The Third Mushroom

by Jennifer L. Holm

  He pulls a thick sketchbook and a pencil out of his backpack and starts sketching the blob.

  “Why don’t we just take pictures?” I ask. “We can use my cell phone.”

  “We didn’t have camera phones in the old days. We learned by drawing.”

  “I’m not good at drawing,” I tell him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Just doodle. Drawing helps you notice details. It makes you think.”

  So I do what he says: I doodle the blob. It’s kind of fun. When I look over at my grandfather’s drawing, I’m surprised. The lines are perfect and precise. It’s amazing.

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re really good!”

  “Why are you so surprised?”

  “Because you’re a scientist.”

  He frowns. “I don’t know where you get these ideas. Scientists are very artistic. You should see Van Leeuwenhoek’s drawings.”

  “Van who?”

  “Antonie van Leeuwenhoek, the creator of the first practical microscope. He drew what he saw. Bacteria. Protozoans. Blood cells. His drawings of fleas are beautiful.”

  Fleas are beautiful? I don’t think Jonas would agree. He really hates flea medicine.

  “I used to study those illustrations endlessly in college. They were so detailed,” my grandfather says, his voice full of wonder. “You know, you can look at something a thousand times and then one day you see something new.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  My grandfather slaps his notebook shut. “Come on. Let’s go get a snack. I’m starving!”

  I gesture toward the stinky specimen on the tray. I feel nauseous. “You want to eat after this?” I ask him.

  “This is nothing,” he says. “Wait until you dissect a fetal pig in high school.”

  Ugh. Maybe Ben is onto something with the whole vegetarian thing after all.

  * * *

  —

  When we get home, I break out my grandmother’s recipe box. I like to cook, and I’ve been slowly working my way through it. There are a lot of recipes for casseroles and desserts I’ve never tried, like Bavarian Cream Cake and Noodle Pudding and something called Grasshopper Pie. Most of her recipes are simple, though. I decide to make her Best Banana Bread because we have all the ingredients in the house.

  As the bread bakes, I hang out at the kitchen table surfing the internet. Jonas is sitting in the window, his nose twitching, waiting. The reason why appears a moment later: a fat orange tabby tomcat meows outside the window. It’s Jonas’s best buddy. The cat belongs to our neighbor. He keeps odd hours, and we’ve never met him.

  Jonas jumps down and dashes out the cat door to play.

  Speaking of buddies, I’m curious about my grandfather’s blog. I expect it to be about science, but it’s not. It’s mostly just photographs of flowers. Hydrangeas and daylilies and daisies and wild roses. In some cases, he’s written a little note, like a diary entry, next to the photo. One says, “The air smells like lemons.” Another, “I miss snails.” And then there’s the cryptic note “Moss is underrated.” I have no idea what they mean.

  My grandfather’s last blog post is a close-up photo of a dandelion by the side of a busy highway. It’s a bright smudge of yellow with cars whizzing by in the background.

  The diary entry says simply:

  I see you everywhere.

  My grandfather walks into the kitchen just as I’ve taken the pan out of the oven.

  “What’s cooking?” he asks.

  “Banana bread.”

  “Your grandmother used to make the best banana bread,” he says.

  “It’s her recipe,” I tell him, slicing a piece. “Try it.”

  He takes a bite.

  “Is it as good as Grandma’s?”

  My grandfather swallows. “Nothing will ever be as good as your grandmother’s banana bread.”

  I feel a little let down.

  Then he gives me a small smile. “But this is still delicious.”

  “Why can’t we just look it up on the internet at home tonight?” I ask my grandfather.

  “The internet is full of false information,” he insists. “Nothing is vetted. I trust books.”

  We’re in the library. My grandfather is looking through various books for information on the axolotl. While I’m all for science, I’m also all for lunch. The only thing I had time to grab was a granola bar from a vending machine. I think of barbecue potato chips and Raj.

  “Ah, here it is,” my grandfather says, studying the book.

  I look over his shoulder.

  A photo that resembles our pink blob is on the page, only it looks more alive and cuter, with an almost cartoon-like expression. But the title under the picture says:

  Ambystoma mexicanum

  “I thought you said this was an axolotl,” I say.

  “That’s its common name. Ambystoma mexicanum is its genus and species.”

  “Genus and what?”

  “Genus and species are what scientists use to name living things. Genus is the category, and species is the classification. Naming is important. Without proper names, there’s no order in the universe.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “In any event, I believe our specimen is, in fact, an axolotl.”

  “But what about the extra legs?”

  He shakes his head. “They could be either a genetic variation or an environmental variation.”

  He looks down at the page again.

  “The most curious thing is that A. mexicanum isn’t endemic to the Philippines,” he adds. “This whole thing is a mystery.”

  “What’s a mystery?” a voice asks.

  My grandfather looks up, startled.

