Authors: Jennifer Pelland
There was a knock on the door, and Stephen looked up to see Lieutenant Guerrero step in. “Mr. Murphy, if you could please join us in the hallway?”
“Of course.” He gave Suze’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
General Krueger was waiting for him outside. He removed his hat, his white hair shining under the fluorescent lights, and clasped it over his belly. “Mr. Murphy, thank you for joining us out here. For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to discuss this in front of your wife. We’re still not sure just how much they can hear through her.”
Stephen felt himself wobble, and steadied himself against the wall with an outstretched hand. “Do you mean—”
“It was close,” the general said. “But the latest round of attacks clinched it. The humpbacks managed to topple two offshore oil rigs last night, and a pod of orcas nearly took out one of Russia’s nuclear submarines.”
…you will pay, you will pay, you will all pay…no, no leave them alone, we never should have crawled back into the ocean in the first place…please, help us, we know you can help us with your thumbs and your fire you can remake us like you’ve remade the world…you will all pay, the world should be ours and you foul it and break it and pour your garbage in our home and deafen us with your monstrous sounds…we’ll crawl back out of the oceans and onto your land—we’ll crawl back or die trying…you have declared war and we will not live in a world of your making without fighting back…
“The extermination program will begin immediately,” the general continued. “It’ll probably take months, maybe years, to find them all, although if they keep beaching themselves like they have been, maybe they’ll do the job for us.” He let out a long sigh. “The U.N. just sanctioned genocide. I never thought I’d live to see the day. May God have mercy on all of our souls.”
“Thank you,” Stephen whispered.
The general’s nostrils flared. “Mr. Murphy, I had nothing to do with it. Truth be told, all I want to do right now is pick up a sign and march outside the gates with everyone else.” He shook his head, replaced his hat, and walked wordlessly down the hall.
Lieutenant Guerrero stared after him with a bewildered expression, then turned back to Stephen, an apologetic wince briefly flashing across his features. He gave Stephen’s hand a quick shake and said, “I’m glad for you, Mr. Murphy. This is a good day.” He nodded, then jogged down the hall to catch up with his boss.
If this works, the whole world is going to change overnight.
Stephen rested his forehead against the cold metal door to his wife’s room.
Truth be told, if she could, she’d be out there protesting right now, even after all she’d been through.
And as much as he’d come to hate the whales for what they’d done to her, he’d still be right there beside her.
Stephen opened the door and nodded at Dr. Hanlan.
She smiled sadly and pulled a syringe from her pocket. “I thought so. I’ll sedate her now. She shouldn’t be awake for this.”
He was going to lose her. He knew that. She’d never forgive him for letting them kill her beloved whales.
But they were more than a fair trade to save the woman he loved. He’d spent too long seeing them through her eyes to have any sympathy for them anymore.
I wonder what they’re saying? I can’t wait to find out.
Notes on “Songs of Lament”
One day, I thought, “What if whales are singing about terrible, violent things?” The thought of all those hippies and new agers blissing out to whales screaming in anger was just too delicious an idea not to play with.
July 3, 2018
I spent a lot of time this spring agonizing over whether to accept the admissions offer from Wellesley or the one from Spelman. At Spelman, I wouldn’t have to be “the black girl,” which sounded like a nice change, but at the same time, I would have had to be “All Black, All the Time,” which wasn’t really that appealing either. So I picked Wellesley, and promptly spent the next few months agonizing over whether I made the right choice.
I’m not agonizing anymore.
I just read in the paper that Kay Myerson is going to be in my class. Kay Myerson! Man, am I excited!
(I should probably stop saying things like “man” before I start at Wellesley, shouldn’t I? Adjusting to a women’s college is going to be challenging.)
Here’s the article:
Bangor Daily News, July 3, 2018
Musical and environmental icon Kay Myerson will be attending Wellesley College as a freshman this fall. In response to press inquiries, the college has released a short statement saying, “Ms. Myerson will be treated like every other student, and we would appreciate it if the public and the press would allow her a normal student experience.”
