The Black Sheep (11 page)

“There are no cameras here,” Mitch says, glaring at me. “At least, there weren't until you started stalking me.”

Stalking him! I turn to leave, but Carrie grabs my wrist. “Mitch, Kendra wants you to talk to Lisa about lifting her ban at the aquarium.”

Mitch pops an entire brownie into his mouth before asking almost unintelligibly, “Why doesn't Kendra ask me that herself?”

I consider swatting him in the head with Calvin's plastic light saber, but I know I'm going to have to suck it up. “Will you talk to Lisa for me?”

He gives Calvin a chocolately grin. “Did you hear the magic word?”

“I don't think I did,” Calvin says, helping himself to a second brownie.

I grit my teeth. “Please?”

Mitch stalls a bit longer before saying, “I guess I could try. Lisa and I have plans tomorrow anyway.”

I wonder if he means a date, but he starts to explain—to Calvin, not me—that Lisa is collecting water and marine vegetation samples from locations along the coast as part of her graduate fieldwork. So far, she's found that toxin levels are higher the closer you get to the Boulder Beach Golf Club. Her theory is that this is caused by runoff from the pesticides and fertilizers used to keep the club's fairways green.

A few days ago, Lisa learned that Boulder Beach has bought a tract of prime oceanfront property and plans to move its fourteenth hole to this new location. Because it will sit above a partially enclosed cove, she believes the “chemical soup” will be concentrated enough to poison the food chain larger marine mammals depend upon. What's more, the fertilizer runoff may foster kelp growth, which will attract more otters to the area.

“Will otters die from eating the tainted food?” Carrie asks.

“It's possible,” Mitch says. “And the toxins could also affect their ability to reproduce. Either way, it won't help build their population.”

“I'm sure the club's owners wouldn't move the hole if they knew it would cause so much damage,” I say.

Mitch rolls his eyes. “The club spent millions on that land. They're not going to care about a few otters more or less.”

“Can't Lisa at least call the owners and talk about it?” I ask.

“She has her own plan,” he says. “She's going to collect evidence and then approach the Ocean Conservancy to lobby the state to shut down the fourteenth hole.”

“But won't that take years?”

He nods.

“Then forget science. Why doesn't she start up a protest group instead?”

“Because she's an academic, not an activist.”

“Maybe we could do it.”

“We?” Calvin asks.

Mitch doesn't say anything, so I keep talking. “Yeah. Maybe we can find a way to make them care. We can't give in to some rich guy swinging an eighteen-carat gold club.”

“Gold clubs would bend,” Mitch says.

Why do guys take everything so literally? “My point is that animals don't have a voice. We need to raise ours for them.” I'm really starting to warm up to the idea now.

He isn't convinced. “I've watched my parents take on the establishment, and I know a battle like that can take years, too. Science might actually be faster.”

“That sounds pretty cynical coming from someone who said he wants to leave this planet a little better for the next guy,” I say.

He stares over my shoulder, lost in thought. Finally he says, “I guess it wouldn't hurt to try.”

Carrie points to the brownie in his hand. “He's not eating. That means he thinks it's a great idea.”

He bites into the brownie. “It means it's worth exploring.”

“In other words,” Carrie translates, “Kendra, you're brilliant.”

Mitch starts packing up his computer. “I'll run it by Lisa.”

“Why look, your laptop is suddenly fixed,” I say. “It's like magic. If you'd prefer to climb out the window, I can carry it home for you.”

“You're funny,” he says, leading me into the hall.

“And also brilliant,” Carrie yells after us.

“Get out of my room,” Calvin tells her. “We were having a good time until you showed up.”

Mitch stands behind me, watching with his arms crossed as I tape a flyer to a lamppost on Alvarado Street.

“Add more tape,” he says. “Gale force winds can spring up out of nowhere.”

He's being sarcastic, but I wrap another yard of clear packing tape around the post anyway. “I'm not taking any chances. We want a good turnout.”

The flyers are advertising the first meeting of our new protest group, Team 14.

By “our,” I really mean Lisa's. And by “protest,” I really mean “public education.”

