My Life in the Fish Tank

by Barbara Dee

  Scarlett made it sound like she was the only one worried. I almost said so, but I didn’t want to start an argument in front of Aiden.

  “And it would be nice if Dad came home for supper once in a while, instead of hiding at the office.” Scarlett loomed over the pot. “No offense, but I’m not eating whatever this is supposed to be.”

  “It’s tuna surprise,” Aiden announced.

  “Seriously? I always thought that was a joke.”

  “See?” Aiden told me.

  “I’m sure it’s delicious,” I said. “Full of protein. And if you don’t want any, Scar, more for the rest of us.”

  Scarlett made a barf face. “Hate to break it to you, Zin, but no one is eating this. Why don’t we just order a pizza?”

  “Could we?” Aiden begged her. “Please?”

  The little traitor.

  “Do what you want, guys,” I said in an airy way. “I’m having tuna surprise. And I bet Mom and Dad will at least try it.”

  “Hey, Zinny, don’t guilt them, okay? They’re dealing with enough.” Scarlett flashed her eyes at me, like the two of us were keeping a secret from Aiden, which we obviously weren’t.

  I glared back.

  “Anyway,” Scarlett continued, “I’m sure it tastes like year-old sewage.”

  That did it. I grabbed the spoon from Aiden’s hand, dipped it in the sauce, blew on the hot liquid, and sipped. At first it was sweet and tomatoey. But a second later it fizzed on my tongue in an alarming way. Yeow, I thought. Maybe that chicken stock was older than I thought.

  I dumped the whole thing down the sink.

  Then I poked Aiden with the spoon. “Hey, here’s a topic: How to Survive Tuna Surprise,” I murmured, making my eyebrows go all Evil Mastermind.

  He yelped out a laugh.

  Scarlett, who was phoning in the pizza order, frowned at us to be quiet.

  The Next Day

  I knocked on the door of the lab.

  “Oh, hi, Zinny!” Ms. Molina’s eyes were bright behind her black glasses, and her thick brown hair flopped over her shoulder. She was the sort of person who always looked pretty even though she didn’t care about looking pretty. At least, that was how it seemed to me.

  “Done with lunch already?” she asked, smiling.

  “Actually, I wasn’t hungry,” I said.

  “You didn’t go to lunch?”

  I shook my head. Lunch meant sitting with Kailani and Maisie. And that meant:

  1) Talking about James Ramos, or

  2) Specifically not talking about James Ramos, or

  3) Talking about Gabriel, or

  4) Talking about why we weren’t talking about Gabriel.

  The truth was, I couldn’t deal with any of those options. That morning Maisie, Kailani, and I had walked to school like always. And though they’d chatted the whole time about some web show they were both watching, I couldn’t stop reading their thought balloons: See, Zinny? Look at us! We’re not asking about your brother, and we’re even having a non–James Ramos conversation! Woohoo!

  But now Ms. Molina was frowning at me. “Well, you should definitely eat something, Zinny. If you’re hungry later, you won’t pay good attention in class.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will,” I protested. “I always pay attention in science. It’s my favorite subject.”

  “I had a feeling.” She handed me what was left of her sandwich. “Almond butter and banana on semolina,” she explained. “You’re not allergic to nuts? Or gluten?”

  I shook my head. “But really, you don’t have to—”

  “That’s okay, I’m stuffed. Today is Mr. Patrick’s birthday. Have you ever chatted with him?”

  I shook my head. Mr. Patrick was a new guidance counselor. He had a semi-bald head and wore a lot of flannel shirts. But that was all I knew about him.

  “Well, he’s really nice,” Ms. Molina said. “And today’s his birthday, so he brought in a birthday cake for the teachers’ lounge. Of course, I had a huge slice just to be polite, and also because, you know, chocolate.” She grinned. “Hey, wanna see something?”

  She beckoned me over to her laptop. On the screen was a photo of a fuzzy yellow spider. “My dream pet. Maybe not for the classroom, though, because they’re nocturnal.”

  “Your dream pet is a bug?”

  She laughed. “It’s not a ‘bug,’ Zinny. It’s a Rio Grande gold tarantula from Texas. They’re completely docile, but they’ll bite you in self-defense. The venom’s not poisonous, though. Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  Use “they” if you’re not sure of the gender. I chewed on the sandwich. “How do you know it’s a she?”