Myerson achieved international fame at the beginning of the decade as a singer in the girl band “HippieChix,” which broke up in 2016. Last year, she made international headlines by setting herself on fire to protest continued inaction on the issue of global climate change, sparking a worldwide youth movement and dozens of copycats. Myerson survived the fire, and has been a recluse ever since.
* * * *
(Yeah, I bought a paper copy so I could glue this in to my journal. I know it’s bad for the environment to encourage printed newspapers, but there’s something about a newsprint clipping that feels so…I don’t know, permanent?)
(And did they really need to use “sparking” in the article?)
Anyhow, this is the part where I bounce around my bedroom like a crazy person. Kay Myerson! In my class! I feel like filling a full page with “EEEEEEEEE!!!!” This woman is my hero! (Heroine? Well, Wellesley will soon teach me which word to use.)
I probably shouldn’t bring any of my Kay T-shirts with me to school, though. Or my old HippieChix MP3s. I loved them when I was twelve. I still dance around the room to them when I’m having a bad day. Who knew that one of them would go on to do something so important?
* * * *
August 12, 2018
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Kay Myerson is going to be my roommate.
My friends are all so jealous and have begged me to tell them all about her and maybe see if she’ll sign autographs for them, but I’ve promised them nothing. I’m going to be the perfect roommate. I’m not going to be some psychotic fan girl. At least, not on the outside. I make no promises about what will be going on in the privacy of my own brain.
* * * *
August 25, 2018
Kay isn’t going to be here until tomorrow. I feel funny having already unpacked and chosen my bed and dresser and desk. If she wants this bed, I’ll just put my sheets on the other one. She really should get first choice. I know, I know, we’re all Wellesley women here. I shouldn’t be thinking that she’s better than me.
Except she is.
So, we’re in Claflin. It’s got a nice view of Lake Waban, and I’ve already walked down with a few other first-years from this floor to see the ruins of the old College Hall, which burned down about a hundred years ago, so we probably won’t do that walk again with Kay.
Everyone’s surprised that Kay’s been given a roommate. Apparently, there’s a single in Tower that was built especially for Madame Chiang Kai-shek when she was a student here. Everyone thought she’d be put in that room, or would maybe instead end up in an expensive off-campus apartment. But no, she’ll be rooming with me in a tiny second-floor dorm room with a beautiful view of the dumpster.
All the students I’ve talked to have been really cool and laid-back about her coming here. But I’m pretty sure other folks have been sneaking onto campus to try to catch a glimpse of her. They’re pretty easy to spot by their T-shirts: drowning polar bears, the planet on fire, stuff like that. Campus Po have been good about politely ushering them off the college grounds. Like they thought they could just blend in? Even the guys?
Meanwhile, I’ve already gotten emails from Ethos and Harambee House. I guess admissions told them I was a new black student. And my mother is nagging me to join AKA. This is a campus crammed with people of all colors from all over the globe! Somehow, my dark American skin doesn’t seem like something to make a big deal about in the grand scheme of things.
* * * *
August 26, 2018
Kay is so cool.
My god, I sound like I’m still in high school.
Screw it. Classes haven’t started yet. I can still sound high school for now. Plus, she’s Kay Myerson.
She showed up just in time to dump her things in the room and introduce herself before we had to head out for an orientation assembly. Her skin grafts look a lot better in person than they do in high def, and her wig looks just like real hair. And you couldn’t even tell that her eyes were fake. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, and held out her hand.
The fake skin on her hand felt like old paper. “I’m Njeri,” I said. But, of course, she knew that from the roommate letter the college had sent. “It’s great to finally meet you. If you don’t like that bed—”
“It’s fine.” She wrinkled her scarred nose and said, “This is going to sound terrible of me, but when I saw your picture, I thought you’d—”
“Sound more black? Yeah, I get that all the time.”
