Half Brother by Kenneth Oppel

  “They shout too much,” Jennifer said when the song was finished. “Your pick,” she said to me.

  “I must be crazy,” I said, “but I’m ready for more ABBA.” I was still feeling pleasantly hot and speedy. My body wanted to move.

  “No!” howled David, then he threw back his head and said, “Oh, all right! Spin those crazy Swedes!”

  Jennifer put on “Waterloo” and cranked it. My room throbbed with sound. Jennifer started singing along and sometimes she’d look right at me and swing her hair, and it was the most electrifying thing I’d ever experienced. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were amazing and if she’d dangled a leash I would have bowed my head so she could slip it around my neck. I couldn’t look away. Then I heard David singing out the chorus, and before long I was on my feet and we were all belting out the words so loud we couldn’t even hear Bjorn and Bjork or whatever they were called, any more. When it was over, Jennifer just picked up the needle and dropped it back at the beginning of the song, and we did it again.

  After that we burned through “Crocodile Rock” and “Rocket Man” and then, when we needed a breather, Jennifer put on “Seasons in the Sun.”

  “This,” she said, “is the saddest song.”

  It was a super-sappy tune about this guy dying, and David and I started singing along in these really schmaltzy voices and pretending we were breaking down and weeping and clutching each other’s arms. At first Jennifer kept shushing us, but by the end she was giggling too. “Goofballs,” she said.

  After that, David put on Dark Side of the Moon, which was not a sing-along kind of album, so we just listened and talked a bit.

  After a while Jennifer said, “Teach me some sign language.”

  “Which signs do you want to know?”

  “Start with hi and bye.”

  Those were easy, and I showed her.

  “What are the ones you use with Zan?” David wanted to know.

  I felt like I had something special and rare to give them. I taught them up and drink, give and more and eat.

  “Cool,” said David. “Hey, where’s your bathroom?”

  When he opened the door to go out, the sounds of our parents laughing downstairs swirled in, along with the slightly skunky smell of the Godwins’ cigarette smoke. It seemed they were having a good time.

  Jennifer said, “Did you really teach him his first sign?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” I told her, pleased. She must have gotten that from Time. It meant she’d read the whole article. Maybe she’d stared a while at the pictures of me.

  “So what’s hug?” she asked.

  I showed her.

  “That’s so cute,” she said, gripping herself with her arms. “Like really hugging someone.”

  “Yep,” I said, wishing her arms were around me. “And tickle’s pretty close, only you tickle yourself right there.”

  I wiggled my fingers to show her.

  “Right here?” she said, reaching over and tickling me under my arms.

  I laughed in total surprise. “Or down here—that’s where Zan likes it,” and I went for her under her ribs.

  She squealed and giggled and tried to twist away and I could’ve held her tighter, but I let go. She stepped back, just a little, still breathing hard.

  “What other signs do you know?” she asked.

  I put my fingers to my lips and then moved them to my cheek.

  “What’s that?”

  “Kiss,” I said.

  She repeated the sign, smiling at me in a playful kind of way.

  I was staring at her glossy lips and I wanted to kiss them for real, but I heard David coming back from the bathroom. Probably I wouldn’t have done it anyway, because I was afraid she wouldn’t like it, and maybe David would see, and Jennifer would be upset and run downstairs in tears and I’d be humiliated.

  I totally had the hots for her. She probably didn’t have the hots for me. Not yet. But I wanted her to. I wouldn’t rest until she did. I’d do anything.

  If I could teach a chimp sign language, I could probably teach Jennifer Godwin to fall for me.

  NINE

  GIVE HUG

  Zan loved washing up. Sunday night after dinner he sat right up on the counter beside the sink, holding a dish in one hand and the scrubber brush in another. Sometimes he just cleaned the same plate over and over again, but it kept him happy, and we all signed to him while we washed. It was a good way of teaching him water and dirty and soap, which he was pretty interested in. We had to make sure to lock the bottle of soap up right after using it, because Zan liked squeezing it into the water and making more and more bubbles.

