Jonas’s death is like a storm. Thunder booms, rain falls, lightning flashes. And then it’s over. The puddles dry up, and everyone goes on their way as if it never happened.
Except me.
Our house feels different. Cold. Like it’s missing its heart. I keep finding little things that remind me of him. A cat toy under my bed. A spare can of wet food in the pantry behind some black beans. His fuzzy blanket on the couch. The worst is when the orange tabby cat comes skulking around. He meows outside the cat door, waiting for Jonas to appear.
But, of course, he never does.
School is actually better than home. It’s just classes, tests, and stinky gym uniforms. It’s predictable, and I don’t have to think or feel.
Until I see Raj waiting for me at my locker.
And I don’t know why, but it actually hurts to look at him.
“Ellie,” he says, his voice low, “I heard about Jonas.”
“You did?” I’m surprised.
“Melvin told me.” Something flickers in his eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
He’s sorry? I’m irrationally angry. At the world. At him.
“Sure you are,” I mutter.
His mouth drops open. “What? I liked Jonas!”
“You liked him so much you came to see him when he got hurt, right?”
“I didn’t even know!” Raj exclaims angrily. “It’s not like you’ve been talking to me!”
“Well, you haven’t been talking to me, either!” I snap.
We stare at each other.
The bell rings and I slam my locker shut.
And walk away.
* * *
—
It’s opening night of The Tempest, and my mom suggests I come and see it. She says it will be a good distraction for me.
The kid playing Prospero remembers his lines, and the sets are beautiful, especially the scene at sea. The actors even get a standing ovation. But when it’s over, I feel worse. Because I realize that my life has no good feels like The Tempest. Instead of everyone being happy and getting together in the end, everything has fallen apart—Jonas is dead, and Raj and I are broken. If Shakespeare wrote a play about me, it would be a tragedy.
We celebrate the production with takeout from my favorite Mexican place. But I’m not that hungry, even though I love burritos. It doesn’t really matter, because my grandfather is eating enough for everyone.
My mom chatters away. She talks about how maybe next season she’ll stage a musical. She talks about my dad and how he’s going to be home this weekend. She talks and talks and talks, and the whole time I just stare at my plate. Because if I look up I’ll see the empty chair across the table where Jonas used to sit, and then I’ll remember the room at the vet’s office and smell the sharp scent of ammonia and I’ll probably be sick.
“So, I had this great idea, Ellie,” my mom says. “Why don’t we go to the animal shelter on Saturday and look at dogs?”
“Dogs?” I echo.
“Ben and I talked, and we decided it’s fine if you want to get a dog.”
“I don’t want a dog.”
She looks confused. “But you’ve always wanted a dog!”
I can’t believe she’s doing this.
“You can’t just replace Jonas with a dog!” I shout. “He’s not replaceable!”
“Of course he’s not,” she soothes. “You’re overreacting.”
I find my grandfather’s words coming out of my mouth.
“I’m human! I feel deeply! And you act like everything’s fine. Like Jonas was never here. Why doesn’t anybody care that my cat is dead?”
“Honey, I just want to help—” my mom starts.
“I don’t want to be helped! I want Jonas back!” I shout, and run out of the room.
* * *
—
It’s the weekend, and I get to sleep in and ignore the world. The doorbell wakes me up. I feel a lump on the bed near my legs, and for a moment I think it’s Jonas. Then I open my eyes and see that it’s really a throw pillow.
My bedroom door opens, and then I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” my father says. “It’s noon and you’re still in bed?”
I’m so happy to see him. I scramble out of bed and give him a hug.
“Dad!” I say.
He ruffles my hair. “How ya doing, kiddo?”
“Not great,” I say.
“Yeah, your mom said. That’s hard about Jonas. He was a good cat.”
“The best.”
He passes me a bag.
“Got this for you on the road,” he says.
I open it up. It’s a night-light. It looks like a red-capped mushroom.
“Ha-ha,” I say.
“I couldn’t resist,” he says, and grins. “So, are you going to sleep the whole day away, or do you want to get dressed and get out of here and have an adventure?”
Getting out sounds perfect.
“Adventure,” I say.
* * *
—
We drive down the coast to Santa Cruz and go to the amusement park on the boardwalk. It’s something we used to do when I was little. I thought I’d outgrown it, like animal crackers, but I’m wrong. Because it’s pure fun.
There are tourists everywhere, and the air smells like popcorn and cotton candy. We gawk at the harbor seals and ride the old wooden roller coaster. My dad wins me a goldfish from one of those games of chance where you throw a Ping-Pong ball into a bowl. By the end of the day, I almost feel like myself again.
On the way home, we stop for dinner. Of course, I bring my new goldfish inside with me.
After we order, my dad and I debate what to name my new fish.
“What about Goldie?” I ask. It’s what I’ve always named my goldfish in the past.
