The Fourteenth Goldfish (10 page)

A bouncy pop song comes on.

“Wanna dance?” Raj asks.

“My dancing days are over,” my grandfather replies.

“Not you,” Raj clarifies. “Ellie.”

I feel my cheeks heat up.

“Sure,” I whisper.

I don’t know if it’s the music, or the dark, or
the safety of the costume, but the nervousness I usually feel when stepping onto a dance floor melts away, and I find myself jumping and twirling next to Raj.

The music pounds like a pulse through the floor, and it’s so loud, you can’t think. It feels like the undertow of the ocean, and I’m just swept along, everything reduced to senses. The sticky heat of the air. The brush of an elbow. The flash of a strobe light.

I’m a jellyfish glowing in the dark sea, bright and brilliant, just waiting to be discovered.

When the music stops, my eyes meet Raj’s and we both gasp, grinning at each other.

And then I look around for my grandfather. He’s slumped in a chair on the side of the room, his head nodding into his chest. Fast asleep.

Like an old man.

When I wake up, rainbow-colored helium balloons are bouncing on my ceiling and I’m not eleven anymore. I haven’t grown overnight, or changed in any physical way, but I feel different. Everything feels
more
.

My mom walks in, carrying the phone.

“It’s your dad,” she says, and hands it to me.

“Happy birthday from Houston!” he calls over
the line. “How’s it feel to be the wizened old age of twelve?”

“Great!” I say.

“You know what Shakespeare said about growing old?”

“What?”

“When the age is in, the wit is out.”

“Oh,” I say. “Huh?”

“It’s from
Much Ado About Nothing
,” he informs me. “He’s saying that when you get old, you lose your brains.”

“That’s good.”

“Good?”

“Sure. At least I’ll have an excuse when I don’t get a perfect report card.”

He laughs.

When I open my locker at school, there’s a birthday card waiting for me from Brianna. I can’t help but remember last year, when she decorated
my desk with crepe paper and flowers and brought in a whole box of cupcakes. The card seems a little sad.

But the day gets better.

At lunch, Raj hands me a present with a pink bow.

“Hey,” he says. “Happy birthday.”

“How’d you know?” I ask.

My grandfather taps his chest. “I told him, of course.”

I open the box and grin. It’s a burrito from my favorite Mexican place.

“This is great! Thanks!” I tell him.

He blushes a little, looks away.

“When I was a kid, there wasn’t this much hoopla around birthdays,” my grandfather says from across the table. “You all want a ticker-tape parade. Everything’s too much with this generation.”

“Uh, you know,
you’re
part of this generation now,” Raj says.

I’ve noticed that grown-ups don’t seem to get as excited about birthdays as kids do. My mom jokes
that she’s stopped counting them. Which makes me think.

“How many candles will you have on your cake this year?” I ask my grandfather.

“What?” he asks.

“For your birthday. Because of the
T. melvinus
,” I explain. “Will you have seventy-seven candles or, like, fourteen?”

My grandfather blinks and then says, “I don’t believe in birthdays.”

My mom is a little surprised when I request French food for my birthday dinner.

“French? Not Mexican?” she asks.

“French,” I say, and my grandfather gives me an approving look.

The French restaurant where we go to dinner is small and intimate. The napkins are thick and ironed, and the waiter sweeps the crumbs off the table with a fancy little knife.

I order coq au vin and it’s delicious. The waiter gives us bowls of sorbet between each course. But the best part of the meal is the end: instead of a dessert cart, the waiter wheels out a cheese cart! There must be twenty kinds of cheese to choose from. Pasteur would be impressed.

Then my mom breaks out the presents from her and my dad. A gift card to a place at the mall that sells hair accessories. A puzzle with a picture of a unicorn (one thousand pieces). And a cell phone! There’s even a cute case: pink with glitter.

“Finally!” I say. “Thanks!”

My mom smiles. “Use it wisely.” She adds, “Don’t go over your minutes.”

My grandfather hands me his present. It’s a big box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a white bow. I tear the paper away and gasp in delight.

“A microscope!”

“It’s a good one, practically professional,” my grandfather says.

I stare at the box. It feels like I’ve been officially ushered into a secret society of scientists.

My grandfather points out the features. “Binocular eyepiece. Halogen light. Four objective lenses. Of course, I’ll teach you how to use it.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and my throat feels thick. “This is the best present ever!”

“Well, good,” he says, a little gruffly. “I’m glad you like it.”

My mom watches this byplay with a funny look. “I thought the cell phone would be the best present ever.”

After dinner, the waiter brings out a cake. There are thirteen candles—twelve pink ones plus a rainbow candle to grow on. The whole restaurant sings “Happy Birthday” to me.

I lean in and blow out my candles. One refuses to go out and it takes three times before it’s finally out.

That night, I fall asleep dreaming of candles. Hundreds of candles. They burn on and on, bright and defiant.

Never going out.

My grandfather walks into the kitchen a few mornings later carrying a bottle of pain pills. He pours a glass of water and pops a handful of pills.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look good.

“I’m having growing pains,” he grits out,
pointing to his legs. “The
T. melvinus
must be regenerating my bones.”