  “Oh, because the females are bigger than the males. And listen to the scientific name: Aphonopelma moderatum. Don’t you just love the ring of that?”

  One of my favorite things about Ms. Molina was how much she cared about scientific names for things. Like she believed that if you just knew the right words, you could unlock a whole treasure box of information. I wondered if all scientists felt the way Ms. Molina did. It was comforting to think about, really.

  Ms. Molina was smiling at me as I swallowed a blob of banana. “So, Zinny. Are you excited about our upcoming animal study?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know we were doing one,” I admitted.

  “Oh yes! It’s the best part of the seventh grade curriculum. Actual animal guests in our classroom! In their own special tanks! Of course, I can’t reveal their identity quite yet. But soon.” She closed out of the tarantula page. “So. Anything else I can do for you today?”

  I blushed. Ms. Molina had never asked that question before; she’d always just let me hang out with her. But maybe I’d blown it today by showing up at the start of lunch period. Also stealing her sandwich.

  As I watched her lean over her sunny windowsill to examine a weird-looking cactus she was growing, my brain scrambled for a reason to be there.

  “Actually, I was thinking about herbs,” I blurted.

  She turned to me with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m thinking of planting a few,” I said quickly. “By our house. And I mean, if it’s not convenient for you, or you don’t know about them, I could just look them up online. But I thought maybe, since you’re so into plants and everything—”

  By now I was feeling completely stupid. Why was I bothering her with this?

  But Ms. Molina just nodded. “Well, to be honest, Zinny, I’ve never grown any herbs before. I’m actually more of a cacti-and-succulents person. But I’d love to learn about them with you. May I ask why the interest?”

  “I don’t know. Spring is coming pretty soon, right? And the weather’s been so warm lately. And rainy. So I thought my mom and I… maybe we could grow some herbs. And use them for cooking together. As a sort of project.”

  As I said this, I imagined Ms. Molina’s thought balloon: A project with her mom? Oh, of course—that’s obviously about her brother.

  But if Ms. Molina was thinking this, that wasn’t what she said. “What a lovely idea. I’d be delighted to help. Tell me about your garden.”

  “We don’t have one. We used to, but this year, my mom’s been really busy…” I couldn’t finish.

  Ms. Molina started typing into her laptop again. “What’s your exposure?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which way does your house face? North, south…”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay.” She smiled patiently. “Do you get morning sun or afternoon?”

  “Afternoon. Except when it’s raining.”

  “Yes, Zinny, that’s the norm: no sun when it’s raining. Although it’s not strict scientific law.”

  I blushed again. She was teasing me, but in a nice, teachery sort of way.

  About twenty minutes later, we had a list of herbs to try growing: thyme, bay, sage, rosemary, lavender. Ideally, we should wait a month or so, Ms. Molina said; but if the weather stayed warm over the next few weeks, we could try to plant early, because th
ese herbs were all hardy. Ms. Molina said she’d talk to her tia Marisol, who owned a plant nursery, and let me know which were in stock. (“Don’t worry, she always gives me the niece discount,” Ms. Molina said, winking.)

  She also printed out a list of the scientific names, which I recited to myself the rest of the afternoon. A sort of song, or maybe a kind of chant: Laurus nobilis. Thymus vulgaris. Salvia officinalis. Salvia rosmarinus. Lavandula, lavandula, lavandula.

  Late January

  About three weeks after Gabriel arrived at Redwoods Village, they said the whole family was allowed to visit. I say “allowed” because they didn’t let us come before then, for reasons I didn’t understand and Scarlett was convinced were against the law.

  “He’s not in jail,” she kept saying. “He didn’t commit a crime. And they have no business stealing his phone!”

  “They didn’t steal it, sweetheart,” Dad said. “They’ll give it back when they think he’s ready.”

  “They just want him in a good place,” Mom said.

  “Yeah?” Scarlett snapped. “Then he shouldn’t be there. Redwood Town, or whatever they’re calling it.”

  “Redwoods Village,” Mom corrected her. “I mean in a good place mentally. Stable. And ready for a productive family visit.”