Lisa initially dismissed the idea, probably because Mitch told her it was mine. Once she recognized the endless opportunities it would give her to stun people with her knowledge and credentials, however, she was on it like an otter on a pound of squid. She even gave in when Mitch pressured her to let me come back to the aquarium, but only after reminding him that he's supposed to supervise me.

This time he's taking that order more seriously, because he volunteered to come with me to put up posters today. Bob and Chili are shadowing us, but Judy is sleeping off the margaritas she enjoyed at Paco's grand opening.

I twist the tape gun to the side and try to slice the thick tape against the sharp edge. The tape pops out of its dispenser, uncoiling as it hits the ground. I gather it up until it's wadded together in a filthy ball.

“May I?” Mitch asks.

“No,” I say, wrestling with the tape a bit longer. “I can handle it.”

“Obviously,” he says, whipping out a pocketknife and cutting the tape. “But fortunately you don't have to do it alone, because I, Mitch Mulligan, am a postering expert, and I'm willing to share my techniques with you at no cost.”

“Zoom in, Bob,” I say. “This is going to be gripping.”

Mitch holds a poster against the window of a diner. “First, select a good location and place the poster at eye level. Then take out your
properly loaded
tape gun, which makes dispensing a breeze. When
im
properly loaded…well, you saw what happened.” With a deft movement, he secures a corner of the flyer to the window with a small piece of tape. “It's all in the angle and the wrist.”

While Mitch is addressing the camera, a man in a white apron comes up to the window inside the diner and raps sharply on the glass. Mitch jumps, sending his tape gun crashing to the sidewalk.

The man opens the door. “What are you doing to my window?”

Mitch offers the man a flyer. “We're promoting—”

“I don't want to hear it,” the man says. “You're defacing private property. I'm calling the cops.”

“No need, sir,” I interject. “We'll take it down.”

The man glances from me to the cameras and back again. “I recognize you. You're that kid from
The Black Sheep
.”

I step forward to shake his hand. “Kendra Bishop.”

“Love the show,” the guy says. “Especially because it's local. When you said good-bye to your little otter friend…”—he pauses to thump a fist against his heart—“it got me right here.”

I squirt a squiggly line of ketchup across my French fries and look up at Mitch, who's sitting opposite me in the booth. “Is this okay? Or do you want to demonstrate the proper technique?”

“If you take that attitude, there's nothing I can do to help you,” he says, grinning as he bites into a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I don't need help, I'm doing fine on my own,” I say, pointing to the row of flyers across the diner's window, plus the ones on the bulletin board behind the counter. “You're the one who almost ended up in custody.”

“He wouldn't have called the cops,” Mitch scoffs.

“Because I won him over,” I say. After I signed the owner's apron and had my picture taken with him, he offered all of us a free meal. Bob and Chili were only too happy to put down their equipment and get busy on a couple of burgers. “I know it hurts to thank me, but—”

“For someone who claims she didn't join the show for the fame, you seem to enjoy the attention.”

“For someone with such high principles, you seem to be enjoying your free lunch,” I counter.

“You've got a point,” he says. After chewing in silence a moment, he adds, “Maybe I overreacted about the whole kayaking thing.”

“Overreacted?” I say. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Judy pulled her circus into my private—”

“I know and I felt awful about it,” I interrupt. “But you're going to have to lighten up about the crew if we're working on Team Fourteen together. I'm under contract, as Judy keeps reminding me, and I can't control her.”

He nods reluctantly. “Okay.”

“And would it kill you to be a little less grumpy?”

“Grumpy?” He looks surprised. “That's just who I am.”

“That's not always who you are,” I say. He tries to sprinkle vinegar on my fries, and I pull them away. “Promise.”

“I promise to
try
not to be grumpy.”

I push the fries toward him. “Good. Now, promise to take everything I say seriously and admit that I'm smarter than you.”

“Who asked what time otters get up?”

Black Sheep Rule Number Thirteen:
Quit while you're ahead
.

The diner's owner plies Bob and Chili with more pie at my request, thereby giving Mitch and me a little more time to chat.

“Since you're so smart, you must have big plans for your future,” Mitch says.