“Maybe try something new,” he suggests.
“What about Prospero?”
“From The Tempest? Nice,” he says, and grins. “I’m glad to see that all those nights of us reading Shakespeare to get you to fall asleep are finally paying off.”
The waitress appears with our plates.
“Here we go,” she says. “A BLT for the young lady and a Reuben for the gentleman.”
“Thanks,” my dad says.
“Oh, we ran out of regular chips, so I substituted barbecue chips,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Sounds delicious.” My dad starts eating.
But I just stare at the chips and think of Raj. All the happiness of the day is gone in an instant, and a wave of sadness crushes me.
“Aren’t you going to dig in?” my dad asks.
Tears start running down my cheeks. I can’t hold it back any longer. It’s a flood, a storm, a hurricane.
“Ellie, honey,” my dad says worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
I put my head down and cry.
For Jonas.
For Raj and me.
For everything.
I’m in the bathroom before school, trying to fix my hair. But no matter what I do, it doesn’t look good. But then, nothing is good lately.
My grandfather calls through the door.
“Do you have a razor I can borrow?”
“Hang on,” I tell him.
After searching through the cabinets, the only kind I find are the pink ones my mom uses.
“Here you go,” I say, opening the door and holding one out. “It’s for your legs, but it should work….” My voice trails off.
Because overnight, my grandfather has grown a full beard.
He looks like Bigfoot.
“What—what—hap—?” I can’t even get a sentence out.
“Apparently, our axolotl really sped up the Puberty,” he says in annoyance.
&nb
sp; “It sure did,” I say.
My grandfather snatches the razor from my hand and walks down the hall.
I stand there, staring after him.
He pauses and turns around. “Do you have any shaving cream?”
* * *
—
“Doors open for the science fair at ten a.m. on Saturday,” Mr. Ham announces to the class. “Please make sure your project is set up in the multipurpose room and ready to go by nine-forty-five. We’re expecting a nice crowd.”
My grandfather and I still have to write everything up, so we stay after school to work. But we’re in for a rude surprise when we check on our flies: the winged ones are dying. There’s a pile of dead flies on the bottom, and only a few are still clinging to the glass or flying around.
“It’s a good thing the science fair is soon,” my grandfather observes, looking in the jars. “I don’t think the rest of them will last another week.”
“Why are they dying?”
“Mold on the media,” he says, pointing to the jar where there’s a fuzzy patch. “It kills flies.”
After everything that’s happened, I can’t believe the flies are dying, too! I wonder what Alexander Fleming would have to say about this.
“What’s the point?” I snap.
“The point?”
“In even trying!” I wave at the flies. “All the experiments failed! Jonas died! And the yellow fever guys! And Grandma! And now even the fruit flies! Science didn’t work for them!”
My grandfather sits back and sighs. “That’s true. Those experiments did fail. But failure is part of experimentation. It’s okay to make mistakes.”
“It’s not okay! Look what happened with Raj and me!”
He narrows his eyes. “What exactly ‘happened’ with Raj and you?”
All the energy seems to go out of me in a rush. I slump down on a chair and stare at the floor.
“My hypothesis was all wrong,” I mutter.
“And what was your hypothesis?” my grandfather asks calmly.
“That we were perfect for each other. You know, like soul mates.”
“I see.” My grandfather looks thoughtful. “You’re a scientist. Explain your data to me.”
“We had a weird movie date. After that, we couldn’t talk to each other or anything.”
“So, what’s your conclusion?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, were you good at being friends?”
I’m frustrated that he’s even asking this. Isn’t it perfectly obvious? “We were great at being friends!”
“That sounds like a solid conclusion to me.”
I look at him as I realize what he just said.
“We weren’t meant to be soul mates,” I say slowly. “We were meant to be best friends all along!”
My grandfather smiles. “Do you see? Your experiment failed, but you learned something from it.”
“You’re so smart!” I tell him.
“Well, I do have two PhDs,” he says.
I hug him tight.
“Now let’s get to work on this science project,” he says. “By the way, you are far too young to be dating. Teenage boys have very sweaty hands, you know.”
* * *
—
Movies and plays always have big scenes where a character declares their undying love to someone else. Nobody writes stories where they declare their undying friendship. Maybe Romeo and Juliet would’ve had a happy ending if they’d just been friends in the first place.
I don’t know how to go about approaching Raj. Do I call him? Text him? Do I ask him to meet me for coffee? In the end, I put a bag of barbecue chips in his locker as a peace offering. I don’t even leave a note, because he’ll know what it means.
But as the morning drags on, I start to worry. What if we’re too far gone? What if our friendship has been destroyed in this experiment? My stomach gets tighter and tighter. And then I step out on the lunch court and see him sitting at our regular table.
With an empty seat across from him.