  All weekend I’d been thinking about Jennifer. I kept remembering the feel of her fingers tickling me. I could still feel her waist in my hands as I tickled her back. Project Jennifer had taken a big leap forward, but part of me was worried tomorrow at school everything would go back to normal, and she’d hardly notice me. It made me shrivel up inside just to think about it. I wanted my hands on her again. I wanted her hands on me …

  “Mom and I were talking,” Dad was saying, “and it seems unfair that we pay all the students working with Zan—but not you.”

  “I checked the budget,” said Mom, “and we have enough money to pay you too.” “Really?” I was surprised.

  “Absolutely,” said Dad. “You’ve put in a lot of shifts.”

  I didn’t think of them as shifts at all. That made it sound like work, and mostly I loved spending time with Zan. It was best when Mom and Dad weren’t around, because they were always watching Zan and taking notes, or wanting me to do educational things with him. To me he wasn’t the subject of an experiment, or a famous chimp; he was just my little brother and we were goofing around.

  I glanced at Zan, dunking his dish back into the soapy water and seeing how many bubbles he could get on it. He made me happy. I missed him when I was at school all day. Sitting in class I’d sometimes think about the funny things he did, and smile.

  I did love the idea of making money, but it seemed weird to get paid just for spending time with one of the family, and I told this to Mom and Dad.

  “My parents paid me for babysitting my little sister,” said Mom with a shrug. “I don’t see the difference.”

  I nodded. That made me feel a lot better.

  “It’s only fair,” said Dad. “And you’re also a really good teacher for him, Ben. You’re a big part of this project.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, smiling. Dad sounded proud of me. Maybe my name would end up alongside his and Mom’s in the science textbooks.

  “So I’d get to come to the weekly meeting, then, right?” I said.

  Dad chuckled. “Haven’t you already?”

  He knew I was usually listening in from the top of the stairs, or the kitchen, where I’d take about an hour to pour myself a drink. Every Sunday night, Peter and all the other students came to our house to talk about how Project Zan was going, and discuss the week’s events. Which techniques were working and which weren’t. Good things Zan had done. Bad thing he’d done. What new words they should work on next. Even though it was a meeting, it looked more like a party to me, because there were so many students that people ended up sitting on the floor.

  I looked over at Zan and noticed he wasn’t washing his dish quite as enthusiastically as usual. He kept glancing at something. I turned and saw the bottle of dish soap. Somehow we’d forgotten to lock it up. I reached for it, but Zan leaped over the sink at the same time and got it first.

  “Zan, give me the soap!” I shouted.

  He was off the counter and scooting across the floor, a big golden arc of liquid soap spraying over his shoulder. “Zan, stop!” Mom cried. “Grab him!” Dad bellowed.

  Zan was shaking the bottle like crazy and squeezing it at the same time, and soap was jetting everywhere in crazy curves. I made a grab for him, but he was so soapy he just squirted through my fingers.

  Dad lunged, slipped on the floor, and went down cursing. Zan
darted through the doorway into his suite, and I skidded after him. He was hooting enthusiastically and squirting soap for all he was worth. He’d probably been dreaming of this moment for a long time, and the look of glee on his face—I couldn’t resist it. I started laughing too, as I chased him into his bedroom. He leaped onto his bed and as I drew closer he squeezed the bottle and got me right in the middle of the chest. I tussled with him on the bed and somehow managed to wrestle the bottle from his slippery grasp. Then I gave him a squirt and he shrieked with delight.

  “Enough!” Dad shouted behind me.

  When I saw the look on his face, I stopped smiling. He was really pissed off.

  “It’s like a goddamn circus!”

  “The Tomlin Circus,” Mom said, coming in with dish towels, looking amused. “And a circus of your very own making, Richard. You’re the ringmaster.”

  “A ringmaster usually has a bit more control,” Dad said, and some of the grimness in his face disappeared. “What a mess! Zan! That was very naughty!”

  Zan looked pretty stricken, and immediately turned to me.