“Plans?” I can't even imagine what life will be like after the show ends and I'm back in New York. I want it to be different from what I left behind, but I'm not entirely sure how yet. “You mean, when I graduate from high school?”

He nods. “You must have thought about it.”

“Not really.” I wish I had a more interesting answer, because he's known what he wants to do with his life since he was Egg's age. “If I hadn't come to California, I probably would have given in to my parents and become a banker.”

“But you did come, so now what?”

“I'm still figuring it out, but banking is officially off the list.”

Black Sheep Rule Number Fourteen:
Design your own future
.

“Maybe you could be an art critic for
The New York Times
,” Mitch suggests.

I look up to see if he's making fun of me, but he appears to be serious. “An art critic?”

“Why not? You know a lot about art and you have opinions.”

He thinks I have opinions! Opinions are good. Opinions mean I have a personality. “Well, I don't know enough for
that
.”

“Maybe not yet, but you could study art in college. If you're interested enough, you'll want to learn all there is to know. At least, that's been my experience.”

He reaches for the remains of my blueberry pie and finishes it in three mouthfuls. It astounds me how much he can eat, but I'm glad he feels comfortable enough with me now to take food off my plate.

“I'm not sure I'm
that
interested in art.”

“Well, think of something else, then. My parents always tell us to ‘follow our passion.'”

Passion? I don't even know what passion feels like. But as I watch Mitch drink the rest of my soda, it occurs to me that I might get the chance to find out while I'm here.

I
n just a few short days, Team 14 has grown to two dozen members. Lisa has set up the “head office” in the only room at the aquarium big enough to hold us and the equipment we need: the supply room. There are no windows and it smells like stale otter, but it has phones, two computers, and space for everyone to work. At the moment, Carrie and Meadow are stuffing envelopes with flyers, while Tia and a few others are painting posters.

The janitor wheels in another desk. “Where do you want it, Kendra?”

I'm the one in charge right now, because Lisa took Mitch with her to gather more samples. I point to Tia, who is sitting on the floor using an empty otter kennel as a makeshift work surface. “Over there, please.”

Judy hops onto the desk to claim it when it comes off the dolly. “Finally!”

Tia stares at her.

“What, you think you've got it bad?” Judy asks. “I thought I'd seen the last of these clammy walls, but if KB insists on running her little campaign out of here, I'm going to need somewhere to keep my things.” She sets her coffee cup on the desk and slides her purse into a drawer.

“Judy, off,” I say, crossing the room. Tia has absolutely no interest in marine life, but she was kind enough to volunteer her time and her artistic talent. The girl deserves a desk. “You can store your stuff in my desk.”

“Excuse me, Miss Bossy Boots.” Judy follows me back to my desk. “I am the producer of this show. I should have my own desk.”

“I'm the star of your show and I should have my own bedroom, but that didn't happen either, did it?” I ask. “It's a tight squeeze here, so we have to share. Which reminds me, since you're taking up space, how about rolling up your sleeves to help?”

“I'm here to document, not participate, remember?”

“I notice you participate when you feel like it. When there's free booze, for example.”

“Well, excuse me if I'm not moved by seals. If you'd found a more compelling cause, I might be stuffing some envelopes.”

I slap a pile of flyers and another of envelopes in front of her. “I want to see some paper cuts, fast.”

“And I want to see an attitude adjustment, now. This is a supply room, KB, not the White House.” She tosses the envelopes back to me. “You haven't been yourself since you joined this group.”

I take that as a compliment. If Judy can't accept the new Kendra Bishop—the one who has the guts to transform herself from low-key conformist into hell-raising activist—that's her problem. All I'd seriously aspired to with Black Sheepism was to conquer my fears on what the rest of the flock thought about me. I wanted to become more independent, but I never had any ambition to lead the flock myself. Yet, here I am, with people looking to me for advice and direction.

“Kendra,” Meadow says, “can I call the golf club?”

“I think it's better if I keep trying,” I tell her. Meadow looks disappointed. Though only ten, she has none of my insecurities. Wait till she hits puberty. “Hey,” I say, leaning in for a closer look. “Are those eyelashes fake?”

“They're real,” she says, “just not mine. Your
Glamour
magazine said long lashes would make my eyes look bigger.” She plucks at the strands of hair stuck to her high-gloss lips.