  It’s our new librarian, Mrs. Barrymore. She likes to wear bright retro fifties-style dresses with pop prints. Today, her dress has cherries on it. I’m not sure how old she is—late fifties or maybe early sixties? It’s kind of hard to tell with old people sometimes.

  “I’m helping my cousin do some research for science class,” I tell her.

  “I didn’t know you had a cousin at the school, Ellie,” she says.

  “This is Melvin,” I say. “Melvin, this is Mrs. Barrymore.”

  “It’s my distinct pleasure to meet you,” my grandfather says, extending his hand.

  Mrs. Barrymore shakes it and smiles.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Melvin,” she says. “Do you need help?”

  “I’m looking for more information on the axolotl. It’s a species of salamander.”

  “Well, let’s check the catalog and see what we can find.”

  “Thank you so much,” he murmurs as they walk off together.

  So much for lunch.

  * * *

  —

  “Medium black coffee for Melvin!” the guy behind the counter shouts.

  My grandfather grabs the steaming cup and starts drinking right away. I don’t know any teenager who takes their coffee black. I always get a latte with extra foam and caramel and lots of sugar. Anything to mask the bitterness.

  We’ve stopped at a sandwich shop near the school to get a snack. After my sad granola bar lunch, I’m starving. I get a grilled cheese sandwich, and my grandfather gets a triple-decker turkey club, a side of fries, a frosted doughnut, a piece of coffee cake, and a bowl of chili. We take our food to a small table. There is a cheery little vase of flowers: blue carnations.

  I watch my grandfather scarf down his food in short order.

  “That’s a lot of food,” I point out.

  “It’s not my fault,” he says. “It’s the Puberty.”

  My grandfather says “the Puberty” like it’s a disease.

  I stare at the carnations. They make me think.

  “What if the axolotl grew the extra legs be
cause it ate something?” I ask. “You know, like how you use blue food coloring on flowers. The flower drinks it, and it turns the white petals blue.”

  “Go on,” my grandfather says.

  “Maybe our science project could be to figure out if the extra legs are from the environment.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “I guess we use the axolotl as food and see what happens.”

  My grandfather looks impressed. “Very nice. I like it. We’ll need to pick up some supplies. We’ll go tomorrow after school.”

  After we’ve finished eating, my grandfather pays up. As we’re walking out the door, Brianna comes in. Her eyes widen when she sees my grandfather.

  “Melvin!” she says. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  “Do I know you?” he asks.

  “You remember Brianna, right, Melvin?” I ask him.

  He stares at her for a moment. “Is this the girl you went to kindergarten with?”

  Brianna laughs. “Yes! Ellie and I were in the same kindergarten class! That’s so cute that you know that!”

  My grandfather turns to me. “Let’s go.”

  Then he walks out the door.

  “See you at school,” I tell her, and give her an awkward wave.

  * * *

  —

  My mom says Jonas acts like a teenager. He comes and goes as he pleases and sleeps all the time. Right now he’s curled up between my mom and me on the couch on his fuzzy blanket. His eyes follow the action on the television screen.

  “I think he’s really part human,” my mom observes.

  We have an ongoing debate about Jonas’s breed. His coat is thick and long, so I think he’s got some Maine coon. My dad thinks he’s part Siamese because he’s so chatty. Ben swears he’s a Norwegian forest cat.

  “Maybe he’s a new breed? Feline humanus,” I say.

  Mom looks at me.

  “Genus and species. The genus is feline and the species is human. Get it? It’s science.”

  She shakes her head. “You and your grandfather are two peas in a pod.” Then she adds, “At least your socks don’t smell as bad as his.”

  His socks are pretty stinky.

  “I wonder how Ben’s going to deal with having him here,” my mom says.

  “He’ll be fine with it.”

  But she looks a little worried. “I don’t know. He already became an instant stepdad to you.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re easygoing,” my mom says. “I keep waiting for your teenage angst to hit, but it hasn’t so far.”

  “Grandpa’s easygoing, too,” I assure her.

  My mom scoffs.

  Just then my grandfather stomps into the den holding out a light-pink polo shirt.

  “Look at this! It’s pink!” he shouts.

  “It certainly is, Dad,” my mom says.

  “It’s supposed to be white.” He looks pointedly at my mom and me. “Somebody left a red sock in the washing machine.”

  “Real men wear pink,” my mom jokes.

  He glares at her and then stomps out.

  She turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “Easygoing?”

  “It’s probably because of his genus and species,” I tell her. “Teenage boyus.”

  Raj is late, so I’m holding our usual spot on the lunch court and freezing to death.

  When I left the house this morning, it was warm and sunny, so I didn’t bother to wear a jacket over my T-shirt. By the time lunch rolls around, it’s cold and windy. I’m tempted to go fish something out of the Lost and Found box. But then I remember my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Bennett, and how she used to call it the Lice and Found box, and I think better of it.