  Hug, he signed.

  “Don’t smile at him, Ben,” Dad snapped. “Look strict so he understands.”

  I tried to frown and look severe, but it was hard when he kept hugging himself, his brown eyes huge and beseeching. Give hug! Zan signed to me. “Did you see that?” I shouted. “What?” Dad said.

  “He signed give hug!” Mom exclaimed.

  “Two signs!” I said. “That’s the first time he’s put two signs together!”

  “You saw it?” Dad asked Mom, who nodded, beaming. “You’ll need to document it in your log. I missed it.” Now he sounded annoyed.

  “Don’t worry about that now,” Mom said. “Two signs after only six months! He just made his first sentence. Do you realize that?”

  During all this Zan was looking around at us—Mom, Dad, and me—like he was wondering what he had to do to get a hug around here.

  I reached down and took him into my arms and squeezed him tight.

  “Give hug,” I said into his ear. “You’re a genius, Zan.”

  The lights went down, the curtains opened, and the movie began.

  I was sitting beside Hugh and David, popcorn balanced on our laps. Right in front of us, in the next row, were Jennifer, Shannon, and Jane. It was Saturday and we were at the Coronet for a matinee of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. It was my idea. A few days ago I’d called up David and asked if he wanted to go.

  “Ask Hugh too,” I’d said casually. “And, hey, if Jennifer wants to come too, that’s cool.”

  She’d come—just as I’d hoped—but unfortunately she’d also brought the rest of her cult. Still, my plan was mostly a success. I had Jennifer in front of me, so close I could see the little mole under her left ear. I wanted to taste it.

  Project Jennifer had made a lot of progress in the three weeks since the Godwins had been to our house for dinner. Jennifer was much friendlier now, and we talked a lot more at school. It still wasn’t easy, especially with Jane around. I kept hoping Jane would come down with mono, or some sickness that would keep her bedridden at home, just for a little while, like three or four months. But no such luck. Jane was like an alien force field, trying to keep me away from Jennifer. At school, whenever I started walking towards their group, Jane would spot me coming and wave and call, “Hey, Ben!” in this super-mocking way.

  At first, that alone was powerful enough to repel me. But after pondering it for a few days, and jotting ideas in my logbook, I just clenched my teeth into a big smile, waved back, and said in an even louder voice, “Hey, Jane!” And somehow that seemed to confuse and silence her for a few moments—long enough for me to get into the inner circle and start talking to Jennifer.

  By now, my logbook was filling up, so I usually had something pretty interesting to talk about. Even so, I had a lot of competition. She was very popular, and there were a bunch of other guys in our grade who talked to her. It seemed so effortless for them. Most of them had been at the school forever, like her. I’d just been dropped in, like a paratrooper behind enemy lines.

  But I had something over these other guys: I was friends with Jennifer’s brother, a grade nine, a high-ranking male.

  Twice he’d invited me over to his house, just to hang out, play Risk, kick a soccer ball around in the park. Sometimes Hugh would be there too. Sometimes Jennifer. One time she’d even played Risk with us (we made a secret pact and wiped David off the face of the planet).

  And here we were now, all together, thanks to the plan I’d formulated in my Project Jennifer logbook, line by line, like a scientific experiment. We were having a group date.

  Actually, Jennifer and I were having a date, and everyone else was just cover—but no one knew this except me.

  The movie was a lot of fun. David, Hugh, and I cheered the sword fights, and hooted at the corny dialogue. Afterwards we walked out, blinking, into the bright sunlight of early April.

  “That was so cheesy,” said Hugh.

  “I liked it,” said Shannon shyly.

  “No way!” sneered Jane.

  It was unusual for Shannon to say anything, ever, and when I saw her face fall, I felt sorry for her.

  “I liked it too,” I said. “It was a blast. What’s not to like? Exotic locations, monsters, sword fights.”

  “I thought it was magical,” said Shannon, giving me a grateful smile.

  “That evil chick was pretty foxy,” said David, finishing the last of his popcorn and tossing the carton into a trash can. “Six arms. That could come in handy.”