“Does it hurt a lot?” I ask.

“Let’s just say I know what it felt like to be tortured on the rack.”

My dad’s back in town for the weekend. He appears at our front door after lunch, wearing worn-out jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying his toolbox.

“Dad!” I shout, and fling myself at him.

“Reporting for duty,” he tells me, holding up his toolbox. “I hear there’s a toilet that needs fixing.”

My father is handsome. I don’t say that just because I’m his daughter. He’s the kind of man who women stop and stare at when he walks into a room. He’s got thick, curly black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s usually cast as the rake or the hero in a play.

“I miss working with my assistant.” He winks at me. “I brought your hammer.”

To pay the bills when I was little, my dad did carpentry work and odd jobs, hauling me around in
my baby carrier. When I started teething, I chewed the wooden handle of one of his hammers. It still has bite marks on it.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks.

“At the high school. They’re having trouble with the light board,” I tell him. “She said you’re cooking dinner.”

He looks around. “You’re here by yourself?”

“No. Melvin’s in the den.”

“Ah, right,” he says. “She mentioned something about some long-lost cousin crashing here. Well, let’s get that toilet out of the way.”

We settle down in the bathroom, and my father snakes the toilet and then takes the lid off and tinkers around with the insides.

“That should do it,” he says. “You want to do the honors?”

I flush and the water goes down.

“You should’ve been a plumber,” I say.

He gives a wry smile. “I would’ve made a whole lot more money, that’s for sure.”

My grandfather walks into the bathroom holding
The Catcher in the Rye
. He freezes when he sees my father.

“You must be Melvin,” my father says. “I’m Ellie’s dad, Jeremy.” He holds out his hand.

My grandfather doesn’t reciprocate. “Did you wash that hand?” he asks.

“Toilet water is clean,” my father says.

“Then drink it,” my grandfather replies.

We stand there for a minute. Then my grandfather holds up his book.

“You gonna stand around yapping all day?” my grandfather asks. “I have homework to finish.”

My father makes risotto for dinner. We sit outside on our tiny patio, and the adults drink red wine and my grandfather and I have soda. Between the crisp air, the good food, and my parents trading gossip about theater friends, it feels like I’m watching a favorite television show. Except this time my
grandfather has a guest role as the Silent, Moody Teenager. Or maybe he isn’t acting.

My father and grandfather have never exactly been buddies. When my parents first got married, my grandfather said some things to my father that involved the words “punk,” “my daughter,” and “knocked up.” Needless to say, there is no way we can let my dad in on the little secret about Melvin.

My grandfather turns to my dad. “So I hear you’re an actor. How’s that working out for you?”

“Pretty good, actually,” he says. “The tour of my production has been extended for another year.”

“That’s wonderful, Jeremy!” my mother enthuses.

“Congrats, Dad,” I say.

My grandfather doesn’t look very impressed. He says, “Lots of money performing in Peoria?”

“I’m in the union,” my dad says. “I’ve got a great benefits package.”

My grandfather grunts.

My dad smiles at him, faintly curious. “You remind me of someone,” he says.

“Really,” my grandfather says. “Who?”

“Just an old guy. One of those grumpy types. Actually, you’re distantly related to him. Guess Melvin is a family name.”

My mom and I share a worried look.

Then, without a word, my grandfather gets up and goes inside. My father turns to my mother.

“Interesting kid,” he says.

“Teenagers,” my mom says with a careless roll of her shoulders.

“I’ll clear,” I offer, and start picking up dishes. My parents beam at me.

I stack the plates, and what I see when I go into the kitchen almost makes me drop them: my grandfather is pouring red wine into a plastic cup.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, and drinks from the cup.

“But—but—you can’t!”

“Why not?” he grumbles. “It’s not like I’m underage. And I need something to dull the pain. My legs are killing me.”

The wine loosens my grandfather’s tongue, and he starts to make even more snarky remarks at the dinner table.

“To be or not to be thirteen. That is the question,” he says.

My parents are deep in conversation and don’t seem to notice what’s going on. We move inside because it’s getting chilly, congregating around the kitchen table.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” my grandfather announces, and walks out.

My mother shakes her head and turns to my dad. “Were you like this as a teenage boy?”

“I’m not sure.” A puzzled look crosses my dad’s face. “Mostly I remember being embarrassed by my parents all the time.”

She changes the subject. “So, spill. How’s
Francois
?” She makes air quotes with her hands when she says the name.

Francois, I know, is the director of
Les Misérables
.

“You mean besides having a French name but actually being from Long Island?”

“I knew it was a fake accent!” my mom says.

“He had a good speech coach somewhere along the line.”

The toilet flushes.

My father adds, “Also, his ego is bigger than a blimp.”

The toilet flushes again.

“Did you fix it?” my mom asks him.

“I fixed it,” my father insists.

I think of all the pain pills Melvin took earlier. Worry spikes through me.

“Maybe we should check on him,” I suggest.

We find my grandfather hunched in front of the toilet, throwing up.

“Oh, no! Do you have food poisoning?” my mom asks when my grandfather turns a gray face to her.

My father sniffs and looks furious.

“Since when does food poisoning smell like red wine?”