it kind of looked like a K.

  I tried flashing it back to him, but I’m pretty sure I ended up giving him the finger. I was about to start walking away, but he looked like he wanted to keep talking.

  “Hey, did you grow over the summer?” he asked, changing the subject.

  I was taller than he was by at least a full head.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Do you sing or dance?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “How about basketball?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Come on, man. You don’t play basketball?” He eyed me up and down. Why did everybody assume I played basketball?

  “Being a soccer goalie has always been my thing. Until recently,” I said. “Plus, I have asthma. Sometimes a lot of running isn’t great for me.”

  “So what? I have asthma too.”

  “You do?” I said, surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s getting better every year. Just got to be careful about your triggers. I mean, everybody’s different, but I never want to let asthma stop me from doing what I want. Neither should you.”

  The bell rang and I was going to be late for class, but I couldn’t pull myself away. I just found myself staring at Samuel with my head tilted.

  “Come shoot some hoops after school. Joe’s already joined us. No pressure, just fun.”

  I straightened my back. “Can’t today. My mom wants me to stay home with my sister when her math tutor comes over,” I explained. Haji had to take Hammy to a lot of appointments these days, so some days we have to walk home without them. I hoped this situation was temporary.

  “Yeah, your sister,” he said vaguely. “Okay, tomorrow at lunch. No excuses, dude.”

  I tried to keep cool, but I couldn’t close my jaw. Samuel had asked me to join the seventh-grade boys at basketball.

  As Samuel walked away, he turned around and said loudly, “I hope your halmoni is doing okay.”

  Tuesday, September 10, lunch

  Conditions: Calm-ish

  The next day, after I took my morning puff, I put on my best track pants and nicest athletic T-shirt. At lunch I could see the boys were trying to get a soccer game together, but still nobody had volunteered to be goalie. I realized that maybe I had been the only sucker who had willingly played that position all these years, and my ears felt warm.

  I walked over to the courts and spied Samuel.

  “Peter!” he called out to me. I jogged over and felt the comforting slap of my inhaler in my pocket.

  “Oh, this kid!” one of his friends said, laughing. “He’s on my team!”

  “Samuel.” I pulled him aside. “I’m warning you, I’m not very good at basketball.”

  “Dude, just stand under the net. When somebody comes along, jump and swat the ball away. No problem,” he said as he looked at me reassuringly.

  “Let’s play!” one of the boys shouted.

  They started with a jump ball and Samuel got control of the ball first. He dribbled up the court and deked left, leaving Joe, who was trying to guard him, standing like a statue. Samuel ran under the net and did a graceful layup. The ball hit the backboard and then dropped straight through the hoop. The game transitioned quickly and offensive players soon switched to their defensive roles.

  “Peter!” Samuel shouted. “He’s coming!” He pointed to another boy, so I carefully watched him come down the court.

  He was going for a jump shot, so I timed it and swatted the ball away.

  “Nice block!” the boys said, and several offered me a high five.

  That feeling of smacking the basketball away was more like soccer than I realized. But better because Ryan wasn’t here. Just for a little while, as I dribbled, passed and blocked, I forgot that Ryan was probably going to get the lead story in the Royal Tyrrell newsletter, and while I was laughing, I didn’t think about how much that was going to destroy me.

  Chapter 31

  LAST GASP

  Thursday, September 12, 6:20 p.m.

  Conditions: High-pressure ridge holding

  “Petey!” L.B. said, rushing into my room with tears in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I closed my coil notebook.

  “I can’t do it!” L.B. threw herself down on the ground next to my foam mattress, and bits of paper went everywhere.

  “Do what?” I asked wearily. I wasn’t in the mood for her theatrics right now.

  “You know the thing we talked about?” she said secretively.

  “Yes, it was my idea.”

  “I have been doing more research as you suggested. Look at this article!” She thrust a page printed off from the computer in my face, and she had circled a section of it in red marker: “Support at Home for Dementia Patients: Practical Tips for Creating Safe Spaces.”

  I quietly read the article and looked at the illustrations.

  “This is actually a good idea,” I said. “So why are you upset?”

  “I really want to help Hammy. But I can’t do it!” she wailed as she writhed on the floor. “And we’re running out of time! I heard Mom and Dad whispering about an appointment at a new seniors’ home in Surrey. They serve Korean food! They said it sounded perfect for Hammy. Do you know how far Surrey is? On a map, it is only a twenty-minute drive, but when you account for the severe traffic conditions we increasingly are seeing in this area, that means it’s too far to see her regularly! This will not do!”

  “Come on,” I said as I pulled her up so she was sitting on the floor. “You are helping Hammy.”

  “How am I helping? I can’t do this!” She pointed at the article. “My printing is terrible! My drawings are worse!” she cried as she violently shredded up sheets of paper. “You have to do it. You have to help Hammy! We cannot let Mom and Dad move her so far away!”

  She finally remembered to breathe, then she continued, “It’s like what you used to do, remember?” She looked directly at my closet, where I had put all my dinosaur stuff. She jumped up, threw open the door and immediately started to paw through my boxes.

  “L.B.!” I bellowed. “Get out of there! That’s private!”

  As fast as an annoying housefly, she found what she was looking for. “Here!” She showed me page sixty-seven from Fossil Dreams: A Young Scientist’s Essential Guide, then she compared it to the article she had printed. “Do you see, Petey? There are clear parallels!”

  She looked at me pleadingly.

  I glanced at my book and back to the sheet of paper. My eyes opened wide and I met L.B.’s gaze.

  “I know you can do it, Petey.”

  L.B. was right: between the two of us, I was the only one with the skills to get this done. I knew exactly what I needed to do and how to do it. Our vague plan finally had a clear direction.

  Chapter 32

 
WHAT’S THAT SMELL?

  Friday, September 13, 8:50 p.m.

  Conditions: Patiently waiting for bad luck to strike

  I sat at my desk in my room and I smelled something bad. I looked around my desk for the source of the aroma that was a cross between a rotting Jamaican patty and an overripe apple. When I reached down to open the bottom drawer, I realized something. It was me. I was the cause of the offending stink. Mom was going to have to start buying me some deodorant. I guess I was going through the “change” we’d discussed in health and career development class. I had been playing basketball with the older boys for a few days now, and today I’d played longer and harder than ever before. The fact that I could smell myself was proof.

  I looked forward to playing because, when I was on the court, it helped me forget about everything else. Today’s bonus was Samuel’s mom came to the court and brought Korean rice cakes for a snack. We hadn’t had much Korean food since Hammy’s accident, so my mouth started to drool when I saw what she was carrying.

  His mom gave me a little wave. “How’s your halmoni?” she asked.

  “Okay,” I answered. “She’s staying with us until she gets better. Her cast is supposed to come off soon.”

  “Good news,” she replied warmly as she handed Samuel the trays of rice cakes.

  Then she spoke quickly to Samuel in Korean. He looked uncomfortable and embarrassed but took the food anyway. It was nice to see that even cool kids let their parents humiliate them.

  We sat down on a bench to eat right away, because everybody knows Korean rice cakes taste good only the day they are made. Once you open the package, you have to eat it all or they get all hard and gross.

  “What’s that stuff?” Samuel’s friend Jay Zhang asked. “Looks weird.”

  “Did I offer any to you?” Samuel shot back. “You think some of that Chinese stuff ain’t weird? I have two words for you, Jay: chicken feet. You Chinese dudes got no business dissing Korean food!”