  Raj appears with a tray. “Sorry. I had to turn in some work.” He sits down and slides the potato chips to me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “How’s it going with Melvin?”

  “Pretty good. We figured out the science project.”

  “You two should get matching lab coats.”

  Actually, any kind of coat sounds great to me right about now. I shiver when a gust of wind blows across the lunch court.

  Raj frowns. He takes off his thick black leather jacket and hands it to me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to wave it away.

  “You don’t look fine. You look freezing,” he says, and pushes the jacket at me. “Besides, I’m wearing a fleece.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur. I slip on his jacket. It feels like a warm hug.

  “So, do you want to just meet me in the multipurpose room after school?”

  “After school?”

  “The chess tournament. You’re coming, right?”

  In all the excitement with my grandfather, I totally forgot.

  “We have to pick up supplies today for the science fair project,” I say.

  “No big deal,” Raj says, but he sounds disappointed.

  “When’s the next one?”

  “Week after next.”

  “I’ll come to that one!” I tell him. “I promise I won’t forget.”

  He gives me a small smile. “That works.”

  The bell rings and I hand him back his coat. I miss it already.

  “Have fun with Melvin after school,” he says. Then he makes a face. “Although I don’t think ‘fun’ and ‘Melvin’ exactly go together.”

  I laugh.

  * * *

  —

  After school, my grandfather and I catch a bus across town.

  “I’m so sick of taking buses everywhere,” he complains. “I miss having a car.”

  “You should be able to get your driver’s license in a few years,” I say.

  “I suppose so.” He looks wistfully out the window. “My first car was a beat-up used Chevrolet. What I really wanted was a Ford Thunderbird. In Aquatone Blue. It had a V-8 engine. Of course, there was no way I could afford that when I was a teenager.”

  The bus drops us off at a little strip mall. There’s a thrift store. A doughnut shop. A pet store. A tattoo parlor.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask. “I thought we were getting supplies.”

  “We are,” my grandfather says.

  I follow him into the pet store. It’s quiet and dim inside. A man behind the counter looks up from his newspaper and waves.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” he says.

  There aren’t a lot of animals for sale; it’s mostly pet supplies. Litter, food, flea treatments. The cat aisle has a nice selection of toys.

  My grandfather strides past the snakes and frogs and heads straight to the back of the store. He stops in front of a glass enclosure full of mice. It has a sign that announces MICE ARE NICE!

  Most of the mice are sleeping, curled up next to each other, their pink tails twitching. One lone mouse is darting around the cage, sniffing with his nose in the air, rubbing against the glass. My grandfather studies them.

  “I think we should get five or so,” he says.

  I don’t understand what he’s talking about. “You want to get mice?”

  “How else are we going to test your theory?” he asks. “We’ll feed the axolotl to the mice.”

  My mouth drops open. “And then what?”

  “We’ll observe whether they’re affected by it. I imagine we’ll dissect them after—”

  “Dissect them?”

  I know he did experiments using mice when he was working as a scientist, but I can’t imagine testing something on such a defenseless animal.

  “I thought we were testing it on a plant or a flower,” I say.

  “Mice are standard test subjects,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “But it’s wrong,” I say. “They’re so cute!”

&
nbsp; “The cure for cancer may be discovered by experimenting on a ‘cute’ mouse one day.”

  The store clerk walks toward us.

  “You want some help?” he calls. “The mice are on sale. Ten dollars each. I can give you a deal if you buy a few.”

  I shake my head at my grandfather.

  Something crosses his face.

  “Fine,” he mutters. He turns to the clerk. “No, thank you.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa,” I tell him.

  “I guess we’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way,” my grandfather says.

  “Old-fashioned way?” I ask.

  “We’ll use Drosophila melanogaster.”

  “What’s that?” I’m worried it’s the genus and species name for something else cute, like a guinea pig or a hamster.

  “Fruit flies. Do you have any deep feelings about them?”

  I think for a moment. Does anyone have warm and fuzzy feelings about flies?

  “I don’t think so,” I say, shaking my head slowly.

  “Well, that’s a relief.” An excited look crosses his face. “Come to think of it, I haven’t worked with fruit flies for years now. This is going to be a lot of fun!”

  Then I remember what Raj said.

  Only my grandfather would think fruit flies are fun.

  We get a starter pack of fruit flies from the pet store, but my grandfather tells me we’re going to need a lot more.

  “We’ll have to breed them ourselves,” he says.

  “How?”

  “We’re going to make fruit fly media. The fruit flies will lay their eggs in it, and then the larvae will eat it.”

  “It’s kind of like fruit fly baby food,” I joke.

  “In a manner of speaking,” my grandfather agrees.

  He makes a list of supplies for raising the fruit flies. It’s all basic stuff that you can get at a grocery store. The timing is perfect because our fridge is empty and we need to do a shop anyway.

  “Make sure you get the ripest bananas you can find,” he instructs me. “They’re the key to the culture.”