  Productive family visit. Since when did family visits need to be “productive”?

  We drove up there on a Friday night. It was a two-hour trip, and by the time we arrived at the motel, Mom said it was too late to see Gabriel, so we’d meet him in the morning for breakfast.

  “Can we go to IHOP?” Aiden begged.

  “No, sweetheart. We’ll eat with him in the dining hall. Then Dad and I have a therapy session with Gabe and his doctor.”

  Scarlett and I locked eyes. So this was what Mom meant by “productive family visit.” It wasn’t going to be normal at all.

  “Ugh, I wish I hadn’t come,” Scarlett murmured. And I didn’t even tell her not to say it.

  * * *

  The next morning at exactly nine o’clock, we arrived at the Redwoods Village dining hall. It was a large room with big windows and exposed beams, the kind that are supposed to look cabin-y and cozy. But the dining hall still had the loud, clattery sound of a school lunchroom, and the same sort of chemical smell, like it had just been sprayed with Lysol.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Dad exclaimed. It was a bright, cheery voice I hadn’t heard in a long time; I couldn’t help feeling he’d kept it from us, hidden away. Almost like he thought the rest of us didn’t deserve it or something. But right away I was sorry that I had this idea.

  I watched Dad’s face light up as he looked across the dining hall. “Oh hey—is that Gabe?”

  Mom made a small sound like a trapped bird. Then she ran across the dining room to where Gabriel was sitting by himself. She threw her arms around him and hugged.

  The rest of us followed quickly.

  Gabriel stood and hugged us one by one. His hair was long and stringy and he still looked thin and pale, although maybe not as flattened as he’d seemed back at home. Which was just a few weeks ago—although really, with Abnormal Standard Time, how could you be sure?

  For a long, weird moment we all just stared at him. Kind of like he was one of Ms. Molina’s creatures in a small glass tank, I thought.

  “So, is anybody hungry?” Dad finally said in the same bright, cheery voice.

  “Me!” Aiden shouted.

  We grabbed trays and food—we kids had pancakes, Mom had a toasted bagel, and Dad had scrambled eggs and bacon.

  “This is way better than IHOP,” Aiden said through a mouthful of pancake.

  “Yeah, except it’s not the normal breakfast around here,” Gabriel said. He even smiled at Aiden, although his eyes were tired. “This is visitor food.”

  “But meals are okay generally?” Mom asked.

  Gabriel shrugged. “I’d rather eat anywhere else. Be anywhere else. To be perfectly honest.”

  Scarlett’s eyes met mine.

  We talked about random things as we ate—the Golden State Warriors (Gabriel’s favorite basketball team), how to order Gabriel some new sneakers. Then Dad announced it was time for their therapy session. So Scarlett, Aiden, and I could walk the grounds, or “park ourselves” in the recreation room “for a bit.” And afterward, Dad said eagerly, maybe Gabriel could take us for a tour? We could all see his room, and Dad had been wanting to check out the rock wall and the ropes course. And maybe also the aquatics center—

  “Dad, it’s not college,” Gabriel grumbled.

  The too-bright light went out of Dad’s eyes. “Yes, I know that, Gabe,” he said.

  Scarlett looked at me again.

  * * *

  Scarlett, Aiden, and I walked around the main building twice; then Scarlett complained her shoes were pinching. So we came back inside and wandered the first floor, past the mindfulness room, the arts center, and a door labeled MASSAGE / ACUPUNCTURE / SALON. By then I had the feeling that Redwoods Village was a lot less fancy than all these signs on the doors suggested. And anyway, it wasn’t a village at all, just four box-shaped buildings in the middle of nowhere, with an actual redwood forest twenty miles away.

  Finally we found the indoor recreation center, which was basically a room with an old GameCube, a Ping-Pong table, and shelves with moldy-looking board games. Two teen girls were playing one of the Mario Kart games. I wondered if they had what Gabriel did—bipolar disorder. You couldn’t tell just by looking.

  Aiden made me play Ping-Pong with him while Scarlett read her phone. After a while Aiden said he wanted to watch the video game, so Scarlett and I started playing Scrabble.