I walk over and slide into the chair wordlessly.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
We both sit there for a minute.
“I think we should go back to the way it was before,” I blurt out. “Being friends.”
A look of relief crosses his face.
“Good idea,” he agrees.
We both grin.
“Want a chip?” he asks. “I found them in my locker.”
“Someone just put potato chips in your locker? I wonder who did it?”
“It’s a mystery,” he says with a smile. Then he says, “So, I’m thinking of getting all of my hair dyed.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“What color?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe magenta.”
“Just make sure it’s not green. You don’t want to look like a leprechaun.”
He laughs.
We sit there and debate hair color and eat barbecue chips until the bell rings.
Because that’s what best friends do.
Saturday morning arrives, and I don’t get to sleep in late because it’s the science fair. My mom surprises my grandfather and me with matching white lab coats.
“Where’d you get these?” I ask her.
“Aren’t they adorable?” she raves. “I had one of my wardrobe friends find them.”
There’s embroidery on the pocket. It says:
“Mellie?” my grandfather asks.
“Melvin plus Ellie equals Mellie. Cute, right?”
My grandfather and I share a look.
“Maybe we’re a new species?” I say.
The science fair is set up in the multipurpose room, and there’s a huge turnout of kids from all over the county. The projects are pretty cool, and range from measuring raindrops to recycling trash, to baking-soda-and-vinegar rockets. Quite a few kids have grown mold. I guess mold is more popular than I realized.
Still, I can’t help but feel a little sad to be standing in this crowded room. Because even though my project with Grandpa succeeded more than we ever imagined, we can’t display it. My grandfather says—and I agree—that our discovery is too much for a middle school science fair.
Instead, we’ve deliberately presented only one aspect of our experiment.
Mr. Ham walks over and checks out our table.
“ ‘The Effect of Hot-Lunch Chicken Nuggets on the Growth of Fruit Flies,’ ” he reads. “Interesting.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“What were your findings?” he asks.
“The fruit flies that ate the chicken nugget media died faster than the ones who didn’t,” I say.
“I’m not surprised,” he says, and winks. “Why do you think teachers always bring their lunch to school?”
* * *
—
In the end, we don’t get a prize. We don’t even get an honorable mention. Some kid who made a battery using a potato wins. I try to comfort myself that at least I’m getting extra credit, but I still feel a little disappointed.
“It’s not fair,” I say. “We grew an appendix.”
My grandfather and I are in the kitchen eating microwave burritos. He tries to cheer me up.
“Real scientists are never recognized in their time. Did you know that nobody paid much attention to Alexander Fleming when he first discovered penicillin?”
“Really?”
“It’s true,” he says. “And he wasn’t honored with a Nobel until seventeen years later.”
“I have to wait seventeen years? I’ll be an old lady by then.”
He just looks at me. “Excuse me,” he says. “You did not just say that.”
&nb
sp; The doorbell rings and I answer it.
It’s our neighbor, and he’s holding the big orange tabby cat.
“Hi,” he says. “Is your mom home?”
My mom comes to the door a moment later.
“Sorry I haven’t been over before,” the neighbor apologizes. “I work in tech and keep kind of crazy hours. I’m Art.”
“Nice to meet you,” my mom says. “I’m Lissa and this is Ellie.”
“So, this is kind of hello and good-bye,” Art says, looking awkward. “I just got a gig in Singapore. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
“Congratulations!” my mom says. “That sounds exciting.”
“Thanks! It is,” Art says. “Anyway, I wanted to stop by before I left. Connor here is always playing with your cat.”
“Our cat died,” I say. “Jonas got hit by a car.”
“Oh, wow, sorry to hear that,” Art says. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen him around lately.”
We don’t say anything.
Then Art says, “I can’t take Connor with me. I thought I’d see if you wanted him before I took him to the animal shelter.”
“The shelter?” my mom asks.
Art looks apologetic. “None of my friends can take him. I’ve tried everyone I know. You guys were my last hope.”
I look at the cat. He’s not a kitten. He’s older. He’s the cat equivalent of what you find in the Lost and Found box: something left behind and forgotten.
My mom hesitates. “I’m not sure we’re ready for another cat just yet. If you know what I mean.”
“Sure, of course,” Art says quickly. “Anyway, it was worth a shot. Nice to have met you. Sorry about your cat and all.”
“Can I maybe hold him for a minute?” I ask.
“Sure,” Art says.
He places the fat orange tabby cat in my arms.
“Try him out,” he says. “See if you like him.”
It’s funny how he says it. As if you can “try out” a cat like it’s a bike or a car.
“It’s up to you, Ellie,” my mom says.
It feels nice to hold a cat again, but a familiar feeling pricks at my stomach. What if I’m making a mistake? What if something happens to this cat? What if he gets hit by a car? What if he dies? What if—