“Did
Glamour
also say my lip gloss would make your lips look bigger? Or that my blue T-shirt would make your—”

Mitch and Calvin's arrival prevents me from getting more graphic.

“Where's Lisa?” I ask.

“Dropping off samples at the lab,” Mitch says. He pushes Calvin toward a computer. “Show Kendra what you've done.”

Calvin types a Web address, and the brand new Team 14 Web site pops up.

I click through the site. “This is fantastic.”

“How goes the battle on the home front?” Mitch asks.

Eager to prove that I have the skills to do more than arrange desks, I tell him about my calls to the president of the Boulder Beach Golf Club.

“How did it go?” he asks.

I shake my head regretfully. Not only has the president refused to take my call, but the vice president and all manner of lower-ranking plebes have dissed me, too. I ended up delivering my spiel about moving the fourteenth hole to the receptionist in the hopes that she'd convey the message to her higher-ups. That's when she asked me to stop pestering them with “nuisance calls.”

“It's so rude,” I tell Mitch. “They won't even listen to me.”

Mitch nods toward the
Black Sheep
cameras. “Let's talk about it later.”

Glancing at Bob and Chili, it occurs to me that there's more than one way to “educate” people about an issue. “I don't care if they're filming this,” I say. “I want the public to know that these people are arrogant and ignorant and cold. I swear, I will not give up this fight until things change. They will learn that they can't mess with Kendra Bishop.”

“Hear, hear,” Carrie yells.

That's all the encouragement I need to climb onto my chair. “Listen up, everybody. I say it's time we take this show on the road. Team Fourteen should go to Carmel! We've got to get them to drop their golf clubs and take notice.”

Led by Carrie and Tia, the group begins to applaud.

Inspired to continue, I yell into Bob's camera, “We'll plaster the town with posters. We'll set up a public meeting. We'll go door-to-door with a petition. And we'll picket City Hall if that's what it takes. We will not rest until our demands are met!”

The cheer reverberates around the supply room until an angry voice rings out from the back of the room.

“What the hell is going on?”

Lisa paces back and forth in front of me. We're in her office and Judy's face is pressed against the glass door beside Chili's lens. This time Lisa doesn't bother to close the blinds. “Let's get one thing straight,” she says. “Kendra Bishop is not the star of Team Fourteen.”

“I never said I was.”

“We are a group of people working toward a common goal, which is raising awareness, not causing trouble.”

“I know that.”

“If you know that, why are you harassing people with dozens of phone calls? If you piss them off, they won't even listen to what we have to say. My plan was to gather some preliminary data and present my findings in a professional way. They would have taken
my
call because I'm an academic.”

It's amazing how often she can work that into a conversation. She's going to be one of those Ph.D.'s who insists on being called “Doctor.”

“How was I supposed to know you didn't want them to know about Team Fourteen yet?” I ask. “I mean, they'll hear about us eventually. In case you haven't noticed,” I lower my voice to a stage whisper, “there are television cameras following me around.”

“Oh, I've noticed,” she says. “The only reason I let you back in here is that the Mulligans are the bedrock of our volunteer program. As for Team Fourteen, I wanted to get some influential lobby groups on our side before I met with the golf executives. Now those groups are going to think we're rank amateurs.”

“At least they're going to know we're passionate about our beliefs,” I argue. “Discussing every angle of the problem and analyzing endless data won't help. We need to
do
something.”

“What we need is for you to stop acting like you're too important to follow the rules around here.”

Chili runs out of tape before Lisa runs out of steam, and by the time I return to the supply room, everyone but Mitch has gone home for the night.

“Where's our favorite set of teeth?” he asks, powering down the computers.

“She went back to the hotel to celebrate because she got enough conflict on tape to fill a miniseries.”

“Lisa really came down on you, huh?”

I nod. “Honestly, Mitch, I wasn't trying to take over, and I didn't mean any harm in calling up the club.” I'd like to tell him that I think her plan to bore the club's president to death with lectures and statistics is lame, but she is his friend.

“She can't fault you for being enthusiastic.”

“Oh, she faults me all right.”