  Once when it was her turn, Scarlett coughed a few times. When Aiden didn’t turn around, she leaned across the board and spoke to me in a quiet voice. “Oh, by the way, Zinny. I wanted to tell you something. I’m seeing a therapist.”

  “You are?”

  “Uh-huh. Mom made me. But I told her I’d see somebody only if she did too.”

  I stared at my sister. “You told Mom she should see a therapist?”

  “Shh,” Scarlett said. “Well, yeah. Considering how stressed she’s been since Gabriel’s accident, I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?”

  I nodded. But I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: Weren’t we supposed to not talk about Gabriel? To anyone, especially total strangers? Mom was the one who’d told us that, so it seemed weird for Scarlett to tell her to talk to somebody. And even weirder that Mom would listen.

  Although probably therapists didn’t count as “total strangers.”

  “Anyway,” Scarlett was saying, “Mom knew a social worker through her school, and I saw her on Thursday. She’s pretty nice, actually. Her name is Elyse.”

  I chewed my lip. Why is Scarlett telling me this right now? Why here? Does she think she’s going crazy too?

  Maybe we all are. Including Mom. Including Dad.

  And if that’s true, would talking about it even help?

  “Your turn, Zinny,” Scarlett said, poking my arm.

  I made the word SECRET.

  * * *

  After way longer than “a bit,” Mom, Dad, and Gabriel showed up, looking exhausted. Mom’s eyes were red, and she was sniffling into a damp-looking tissue.

  “How was your session?” Scarlett asked.

  “Good,” Dad said. His voice was quiet. Back to the way he sounded most of the time these days. “Helpful, I think.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Mom said, wiping her nose.

  I searched Gabriel’s face, but there weren’t any clues.

  “Wanna play Ping-Pong, Gabriel?” Aiden asked him. “I beat Zinny eleven times.”

  “And I beat you fifteen,” I reminded him.

  Gabriel reached over and mussed Aiden’s hair. “No offense, buddy. I’m really glad to see you all and everything, but right now I just want to rest.”

  “That’s fine,” Mom said quickly. “Of course, sweetheart.”

  “The me
ds make you tired?” Dad asked.

  “A little. Less than they did at first. Anyway.” Suddenly Gabriel threw his arms around me. “I’m glad you came, Monkeygirl.”

  “Me too,” I managed to say.

  He hugged Aiden, then Scarlett.

  “You need to get out of here,” Scarlett told him.

  “I’m trying,” Gabriel said.

  The whole drive home, the five of us barely talked. And when Scarlett and I were back in our bedroom, she slammed the door behind us.

  “Well, that’s the last time I’m visiting that place,” she said.

  Six Years Before, Early Saturday Morning

  The scene: Gabriel (age twelve), Scarlett (age ten), Aiden (age two), and me (age six) are all smooshed together on the TV room sofa. Gabriel has the remote set on mute as we watch the worst show ever on Cartoon Network: My Dog, Drools. Gabriel does the voice for Captain Bob, because he’s the oldest. Scarlett does his wisecracking sidekick, Taffy. I’m the house robot, Click. And Aiden, who doesn’t talk much yet, is Drools.

  GABRIEL: Hey, that looks like a haunted house! We should totally sneak inside and explore it without any weapons or reinforcements.

  SCARLETT: Not me, Captain Bob. I have an important dentist appointment.

  GABRIEL: Who cares about your one-eyed dentist, Taffy? There could be ghosts in that spooky attic! And zombies! And brain-eating amoebas!

  ME: Gabriel, don’t say that.

  SCARLETT: He’s only kidding, Zinny.

  ME: Okay. But I’m not playing if he says that.

  GABRIEL: Delete that! There are definitely no brain-eating amoebas in that haunted house, Taffy! But wait, who’s that behind us? With the laser pointer?

  SCARLETT: It’s only a firefly, Captain Bob.

  GABRIEL: Not in the middle of the day! It’s got to be an alien adversary of unknown origin! Let’s ask Click to identify it for us! (Pokes me.)

  ME (robot voice): Meep. Beep. One thousand twenty-three million.

  GABRIEL: Exactly as I thought, Taffy! Click is saying the alien is from the planet Zeerocks! And it’s here to turn us all into tofu!