  “I couldn’t get over their hair,” said Jennifer. “Sinbad looked like one of the Bee Gees.”

  We still had an hour before our parents were supposed to pick us up.

  “You want to go look at the record shops on Johnson?” I said, following Step Six of my plan.

  “Sounds good,” said Jennifer, giving me an approving nod. Jennifer liked shopping. I had more than fifty references to shopping in the logbook.

  As we walked down the street we stopped at a bunch of places, and I casually watched Jennifer: the clothes she touched, the jewellery she pointed out to Shannon and Jane, the records she pulled off the shelf. I filed it all away.

  “Oh my God,” I heard her say. “Check this out.” She was holding up an ABBA album I hadn’t seen before.

  “This is their live recording from their big Stockholm concert,” she said. “I didn’t even think you could get this here.” She flipped it over. “It’s not even in English!”

  “That would be Swedish,” said Hugh, glancing over her shoulder.

  “I know it’s Swedish, Hugh, thanks,” she said sarcastically. “Buy it,” said Jane.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t got enough. Anyway, it’s way too much.”

  “That’s a bummer,” I said, giving an inner shout of triumph. And then we had to get going so our parents could pick us up.

  “We need to start filming him,” Dad said at the Sunday meeting.

  There I was, sitting on the living room floor near Peter, my own little notepad open, pen at the ready. It was my third meeting and I was still feeling pretty pleased with myself. Just me and the university students, in one of the world’s most groundbreaking experiments in linguistics and primatology.

  “Up till now we’ve just been recording his signs in our daily logs,” Dad continued. “But our grant proposal’s coming up, and I want it as strong as possible.”

  Everyone knew about the grant. The big one. It came from the Canadian government, and it was supposed to be a ton of money. Dad wanted it. The university wanted it too—not just because it would save them money, but because it was prestigious.

  “So,” Dad said, “I want unassailable data. I want everyone to be able to see Zan signing. And that means video, so it can be interpreted by impartial third parties.”

  “I think that’s a really excellent idea, Dr. Tomlin,” said Susan Wilkes, one of the student researchers.
She agreed with everything Dad said. She was pretty, in a bland, thin-lipped kind of way, but the worshipful gaze she always fixed on Dad creeped me out. I think it creeped Mom out a bit too, because sometimes I’d catch her giving Susan a look.

  “Who’s going to do the filming?” asked Ryan Cross, one of the other students.

  Ryan was Dad’s star graduate student. Dad was always talking about how promising he was and how brilliant his last term paper was, and how he had all the right stuff to become a real scientist. I wished he’d praise Peter a bit more too, since he was by far the best at teaching Zan.

  “We’re going to install several cameras in his suite,” Mom said. “And they’ll film continuously during the day.”

  It was weird to imagine surveillance cameras in Zan’s room. It made it seem a bit like a laboratory—or a prison.

  Ryan was nodding and making notes. I could see why Dad liked him. He was very calm and confident.

  Peter cleared his throat. “A lot of the signing happens spontaneously,” he said, “just when we’re playing with him. You know, just fooling around, especially out in the backyard.”

  Dad nodded. “I appreciate that. It just means we’ll have to keep Zan in the playroom more. The cameras will be virtually hidden, so he won’t notice them and get distracted. And we’ll set the cameras at three different angles, so they should capture most of his signing, as long as he’s at his desk.”

  Desk? I looked at Peter and our eyes met. I knew what he was thinking. If Dad spent just a fraction more time with Zan, he’d know what a bad idea this was. Mom should have known better, though. I wondered if she’d talked about it with Dad, or maybe he’d just overruled her. I glanced around at the other students. A lot of them were looking at their shoes and scratching their noses awkwardly, but no one said anything.

  Susan nodded enthusiastically. “At a desk it’ll be much easier for us to monitor and record his signing.”

  Peter said, “I think it might cut down on how much Zan actually signs.”

  Dad looked up from his notepad. “Why’s that, Peter?”