“She'll get over it,” he assures me. “Give her time.”

After locking up, we wind our way through the darkened aquarium galleries toward the exit.

Mitch stops outside an exhibit. “Hang on,” he says. “I always say good night to the jellyfish.”

“That's one exhibit I've skipped,” I say. “It's usually packed with screaming kids.”

Beckoning, he goes inside. “You've got to see it.”

I follow him hesitantly into the darkness. “Don't you jump out at me.”

“I thought you were only scared of sharks,” he says from somewhere ahead of me.

“Oh, no, the list is long.” I turn to go. “How about we say good morning to the jellyfish instead?”

“Wait,” Mitch says, catching my hand and leading me farther into the exhibit. “It's gotta be dark. That's the best way to see them.”

My eyes begin to adjust to the dim, but I'm no longer looking for jellyfish. All I can focus on is the warmth of Mitch's hand.

He stops in front of one of the largest tanks. “The sea nettles are my favorite,” he says. “Can you believe they have no bones and no heart? They're ninety-five per cent water, which means there isn't much appeal for predators.”

There isn't much appeal for humans either, at least from what I can see. It's just a bunch of shadowy shapes in the water. But with Mitch holding my hand, it's by far the best lecture I've had in some time. To prolong it, I decide to show some interest. “They sting, don't they?”

“Only if they get loose,” he says. “And if that happens, I'll protect you.”

He taps on the glass until I catch his other hand. “Stop it. You'll piss them off.”

“I'm just making sure they're awake,” he says. He shakes his hand free and reaches for a button. “Watch this.”

A light comes on in the circular tank, illuminating dozens of bright orange jellyfish, some larger than dinner plates, against an intense electric blue background. I watch, mesmerized, as they pulse slowly and rhythmically through the water. Below the large bells of their bodies dangle delicate orange tentacles and feathery wisps that look like white vapor trails against a clear blue sky.

I grope for a word that does justice to what I'm seeing, but my mental dictionary overloads and spits out, “Spectaculous.”

“Exactly,” Mitch says, laughing. “Whatever that means.”

I'd be embarrassed, except that he doesn't seem to mind. He's moved in so close to me that his laughter buzzes against my ear and sends a shiver down my spine. Then he steps around in front of me, and I just know that he's going to kiss me. Carrie was right, it's animal instinct. My stomach does a nervous flip. It's not that I haven't kissed a guy before—I have. Earlier this year, Rosa offered to chaperone a school dance so that I could go. I met this guy from another school, and at the end, he kissed me. It wasn't horrible or anything, but I have to admit, it didn't rock my world. I figured it was my fault—that my parents confiscated the how-to manual every other girl gets before it reached me.

Mitch doesn't wait for my warning about the missing manual before kissing me. It's just as well, because animal instinct kicks right in to compensate for the knowledge deficit. So this is what the fuss is about. Our mouths come together like two pieces of the same puzzle, a perfect fit. I open my eyes just long enough to see the jellyfish floating around his head like balloons. Then he wraps his arms around me, and I do the same. Four tentacles, no sting.

Finally Mitch pulls away and looks at me. “Spectaculous,” he says.

“Exactly,” I say.

Suddenly, I hear Judy's voice echo over a walkie-talkie in the distance. “This is Wolf One. Has anyone found the lamb?”

Mitch and I jump apart, and I smooth my hair with my fingers. “In here,” I call. My voice is all spidery and high, a total giveaway.

Mitch begins reading the wall plaque aloud so that Judy will think we're having an educational moment.

“KB?” Judy calls. “What did I tell you about hiding?” She steps into the gallery and shines a huge flashlight into Mitch's face. “What's going on here?”

“We're studying the jellyfish,” Mitch says, squinting. “You've got to understand the basics about invertebrates before you can appreciate the rest of the exhibits.”

“So you're showing her
the basics
?” Judy asks. “In the dark?”

Her leer could transform a beautiful moment into something slimy, but I'm not about to let that happen. “Oh, look, Mitch,” I say, reading aloud from another wall plaque, “jellyfish tentacles are covered with stinging cells that paralyze prey and move it into the mouth for digestion. It sounds just like a producer's job.”