“That’s not what I…” She sighed, and I think she was blushing, but it was hard to tell what with the fake skin and all. “No, that’s exactly what I was going to say.”
All right, maybe I should go to that Ethos party after all.
I didn’t get a chance to talk to her again until dinner. She sat with me and the other first years from our floor, and, of course, we all talked about global climate change. But she didn’t contribute to the conversation; she just smiled, nodded, and picked at her food. It was weird. No one knew what to do, so we just kept talking, awkwardly.
When we were done, I told her I’d help her unpack. Her sheets were softer than any I’d ever felt before, but that made sense, what with the skin grafts and all.
She clutched her pillow to her chest and said, “Look, I know we’re roommates, and we’ll be living together for the next two semesters, but…” She sighed. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t ask me about…you know.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“But…”
She looked up at me, and I swear, her fake eyes were watering with fear.
So instead of all the questions I was dying to ask her, I simply asked, “Do you have to do anything special to take care of your skin grafts? I just want to make sure I don’t do anything to hurt you by accident.”
“I have to baby them,” she said. “Soft fabrics, sunscreen, lots of lotion. I won’t be able to borrow your clothes or your soap or anything, so don’t worry.” She looked at me and grinned, the grafts on her face crinkling like a paper jam. “They got me out of the P.E. requirement.”
We stayed up until one in the morning, talking about our favorite bands (I downplayed my Hippie Chix love), the classes we wanted to take (lots of liberal arts), things we wouldn’t miss about high school (gym, cliques), how well her fake eyes worked (well enough to read large-print books, not well enough to pass a driving test), politics (both Green Party), but she never steered the conversation to talk of global warming. Okay, I could understand how she’d feel talked out about that, but still.
For the record, I’m writing this in the hallway. It’s past midnight. I’m too excited to sleep. Kay Myerson is snoring in the bed next to mine!
Oh my god, listen to me, I should just tattoo “Fan Girl” across my forehead and get it over with.
Still, she’s the only political icon our generation has. And she’s just on the other side of this wall. How cool is that?
Right, I’d better try to get some sleep. Classes start tomorrow. I can’t major in Kay Studies, after all.
* * * *
September 1, 2018
Wellesley’s motto is “
Non Ministrari sed Ministrare
”—“Not to be ministered unto, but to minister.” It would be irresponsible of me to come here just to get a self-indulgent liberal arts education. That would be being ministered unto. No, I need to minister, to do something for the future.
Forget Spanish. I’m going to major in chemistry.
It wasn’t my favorite subject in high school. That was, well, Spanish. But I got solid grades in chem, even if it didn’t excite me. I should be able to pull this off if I put my mind to it. After all, it’s not like I can help reverse global climate change with Cervantes. And Wellesley has an exchange program with MIT, so I can take science courses there, too, maybe get in on their Center for Global Change Science. I’d go into engineering if I thought I could handle the math, but I can’t. No, chemistry it is.
I told Kay about my big decision this morning, and she just gave me this weird, thin smile and grabbed her giant bottle of lotion and went off to take a shower.
It’s very strange to be inspired by someone who doesn’t seem inspired herself. How can she look at herself in the mirror and not want to have what she sees have any meaning?
* * * *
September 3, 2018
I managed to get into Chem 105. Five courses is going to be a tough load, especially since Chem has a lab, but I’ll manage. Right now, I’m just auditing it until I can get my advisor to sign off on me taking an extra course, but if I have to, I’ll drop Spanish. Cervantes can wait. (Actually, we’re reading Borges and García Márquez this semester. They can wait too.)
Kay says she’s not sure what she wants to major in. She’s currently waffling between anthropology and history. I asked her what she thought she’d do with a degree in either of those, and she shrugged and said she didn’t know yet. And I just sat there, watching her comb her wig, trying to figure out how she could have gone from international pop stardom to making the biggest political statement of our generation to…anthropology. But as soon as I opened my mouth, she said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
So we didn’t.
I can’t imagine setting myself on fire for something and then walking away from it.